SermonStudio

In the earliest experience of the church, the apostles soon discovered that their teaching and preaching duties were taking an incredible amount of energy. As the community of believers grew in numbers, and they continued in their commitment to hold all things in common, it became obvious that some details of the life of the community would need more attention than the twelve apostles themselves could give. It was decided to appoint deacons to serve the needs of the church, particularly the needs of the poor and widows who could no longer care for themselves. Seven were appointed. These folks were the first deacons, and one of them was a man named Stephen.

Stephen's career was shortened because of his determination to be more than a silent servant of the poor. In the midst of his work he could not contain his enthusiasm for the gospel, and he did all he could to spread the word about Jesus - the one who got the church interested in the poor to begin with. He spoke about it so much and so often, that it wasn't long before the local religious authorities called him in for a chat about his views. In their opinion, he was doing damage to their historic faith. But they didn't bother to ask him; they called in false witnesses who would say anything in front of a courtroom in order to stay out of trouble with the law themselves.

Even so, when Stephen was provided an opportunity to defend himself, he delivered one of the longest speeches in the Bible, an eloquent review of the history of Israel and the saving acts of God throughout that history. It was so long, in fact, that one commentator joked that he wondered why they didn't kill him sooner. At the conclusion of his speech, Acts reports that his judges:

When they heard these things, they became enraged and ground their teeth at Stephen. But filled with the Holy Spirit, he gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God. "Look," he said, "I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!" But they covered their ears, and with a loud shout all rushed together against him. Then they dragged him out of the city and began to stone him; and the witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul. While they were stoning Stephen, he prayed, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." Then he knelt down and cried out in a loud voice, "Lord, do not hold this sin against them." When he had said this, he died.


Verse 57 stands out in my mind for some reason. It is so human, so much the way we can be when we are so steeped in our errors and our prejudices that we cannot bear to hear a word of truth: "But they covered their ears, and with a loud shout all rushed together against him." It was, I think, the last straw. They could not bear to hear any more. Of course, their very actions that followed fully demonstrated the accuracy of what Stephen had said: that they were a stiff--necked people whose ears and hearts had not been committed to the Lord from day one, and that they were forever opposing the Holy Spirit. He was dead right. Dead right. And that is just what they set about doing, of course, opposing the Holy Spirit with stoppered ears and hearts hardened to the consistency of granite.

I have a friend who shared a vivid parental memory of a feature of traveling as a family with young children. It usually occurred late in the day, after a long day of travel. One child reaches across the seat to touch the other; the other reciprocates. Accusations are hurled back and forth over who did what to whom first, and soon, the intervention of the cavalry is requested in the form of mom or dad.

One feature of this experience stays in my mind. It is when one child tries to tell the other something he isn't supposed to do, and the other puts hands over both ears, blocking out all sound from her sibling by intoning the famous melody known to children the world over, with the following lyrics: "I'm not listening, I'm not listening, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyaaah, nyah." It's an interesting tune, that little one. It seems to be universally known as a taunting tune, three tones, always used in the same fashion, sometimes followed by tongues stuck out, sometimes not, there are multiple variations on the theme as well as particular performance styles. But the outcome is always the very same: someone is not listening and stoppering her ears deliberately to avoid doing so.

Now that is what I call a more or less belligerent method for avoiding having to hear what someone else has to say. It is an effective, if childish, way of saying the conversation is over; whatever you have to say, I'm not interested, you are wasting your breath, this discussion is closed. It is exactly what those who charged at Stephen did. Did you notice it as the scripture was read? "But they covered their ears" and ran at Stephen with "a loud shout," it says. Maybe it was an ancient version of "nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyaaah, nyah" that they shouted. What does it take to "unstopper" childish, unlistening ears, I wonder?

There are so many surprising things about this little passage. There are many similarities in the death of Stephen, of course, to the death of Jesus: they were both tried before what amounted to religious kangaroo courts; as Jesus died on the cross and as Stephen died under a hail of stones, both cried out to their Lord to receive their spirits, and both asked for forgiveness for those who were literally in the act of killing them. And the deaths, while not an act of God, both caused the spread rather than the end of the gospel. Here is another parallel. It wasn't some high Jewish official who died for the sins of the people, but a carpenter's son from Nazareth. Likewise, it was not an apostle or high church official who became the first Christian martyr, but a previously unknown table--serving deacon. Servants, both of them.1

There was another servant on the scene that day, holding the coats of those who were doing the difficult, dirty work of stoning a human being to death in the hot sun, not an easy or quick sort of execution. In the end of the passage, there is that little insight into the one who, one day soon, would become Paul the apostle. Here he is still known by his Hebrew name, Saul. And here, of course, he fully approved of the goings--on that had been going on. It most certainly never occurred to him at that moment, as Stephen shed his precious blood for the faith he loved more than his own life, becoming the first martyr for his faith, that in a few years time this Saul--turned--Paul would be another martyr, just as seventeen--year--old Cassie Bernall became when she fell in the school library in Littleton, Colorado, from a shot that came when she said to her killer that, yes, she believed in God. She died next to her Bible, it is said, her short life closed out for her while thoughts of her love for God were in her mind. She would not relinquish her faith. Students who were nearby said she paused for a moment before answering whether she believed in God, as if she were counting the potential cost. Then she made her witness, as did Paul, as did Stephen, bravely, unflinchingly.

Now, what do these stories about Stephen, about Paul, about Cassie Bernall have to say to people who are not likely to come near martyrdom, which is most of us? Elie Wiesel is a writer and philosopher/theologian who survived Hitler's death camps and reflected after the Columbine High School massacre, that it was so unnerving that Hitler is still killing people. He once said that suffering always has two parts: the act itself and our response to it. Stephen set a Christlike standard in his response to his suffering as stones rained down on him, saying, "Lord, do not hold this sin against them."

In Littleton, and other tense situations where violence has torn the fabric of the community, anonymous death threats have been received by families of the perpetrators. That, of course, is one response that could be chosen, and who could fail to see why some would resort to it? Yet it abandons allegiance with what is good to join with the enemy we thought we were fighting. Whatever else we may think, we are not permitted to follow such behavior in the name of Christ, who forgave his tormentors from his cross, and whose followers have showered blessings on the world that once cursed them.

So if Wiesel is right, that suffering has two parts, the first of which is generally out of the hands of the sufferer, what are we to do, in Christ's name, about the second? What is to be our response?

If we had chosen to be at home instead of in this sanctuary today, we could probably have turned on one of several religious broadcasts and received the totally--happy Christian message that if we will support this or that television ministry, we will receive healing and blessing and happiness all our days. But, of course, it is a lie, or at least not the complete truth. The difficult but good news that Stephen and Paul experienced is that there is something in the world worth dying for, something of such value that it is also worth living for. They seem to have known it when they saw it.2

Not everyone is called to be a martyr in this way, of course. In fact, in our lifetimes, few are. But all still need to consider the second half of Elie Wiesel's equation, the need to respond to suffering in some way. Our response, for most of us on this non--martyred side of the equation, will be to work to alleviate suffering while refusing to hate those who cause it. That is a tough task for a believer, a well nigh impossible one for an unbeliever. But the examples of Jesus and Stephen make this the only legitimate Christian response: "Father, forgive them ..."

Father, forgive. It is such a difficult demand on believers, and yet it stands before us, insistently. Forgive, forgive, forgive. Perhaps Frederick Buechner deserves to have a last word, a word which opens our ears and stops our incommunicative shouting. He said, "When somebody you've wronged forgives you, you're spared the dull and self--diminishing throb of a guilty conscience. When you forgive somebody who has wronged you, you're spared the dismal corrosion of bitterness and wounded pride. For both parties, forgiveness means the freedom again to be at peace inside their own skins ..."3

Jesus said, "Peace I leave with you." That was his response to a world that would cause him intense suffering. How can we make our aim anything less?

____________

1. Eugene Lowry, "Stones And Bones," Best Sermons 7, James Cox, ed. (Harper Collins, 1994), p. 191.

2. Ibid., p. 192.

3. Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking (Harper & Row, 1973), p. 29.