Living Words

by William Klock

 

Imagine you’re an Israelite at the time of the Exodus.  Moses shows up and announces that the God of your ancestors—a God no one’s heard from in four hundred years—is going to deliver you from Pharoah’s slavery.  Sounds pretty sketchy.  But then God begins to act.  He sends ten plagues on the Egyptians.  He turns the Nile to blood.  Wow!  But then Pharoah’s magicians do the same thing.  Okay…maybe not as impressive as it seemed at first.  But as the plagues go on, they get more and more impressive and Pharaoh’s magicians can’t keep up.  By the tenth plague you know without a doubt that this God of your fathers is something.  He’s even more powerful than Pharoah and his gods.  And then the Red Sea.  Pharaoh chased you down.  Your people are stuck between the sea and Pharaoh’s army.  All is lost.  And then the God of your fathers parts the sea itself in an amazing display of power and authority.  Imagine what it was like to walk through the sea on dry ground.  And then to watch as, just as miraculously, the God of your fathers causes the waters to come crashing back into place just at the right time to drown Pharaoh’s army.  And you join with your people as, for the first time, you sing praise to this God of your fathers—a God whom you’re now starting to think of as your God.  But God isn’t finished.  He appears as a magnificent pillar of cloud in the day and a pillar of fire at night and he leads your people into the wilderness.  When there’s nothing to drink, he causes water to pour forth from a rock.  When there’s nothing to eat, he miraculously provides an abundance of manna and quail.  At Mount Sinai he meets your people in cloud and lightning on the mountaintop.  He establishes a covenant with you.  He will be your God and you will be his people.  He sends Moses down the mountain with the torah and with instructions for the tabernacle.  And having been in God’s presence, Moses’ face shines so brightly with God’s glory that he has to wear a veil.  And when your people have finished assembling the tabernacle, you see God’s glory—like a cloud—descend to fill it.  It's astounding.  It’s the sort of thing the Egyptians could only dream about their gods doing and the God of Israel does it for real.  And, eventually, just as he promised, God leads your people into Canaan—the promised land—and he conquers the people for you and gives you their cities.  And you know it’s him, not you.  There’s no doubting it.  He had you march on Jericho, not with swords, but carrying his ark and blowing trumpets as you marched in circles around the city.  Not to attack it.  Not to put siege to it.  But simply to announce that the Lord, the God of Israel had come.  And when that announcement was clear and when everyone could see that you and your people had done nothing but announce the Lord’s presence, he caused the walls to come crashing down.  He defeated the city.  And neither you nor anyone else could possibly think of taking credit for it.  Neither you nor anyone else took the Lord for granted.  Neither you nor anyone else could dream of giving your faith, your loyalty, your allegiance to any other god.  Because you had seen with your own eyes the glory of the Lord.

 

Even as the generations passed, the people remembered the Lord.  They lived in those cities, they drew from those wells, they harvested crops from those fields that the Lord had taken from the Canaanites and given to their fathers and grandfathers.  They bore in their flesh the sign of God’s covenant—that statement, “I will be your God and you will be my people”—they bore that sign in their circumcision.  And every year they celebrated the Passover and not only recalled the events of the Exodus in which the Lord had saved their fathers; they participated, themselves, in those events—they owned them as if they’d happened to them.  And the covenant was renewed.

 

And if you read the Old Testament no further you might think it would be like that forever.  How could a people who had so experienced the glory of God ever take him for granted, let alone turn their backs on him?  How could a people who had so experienced the glory of God ever look for confidence and hope in anyone or anything else?  But it happened.  They took their status as his people for granted.  They began to take those cities and wells and vineyards and fields he’d given them for granted.  They stopped celebrating the Passover and remembering what he’d done for them.  They started worshiping other gods.  They lost faith in the Lord and started putting their trust in kings and in armies and in politics.  And when the prophets came to rebuke the people and to call them back to faithfulness, they refused to listen and abused those prophets.  Eventually, because they took it all for granted, because they were unfaithful, the Lord took away the land and the cities and fields and vineyards—and finally even his presence—and sent the people into exile in a foreign land.  But not before he promised them renewal.  One day he would restore them and make them new and fill them with his own Spirit, he would turn their hearts of stone into hearts of flesh, so that they would be forever faithful.

 

And, in Jesus, the Lord fulfilled that promise to his people.  In Jesus he was born as one of them, but rejected and crucified as a false Messiah.  God raised Jesus from death and overturned the verdict against him, declaring that he really was the Messiah and creation’s true Lord.  In rising from the grave Jesus conquered death.  And then, to those who were baptised and received the sign of God’s new covenant, he gave God’s Spirit.  The old Israel had a temple.  This new Israel is the temple.  And as we read in last week’s Epistle, Paul stressed that the risen Jesus appeared to the twelve, and to the other disciples, and even at one point to five hundred, and lastly to him.  And Jesus changed everything for them.  In his death and resurrection he led his people in a new exodus, not this time from physical bondage under Pharaoh, but from bondage to sin and death themselves.  And in baptism, Jesus leads his people like Moses through the waters of redemption to meet the Lord on the far side.  And the Spirit leads us, not as a pillar of cloud or fire, but as God’s very presence within us, as we embark on a world- and humanity-saving trek through the wilderness of the old evil age into the age to come, towards the New Jerusalem, to that day when gospel and Spirit have done their work and Jesus does away with sin and death and evil once and for all and forever, and creation is set to rights and we enjoy the presence of our God eternally.  Those first eyewitnesses took this astounding gospel story to Jerusalem and Judea and Samaria and to the world and amazing things happened.  It was more than just a story of the glory of God.  The story of the old exodus was that, but this was more.  The story of the Messiah and this new exodus has power unlike any story that has been told before or since.  This is a story backed by the life-giving and life-changing power of Jesus and the Spirit and the people who heard it and believed it and came to trust in the death and, most importantly, the resurrection of Jesus, they were changed.  Forgiven by the redeeming death of Jesus and then given a foretaste of the life of God’s new world by the Spirit whom he poured into them.  It was a change that no one could ignore.  Some were captivated by it and came to hear and to believe the gospel story for themselves and they shared in this new life too.  And others got angry as the gospel story and God’s new world challenged the gods and the kings and the systems in which they were already invested.  But to those who believed, the gospel, the good news about Jesus was life itself.  And they gathered together as often as they could and when they did, they not only shared the community the gospel had given them, they shared in the meal Jesus had given them.  In the Lord’s Supper they ate bread and drank wine—and just as in the Passover—they didn’t just remember what Jesus had done to deliver them from sin and death, they appropriated that death and resurrection, they participated in that saving event themselves.  They owned this new exodus just as the Israelites owned the events of the first exodus.  And each time it was as if the Lord was renewing his covenant with them: through Jesus and the Spirit, I will be your God and you will be my people.

 

And you might think that their faithfulness to the Lord would be unending.  You would think that their trust and loyalty—their confidence—would always and only be in Jesus the Messiah.  But it wasn’t.  If we’re honest about our struggles, we know that it’s easy to become distracted by other things.  There’s a reason we gather every Sunday to hear the good news again and to come to the Lord’s Table to be reminded and to renew the covenant.  There’s a reason why we daily immerse ourselves in the scriptures and in the story there of God and his people.  Because when we don’t, even as glorious as that story is, even as it once captivated us so thoroughly, somehow—and to our shame—we forget.  And Jesus is still there, but we start focusing on other things and we start looking for other things and we start putting our confidence and our hope in other things.

 

It even happened in the early church with that first generation of believers.  Paul had arrived in Corinth in about a.d. 50 or 51.  He proclaimed the good news about Jesus and both Jews and gentiles there were captivated by the story.  They believed.  They were baptised.  And Paul stayed with them for about a year and half, helping them to set up a church.  And everyone knew that it wasn’t Paul who had done it.  He was just an unassuming little man.  Funny looking, maybe with a speech impediment.  (Remember in last week’s Epistle he owned that insult about being a monster, prematurely born.)  What happened in Corinth wasn’t about Paul.  Brothers and Sisters, it was about the power of the gospel and the Spirit.  And yet just a few years later, it all started to fall apart.  The amazing story about the death and resurrection of Jesus that had once so spoken to them about the glory of God started to fade, and with it their motivation to holiness.  Sin—gross, truly wicked sin—started to creep into the church and they found ways to justify it.  Their worship became chaotic as people began using the gifts the Spirit had given to bring attention to themselves instead of to build up the body.  They abused the Lord’s Supper and twisted and undermined its covenant meaning.  And when Paul, their brother, the one who had not only brought the gospel to them, but who could speak with authority about it because he, himself, had met the risen Jesus, when he wrote to them they brushed him off.  They told him they didn’t want to hear from him anymore.  He’d been displaced by other preachers who were flashier, who were more handsome, who were better spoken then he was.

 

And so, at the end of 2 Corinthians 2 he appeals to them.  He talks about himself as “we” instead of “I” and I think he does that to emphasise that he stands with the other apostles whose authority came from being eyewitness of the risen Messiah.  The same could not be said of others who have come to them and led them astray.  He writes to them, saying, “We aren’t mere peddlers of God’s word, as so many preachers are.  We speak with sincerity.  We speak from God.  We speak in God’s presence.  We speak in the Messiah.”  The Messiah: that’s who this is really about.  Paul has no authority of his own.  He simply speaks what he heard from Jesus himself.  And his point here is that they had once been captivated by that gospel of the Messiah that Paul had proclaimed to them, but now they’ve been captivated by the words of mere men.  “Do you want a letter of recommendation before you’ll listen to me?” Paul asks.  “Do I need to give you a sheaf of reference letters so you’ll know I’m legit?”

 

“No,” says Paul, going on in 3:2: “You are our official reference!  It’s written on our hearts.  Everyone can know and read it.  It’s plain that you are a letter from the Messiah, with us the messengers.  A letter not written with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God.  Not on tablets of stone, but on the tablets of fleshly hearts.”

 

In other words, despite all their problems, despite their backsliding into worldly ways, they are not the people they once were.  Paul had proclaimed the good new—the story about Jesus and his death and resurrection and ascension—and through that preaching the Spirit had captivated them and filled their hearts with faith.  They believed.  They gave their trust, their loyalty, their allegiance, their obedience to Jesus and they were transformed.  And Paul could see it even through all their problems.  No, Paul doesn’t need to give them references.  “You are my reference,” he says to them.  I know you’ve kicked me to the curb, but it was the message I received from Jesus that I preached to you that transformed you—not the merely human words of the other preachers who came along.  It was the word of God that did it.

 

And they really, really need to hear this.  Because in the years since Paul left, as they’ve listened to teachers who led them astray, as the glory of the pure gospel has faded from their vision, they’ve begun to put their confidence in other things.  They no longer associate Paul with the gospel.  They’re thinking of him as that funny-looking little man with the speech impediment.  And following someone like that in Greek culture, well, that wasn’t going to get you anywhere.  And so they associated with the handsome preachers with eloquent rhetoric who could impress the Greeks.  They’ve forgotten that the gifts the Spirit gave them were gifts of grace to build up the body, and now they’re abusing them and putting their confidence in them.  They’ve forgotten that the gospel puts them all on an equal footing before the throne of grace, and they’re letting their old class and cultural divisions divide them up.  They were growing their church—as we’d say it today—but they weren’t growing it on the gospel.

 

We do the same thing today.  We may do it even more than the Corinthians, because commercialism is the cultural water we swim in and we don’t even realise how much it impacts how we think about church and we don’t realise how it so easily displaces the gospel and gospel growth and gospel ministry.  We build our churches around personalities.  We build our churches around programmes.  We build our churches around demographics.  We build our churches by advertising that we’re better than or that we’re not like our neighbouring churches.  We treat the church as if it’s a business or a social club instead of a family—the covenant people of God, transformed and shaped by the gospel and the Spirit.  The Spirit has transformed our hearts of stone into hearts of flesh through the power of the gospel, but we forget the centrality of the gospel and allow our hearts to petrify back into stone.  It might not seem like that’s what’s happening at first.  Our churches may even have the appearance of success, but it’s because we’re appealing to stony hearts of worldly people with what they value, not with the power of the transforming gospel they need.

It's that simple gospel that needs to be at the centre of everything.  The risen Jesus always before us.  The risen Jesus at the centre of every decision we make.  The risen Jesus at the heart of everything we do.  Just Jesus, crucified and risen.  The simple gospel.  So Paul goes on in verse 4: “That is the kind of confidence we have toward God, through the Messiah.”  Stop putting your confidence in other things.  Just put it in Jesus.  He and only he can bring us before God.  So Paul says, “It isn’t as though we are qualified in ourselves to reckon that we have anything to offer on our own account.  Our qualification comes from God: God has qualified us to be stewards of a new covenant, not of the letter, but of the Spirit.  The letter kills, you see, but the Spirit gives life.”  The gospel was his only qualification and the only one that mattered.  The same goes for us.

 

Now, think again of the glory that God put on display in the Exodus and in the story of Israel that followed.  That’s what Paul gets at in verse 7 when he writes: “But just think about it: when death was being ministered, carved in letter of stone,”—he’s talking about Mt. Sinai and the giving of the law”—“it was a glorious thing, so glorious in fact that the children of Israel couldn’t look at Moses’ face because of the glory of his face, a glory that was to be abolished.”  The glory God displayed in those days was astounding.  It moved the people to faith and trust and worship. But now Paul’s talking about the new covenant and what God has done in Jesus and the Spirit.  “Will the ministry of the Spirit not be more glorious?” he asks them.  “If ministering condemnation is glorious, you see, how much more glorious is the ministry of vindication—of righteousness, of justice?  In fact, what used to be glorious has come, by comparison, to have no glory at all, because of the new glory which goes so far beyond it!

 

O, Brothers and Sisters, would that we would also be so captivated by the glory of the simple gospel of Jesus the Messiah.  There is no other glory that can compare and if we will keep it always before us—this good new of Jesus, crucified, risen, and Lord—if we would keep our eyes always focused on it, if we let it shape our lives, if we let it shape our decision, if we let it be the basis for everything we do as the church.  If the glory of the gospel were our sole source of confidence and hope, it would transform our churches and make us the people God intends for us to be.  God’s promise is that one day the knowledge of his glory will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea, but, Brothers and Sisters, remember that he has made us the stewards of that glory.  He has entrusted his gospel of life to us and he’s filled us with his Spirit.  It is our calling to make his glory known by taking the good news of Jesus to Courtenay and Comox, to Vancouver Island, to Canada, and even to the ends of the earth.  You may have placed a veil over God’s glory.  This morning let the scriptures lift that veil.  Let the bread and the wine here at his Table lift that veil.  Look on the glory of the Lord revealed in Jesus the Messiah and be refreshed and renewed for the gospel ministry to which you have been called.

 

Let’s pray: Almighty and everlasting God, you are always more ready to hear than we to pray, and to give more than we either desire or deserve:  Pour upon us the abundance of your mercy, forgiving us those things of which our conscience is afraid, and giving us those good things for which we are not worthy to ask, except through the merits and mediation of Jesus Christ our Saviour; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

Have you ever had one of those occasions when you had an overwhelming sense that God was telling you to go to this or that place, to go talk to this or that person?  On a few occasions I thought I was in the middle of one of those moments.  One Sunday evening in Portland I was alone and on my way home from church and, driving down the street had this overwhelming sense—again, like God was telling me—go into that Burgerville restaurant.  So I did.  And except for the people working there—none of whom had any interest in talking to me beyond taking my order—the place was completely empty.  I wasn’t hungry, but I thought, “Well, if God wants me here, maybe I need to wait.”  So I ordered dinner.  And I sat there for an hour and a half, eating my dinner v…e…r…y slowly with my Prayer Book and Bible in front of me.  And the place stayed as empty as it had been when I walked in.  That, in itself, is pretty odd for a Burgerville in Northeast Portland.  Was that overwhelming sense God?  I don’t know.  I thought maybe there was someone there who needed a minister.  But there was no one there at all.

 

I hear people tell stories of their overwhelming senses that God was telling them to do something and then something really amazing happened.  But I’ve never had that happen.  Not like that anyway.  When those moments have come, I’ve never had an overwhelming sense of anything; they just happen.

 

But Philip.  Last week, in the first half of Acts 8, we saw Philip driven to Samaria because men like Saul were rounding up the Christians in Jerusalem and putting them in prison.  And while he was there he told the Samaritans about Jesus.  And God did something amazing.  The church, God’s new temple, this people purified by Jesus and filled with the Holy Spirit, it grew, it jumped the border, it crossed the divide of animosity between the Jews and the Samaritans, it healed and restored.  Jews and Samaritans went on hating each other—but not in the church.  What the fall had divided, the gospel reunited.  It was the first step toward God’s renewed humanity, back on track with their vocation to steward his presence, filling the earth with the knowledge of God’s glory as the church lived out God’s future in the present.

 

And it’s as if God is saying to Philip: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”  Philip has proved his faithfulness and now, Luke writes in Acts 8:26, “An angel of the Lord spoke to Philip: ‘Get up and go south,” he said. “Go to the desert road that runs down from Jerusalem to Gaza.”

 

That’s quite a hike.  Fifty to sixty kilometres back to Jerusalem—and hope Saul of Tarsus doesn’t catch you on your way through—and then Gaza was another fifty to sixty kilometres.  That’s two bike rides for me, but it’s a long way to walk.  And Luke kind of stresses that this isn’t an easy journey.  It’s not just the road down to Gaza, it’s the desert road down to Gaza.  It’s hot, it’s dusty, it’s barren and ugly—it’s lifeless.  It’s a stark contrast with the new gospel life suddenly flourishing in Samaria.  But that’s what Jesus calls his people to do: To take the gospel, to take the life of the kingdom into the desert of the world.  It’s tempting to sit in the church, to enjoy gospel life with our brothers and sisters, and to forget about the desert outside and the people perishing out there.  Brothers and Sisters, get up and go to the desert.  You and I are the streams of living waters that take the life of God to the world.  Don’t dam it up here.  Luke goes on in verse 27:

 

“So he got up and went.”  Luke uses very biblical way of stressing obedience.  God said, “Get up and go” and Philip “Got up and went”.  And it’s not for nought.  “Lo and behold, there was an Ethiopian eunuch, a court official of the Kandake (queen of Ethiopia), who was in charge of her whole treasury.  He had come to Jerusalem to worship, and was on his way back home.  He was sitting in his chariot and reading the prophet Isaiah.”

 

So who is this guy in the chariot?  Luke says he’s Ethiopian and an official—the head of the treasury—for the Kandake—sometimes in English we say “Candace”—the Queen of Ethiopia.  For people like Luke (or Philip) in the Roman Empire, “Ethiopia” was a catch-all for everything south of Egypt, “Black Africa”.  “Kandake” was part name and part title, incorporated into the names of many of the Ethiopia’s Queen.  But this wasn’t the modern nation of Ethiopia.  It was what’s now the northern part of Sudan.  It was a trade centre between Egypt and the rest of Africa further south along the Nile and it was very wealthy because of that.  And a eunuch in charge of the Queen’s treasury made perfect sense.  That’s the sort of thing eunuchs did in the ancient world.  No one had to worry about a eunuch trying to build a dynasty for his children using someone else’s wealth.  The reward was that this man, himself, would have been fabulously wealthy too.

 

So when Luke says he was riding in a chariot and reading an Isaiah scroll, don’t picture so much a small war chariot.  This would have probably been more like a small carriage.  And don’t picture him with some little scroll unrolled in his lap the way you might sit with your Bible.  Scrolls like this were big.  And an Isaiah scroll was really big.  One of the longest books in the Bible.  So there’s a good chance this man has at least a servant or two to help him.  Maybe one as driver.  Maybe another as a personal assistant, helping him with that big Isaiah scroll.  That he—a foreigner—even has an Isaiah scroll says that he’s very wealthy.  Normally you’d only find something like this in a synagogue for public reading.

 

But the bigger question is: Why would an Ethiopian eunuch, the Queen’s treasurer be reading Isaiah?  There’s a near-zero chance that this man was actually Jewish.  Not absolutely zero, but it was highly unlikely.  Neither is he a proselyte—a convert—to Judaism.  Because he’s a eunuch.  It was right there in Deuteronomy 23:1, “No one who’s testicles are crushed or male organ is cut off shall enter the assembly of the Lord.”  There was a way for gentiles to be circumcised, submit to torah, go through the rites of purification, and to enter the Jewish covenant community.  It was rare, but it was possible and not unheard of.  But not for eunuchs.  They were explicitly excluded.  Not a chance.  And yet this man was drawn to Israel and to Israel’s God.  That was not such an odd thing in those days.  Pagan society was mean and ugly, it was merciless and perverted and brutal.  And the pagan gods were no better.  For all her failures, Israel, her way of life, and her God really did stand out and people took note.  The Israelites looked after each other—however imperfectly.  The Israelites cared about purity.  They didn’t practise infanticide or homosexuality.  They took marriage seriously.  They believed in the dignity of human life.  Pagans, tired of their own brutal and morally filthy world, were drawn to it.  There was a whole category of people that the Jews called “God fearers”.  They weren’t circumcised, they weren’t actually part of the covenant, they couldn’t observe Passover or go to the temple, but they clung to Israel.  They came to the synagogue and listened to the teaching.  They read the Bible.  And this man may have been one of those sorts of people—or, at least, something like that.  And maybe that’s why he’s got the Isaiah scroll.  He’d come to Jerusalem to worship.  And he was leaving disappointed.  As gentile he was barred from the temple.  As a eunuch he has no hope of that changing.  Luke says he was reading Isaiah 53 when Philip caught up with him, but just a few chapters later, in Isaiah 56, the Lord says through the Prophet, “Let not the eunuch say, ‘Behold, I am a dry tree.” For thus says the LORD: ‘To the eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast my covenant, I will give in my house and within my walls a monument and a name better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that shall not be cut off.’” (Isaiah 56:3-5)

 

This man longs to be part of this people.  This man longs for the presence of the God of Israel.  And he’s been there.  Maybe he sat in a synagogue and he heard this passage read and his heart skipped a beat.  There’s hope.  But when he asked, how can I join you, they quoted Moses at him and sent him away.  That’s not to disparage Moses.  There was a reason God wanted things this way.  Remember, God is working through a story that slowly unfolds to reveal him.  But in response, somehow this man bought an Isaiah scroll for himself.  He wants to read more.  He wants to know how to get from Moses’ “No” to Isaiah’s “Yes”.  And now he’s reading the part, just a few chapter before as Philip, out of nowhere, is suddenly jogging along next to his little carriage.

 

And the Lord now speaks to Philip again as he sees this chariot on the road.  Verse 29: “‘Go up and join his chariot,’ said the Spirit to Philip.  So Philip ran up, and heard him reading the prophet Isaiah.

‘Do you understand what you’re reading?’ he asked. ‘How can I,’ he replied, ‘unless someone gives me some help?’

 

So he invited Philip to get up and sit beside him. The scripture passage he was reading was this one: ‘He was led like a sheep to the slaughter and as a lamb is silent before its shearers, so he does not open his mouth. In his humiliation, judgment was taken away from him. Who can explain his generation? For his life was taken away from the earth.’” This is Isaiah 53:7-8, again just before that passage giving hope to eunuchs.

 

Luke has already made some hints about the importance of Isaiah 53 and we get the sense that the Spirt isn’t just at work to bring Philip to this man.  The Spirit has been at work getting this man into Isaiah—showing him hope—and getting him ready to hear the source, the reason for that hope.

 

This is precisely how a lot of people meet Jesus.  Maybe this is how you met Jesus.  We live in a word full of hurt and tears, full of sin and sickness and death.  We may not know a bit of theology or philosophy, but we know it in our bones that this not the way the world is supposed to be.  Maybe we meet some Christians, maybe we have an encounter with the church, maybe we just pick up a Bible and we start to read—and we encounter a different world.  We encounter a different kind of people.  Like the people drawn to Israel for its people’s passion for purity and for mercy and their hope for a world set to rights, we’re drawn to Jesus and his people.  There we see holiness, love, grace, unity—however imperfectly displayed, but so different from so much of the world.  Maybe we realise that Western Civilisation is not the gross, brutal, and filthy world of the Greeks and Romans anymore, we realise that it was the gospel that made this change, and we want to know more.  And so we come.  And we hear things said, but we don’t really understand.  We open the Bible and we start to read, but we don’t know the context of what we’re reading.  That’s where this Ethiopian man was at.  He sees goodness.  He see holiness.  He sees hope.  He so desperately wants to be part of it, but how?  How does it work?  This servant in Isaiah 53’s got something to do with it all, but  who is the Prophet talking about?  So verse 34:

 

“‘Tell me,’ said the eunuch to Philip, ‘who is the prophet talking about?  Himself or someone else?’ Then Philip took a deep breath and, starting from this scripture passage, told him the good news about Jesus.”  Philip literally “gospelled” this man.  He told him the story.  How much of it?  Luke doesn’t say.  But he told this man the story—the same one that Stephen had told to the Sanhedrin.  This was how the first Christians read the Jewish scripture, including the Prophets.  They didn’t just go looking for prooftexts that they thought might line up with Jesus.  They read the scriptures as a great narrative, a big story with Jesus at its centre.  It ran all the way back to the creation itself and to the story of human rebellion against God—to the introduction of sin and death and all the pain and tears, and through Abraham and his family, through Moses and David and the Prophets, leading right to Jesus, but not ending there, but carrying on to the day when the whole project of redemption is done, creation and humanity are set to rights, and sin and death, pain and tears are no more.

 

Isaiah knew this story.  At his point in it, Israel was in exile, separated from the land God had promised, separated from the temple where he’d dwelt with them, seemingly—as far as many could tell—cut off from the hope they had.  And so Isaiah, inspired by the Spirit no doubt, but also absolutely and utterly steeped in this story of Israel and Israel’s God, knowing his character, knowing his promises, Isaiah meditated on that story: on the exile of his people, on the promises of God, one God himself, whom he knew to be faithful even if Israel hadn’t been.  And as Isaiah meditated and prayed and reflected the Spirit gave him the image of a servant: a servant who would come to where Israel was at, who would come to finish the failed task that Israel had been given, who would come to do for Israel—and for the world—what they could not do for themselves.  He would, in his own body, bear the shame and reproach that the nations had shown to Israel for her failures and faithlessness, and he would die.  He would die, not a death he deserved, but the death his people deserved.  Isaiah knew: This was the only way.  Israel couldn’t do it on her own.  She’d failed over and over.  And now she stood, guilty before the Lord, having broken his covenant, cut off, hopeless.  Or so it seemed hopeless—dead to the covenant—but Isaiah knew God’s faithfulness and so he knew the Lord would not abandon his people or his promise to them.  The Lord would send this servant who would suffer the punishment the people deserved, who would take up the task Israel had failed and complete it himself, who would bring God’s life and light and glory to the world.

 

It’s almost as though Isaiah, working through the story, made a list of everything this servant would need to be or to do and—in poetic form—he wrote a job description—a job description that pointed straight to Jesus, although no one would realise that until Jesus himself arrived—practically with resume in hand to show that he’s the one Isaiah was writing about.  And Isaiah saw how this suffering servant—precisely through his rejection, through his suffering, even through his death—would bring an end to Israel’s long exile.  And Isaiah knew that through this, God would finally set the world to rights.  He would establish a new covenant to replace the one Israel had broken (Isaiah 54), and new creation would be born (Isaiah 55), and as this new covenant made Israel what she was supposed to be all along and as this new world was born, it would finally draw in the foreigners, the nations, the pagans—even the eunuchs.

 

And so Philip explained to this to the man.  He told him about Jesus and how he’d done and fulfilled what the Prophet had seen.  And—like a good evangelist—Philip had obviously told this man how to be part of it.  Give your love, your loyalty, your allegiance to Jesus the Messiah.  And repent.  Let go of everything else, every loyalty, every other hope, and like Israel passing through the Red Sea to enter a life with God, pass through the waters of baptism to enter life with Jesus and the Spirit—so that Israel’s story, Isaiah’s story, Jesus’ story becomes your story.  And Luke continues in verse 36: “As they were going along the road, they came to some water. ‘Look!’ said the eunuch. ‘Here is some water! What’s to stop me being baptized?’”

 

I want to be part of this!

 

“So he gave orders for the chariot to stop, and both of them went down into the water, Philip and the eunuch together, and he baptized him. When they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord snatched Philip away, and the eunuch didn’t see him anymore, but went on his way rejoicing.  Philip, however, turned up at Azotus. He went through all the towns, announcing the good news, until he came to Caesarea.”

 

This is the part where I want to know more.  I want to say, “But…but…but…you can’t just cut him loose at this point.  He needs a good church, he needs solid teaching.  When you cut people loose right after you baptise them, that’s when they get into cults and obsessed with weird eschatology!”  But it seems that the Spirit was powerfully with this man—the same way he was with the apostles and Stephen and Philip.  The Spirit has other important work for Philip.  And so this man went on his way back to “Ethiopia” with his Isaiah scroll, with the scriptures, God’s word, with the story now his story, and full of the Spirit.  It wouldn’t be long before the church was thriving in Africa and tradition says that this man was the one who took it there.  The gospel is already on its way to the world.

 

And I think that’s why Luke plants Isaiah 53 and Jesus as the suffering servant where he does here.  It’s why, as we tell the story, we ought to be doing the same thing.  Because over and over what we see in Acts and down through history is that the people of the nations look around themselves, and they—we—know nothing of Abraham or Moses or David or the Prophets or Israel or even Israel’s God, but we know that the world is not as it should be.  The pain, the tears, the sin and the filth, sickness and death.  We see how the strong abuse the weak.  We know the fickleness and failure of our gods.  And when we’re honest, we know that we’ve all had a part to play in the brokenness of the world.  One way or another we hear, we feel, we sense the “no”, but we long for a “yes”.  We need rescue.  We need hope of the world set to right.  And then we hear the story.  We meet Jesus, the suffering servant.  We meet the lamb of God who gave himself up for our sins and to wash us clean from their stain.  We meet the King who gave himself for his people.  We meet the Messiah in whom all of God’s promises find their “yes”.  We meet the one who has conquered sin and death and in him we find the conciliation, the life, and the hope we’ve longed for.

 

Brothers and Sisters, this the story we need to learn, this is this is the story we need to inhabit, this is the story we need to tell—until the whole world has heard, until the whole world knows this life and hope, until the knowledge of God’s glory fills the whole world.

 

Let’s pray our Collect again: Lord God, you declare your almighty power most chiefly in showing mercy and pity: mercifully grant to us such a measure of your grace, that we, running the way of your commandments, may receive your gracious promises, and be made partakers of your heavenly treasure; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

Remember back in Chapter 5, when Peter and John were arrested and brought before the priests and elders, and Gamaliel, one of the leading Pharisees, told his fellow council members: “Leave them alone.  If what they’re doing is of human origin, it will come to ruin.  But if it’s from God, you won’t be able to stop them.  You might even be found to be fighting against God.”  They let Peter and John go that day, but since then they haven’t been heeding Gamaliel’s advice.  They stoned Stephen.  And at the end of last week’s text Luke told us that Saul of Tarsus was going house to house, dragging men and women to prison and that, while the apostles remained in Jerusalem, everyone else was scattered through Jerusalem and Samaria.  And it turns out Gamaliel was right.  Neither Saul nor anyone else could stop what God was doing.  This new temple, not made with hands, not made of bricks and mortar, but instead of people, purified by the blood of Jesus and indwelt themselves by God’s Spirit, this temple was going to fill the earth.  Persecution won’t stop it.  Just the opposite, in fact.  Luke writes in Acts 8:4 [Page 1089 in the pew Bibles]:

 

“Those who were scattered went all over the place announcing the word.”  These were people who knew, first hand, the transforming power of the gospel.  Many of them had been eyewitnesses to the risen Jesus.  They had seen signs and wonders, done by Jesus and then done by the apostles.  They knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that God was at work and Israel’s hopes were being fulfilled.  There was no stopping them.  If they had to flee Jerusalem, so much the better.  Now the good news about Jesus would be proclaimed all over the place.  Think back to Stephen’s speech before the Sanhedrin and how he’d highlighted how God works through rejection and persecution.  Joseph’s brothers had sold him as a slave, but through their evil God delivered his people.  Ditto with Moses.  Pharaoh wanted all the baby boys of the Hebrews drowned, so Moses’ mother put him in a basket and Providence floated him down the river right to Pharaoh’s daughter.  And Jesus, the supreme example: The forces of evil and death rose up to do their worst in killing Jesus, but in doing so they played right into God’s hands.  They concentrated themselves all in one place, in one great act, allowing Jesus to rise from death to conquer them.  So Saul of Tarsus, threatening the church?  God’s going to use that to—to get the gospel out of Jerusalem, to all of Judaea—and even to Samaria.

 

So Philip.  You remember Philip?  He was one of the seven in Chapter 6, whom the church chose and laid hands on to do the work that was taking the apostles away from their prayer and preaching.  Stephen was another of them.  When the church calls people and lays hands on them and commissions them to be servants of the gospel, there’s no telling where that may lead.  So “Philip,” says Luke in verse 5, “went off to a town in Samaria and announced the Messiah to them.”

 

I suspect no one would have thought—or wanted—to take the gospel to Samaria—at least not for a long time—even though Jesus had said that his church would take the gospel there.  But in the context of Acts, I think Luke wants to stress that even more than taking the gospel to Samaria, what Philip is doing is taking the temple there.  And that’s pretty significant.  Samaria was the piece of land between the two Jewish territories, between Judaea in the south and Galilee in the north.  The Samaritans were the people who had lived there while the Jews were off in exile in Babylon.  We don’t really know for certain the origins of the Samaritans.  They claimed—and they still claim, as they’re still there to this day—that they’re the descendants of what was left of the northern Israelite tribes after the nation was destroyed by the Assyrians.  The Jews claimed that the Samaritans were the people resettled in the land by the Babylonians after they’d sent the Jewish people into exile.  There’s probably some truth to both.  Whatever the case, the Samaritans followed their own form of Judaism.  They had their own version of the torah, of the first five books of the Old Testament.  They rejected the Prophets and other books.  They looked forward to their own version of the Messiah.  They called him the Ta’eb or “The Returner”—the prophet Moses promised would come.  But maybe what’s most important in the context of Acts, was that the Samaritans had their own temple on Mt. Gerizim.  The Jews would never let them anywhere near the temple in Jerusalem—they weren’t real Jews and they had corrupted Israelite religion—but even if the Jews allowed them into the temple, the Samaritans would never go there.  As far as they were concerned, theirs was the real temple.  The Samaritans were a people utterly without God’s presence.

 

And now Philip finds his way there and carries the for real real temple to a people who didn’t even know the old one.  And when God’s temple arrives in Samaria, the people can’t help but notice.  Verse 6: “The crowds, acting as one, clung to what Philip was saying, as they heard him and saw the signs he performed.  For unclean spirits came out of many of them, and several who were paralyzed or lame were cured.  So there was great joy in that town.”

 

“But there was a man named Simon, who had lived in the town for some while and who practiced magic. He used to astonish the Samaritan people, giving out that he was some great personage.  Everyone, small and great alike, paid attention to him, and said, “This man is the one called ‘God’s Great Power’!”  [Luke might be hinting that the people thought of Simon as maybe being the Ta’eb, the Samaritan “Messiah”.] They had been under his spell for some time, since they were amazed at the magic he could perform.  But when they believed Philip as he was announcing to them the message about God’s kingdom and the name of Jesus the Messiah, they were baptized, men and women alike.  Simon too believed and was baptized, paying close attention to Philip.  When he saw signs, and great and powerful deeds, it was his turn to be astonished.”

 

The devil was doing one thing in Judaea in a futile attempt to quash the gospel.  He was doing something else to the same end in Samaria.  He’d been doing it for a long time, leading the Samaritans away from God’s torah and God’s temple.  Now there’s this man, Simon, who has enchanted these Samaritans with his magic.  Maybe it was just sleight of hand magic, but the way Luke, throughout Acts, contrasts magic with the power of the Holy Spirit, it seems like Simon actually did have some kind of power and if that power wasn’t from God, it was coming from demonic forces of some kind.  That’s just the sort of thing the devil would do to lead people astray.  But Philip, empowered by God’s Spirit, it’s obvious to everyone—even to Simon—his power was different and it was far superior.  Seeing it, these people believed the good news about Jesus that Philip was proclaiming.  And they did what believers do: they were baptised.  Like Israel following God through the Red Sea and into the promised land, in faith these Samaritan followed Jesus through the waters of baptism and into God’s new creation.

 

Samaritans embracing and giving their allegiance to Jesus may not seem like a big deal to us, but it was a really big deal to everyone involved.  Again, Samaritans and Jews didn’t mix.  Even though Jesus had said that his disciples would take the good news to Samaria, they had no plan to go there—and probably little or no desire to.  But God had a plan to get them there, and when Philip does end up in Samaria, he doesn’t let that hold him back.  It’s pretty clear that these early believers thought of the gospel as something for Jews, but—hey—if gentiles came to them and wanted in, if Samaritans heard and believed, that was great.  They saw God at work in these people, even if these people weren’t their evangelistic priority.

 

And yet, something odd happens.  These Samaritans hear the gospel, see God at work, they believe, they’re baptised, but there’s something missing.  I suspect Philip noticed it immediately and sent word back to Jerusalem—excited on one hand, but concerned on the other.  Verse 14: “When the apostles in Jerusalem heard that Samaria had received God’s word, they sent Peter and John to them.  When they arrived, they prayed for them, asking that they would receive the Holy Spirit, since up to that point the Spirit had come upon none of them; they had simply been baptized into the name of the Lord Jesus.  Then they laid their hands on them, and they received the Holy Spirit.”

 

Like I said, something was missing.  The Spirit was clearly at work.  Faith in Jesus is a gift of the Spirit and no one comes to Jesus without the Spirit first moving in the heart.  But so far in Acts, when people believed and were baptised, they all had some kind of experience of being transformed by the Spirit  They were obviously different.  The Spirit did a work of new creation in them.  And they typically—and immediately—displayed supernatural gifts.  Some prophesied, some healed, some spoke in other languages, and so on.  Whenever we see God doing something new in the story of redemption, it’s usually got miracles clustered all around it and we see this no less in the early days of the church.  Bringing Samaritans to Jesus was very much something new.  But this time the miracles didn’t happen.  I expect Philip was surprised.  What was wrong?  So he sent word to Jerusalem and Peter and John decided to go see for themselves.  And, sure enough, something was missing.  These people had believed, but the Spirit—God—hadn’t yet come to live in them  They were not yet part of the new temple.

 

I don’t know if Peter and John understood everything at this point.  I suspect that they just recognised that these new believers were lacking the indwelling Spirit.  It was weird and inexplicable at the time.  And so Peter and John just did the only thing that made sense: they laid their hands on these people and prayed that God would give them his Spirit.  And God did.  Luke doesn’t say how it was obvious, but it was apparently obvious that the Spirit had filled the Samaritans.  And I think as time passed, Peter and John and the others started to figure out what God was doing in withholding the very thing—I should say, the very person—who fulfils God’s promises to dwell with his people.  By the time Luke wrote, it all made perfect sense.

 

You see, there was always a danger that the Samaritans would hear the gospel and believe, but that because of the divide between them and the Jews, the Samaritans would end up with a separate church of their own.  A lot of them would have been perfectly happy to have it that way and plenty of Jewish believers would no doubt be happy to have it that way.  But that would undermine the very gospel itself.  God doesn’t have multiple people.  He has one.  With all our divisions in the church today, it’s easy to forget this, but Jesus was clear: God has one people and one of the essentials of the gospel is that it heals the breaches, heals the divisions, heals the animosity between the people of the world.  We saw the first dramatic sign of this healing at Pentecost as the men there heard the gospel proclaimed in their own languages.  It was a dramatic reversal of the Tower of Babel episode.  And now it happens with the Samaritans.  God withholds his Spirit from them in order to get Peter and John to pray and lay hands on them and in that God makes it clear to everyone that they are all united in Jesus and the Spirit.  The apostles and the Jewish believers can’t dismiss the Samaritan believers and neither can the Samaritans—with their long history of doing their own thing and having their own temple—neither can they act as if they have no need of or can be separate from the Jewish believers.

 

We need to be careful we don’t mistake Luke’s point here.  We often read this passage at confirmations when the bishop lays hands on us and prays for us to be strengthened by the Holy Spirit.  But Luke wasn’t thinking about confirmation.  Confirmation is a rite that developed centuries later.  Pentecostals and Charismatics use this passage to explain their experience, arguing that this passage proves that receiving the Holy Spirit is a second work of grace apart from baptism and conversion.  But that’s not Luke’s point either.  In fact, his point is that what happened with the Samaritans, with God withholding the Spirit, was unique—a one-off thing—that was necessary to ensure everyone knew that there is one church, one body and that our unity in diversity is one of the gospel’s most powerful witnesses to God setting the human race to rights.  The whole thing that made this episode stand out was the delay in the Samaritans receiving the Holy Spirit, because the indwelling of the Spirit it not a second blessing or a second work of grace.  It’s what happens when we believe and are baptised.  It’s what makes us God’s temple.  Jesus purifies us so that the Spirit can fill us.

 

And then Simon the Magician. The gospel goes to a new place, but the same old problem comes up again.  In Jerusalem it was Ananias and Sapphira.  The devil crept in.  They let their love of money compromise the purity so essential to being God’s temple.  They serve as a warning: Jesus purifies us so that we can be God’s temple, but to remain God’s temple requires continued purity.  And now the Samaritan believers their own warning about this.  Verse 18: “When Simon saw that the spirit was given through the laying on of the apostles’ hands, he offered them money.  “Give me this power too,” he said, “so that anyone I lay my hands on will receive the holy spirit.”  “May your silver die with you!” retorted Peter. “Did you really think that God’s gift could be bought with money?  You have no part or share in this word!  Your heart is not straight before God.  So repent from this wickedness, and pray to the Lord.  Perhaps he will forgive the scheme you had in your heart.  I can see that you are still stuck in the bitter poison and chains of unrighteousness.”  “Pray to the Lord for me,” said Simon in reply, “that none of what you’ve said will happen to me.”  After Peter and John had finished bearing witness and speaking the word of the Lord, they returned to Jerusalem, announcing the good news to many Samaritan villages.”

 

Simon liked the status his magic gave him.  And now he sees something really amazing, something that clearly and dramatically upstaged whatever it was that he was doing.  And Simon wanted it.  But it wasn’t so much the Holy Spirit that Simon wanted.  Tricks were nice.  He’d been doing them for a long time.  But what Simon wanted was the ability to control people.  He didn’t want the Holy Spirit.  He wanted what he thought Peter and John had: he wanted the ability to lay hands on people and to give them the Spirit.

 

And in that, Simon was exposed.  It wasn’t about Jesus for Simon.  It wasn’t about being God’s temple.  It wasn’t about being purified by the cross.  It wasn’t about being part of God’s new creation.  Simon was still firmly part of the old.  He wanted to use and control people for his own personal gain and prestige.  His old magic had been upstaged.  No one would be impressed by it anymore.   But if he could be like Peter and John, if he could lay hands on people himself and impart the Spirit to them, well, then he’s be back on top of things.  For those who read The Magician’s Nephew this month, he’s like Uncle Andrew, seeing a new world being miraculously born around him and new life sprouting from the ground, and all he can think of is bring bits of iron to plant so they can grow into factories and battleships to make him rich.

 

He was blind.  He heard the gospel.  He heard the good news about Jesus.  He saw the life the Spirit in these people and he saw new creation being born.  But he wasn’t interested any of it.  He just wanted to be in control.  He saw it as a way to get rich.  So he offers to buy this gift from Peter and John—as if it was theirs to sell.  As if it was their power to impart the Spirit.

 

But Peter and John had no such power.  They didn’t go around laying hands on people and giving them the Spirit any more than a modern-day Anglican bishop or Pentecostal evangelist does so.  This was a unique situation.  God gives the Spirit, not men, not preachers, not bishops, not even apostles.  This was simply a case in which it was necessary for both the Jews and the Samaritans to understand that they were one people in Jesus and the Spirit.

 

The crazy thing is that we still see this sort of thing despite all the warnings in scripture.  There are far too many people out there, preachers—people calling themselves “apostles”—offering the Spirit or his gifts for money, as if those gifts are the work of human beings and not God.  I expect that when Simon asked Peter and John to sell him this gift—one they didn’t even actually have—Peter immediately remembered Ananias and then Sapphira falling dead at his feet.  Because he knew, this false idea needed to die.  If allowed to fester, it would corrupt the church. And so he rebuked Simon—who, by God’s mercy isn’t struck dead on the spot.  “You’re no believer, Simon.  You’re still stuck in the bitter poison and chains of unrighteousness.”

 

Luke tells us that Simon asked them to pray for him so that he wouldn’t fall under God’s judgement.  I have to wonder if they told him about Ananias and Sapphira and left him quaking in his boots.  Luke doesn’t tell us what happened to him, whether he eventually understood and actually believed the gospel or not.  What Luke wants to stress here, what we shouldn’t lose of, is that the Spirit is not under human control.  The Holy Spirit isn’t magic.  Magic is the human attempt to manipulate God.  Humans have been trying to figure out ways to do that ever since our fall.  Magic treats God like a vending machine.  Push B5 to get this or push D2 to get that.  Say this spell, offer this sacrifice—follow the right formula and you can control the divine.  The so-called “Prosperity Gospel” is a modern version of this.  But you don’t have to be into the Prosperity Gospel or the Word-Faith movement to be guilty of thinking you can control God.  When we bargain with God, we’re doing the same thing.  We think that if we offer God this or that, we obligate him to give us something in return.  Brothers and Sisters, God’s been teaching his people from the beginning that he doesn’t work this way.  He’s sovereign.  He sends his Spirit as a mighty rushing wind and, as Jesus said to Nicodemus, “Those who are born of that Spirit are blown along with it.”  Those who surrender themselves to Jesus and the Spirit are blown into purity, blown into holiness, blown into godliness, blown into ministry and blown into mission.  That’s what Luke shows us in Acts.  Jesus purifies us, the Spirit fills, and in those acts God make us his living temple.  A temple through which he will make himself known and through which he will eventually fill the earth with his presence.

 

In this morning’s Collect we asked the Lord to teach to us to ask for the things that please him.  Brothers and Sisters, if we understand ourselves to be his temple, his working model of new creation in the midst of the old, I can hardly think of a better prayer.  It’s a prayer very much like “on earth as in heaven”.  A prayer that sets aside our own agendas and ask for God to bring us into his.  I’d like to close praying that Collect again.

 

Let your merciful ears, O Lord, be open to the prayers of your humble servants; and, that we may obtain what we ask of you, teach us to ask for those things that please you, through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

Not very long ago I got into an online discussion with someone about evangelism.  The people I was interacting with were telling me things like, “I don’t confront, I just plant seeds” and “We’re suppose to share the gospel, not tell the gospel” or “If people are getting mad at you, you’re doing it wrong” and “Jesus just loved people.  He wasn’t confrontational”.  I found myself wondering if these people read the same Bible I read.  And I was thinking about that whole conversation off and on these last few weeks as I’ve been working through Stephen’s address—his very confrontational address—before the Sanhedrin.

 

Because there’s nothing namby-pamby or wishy-washy—or uh, I mean, “non-confrontational”—about Stephen’s address.  I expect that if you set Stephen down in our context today and let him do what he did, a lot of modern Christians would be misquoting Matthew 7:1 at him.  You know, “Judge not lest ye be judged.”  But, of course, being confrontational, calling people to repent, proclaiming the good news about Jesus and the truth that he is Lord as something more than just another choice on the religious smorgasbord has nothing to be with being judgemental.  It has everything to do with knowing and having experienced the reality of God’s goodness in Jesus and the Spirit and it’s about having a vision, a hope of this broken creation—and of humanity—set to rights and God coming to dwell with us forever.

 

We’ve made our way through Stephen’s address over the last three Sundays.  They accused him of blaspheming the torah and the temple and Moses and instead of defending himself, Stephen instead told the story they all knew so well.  But going back to Abraham and working through it all the way to their present day, he showed how the law and the prophets, the torah and the temple had been signposts pointing the people to Jesus the Messiah.  And so it wasn’t Stephen who was blaspheming torah and temple—it was them—because they’d rejected Jesus.  The Christians were the true followers of the law and the prophets, the true children of Abraham and Moses, because they recognised that that’s what the story was working toward all this time.  But that wasn’t what they wanted to hear.  But if we’ve heard the story that Stephen told, we ought to be prepared.  Rejection is how God often works.  Joseph had been rejected, but God worked something amazing from it.  Moses was rejected, but God worked something amazing from it.  Jesus was rejected, but God worked something amazing from it.  So if Stephen is rejected, we can be confident God will work something amazing from it.  I think they understood, which made them all the more angry, because they understand: if they reject Stephen, they’re actually playing right into his narrative.  But they do it anyway.

 

We’ll pick up with Acts 7:54.  [Page 1088 in the pew Bibles.]  Luke tells us: “What Stephen said was a blow right to the heart. When they heard it, they gnashed their teeth against him.” Picture them, sitting in their dignified counsel, the priests and leaders of Israel.  But there’s no response they can give that won’t condemn them, so they just sit there glaring at him as they gnash their teeth.

 

To us that’s probably just a picture of rage, but Luke is pulling this image of gnashing teeth from the Old Testament—particularly from the Psalms—where it’s always the wicked who gnash their teeth at the righteous or the wicked who gnash their teeth in frustration, aguish, and rage at God after finding themselves on the wrong end of his judgement.  Luke wants to make it clear that these are the leaders of Israel—the men who were supposed to know and to represent God—but instead they’ve rejected his Messiah and are revealing their wickedness.  Think of Jesus in John 8, addressing a crowd of angry scribes and Pharisees.  “We’ve got one father and that’s God,” they yelled at him.  And he said back, “If God were really your father, you would love me, because I come from God…No, you are from your father, but your father is the devil.”

 

And then, in stark contrast, Luke describes Stephen in verse 55: “He, however, was filled with the holy spirit, and looked steadily up into heaven. There he saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at God’s right hand. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘I can see heaven opened, and the son of man standing at God’s right hand!’

 

They’ve rejected Jesus.  They sit there, almost demonically gnashing their teeth at him—the posture of the wicked who stand condemned before God.  And Stephen stands before them full of the Spirit and with the very vision of heaven those men had longed for.  Luke said at the beginning of all this that as they looked at Stephen his face was like the face of an angel.  And Stephen shouts out to them, “Look!”  I can imagine them looking around, wondering what he’s insisting they look at, because of course, no one else is seeing what he sees.  But the fact that his own face had been transformed—or even transfigured—says that he must have been seeing something and they knew it.  And he goes on, “I can see heaven opened and the son of man standing at God’s right hand!”

 

I think that whenever I’ve read this, I’ve tended to picture Stephen looking up, pointing past the ceiling of the room they were in, as if he’s been given a glimpse into—you know—heaven—up there.  But the more I think about the imagery and context here, I don’t think that’s it.  I think we should be thinking back to episodes like the one in 2 Kings 6.  Israel was under attack by the Arameans.  The Prophet Elisha and his servant, Gehazi, were staying in the city of Dothan when it was surrounded by the Aramean army.  They woke up in the morning to see the huge army surrounding the city and Gehazi began to worry.  “What shall we do?” he asked Elisha.  And Elisha calmly told him, “Don’t be afraid, for those who are with us are great than those who are with them.”  I picture Gehazi standing there wringing his hands.  And so Elisha prays, and as he prays, Gehazi’s eyes are opened and on the hills all around he sees horses and chariots of fire surrounded the Aramean army.  And that heavenly army didn’t arrive when Elisha prayed, like heaven, it was there all along.  The miracle was simply God’s gracious allowance to open the eyes of Elisha’s servant to see it.

 

It’s a reminder that heaven isn’t up there, some far away place.  Heaven is here.  God created earth and heaven to overlap, for us to live in his presence.  Our sin has driven a wedge between the two.  But God and his realm are never far away.  As Gehazi was reassured that day as he saw a glimpse of heaven, so Stephen was reassured as the stood before the Sanhedrin.  As the highest court of the Jew was about to render a judgement against him and condemn him to death, I think we should understand what he saw as a sudden revelation of the heavenly court.  And there stood Jesus, the son of man.  The son of man was the character in Daniel’s vision who rose to take his throne at God’s right hand and from there to quelled the angry kings and nations that raged against God.  And now Stephen sees the ascended Jesus, not now sitting on his throne as Lord, but standing at the right hand of God, the great judge, to act as his advocate and witness.  The court of Israel was condemning him to death, but the heavenly court, the heavenly judge was ruling in his favour.

 

What’s interesting about this comparison between the chariots of fire and Stephen’s vision of the heavenly court, is the result, the aftermath, the response of God’s man.  Because the chariots of fire didn’t swoop down to crush the Aramean army.  Instead, Elisha prayed again and God blinded the Arameans.  And Elisha then went out and convinced the blinded Arameans to follow him to Samaria, where Elisha prayed again and the Lord opened their eyes.  The king wanted to slaughter Elisha’s “prisoners”, but Elisha warned the king.  It wasn’t the king who defeated and captured them, God had done that.  So instead the king prepared a feast for them and then sent them on their way home.  This was Israel in one of her finer moments, obeying God, being light to nations, making known the grace and glory of God.  And I’ll come back to it shortly.

 

I think Luke’s main point in telling us about this heavenly vision of Stephen’s ties in closely with the theme of Jesus and the church being the new temple—something that comes up over and over through Acts.  Remember that for the Jews the temple was the supposed to be the place, not just where heaven and earth overlapped, but the thin place between them where God’s people could meet him.  Not fully, of course.  His presence was in the holy of holies where no one could go.  But if they offered the sacrifices that would purify them from the stain of sin and death, they could draw near.  The irony was that God’s presence had been gone from the temple for hundreds of years.  They’d rebuilt it when they returned from their exile in Babylon, but God’s presence had never come back.  As if God was hinting to them there was something new and better to come.  And Stephen’s been preaching on that theme.  The old temple was a signpost pointing to Jesus and to a new temple, not this time made with hands, but established by God himself and filled with is Spirit.  And in as much as I expect this miracle vision of the heavenly court was a gift to Stephen to encourage him—even though he doesn’t seem to have needed much of that kind of encouragement—the gospel was enough—it highlighted to everyone present that day the thing that Isreal so longed for in the temple—the convergence of heaven and earth—was now happening in Jesus and his people.

 

And while Stephen’s vision seems to be unique in Christian history, we see saint after saint, martyr after martyr going to their deaths with the same sort of calm and composure that we see in Stephen.  I have to wonder if God has given others similar visions to which, for obvious reasons, we simply aren’t privy.  Polycarp, Perpetua and Felicity, Ignatius, Thomas Cranmer, Nichols Ridley, Hugh Latimer, Maximillian Kolbe—all died with the gospel and prayers for those who killed them on their lips.  Brothers and Sisters, that’s the witness of men and women who are confident in the gospel, in the lordship of Jesus, and in the hope of resurrection and new creation.  These are men and women who understood what the gospel is—not good advice, not another option to try on the religious smorgasbord, not something you should give a try; they knew it to be true and they knew it to be truly good news—the way, the truth, and the life.  They knew the grace of God so powerfully, that they went to their deaths praying that those who killed them would one day know it.

 

So Luke goes on in verse 57: “But they yelled at him at the tops of their voices, blocked their ears, and made a concerted dash at him.  They bundled him out of the city and stoned him.  The witnesses laid down their cloaks at the feet of a young man named Saul.  So they stoned Stephen.  “Lord Jesus,” he cried out, “receive my spirit.”  Then he knelt down and shouted at the top of his voice, “Lord, don’t let this sin stand against them.”  Once he had said this, he fell asleep.

 

“Now Saul was giving his consent to Stephen’s death.

That very day a great persecution was started against the church in Jerusalem. Everyone except the apostles was scattered through the lands of Judaea and Samaria. Devout men buried Stephen and made great lamentation over him. 3 But Saul was ravaging the church, and entering house after house, he dragged off men and women and committed them to prison.”

 

It’s not just that Stephen stood firm on the gospel before the Sanhedrin and it’s not just that he had a vision of heaven in which he was vindicated and could go to his death with calm and confidence.  His prayer for his enemies speaks volumes—it’s a powerful witness—to the gospel itself.

 

I can’t image what it was like for Stephen.  In high school I was hit in the throat by a softball trying to catch someone’s pop fly.  It hurt. Apparently I was lucky it didn’t crush my trachea.  And that was a softball.  Stephen stood there—and I expect pretty quickly knelt and then lay there—as people threw rocks at him.  The biggest rocks they could find and still throw with force.  It was an absolutely brutal way to die and I can’t imagine what kind of sadistic person would take joy in doing it to someone.  I guess that’s yet more testimony to the influence the gospel has had on our culture.  And there, at a little distance stood Saul of Tarsus, having given the green light to the angry mob, supervising them as they threw their stones.  Keeping guard over their coats.  But as the rocks were hitting Stephen—imagine a rock breaking your jaw, crushing your nose, breaking your skull—Stephen cried out to God.  He cried out for mercy on those who were killing him.

 

And that stands out as another witness to the gospel.  Because the whole going to a martyr’s death, calmly and confidently and stoically, that’s admirable, but other people had done that before Stephen.  About two centuries before, in the days when the Greek king, Antiochus Epiphanes, ruled Judaea, there had been a lot of Jewish martyrs.  Antiochus wanted to break the Jews, get them to forsake their “law”.  Get them to become more Greek, and they’d be an easier people to rule.  And so he desecrated their temple.  He made it illegal for them to circumcise their sons.  And his soldiers would round up the openly rebellious and force them to eat pork on pain of death.  2 Maccabees 7 tells the story of one family of Jewish heroes.  Seven brothers are tortured and, one by one, martyred as they stand firm in their faith, as they refuse the soldiers’ order to eat pork.  They bore witness to their faith in God, to their hope in the future resurrection of the dead, but they also call down horrible curses on those pagan soldiers as they died.  With their last breath, they called down God’s judgement on their enemies.

 

 

But Stephen: Like those Jewish martyrs, he stood firm in faith.  He warned his accusers and his killers of God’s coming judgement.  But he didn’t lay it down as a curse.  He laid it down as a warning, a call to repentance—and with his last breath, a prayer for grace.  One of those Maccabean martyrs had yelled out, “This mighty power will torture you and your descendants!”  And Stephen, raised on those same stories of the martyrs, he saw that same divine persistence, but in light of Jesus he saw it very differently.  Stephen knew there is no escaping the Hound of Heaven.  But instead of divine judgment pursuing his enemies, he saw divine grace hounding them, the redeeming love of God pursing them—and if they would not be caught by it—it would pursue and catch and enfold and transform their descendants.  Somehow, someday the grace of God in Jesus, the renewing power of the gospel would catch them, because—Stephen was absolutely certain—that power will one day change the entire world.  That was the point of his powerful speech before them, after all.  From Abraham to Joseph, from Jospeh to Moses, from Moses to Jesus.  That’s what the story is about: the grace and glory of the God of Israel to save his creation—not just Abraham’s family—but all of creation.  It’s about God, in love, giving himself to purify us from the stain of our rebellion, so that he can come home to live with us.  To restore heaven and earth.  And that gospel knowledge, that good news changed everything for Stephen.

 

Brothers and Sisters, think about this.  Imagine people knew nothing of Jesus or the gospel or Christianity other than the astounding fact that Christian martyrs go to their deaths, not hurling curses, but calling down blessing and forgiveness from heaven on the very people torturing and killing them.  That, in itself, says something powerful about Jesus and the gospel and Christianity.  That in itself, would, I think, make a lot of people constructively curious.  That this is what we see from Christian martyrs down through history is witness to the gospel and to the very nature of our faith in the God of love who shed his blood to reconcile his enemies to himself.  A witness to the Jesus who, as he died on the cross, prayed that those who killed him would know God’s forgiveness.

 

Would that we, Brothers and Sisters, would be captivated by this same gospel of grace and the same sure and certain hope of reconciliation and resurrection and new creation.  Because our generation of Christians seems to be losing it.  We no longer think of the gospel as good news to proclaim, but as good advice to share, because Jesus is no longer the way, the truth, and the life, but now a way, a truth, a life.  We no longer have a clear hope and vision of creation set to rights by Jesus, maybe because we twisted this idea of “heaven” into a distant, ethereal, disembodied realm, instead of God’s realm, present, but unseeable because of our sin.  And so we’re afraid to speak of sin as that great evil that keeps us from God and we’re afraid to call people to repentance and we’re afraid to speak of that day when God will, once and for all, wipe the last traces of sin and evil from the world, to heal the breach between heaven and earth, to pull out the wedge we’ve so firmly driven between them.  And, in the same way, having consigned Jesus’ lordship to a distant heaven, we fear to proclaim that most basic Christian creed—the one carved on our lychgate: “Jesus is Lord”.  Lord, not just in a far away heaven, not just someday in a far away future, but here and now.

 

Brothers and Sisters, we need Stephen’s witness just as much as the Sanhedrin did that day.  I pray that we would take it to heart.  And if we lack his confidence, if we lack his hope, if we lack his vision, or if—in contrast to Stephen—we find ourselves gritting our teeth in anger and calling down curses on our enemies, that the Lord would give us a clear vision of his grace, of his kingdom, of his glory.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

“Made by hand.”  When we see that, it usually means something good, doesn’t it?  Someone careful hand crafted this thing.  Carefully stitched it together.  Put care into baking it.  You can probably trust it, because it was well made.  And, of course, it was made with love.

 

But if we went all the way back to ancient Israel, “Made by hand” had a very different meaning and connotation.  For us it (usually) signals something good; for them it signalled idolatry.  “Made by hand” said that this thing was not made by God or that God had not commanded it to be made, but wicked humans made it anyway.  And when it came to things involved in worship, it meant idolatry.

 

This idea has come into our language too.  You’ll sometimes hear Christians—usually on the Puritan end of the spectrum—talk about this or that thing in worship or this or that doctrine being “man-made”.  The Puritans called it the “Regulative Principle” and the idea was that everything Christians do in worship should either be something God explicitly commanded (like reading the Bible or singing or preaching) or something that good and necessary consequence demands.

 

We Anglicans follow what’s called the “Normative Principle”, which means that we have freedom in our worship, as long as what we do is not forbidden by scripture or goes against biblical principles.  But you’ll often hear folks who follow the Regulative Principle say things like, “Your liturgy or your hymns are ‘man-made’” or “Your traditions of using musical instruments or observing Easter, Christmas, and other holy days are ‘man-made’” and by that they mean that they’re unbiblical and wrong.  Some would go so far as to call these things “idolatry”.

 

The “RP” isn’t our tradition, I think more than anything else in Protestantism it has led to sinful, ungodly, and unwarranted schisms, but I do respect the fact that it grew out of a commitment to take worship very seriously.  People who follow it understand that how we worship God is serious business, not something frivolous.  I think most Christians today err in taking zero care in how they worship God.  But you can’t read the New Testament and you certainly can’t read the Old Testament without realising that how we worship is serious business.  God takes it seriously and so should we.  I’ll come back to this, but keep it in the back of your mind as we work through the end of Stephen’s speech.

 

I want to pick up where we left off in Acts 7.  We’ve been making our way through Stephen’s speech before the Sanhedrin—the body of Jewish elders.  He’s been accused of blasphemy and of speaking against torah and the temple and Moses.  And instead of defending himself, what he’s done is to tell the story of Israel and Israel’s God.  He’s telling it in a such way that they should—hopefully—see that he’s not speaking against any of those things that defined them as Jews.  He’s telling the story in such a way that they’ll see—hopefully—that the gospel is not a departure from Israel’s story, but rather the very culmination of it—the very thing that torah and temple and Moses were pointing toward all along.  And so he began with Abraham and the call of Israel, and then Joseph, and then Moses.  And as he’s telling not just the story, but their story, he’s highlighting its themes of forgiveness and grace and also that when God acts, when God does new things, it’s almost never what anyone expected—but afterward you can always see that, in fact, the signposts had always been pointing to that new thing.  Like I said last week, the figure of Moses towers over the story of Israel and Stephen knew that.  But he also knew, as Moses towered over the story, he did so like a signpost, with his arm outstretched, pointing the people straight to Jesus.  He knew, you can’t use Moses to argue against the gospel.

 

So let’s pick up at Acts 7:35 where we left off. [Page 1087 in the pew Bibles, way down in the very bottom right corner of the page.] “So,” Stephen continued, “this same Moses—the one they rejected, saying, ‘Who made you a ruler or judge?’—this is the man God sent as ruler and redeemer, by the hand of the angel who had appeared to him in the bush.  He did signs and wonders in the land of Egypt, and led them out, through the Red Sea and for forty years in the wilderness.  This is the Moses who said to the sons of Israel, ‘God will raise up a prophet like me from among your brothers.’  And this is the one who was in the assembly in the desert with the angel who had spoken to him on Mount Sinai, and with our ancestors; and he received living words to give to us.”

 

Stephen’s continuing the story of Moses he began in last week’s text.  Moses was rejected by his own people—at least at first.  And there was nothing controversial in telling this part of the story.  And there’s nothing controversial in his reminding the Sanhedrin that despite that early rejection, Moses was indeed the ruler and redeemer the Lord had sent to his people.  Moses did signs and wonders in both Egypt and in the wilderness.  He’s the one who parted the Red Sea.  He’s the one who met God on the mountain and came down with God’s living words, with the torah and with the instructions for the tabernacle.  And—Stephen makes a really important point here—Moses was also the one who told the Israelites that he was not the end-all-be-all of rulers, redeemers, or messiahs, because one day the Lord would raise up a “prophet” from amongst them—a prophet in comparison to whom Moses would pale.

 

The Sanhedrin knew he was talking about Jesus.  The people had already suspect that Jesus was this greater prophet whom Moses had prophesied.  More than once he was asked, “Are you the prophet who is to come?”  So Stephen’s making it clear, just as Moses had been rejected by the Israelites of his day, so Jesus was rejected by the Israelites of his.  We’ve touched on this last week.

 

But now Stephen takes it a step further.  Look at verse 39.  It’s not just that Moses was rejected by his people in the days before he was actually called by God.  The more embarrassing thing for Israel was that they’d rejected Moses after he’d been called, after they’d been through the Red Sea, after they’d seen the signs and wonders and had the torah and the tabernacle.  Stephen goes on:

 

“This is the one whom our fathers had not wanted to obey, but instead rejected him and turned back in their hearts to Egypt, by saying to Aaron, ‘Make us gods who will go before us; for this Moses, who brought us out of the land of Egypt—we don’t know what has become of him!’  They made a calf in those days, and offered sacrifice to an idol. They celebrated things their own hands had made.”

 

Remember what happened in Exodus?  Moses went up the mountain to meet God.  And he was up there for forty days and nights receiving the law.  And the people became afraid.  They thought that Moses surely must have died on the mountain, so they gave Aaron their gold and implored him to make a golden calf, an idol, so that they could have a god who would protect them.  It was a shameful moment for Israel.  They’d just received the Ten Commandments.  They’d just been told by God: You shall have no other gods.  You shall not make a carved image.  And Moses had asked them, “Will you do all these things?  Will you give yourself to the worship and service of the God of your fathers, the God who has saved you from Egypt?  The God who has decalared, ‘I will be your God and you will be my people?”  And the people had enthusiastically declared, “We will!  All this we will do!”  And just days later, they didn’t.

 

As eating the forbidden fruit was the primal sin of the human race, idolatry was the primal sin of Israel: worshipping something as if it were God when it wasn’t.  Aaron had tried to explain to Moses that he’d merely thrown the gold into the fire and that the calf had formed and jumped out of its own accord, but everyone knew that’s not how it works.  Idols are made by human hands and the prophets drove that point home over and over down through Israel’s history.  To worship an idol was absurd.  The pagans were fools for doing so.  First, you create a god with your own hands and then you worship it.  “How stupid is that?” the prophets asked.  And yet the golden calf wasn’t the last time Israel would worship an idol.  That primal sin came back over and over and over.  When Jeroboam rebelled and led ten of the tribes of Israel to form their own nation, he set up two golden calves, one at Bethel and one at Dan to discourage his people from going to the temple in Jerusalem.  No matter how devoutly Israel worshipped the Lord, idolatry was never far off.   Look at verse 42:

 

“Then God turned and handed them over to worship the host of heaven, as it stands written in the book of the prophets: ‘Did you bring sacrifices and offerings to me in those forty years in the wilderness, O house of Israel?  You took up the tent of Moloch, and the star of your god Rhephan, the carved images you made to worship! I will remove you beyond Babylon!’”

 

Stephen quotes Amos 5.  Even during Israel’s honeymoon period with the Lord, Amos condemned them.  Even then, while they brought their sacrifices to the Lord, they were worshiping pagan gods like Moloch and Rhephan and all the “host of heaven”.

 

So the Jewish priests and rulers have charged Stephen with blasphemy and now he turns the tables.  He never actually defends himself.  Instead, he retells the story of Israel from the beginning and shows how it leads straight to Jesus and now, again, he turns the tables on them.  He accuses them of the very thing they’ve charged him with.  Just as Israel had rejected Moses, so Israel’s priests and rulers have rejected Jesus.  And—since their most significant charge seems to have been that he was speaking against the temple—and that was precisely the same charge on which Jesus was arrested and crucified—Stephen makes his second point or his second charge against them.  Verse 44:

 

“Our ancestors had the ‘tent of meeting’ in the desert. [That’s another name for the tabernacle.] God had commanded Moses to make it according to the pattern which he had seen.  Our ancestors in their turn brought it in when, with Joshua, [meaning they brought it with them into Canaan, the promised land] they dispossessed the nations whom God drove out before our ancestors, and it was there until the time of David.  David found favour with God, and requested permission to establish a Tabernacle for the house of Jacob.  But it was Solomon who built him a house. [Stephen is referring to the permanent temple in Jerusalem.]  Now his key point:

 

“The Most High, however, does not live in shrines made by human hands. The prophet put it like this: ‘Heaven is my throne, and earth my footstool! What sort of house will you build me, says the Lord,

Or what place will you give me to rest in?  My own hand made all these, did it not?’

 

Yes, David planned the temple.  Solomon built it with the Lord’s blessing.  But Stephen quotes Isaiah 66.  The Prophet Isaiah had rebuked the people using the very words that Solomon had prayed at the dedication of the temple.  It is God who has made all things.  The idea that human beings can make anything—even the temple—that can contain God, well, that’s the real blasphemy.  Solomon knew that with this glorious temple on the mountain top, that with God’s presence manifest in a cloud of glory, that Israel—always prone to idolatry—would start to think that they had God in a box—to put as we might put it.  Solomon warned them.  Isaiah warned them.  And now Stephen is pointing his finger at the Sanhedrin and is saying, “When Jesus said he’d tear this building down and rebuild it in three days, he wasn’t blaspheming it.  When I said that this is precisely what Jesus has done and when I say that Jesus has, indeed, built a new temple by purifying a new people and filling them with God’s own Spirit, I’m not the one blaspheming the temple.  No!  You’re the one’s blaspheming God!  You think you’ve got God in a box.  You’re thinking like the pagans.  You’ve gone back to our people’s primal sin!  Heaven is God’s throne and earth his footstool.  The entire cosmos he’s made cannot contain him.  What fools you are to think your puny temple can contain him!  The temple was the signpost pointing the way to what God’s done in Jesus and the Spirit.  It was the signpost telling us all along that God’s plan was one day to enter this world as one of us, as the Righteous One, so that he could rescue us—from sin, from death, from the idolatry that has plagued us from the beginning—by filling us with his Spirit and turning our hearts of stone into hearts of flesh.  By filling his people, not so we can guard it a box of stone, but so we can carry his presence to the ends of the earth.  But just like our ancestors, you refused God’s redeemer because you couldn’t let go of your building, your box made by hands.”

 

You can almost imagine Stephen standing there in front of the Sanhedrin and with him stand Moses and Isaiah and Amos and all the other prophets nodding at his words.  He closes his speech in verses 51-53:

 

“You stiff-necked people! Your hearts and ears are uncircumcised! You always resist the holy spirit, just as your ancestors did before you!  Which of the prophets did your ancestors not persecute? And you killed those who announced in advance the coming of the Righteous One—and now you have betrayed him and murdered him.  You received the law at the command of angels, but you didn’t keep it!”

 

They were the people God had chosen to steward his glory.  They were the keepers of the great story of God and his redemptive plan.  They, of all people, should have known better, but when the story came to its climax, they refused to listen.  They’d stried to slam the book shut.  It’s not just that they rejected the Messiah and handed him over to the pagan Romans to be crucified.  Stephen’s point is that they were doing what idolatrous Isreal had always done.  Even though the kind of obvious idolatry that had got them exiled to Babylon had been rooted out since their return to Judaea, they were still at heart idolators.  As Stephen recounts the story of Israel, what we find is that it’s not just a story of redemption.  It’s also a story of rebellion that reminds us how desperately humanity needs God’s redemption.  Even the people with the law and the temple, even the people with Moses and the Prophets suffered from the same rebellious attitude that infects the human race.  As Calvin once put it, the rebellious human heart is a factory of idols.  We can take even the good things of God and turn them into idols as the Jews had done.

 

Stephen takes the high ground.  He stands with Abraham and  Moses, with Solomon and David, with Isaiah and Amos.  The Sanhedrin, for all their moral posturing and charges of blasphemy, Stephen opens the book they’d slammed shut and shows that in reality they stand with Joseph’s wicked brothers, with the Israelites who rejected Moses, with the Israelites who had given their gold to Aaron to cast a golden calf, with Jeroboam and all the others who had set up idols throughout the land.  The temple was good, but it was made with hands.  God had promised through the Prophets that one day he would make another, a better temple—and it would be better precisely because it wasn’t made by human hands.

 

Brothers and Sisters, that’s us.  And as I was thinking and meditating on this over the last few weeks, I was wondering what this means for us.  I think the biggest takeaway from Stephen’s speech—at least this part of it—is simply to hear him proclaim the glory of the God who has become present with us in Jesus, the Righteous One.  Jesus has, like a greater Moses, delivered us from our bondage to sin and death.  I don’t think it’s likely that we’re going to end up like the Sanhedrin, rejecting Jesus and the Spirit in favour of the temple and the torah.

 

But, I do think there’s a warning here, even if it’s a little oblique.  Brothers and Sisters, it can be very easy for us to make idols out of otherwise good—and even essential—things.  In an age of apostasy—and especially for those of us who came out of the battles for orthodoxy within Anglicanism, it can be very easy to make an idol of our theology and of our orthodoxy.  We can make idols of the traditional Prayer Book, of the old hymnals, of our classical Protestant worship.  Good things.  Orthodoxy—right doctrine, right theology, right understanding of God and of ourselves—is absolutely essential.  But Brothers and Sisters, none of these things stand in place of Jesus; none of them stands in the place of the Spirit; none of them stands in place of the Triune God.  None of them ought to undermine the unity that Jesus and the Spirit have given us with other believers.  Bp. Cummins understood this and it’s why the Reformed Episcopal Church exists: because Bp. Cummins knew that Christian unity is rooted not in bishops or in sacraments, but in Jesus the Messiah.  It’s good to be right in our doctrine and practise.  We should take theology and worship seriously, but we should also be humble about them.  We should acknowledge that despite our best efforts, none of us will ever—at least not this side of eternity—have a perfect theology or perfect worship.  And we ought always to guard against pride, because being proud in our imperfect theologies and imperfect worship inevitably causes us to treat them as idols.  We lose our focus on Jesus.  And no matter how right we may be, we lose our witness and cease to give glory to God.

 

So let Stephen be a reminder to us to keep Jesus at the centre of our being and of our life together, at the centre of our church.  Let our good doctrine and our good worship be the things that keep him there.  But let him always be our God, let him always be the one we worship and glorify.  And, I think, if are faithful in that, we will be faithful in giving glory, not to ourselves, not to our theology, not to our Prayer Book, not to anything made with hands, but to the God of glory.

 

Let’s pray: God of glory, as we hear your word, as we learn the story of redemption, teach us to see and to keep Jesus, the Righteous One, always at its centre.  Give us the grace and wisdom necessary for sound doctrine and worship, not that we be “right”, but that we might always keep Jesus at the centre of our life together, that we might worship you and faithfully make your glory known to the ends of the earth.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

When I was an American school kid in the 70s and 80s I learned that the defining events in the history of the United States were was the founding of Jamestown in 1607; the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth in 1620; and, of course, the Revolutionary War that began in 1775 and the signing of the Declaration of Independence—well—almost exactly 250 years ago.  There were plenty of other events that shaped the story, but those were the events that set the United States on its trajectory: a heritage from Britain with a good dose of religious freedom and Protestant work ethic coming together in a grand expression of the rights of man shaped by the Enlightenment.  Were there flaws?  Yep.  Slavery was a big one.  But the way I learned the story, the British mainland colonies of North America were on the fringe of the slave trade.  We received a tiny fraction of it.  The real slavery problem was in the Caribbean and Latin America.  Plus, we dealt with it.  The whole Civil War thing—a tragedy.  But it was a story to be proud of.

 

But in 2019, the New York Times began a new publishing project.  They called it The 1619 Project.  It was subtitled, “A New Origin Story”.  Why 1619?  That was the year the first African slaves were brought to Virginia.  Before the Pilgrims.  Before the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.  It was a deliberate attempt to reframe the story of the United States.  Instead of a story rooted in a proud English heritage and religious liberty and Enlightenment ideals of freedom and liberty, the 1619 Project told the story of the United States as one rooted in racism and slavery and oppression.  Instead of a story that makes you stand proud, it’s a story meant to instil shame and guilt. The 1619 Project didn’t come out of nowhere.  It made public a story that many people had already been telling, especially to younger generations.

 

And, as you would expect, this resulted in a great cultural clash.  Both sides shouting at the other, basically saying, “How dare you tell our story wrong!”  It wasn’t so much a matter of the events themselves.  Both versions of the story involved the same events, the same people, and all of that.  But it highlights how much how you frame a story, how much you stress certain events and people and ideas over others, that you can end up with stories that are essentially the same, while dramatically different.  One instils national pride; the other instils national shame.  That doesn’t mean there’s no right or wrong.  Framing the American story as if slavery and racism are its fundamental core is dishonest.  But at the same time, telling a story that glosses over those evils for the sake of instilling pride, well, that’s a problem too.

 

And as much as this Postmodern metanarrative dilemma was nowhere on the radar of First Century Jews, I think it’s a good way to understand what was going with Jews in those days and it’s a good illustration of what Stephen is doing in his speech before the Sanhedrin in Ats 7.  [It’s page 1087 in the Pew Bibles.]  There were different “parties” competing for influence and control in First Century Judaea and as much as they all told the same story of Israel, reaching back to Abraham and Moses and David, to the law and the Prophets, all rooted in the same exodus and exile and the same promises, how they told the story produced very different results, different feelings about Israel’s present situation, different ideas about the future and how to get there—just as how I learned American history makes you smile when you see the Stars and Stripes, but others, having learned The 1619 Project story, feel shame.

 

For Pharisees, unfaithfulness to the law resulted in exile—one that was still effectively ongoing—and only national faithfulness to the law would get them out of it.  For the Sadducees, that was all in the past.  God had restored them from their exile, and the temple and its priests were the proof.  All was well.  For the Zealots, the story said that armed revolution was the only way out of their oppression.  For the Essenes, the group responsible for the Dead Sea Scrolls, the story said that the everyone and everything had been defiled by unfaithfulness, even the temple itself.  God would wage holy war on the unfaithful, so they—the only truly righteous ones—retreated to the desert to wait and to keep pure.  And there was the historian Josephus.  A generation later, he told the story—after the disaster had happened—to say that the Jewish revolutionaries had brought God’s wrath on themselves and that God had raised up the Romans to act as his instrument of judgement.  Same story, but the different ways they told it, the different parts they emphasised, the way they interpreted certain events like the Babylonian Exile, landed them in very different places.  Like I said last week, the story got them to the airport, but they were all waiting at different gates—and none of them the right gate for the God’s real homecoming.  That said, all of them held the same markers of Jewish identity dear: the torah, the temple, the promised land, their circumcision.  They disagreed on a lot, but attack any of those things and they’d all join in stoning you after charging you with blasphemy.

 

So what Stephen is doing before the Sanhedrin, backing up all the way to Abraham and telling the story yet again, was in good keeping with what was going on in First Century Judaea.  So—in case you missed last week or have forgotten—in the first sixteen verses, Stephen began telling the story of Jesus and the Spirit by going back to Abraham.  This was the moment when the God of glory—Stephen wants to stress that he’s here to glorify the God of Israel, not blaspheme him or his holy things—Abraham was the moment when God stepped into the darkness and misery of his broken, fallen, corrupted creation and called to Abraham.  In Abraham, God was launching his project to restore rebellious humanity to himself and to set to rights the creation that we broke.  Now, there was more to it than this—it’s online if you missed or forgot it—but Stephen’s main point is that the gospel is not a departure from the story of Israel.  It’s not something new that has no roots in what happened before.  He’s saying to the Jewish elders: When the God of glory, the God of Israel called Abraham out of Ur and settled him in the promised land and established his covenant with him to make him a nation, that was the beginning of the story that brings us to Jesus, to the cross and the empty tomb, to the ascension and to Pentecost.  The story of Abraham is the story of the gospel and vice versa.

 

Remember, they accused him of blaspheming torah and temple and Stephen’s saying, “No way!  Torah and temple are good.  They’re glorious.  They’re how God prepared us and brought us to Jesus.”  Like I said last week, when you leave your car and board the ferry, you are in no way saying your car was bad.  It got you to the ferry.  But you can’t drive on water.  Now it’s time do something new—to do the very thing your car brought you to do.

 

And then from Abraham to Joseph.  Stephen tells Isreal’s story in such a way to highlight that when the God of Israel acts to bless and to save his people, it’s often in unexpected ways.  Abraham was promised the land of Canaan, but never had any more of it than a little burial plot.  And Jacob and his sons were forced to flee the land of Canaan in order to survive a famine.  And Jacob’s sons were wicked men who sold their brother, Joseph into slavery after nearly choosing to murder him.  And Joseph went from slavery to prison.  How was God going to work anything good from any of that?  But he did.  The sovereign God was at work all along.  Slavery and prison led Joseph to the premiership of Egypt just in time deliver his family when they arrived.  None of them had ever expected any of that.  But God delivered them.  And Stephen’s telling of the Joseph story also highlights that gracious forgiveness has always been at the heart of the story of God and his people.  There was Joseph, hated, abused, sold into slavery by his brothers, but instead of taking revenge, he welcomes them and throw a party.

 

This is what Jesus had been doing as the lost sheep of Israel, the tax collectors and sinners, came to him in repentance and faith. And this is the sort of rejoicing that would take place in heaven were the Sanhedrin to see how the story leads to Jesus and repent.  God was waiting for them with open arms and a promise of blessing, and they should know that, because that’s how God’s great story has always worked.  It’s the key in which this great symphony is written.

 

So now, Moses.  As important as Abraham and Joseph were, Moses stands like a colossus over the story of Israel.  Moses was the deliverer who led Israel out of Egypt and parted the sea.  It was Moses who went up Mt. Sinai and saw God for himself.  It was Moses who came down and delivered the torah to Israel.  It was under Moses that God made a nation out of Abraham’s family.  And this is where they’ve accused Stephen of blasphemy.  They’ve accused him of speaking against the torah and temple and Moses.  So look at Acts 7, beginning at verse 17.  Stephen highlights three things about Moses.  The first thing he stresses is how Moses was raised up by God to be the right man at the right place at the right time—even though no one would have guessed at the beginning that Moses was God’s man for the hour. Stephen says:

 

“God had sworn an oath to Abraham.  [Remember the promise to make him a great nation and to give his descendants the land of Canaan?] When the time drew near for this promise to be fulfilled, the people had increased and multiplied in Egypt, until another king arose over Egypt, one who had not known Joseph.  He got the better of our people, and ill-treated our fathers, forcing them to abandon their newborn children so that they would die.  It was at that time that Moses was born, and he was pleasing to God. He was nursed for three months in his father’s house.  But, when they abandoned him, Pharaoh’s daughter claimed him and brought him up as her own son.  So Moses was educated in the full teaching of Egyptian wisdom, and he was powerful in what he said and did.”

 

Already, in the life of Joseph, Stephen has stressed that God works human evil for good.  Nothing escapes his sovereign hand.  And just so with Moses.  First, this new Pharoah decides to make slaves of the Hebrews.  Not good.  And then, when their numbers increase so prolifically that Pharaoh fears being able to control them, he hatches a plan to murder all the baby boys.  And so Moses ends up in a basket in the river, where Pharaoh’s daughter finds him and decides to raise him as her own.  God turns Pharaoh’s hate, prejudice, and injustice against him, sovereignly placing one of those Hebrew boys right in Pharaoh’s own home, raised at Pharaoh’s expense, and tutored by Pharaoh’s own tutors in the famed wisdom of the Egyptians.  God ensure the story is full of irony.  Pharaoh unwittingly nurtures and educates the very man who will be his downfall.  And Moses, himself, receives the training needed one day to oversee, to govern the people of Israel.  Again, at the time, none of this made any sense.  No one could see any significance to the story as it was unfolding.  But God has a plan and one of the things the Jewish people learned from Moses’ story—and so many others—is to trust God.  In the famous words of William Cowper, God moves in a mysterious way.  It’s another motif in the divine symphony—one that comes back over and over and that God’s people out to recognise when they hear the music.

 

Second, Stephen stresses the rejection of Moses by his own people.  Look at verse 23:

 

“When he had grown to forty years old, it came into his heart to see how his brothers, the sons of Israel, were doing.  He saw someone being wronged, and came to the man’s defence; he took revenge on behalf of the man who was being oppressed, by striking down the Egyptian.  He thought his kinsfolk would grasp the fact that God was sending him to their rescue, but they didn’t.

 

“The next day he showed up as two Hebrews were fighting, and he tried to bring them back together again. ‘Now then, you two,’ he said, ‘you are brothers! Why are you wronging each other?’  But the man who was wronging the other wasn’t having it.  ‘Who made you a ruler or judge over us?’ he retorted, pushing him away.  ‘Do you want to kill me in the same way you killed the Egyptian yesterday?’  At that word, Moses ran away, and lived as a guest in the land of Midian, where he had two sons.”

 

Yet another motif in the symphony, another recurring theme in the story.  Jesus wasn’t the first of God’s deliverers to be rejected by his own people.  The story highlights that this is sometimes how God works.  Now, there’s no one-to-one equivalence between Moses and Jesus.  Moses was rejected because he wasn’t ready yet.  He had a desire to see his people freed, but he hadn’t yet been called by God to that mission, nor had he received instruction on how to do it God’s way.  This way of telling the story, this way of looking back to the Old Testament is something we see all through the New Testament.  I think of the way Matthew regularly explains how something in the Jesus story “fulfils” this or that thing from the Old Testament.  And often we’re left wondering how the connection works.  Thanks largely to the Church Fathers, we’ve been taught to see these connections as literal prophecies or as “types”, as spiritual shadows that prefigure Jesus and various events in his life.  That’s kind of close, but it’s not quite what Stephen (or Matthew) do.  When Matthew, for example says that in the birth of Jesus Isaiah’s words about the virgin conceiving and bearing a child are fulfilled, we wonder how that works.  Isaiah was talking about a young woman in his own day bearing a child…and she wasn’t a virgin.  What Matthew was doing was pointing back to an event in Israel’s past, in Israel’s story, where the birth of a child to a young woman—maybe a princess, maybe the Prophet’s wife…it’s not clear—but where the birth of this child signalled that God was about to act to deliver his people.  Matthew latched onto that.  This is how God works, but this time—in the birth of Jesus—it’s not just a young woman, it’s an actual virgin, and this time God’s not just delivering his people from a foreign king; this time it’s deliverance from sin and death.  Matthew recognised the motif in the music.  It was there in Isaiah’s day, a lone violin telling a story that most people missed, but in the birth of Jesus that motif returned, and this time the whole symphony was playing it.

 

Stephen’s drawing on the story of Moses the same way.  Moses was rejected by his own people.  A repeating theme in the story that the Sanhedrin—people who know this story, know this symphony so well already—a theme they ought now to see plain as day in what happened to Jesus.  It should be obvious.  They were the ones playing the instruments this time, after all.

 

And then, third, Stephen stresses how through Moses, the God of glory, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God Israel had known for two thousand years, had revealed himself in a new way that no one had expected.  Look at verse 30:

 

“After another forty years, an angel appeared to him in the desert at Mount Sinai, in the flame of a burning bush.  When Moses saw it, he was amazed at the vision.  But, as he came closer to see, there came the voice of the Lord: ‘I am the God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob.’  Moses was very frightened, and didn’t dare to look.  But the Lord said to him, ‘Take your sandals off your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.  I have looked long and hard at the trouble my people are having in Egypt. I have heard their groaning, and I have come down to rescue them.  So, come on now: I’m going to send you to Egypt.’”

 

Stephen wants to be clear—and we see this all through early Christian preaching—the God revealed in Jesus the Messiah is not new.  He is the same God who has been directing this story, this symphony from the beginning.  This is the God of their fathers, the God who has been rescuing his people according to his promises for two thousand years.  The God they know.  The God whose character and ways they ought to have recognised in Jesus.

 

Yes, Stephen’s saying, Jesus was not what we expected.  In Jesus—and now in the Spirit—God is doing something amazing, something astounding, something new.  And that’s why you rejected him.  But knowing the story, knowing the music, we should have expected God would do precisely this: something new, something wild, something we didn’t expect.  Because the story is already full of episodes where God does just that.  No one, least of all Moses, exiled to the wilderness, tending his father-in-law’s sheep—expected the burning bush.  And yet in that moment, heaven and earth came back together, God spoke, a man was called, and the world was never the same again.

 

And Stephen’s point is this: You can’t predict the unexpected thing that God will do; but you can be sure—because the story is full of such moments—that God does act unexpectedly to do the things he’s promised and that we expect, the very things in which we hope.

 

Holy ground, for example, was something Stephen and his fellow Jews understood.  The temple was holy ground.  It was where heaven and earth met.  But it wasn’t the end-all-be-all of holy grounds.  It began at Mt. Sinai—not in Isreal, but in the wilderness—where God met Moses in the burning bush, where the plan to rescue Isreal from her bondage began.  When the Israelites built the tabernacle and the cloud of God’s glory descended to fill it, God upstaged what he’d done at the burning bush.  And then again, with the temple.  As if it were the strings playing the motif at the burning bush, and in Exodus 40 as God’s glory fills the holy of holies, the woodwinds join them.  And the music was good and it was beautiful, but the Sanhedrin should now be hearing that same motif as, in Jesus and the Spirit the whole symphony comes together to play.  Stephen isn’t disparaging Moses.  He’s not blaspheming the law or the temple.  He’s saying, “Can’t you hear it?  Their beautiful theme is now being woven into something far grander and played by the whole symphony.  The motifs have been there all along, the story has always been told this way.  Don’t plug your ears to this new thing.  Listen.  And hear how it’s taken up all the old themes into something that is nothing short of glorifying to the conductor, to the God of glory.

 

That’s as far as we have time to go this morning.  Like I said, Acts 7 is long and there’s a lot to unpack.  But I think the great take-away for us from this part—in addition to learning to hear the great story of God and his people—I think the most important thing here is to know that God really does do new and unexpected things.  As we get to know the story, we ought to expect for God to do the unexpected, for God to do new things that upstage what he’s done in the past.  And yet, the story also emphatically tells us that as much as God does new things and upstages the things he’s done before, those new things are always in keeping with what he’s done before.  The past always points to the future and the future never undermines the past.  As the writer of Hebrews tells us, “God is the same, yesterday, today, and forever.”  We live in an age where too many people are ready to do something new themselves—something that breaks from what or how God has already revealed himself, something that breaks from or that disparages or that blasphemes God’s past actions or his past instructions—they take this new human thing and declared that God is doing a new thing.  Andy Stanley saying we need to unhitch from the Old Testament so that God can do something new.  No!  Churches embracing sexual immorality and post-modern notions of identity and sexuality and family and marriage and then saying, “See, God is doing a new thing!”  A thousand times, no!  Brothers and Sisters, the theme of the story, the key of the symphony doesn’t change.  God does new things, but those new things follow from what God’s already done.  On the other hand—and I think it’s mostly in response to all the proclamation of “new things” that aren’t godly at all—on the other hand, we can become too fearful, too conservative and we can end up where the Pharisees and Sadducees and the Essenes were: locked down, afraid of the new, and turning away from burning bushes, and unwilling to go where God is actually leading.

 

This why we need to steep ourselves in the story.  This why we need to immerse ourselves in the great symphony and to let the music wash over and through us.  Brothers and Sisters, we need to know the themes and the motifs, to learn the key in which God is playing, to be intimately familiar with how they interact, weaving around and through each other, so that as the story continues to unfold, as the symphony bursts into new movements, we can hear God bringing those old familiar themes to new heights, while also being able to recognise when a different story is being told, or a different symphony is being played.  I’ve said over and over, Brothers and Sisters: God’s word is life.  Know, meditate on it, let it mould you, and then let it pour forth from you to give life to others.

 

Let’s pray: Lord of all power and might, the author and giver of all good things:  Graft in our hearts the love of your Name; increase in us true religion; nourish us with all goodness; and bring forth in us the fruit of good works; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

Last Sunday, in Acts 6, we saw Stephen confronted as he preached in the synagogue.  We don’t know exactly what he was preaching, but from the accusations that were made against him, he was—of course—preaching that Jesus is the Messiah, but must also have been talking about the way in which Jesus and the Spirit fulfil God’s promises to Israel, the law and the prophets, the torah and the temple.  We can surmise that, because what they accuse him of is saying blasphemous things against God in general and specifically against Moses.  They accuse him of saying that Jesus will destroy the temple and change the customs that Moses had handed down to them.  We can surmise this, too, because this is what we’ve been hearing Peter preach in the earlier parts of Acts.  Never in the early church do we see the apostles or anyone else just launching into a sermon about Jesus.  They always and consistently preach Jesus as part of the story of the God of Israel and his people.  That’s important.  In fact, it’s critical; it’s essential.  Leave out the story that leads to Jesus and you just may lose Jesus himself.  That’s what happened with Marcion of Sinope back in the Second Century.  His was one of the very first heresies the church had to confront.  He threw away the Old Testament.  He believed the God of the Old Testament was an evil, sadistic god and not the same God we see in the New.  So he just unhitched the Old Testament and left it behind.  And that heresy has been cropping up throughout church history in one form or another ever since.  A few years ago, ex-evangelical pastor, Andy Stanley, caused a big stir when he preached that the church has to unhitch itself from the Old Testament.  Even if we don’t cut out the Old Testament from our Bibles, even if we cherish the Old Testament, if we lose the story it contains, we’re going to get ourselves into trouble.  Men like Tertullian and Justin Martyr addressed Marcion and he was eventually excommunicated.  The church would always hold tenaciously to the Old Testament.  But it wasn’t even a hundred and fifty year later that we started to undermine its story-telling.  As the church became increasingly dominated by gentiles, we started to read the Old Testament (and the New), not as the story of the God of Isreal and his people, but as a book of moral allegories and of types that pointed to Jesus.  We flattened it out and made it abstract.  We “spiritualised” it.  We knew the story of the God of Isreal and his people was there, but we denigrated it.  That was the simplest, the least important, the least “spiritual” way to read the Bible.  And by the grace of God we didn’t lose the gospel, but gradually we started putting the em-PHA-sis in the wrong places.

 

What we see in the Bible, in the Gospels, in the teaching of Jesus, and in the teaching of the apostles in their epistles, and in the examples we see through Acts, is that the good news about Jesus is deeply rooted in the Old Testament and in Israel’s story.  You cannot separate the old and the new.  The story tells us the problem of human sin and rebellion and of the corruption of Gods’ good creation.  The story shows us how God has stepped into the world to set it to rights.  The story shows—long before we ever get to Jesus—the goodness and faithfulness of God.  The story shows why the Israelites could and should trust the God who spoke through Moses and the Prophets—and eventually through Jesus and the apostles.  The story prepared them—and it prepares us—for Jesus, for his death and his resurrection and his ascension and his kingdom and it prepares us to know the Spirit and to be the temple, purified by the blood of Jesus and made a dwelling place for God, to be a the truly heaven-on-earth people God had promised to make Israel; to be the beginnings, the firstfruits of his new creation, his new age, his kingdom.

 

That’s what Stephen was getting at when he reminded his fellow Jews about the day when Jesus had said that he would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days.  It wasn’t about the end of Moses or torah or temple; it was about fulfilling them.  They were signposts point into God’s future—a future in which God would live with his people, not in a building, but actually in them, and a future in which the law would no longer be carved on stone tablets, but written on human hearts.  But they refused to hear.  They drummed up false witnesses and they dragged Stephen before the Sanhedrin, the governing body of the Jews.  Look at Acts 7.  [Page 1086 in the pew Bibles.]  Having been dragged before the Sanhedrin, “The high priest addressed Stephen.  ‘Are these things true?’ he said.  ‘Brothers and fathers, hear me,’ replied Stephen.  ‘The God of glory appeared to our father Abraham when he was in Mesopotamia, before he moved to live in Haran.’”

 

Let me pause there.  Notice how Stephen is going all the way back to the beginning.  He speaks first of the God of glory, which might not seem very important to us, but it’s noteworthy that “God of glory” is not a common way to speak of God in the Old Testament.  In fact, Psalm 29:3 is the only place this title is used.  On the one hand, I suspect Stephen uses it to make the point that he has no interest in denigrating or blaspheming the God of Irael.  Stephen is invested in proclaiming the glory of God, and that’s exactly what he’s about to do by reminding them of their own story—and, most importantly, how it ends with Jesus and the Spirit.  But Stephen is also invoking Psalm 29 as it ascribes glory to the God of creation, the God who is enthroned, sovereign over the seas and over the forests, sovereign over the nations, the God who blesses his people as they cry out in his temple, “Glory!”.  This is the God of creation.  And then to mention Abraham in the next breath is to set the opening scene.  God created the heavens and earth.  God created human beings to serve as his stewards and his priests in this creation.  And we rebelled.  We broke it.  We corrupted it.  We introduced darkness where there was supposed to be light.  We drove a great wedge between heaven and earth, between God and man as we claimed his creation for ourselves, to do with as we pleased, to try to rule it as if we are gods ourselves.  To write our own stories instead of living in the one he’s given us.

 

And it was into that darkness, into that void in which men and women had lost all knowledge of their creator and had turned to idols, God spoke.  And he called to Abraham.  That call was the beginning of a new story—a story to set creation and to set humanity to rights.  A story that would, one day, culminate in God returning to dwell with his people.  It’s the story that everyone in Israel new, inside-out, backwards and forwards, top to bottom.  And yet something had gone wrong in the telling.  Because when God returned, Israel had rejected him.  Because when Stephen proclaimed Jesus and the Spirit, the people accused him of blasphemy.

 

Because as faithful as they were to the story, they hadn’t got it quite right.  Remember last week I talked about how you might take a trip to the other side of the country.  You drive your car to Nanaimo, then you leave it there and take a ferry to Horseshoe Bay, then you get off the ferry and take a bus downtown, and then you get off the bus to get on Skytrain to the airport, and then fly in airplane to your final destination.  That journey might break down at any number of points.  We might really, really like to drive our car and we can’t bear to think of leaving it parked at the ferry terminal and taking a ferry instead.  And so we refuse to stop driving.  When our friend tells us you can’t drive on water, we get angry.  We accuse him of being a car-hater.  We accuse him of saying that cars are bad and evil and no good.  And we wait for the ferry to leave and then we drive full-speed down the ramp and crash into the water and drown.  Not because cars are bad, but because cars were simply never designed to drive across water.  That’s what’s going on with Stephen’s accusers.  Stephen never said that torah or temple were bad things.  They were good things.  They were wonderful, spectacular, glorious gifts of God’s great grace.  They were signposts leading Israel to Jesus.  It’s just that in this new age, God’s given something even better.  There’s a new law and a new temple.  Those things were the promise, but now the fulfilment of the promise is here.  But they don’t want to hear that.

 

But let’s image you managed to transition from car to ferry to bus to Skytrain and you get to the airport, but instead of looking at the departures board to find your gate, you just walked down the concourse.  And you looked for the gate you liked best.  You stopped at one and you looked out the window and on the horizon, across the Strait, you could see Vancouver Island.  And it was comforting and you decided this was the right gate.  You could sit and wait for your plane to Montreal and never lose sight of the Island.  And you waited and waited, but no plane came.  And eventually you asked a gate agent, and she said, “Oh, you’re at the wrong gate.  Your flight’s leaving from such-and-such gate.”  But you didn’t listen.  You liked this gate with the view of home.  And a while later they announced your flight—and the gate—but you ignored it.  Eventually you even heard them page you: “Passenger So-and-so, this is your last call for boarding at gate such-and-such.”  But you just sat there.  This gate was nice.  Everyone else was wrong.  Eventually the plane will come.  And that’s what most of Isreal did.  The Messiah came to fulfil the law and the prophets, but people already had their ideas of who and what the Messiah was be and to do.  Because they’d got the story wrong.  Not all wrong.  They’d got to the airport after all, but wrong enough that they were convinced it was this gate, not that one.

 

So Stephen’s going to do what Jesus had done and what he’d heard Peter do.  He’s going back to the very beginning of the story and he’s going to tell it again.  He’s going to tell it so they can understand that leaving the car and getting on the ferry doesn’t mean you hate cars or think they’re evil—and that the same goes for Moses and the Prophets and torah and temple.  And he’s going to tell it so that when they do get to the airport, they be willing to trust the departure board and the gate agents and the pages about the right gate—so that they’ll see how the story was, all along, leading them to Jesus.  The real key here is to pay attention to the bits of the story that Stephen—inspired by the Holy Spirit—decides to emphasise.  There are a thousand parts to this story, but—Stephen is saying—look at it this way and you can’t help but recognise that in Jesus, the Messiah has come.

 

So, again, picking up at verse 2: “The God of glory appeared to our father Abraham when he was in Mesopotamia, before he moved to live in Haran.  ‘Leave your land and your family,’ he said to him, ‘and go to the land which I will show you.’  So he left the land of the Chaldeans and went to live in Haran.  Then, from there, after his father’s death, God moved him on to this land in which you now live.  God didn’t give him an inheritance here, not even a place to stand up in.  Instead, he promised (when Abraham still had no child) that he would give it as a possession to his seed after him.  This is what God said to him: that his seed would be strangers in a foreign land, that they would serve there as slaves, and that they would be afflicted for four hundred years.  But God said that he would judge the nation that had enslaved them, and that they would then come out and worship him ‘on this mountain’.  And he gave them the covenant of circumcision.  So Abraham became the father of Isaac, and he circumcised him on the eighth day.  Isaac became the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of the twelve patriarchs.”

 

You can’t understand Judaism or Christianity without understanding Abraham.  This is where the story of God’s rescue begins.  With this call, God’s plan to set the world to rights begins to unfold.  Israel wasn’t just some random nation in history.  God’s calling Abraham out of the darkness of ignorance and sin and idolatry is what sets the story on its trajectory to Jesus, it’s what establishes that this is the story of how God will rescue human beings and fix his creation that we broke.  It’s like Stephen is answering the charge of blasphemy by affirming that, no, he is actually affirming the story they knew; he’s affirming God’s call; he’s affirming the special status of Israel.  Just because we also had to take a ferry, doesn’t mean the car was a bad thing or that it didn’t have a good and useful purpose.

 

And Stephen makes a point of zeroing in on Genesis 15.  That’s the part of Genesis where Abraham has been faithful to God and followed him to the holy land, and God responds by establishing his covenant with him.  We see this, too, over and over in the New Testament, especially with Paul in Galatians 3 and Romans 4.  This is a vitally important part of the story that leads us to Jesus.  And so Stephen stresses: God promised the land to Abraham’s descendants.  The most Abraham would ever have it was a burial plot that he had purchase.  But after his descendants had been strangers in a foreign land for four hundred years—he’s talking about Israel living as slaves in Egypt—he would judge that land and its people, and he would bring Abraham’s children out of Egypt to worship him “on this mountain”.  Why was that important?  Because it shows how God works.  He makes promises and he keeps them, but he does so in his own good time.  If Abraham hadn’t know better, he might have thought God had failed.  Moses might have said, “I don’t think this is what was promised.”  But instead, Abraham trusted.  Instead, Moses believed and followed God as he did a new thing.  And I think that’s why Stephen phrases this bit about “on this mountain”—that was originally God’s promise to Moses that he would bring the Israelites back to the place where God had met him in the burning bush and they would worship there, but Stephen connects that with the Temple Mount in Jerusalem.  Already—long before Jesus—God was fulfilling his promises in ways that were unexpected.  Mount Sinai points to Mount Zion.

 

For Jews in the First Century, the temple had become a symbol of the land of Israel and of God’s promise to Abraham.  That’s why they were so angry at Stephen when they thought he was blaspheming the temple and saying it was no good or that it would be destroyed.  You might as well say—in their thinking—that God was going to abandon his promise to Abraham.  So Stephen connects this all together.  He affirms the promise; he affirms the covenant; he affirms God’s promise of the land; and most of all he affirms the temple.  Most importantly, what he’s doing is affirming that God has called this people and given them a purpose.  Through them he’s going to save the world.  They knew that, but they’d muddled the story just enough that they’d got the “how” part of it wrong.

 

Stephen’s on his way to Moses now.  We’ll look at that part of what he says next week.  There’s too much to his speech to cover it all in one sermon.  But on the way to Moses, Stephen pauses.  He needs to remind them of the part of the story about Joseph.  Look at verses 9-16: “Now the patriarchs became angry with Joseph, and were jealous of him.  They sold him into Egypt.  But God was with him, and rescued him from all his troubles an gave him grace and wisdom before Pharaoh, king of Egypt, making him ruler over Egypt and over all his household.  But then there was a famine over the whole of Egypt and Canaan, which resulted in great hardship.  Our ancestors couldn’t find food to eat.  Jacob, however, heard that there was grain in Egypt, and sent our ancestors there on an initial visit.  On their second trip, Joseph made himself known to his brothers, and revealed to Pharaoh what family he was from.  So Joseph sent and summoned Jacob his father and all his family, seventy-five people in all.  Jacob came to Egypt and he and our ancestors died there.  They were brought back to Shechem and buried in the tomb which Abraham had bought with silver, at a named price, from the sons of Hamor in Shechem.”

 

Before Stephen gets to Moses, there’s Joseph and Joseph’s story. Abraham (and Moses as we’ll see next week) point to Jesus through their calling and the promises God made to them.  Joseph points to Jesus another way and he’s particularly relevant to the current situation.  Joseph was rejected by his brothers, but it was precisely in that rejection that God was work.  It was through his rejection and through Joseph’s unjust suffering that God raised him to govern the whole land of Egypt, second only to Pharaoh.  When famine came to Canaan and Egypt, it was Joseph whom his brothers came to for food—the man they’d been jealous of, the man they’d abused, the man they nearly murdered, the man they sold into slavery.  And yet, what happened when they came to Joseph.  Instead of being angry, instead of retaliating, instead of getting revenge, Joseph was gracious.  He wept for joy to see his brothers again and invited them to come and live with him in a land of plenty.

 

I hope that sounds familiar.  I hope you can hear echoes of Jesus there. I can’t help but think of the parables of the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost son and the rejoicing that Jesus says happens in heaven when sinners repent.  I hope you can see in Joseph’s story, particularly as Stephen tells it, how God was preparing his people for his son.  This is how God works: through humility, through rejection, through letting sin and evil and human rebellion do their worst, and then rising triumphant.  This is how God works, Stephen declares: He is loving and gracious and merciful toward those he has created.  One day, when he finally finishes the work of setting creation to rights, it’ll mean wiping from its face all those who persist in their rebellion, who persist in sin and evil.  God does not rejoice in the destruction of those he loves.  And so he rejoices—just as Joseph did—to welcome the repentant, to welcome those who want to be part of God’s new world, to welcome those who come to be washed clean in the blood of Jesus and to be filled with his Spirit, to become new creations themselves, to become part of his new temple.  Stephen’s pointing back to Joseph to tell the Sanhedrin: There is grace, there is forgiveness for you too—even for those who cried out “Crucify him!”

 

I suspect there were some men there in that meeting of the Sanhedrin that day who saw where Stephen was going with this.  Like I said, this is as far as we’ll go with Chapter 7 today.  It’s too much for one sermon.  But the real takeaway from these first sixteen verses is, I think, simply to understand what Stephen, inspired by the Spirit and steeped in the scriptures, is doing here.  This is—or it should be, because it sadly usually isn’t—this is the great art of Christian apologetic and Christian preaching and the proclamation of the good news about Jesus.  It’s to tell the story of God and his people, to have the wisdom to know which of the thousand and one details is relevant to the immediately situation or immediate audience, and then to tell that story as the story that leads to Jesus as its fulfilment and its climax on the one hand, but that also proclaims God’s glory by showing his goodness and faithfulness in the story that brings us to Jesus.  Brothers and Sisters, the Old Testament is not just a collection of useful stories for teaching morals nor is it a collection of allegories that foreshadow Jesus.  It is, first and foremost, the story of how God has been at work to save us and to save his creation from sin and death.  And we need to learn it.  We need to learn it well.  So that we can tell the story in a way that doesn’t leave us behind as the ferry sails away or that leads people stranded at the wrong gate at the airport.  We need to tell the story in way that honours the old covenant, torah and temple, but we also need to tell it in a way that reveals Jesus as the fulfilment of them, a story that faithfully follows the signposts as they lead us to Jesus and to the Spirit, to the cross and to the empty tomb, to the ascension and to the creation of this new temple, not made of stones, but made of people washed clean by Jesus and filled with God’s own Spirit.  We need to learn to tell the story so it gives glory to God for his goodness and faithfulness, for his grace and mercy, not just when we get to the part about Jesus, but at every step of the way: from Abraham to Joseph to Moses to David to Jesus—and then to you and to me, and to those who are lost and whom God so longs to rejoice over.

 

Let’s pray: Father, in the Collect we acknowledged your goodness and your promises that exceed all we can desire.  Remind us always that we know your goodness, because we know your story.  Capture our hearts and minds, we pray, by the glory of that story, that we might immerse ourselves in it, that we might meditate on it, that we might in habit it, and that we might tell it over and over and over until the whole world knows your glory.  Through Jesus our Lord, through the one who embodies your glory in all its fullness, we pray.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

I hate doing administration stuff.  I’m really glad that John handles our finances so well and makes sure all our bills get paid.  I don’t like filling out annual parish reports and get annoyed when I have fill out one for ACNA and another for the REC.  Why can’t they just ask the same questions and share the information?  Our church register is stuffed with Post-It notes going back five or six years so I know what to enter in it whenever I eventually get around to sitting down to make all the entries for baptisms, deaths, weddings, membership, and all of that.  And I wonder if Peter had his own First Century Post-It note system for dealing with the dreaded admin work that was perpetually threatening to cut in on his preaching and praying.  Because that’s what we come to in Acts 6.  The church has been growing quickly.  There’s something like 5,000 Christians in Jerusalem.  We don’t know how they were organised.  We know that the apostles and presumable some others regularly spent time in the temple.  But they met together in their homes.  Were they divided into what we might think of as “churches” or “parishes” with an apostle or two overseeing each—or maybe each apostle overseeing two or three groups?  We don’t know.  But what we do know is that the twelve apostles were overseeing everything.  They were preaching, they were teaching, they were praying, they were pastoring, they were making sure everyone’s needs were met.  And it got to be too much, even for twelve of them.  I get that.  I have a friend who pastors a Baptist church of about 950.  They figured out thirty years ago that they need one elder to every hundred people or so in order to pastor well.  In Acts we’re talking at least 500 church members per apostle.  People started falling through the cracks and complaining.  Look at Acts 6.  [Page 1086 in the pew Bibles.]

 

“Now, in those days when the disciples were increasing in number, the ‘Hellenists’ raised a dispute with the ‘Hebrews’ because their widows were being overlooked in the daily distribution of food.”

 

As we’ve seen in Chapters 2 and 4, these first Christians were very aware that they belonged to a new family and they lived accordingly.  They were the beginnings of Gods new Israel.  The Spirit had filled them with love for each other—the kind of love that torah had always envisioned for the people of Israel—and so they began to live it out.  They fellowshipped with each other.  They shared meals together as Jesus’ family and they shared with their brothers and sisters who were in need.  They weren’t just overflowing with the love and mercy of Jesus; despite most of them having little, as a people they were overflowing with generosity and abundance.

 

And there were plenty who were truly in need.  Widows would normally be looked after by their own family, but when people joined the church—just as in some parts of the world today—it meant being cut off from their families and the support they once had.  The church suddenly found itself providing for a large number of widows.  Maybe it was a language barrier or maybe it has something to do with social connections, but the Hellenists—the Greek-speaking widows—the ones who had come to Jerusalem from the great Jewish diaspora—they were falling through the cracks.  It surely wasn’t deliberate.  It was growing pains.  The sheer scope of the church’s charity work had become too much for the twelve to handle efficiently.  So the Greek-speaking members of the church take up their cause with the apostles.  The fact that their fellow “Hellenist’ believers take up their cause with the apostles, suggests it was a language problem.  Maybe these widows didn’t know how or when to ask for food or where to get it and there were simply so church members, that the apostles were no longer able to know the personal needs of everyone.  Whatever the case, the apostles realise they have to do something.  Luke goes on:

 

“So the twelve called the full number of disciples together.  ‘Listen,’ they said, ‘It wouldn’t be right for us to leave the word of God to serve tables. So Brothers, choose seven men from amongst yourselves who are well spoken of and filled with the Spirit and wisdom.  We will put them in charge of what needs to be done in this matter.  We will continue to pay attention to prayer and to the ministry of the word.”

 

The apostles knew what their primary calling was.  It was to study and to teach and to preach the word and to pray.  Sure, they could do some other things.  But when those other things became so big that it meant taking significant time away from their ministry of the word and their time in prayer, well, it was time for the church as a whole to pick up the slack.  To sort of quote Paul: God gave some to be apostles and other to—well—to fill the other multitude of roles that need filling in the church.  Some are eyes and ears and mouths, others are hands and feet and finger and toes.  The body needs them all.  And this was common sense.  But it also—and I think Luke deliberately frames it this way—it had precedent in Israel’s own story.  Think of Israel in the beginning, in the wilderness, just delivered from Egypt, and Moses trying to rule over a thousand and thousands of people and feeling totally overwhelmed.  Luke wants us to see the fledgling church as the new Israel and so he shows us the apostles in the position of Moses.  It’s time to choose some well-respected men from amongst the people to help.  Verse 5: “The whole gathering was pleased with what they said.  They chose Stephen, a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit, and Philip, Prochorus, Nicanor, Timon, Parmenas, and Nicolaus (a proselyte from Antioch).  They presented them before the apostles, and having prayed, they laid their hands on them.”

 

It’s worth noting: the seven names are Greek names.  One of these men was even a proselyte, meaning he was a gentile who had converted to Judaism and was now a Christian.  Presumably the seven were meant to serve the whole church, but the church chose seven men who were especially able to help with the problem at hand: the Greek-speaking widows.  So the church elects these men, brings them before the apostles for their approval, prays for them, and then it’s the church that lays hands on them.  Now, almost every English translation says that it was the apostles that laid hands on these seven, but the Greek text doesn’t really bear that out.  It says they, the church, elected the men and brought them to the apostles and there’s absolutely nothing in the text that indicates a change of subject before Luke says that “they” laid hands on the men.  The church—probably a representative few—laid hands on the seven, not the apostles.

 

And when we look at what was involved, it suggests even more that it was the church doing the laying on of hands.  There are several words in Hebrew that, in English, all get sort of generically translated as “to lay hands”, but the Hebrew behind the idea here, has the sense of pressing down on something—as if you’re sharing or transferring something of yourself to another: your sins to a the scape goat, or the people of Irael “pressing down on” the Levites who will represent them and fill in for their firstborn sons, or Moses pressing his hands down on Joshua and making him his representative and successor.  Remember, the whole point of this is that the apostles knew “serving tables” wasn’t their job.  Their job was word and prayer.  It was the job of the wider church to look after the welfare of each other and so it’s appropriate that the church not only elects these seven men, but also “ordains” them, if you will.

 

And what were the seven?  Traditionally we’ve called them deacons.  Deacon comes from the Greek word to serve—in this case to serve (διακονεῖν) tables, which is symbolic of making sure the widows get their charity.  But otherwise, what we see these men doing doesn’t look all that much like what we see deacons doing later in the New Testament.  In fact, when the apostles talk about “serving tables”, there’s a probably a word play there—“tables” is a banking or accounting term, not just a word for a literal table—that suggests that what these men were really doing was overseeing, administering the distribution of food and, more broadly, the resources of the church.  And if that was the case, they look a lot more like bishops.  I could be wrong, but what I would tentatively suggest, is that these seven men were the first men to be appointed to pastoral office in the church, before that role had split into bishops on the one hand and deacons on the other.  I think these guys were, more or less, both proto-deacons and proto-bishops.  And while their primary duty was to oversee the church’s charity, the church chose them because they were full of the Spirit.  And in Acts, what that means is that they were bold and unafraid proclaimers of the good news about Jesus.

 

So, writes Luke in verse 7, because of the apostles could now be devoted to the word to prayer and because these seven men were now ordained to ensure the church was being what the church is supposed to be, “The word of God increased and the number of disciples in Jerusalem multiplied greatly.  This included a large crowd of priests who became obedient to the faith.”  Brothers and Sisters, when the church—the people and the leaders—are boldly proclaiming the word of God and are diligent in prayer, God will multiply it.  We might miss it, but Luke makes the point: It’s not us.  We don’t grow the church.  It’s God.  The power lies with him.  We need to trust his word and we need to proclaim it.  We need to pray and entrust our ministry to him.  Not gimmicks, not money, not all the other things churches often do to try to make themselves effective.  Just preach God’s word and pray.  He’ll bring fruit from it.  And be patient, because God works on his own schedule, not ours.  And, we might miss it: Luke makes a point of telling us a significant new step in the church’s growth: now it’s attracted a crowd of priests.  And that would not have gone unnoticed by the leaders of the temple.  Luke doesn’t say anything here, but this means the Jewish leaders are getting more concerned, getting more angry, becoming more inclined to violent action.

 

But, first, Stephen’s story.  Look at verse 8: “Stephen was filled with grace and power and performed great signs and wonders amongst the people.  But some from the Freemen’s Synagogue, as it was named, and from Cyrene, Alexandria, Cilicia, and Asia stood up and disputed with Stephen.  They could not, however resist the wisdom and the spirit with which he spoke.”  Stephen preached in the gospel in the synagogues.  And here’s the thing.  Luke makes a point of saying that Stephen wasn’t just full of power; he was also full of grace.  We’ve all heard people speak who are full of power, but are short on grace.  They can be jerks.  Maybe they’re right, but just the way they speak makes people angry.  But that’s not Stephen.  He’s speaking with great grace.  But the folks listening still aren’t having any of it.  Not that Palestinian Jews were any more receptive, but Luke kind of gives the sense that maybe these folks—they’re all hellenised, diaspora Jews like Stephen—maybe they’re overly defensive of their Jewish heritage because they feel deficient in some way for not being Palestinian Jews.  Whatever their motivation, they’re angry with what he says and they get even angrier because they couldn’t resist him.  And then they get even angrier—we’ve all seent his happen—they’re even angrier, because he’s not angry in response. He’s full of grace  They couldn’t refute what he was saying.  But rather than concede, they dig in and at that point there’s only one thing left to do: they make false accusation of blasphemy.  Verse 11:

 

“Then they put up men to say, ‘We heard this man speaking blasphemous words against Moses and against God.’  They aroused the people, the elders, and the scribes.  They set upon him, seized him, and took him in front of the assembly.  They set up false witnesses to say, ‘This man never stops speaking words against this holy place and the law.  We heard him say that this Jesus of Nazareth will destroy this place and change the customs which Moses handed down to us.’  Everyone who was sitting in the assembly looked hard at Stephen.  They all saw that his face was like the face of an angel.”

 

It sounds a lot like the accusations against Jesus, when he was accused of saying he would destroy the temple and rebuilt it in three day.  Of course, yes, he said that, but his point was that God was doing something new, that God was about to fulfil his promises, and that God would establish a new temple in which he would come to dwell with his people.  But the Jewish elders didn’t hear it that way, not because Jesus wasn’t clear, but because they couldn’t accept that God was fulfilling his promises through Jesus.  If Jesus was the Messiah, he was doing it all wrong, at least so far as they were concerned.  He couldn’t be the one.

 

And now exactly the same thing is happening to Stephen.  We don’t have his words, but based on the false accusations against him as well as his defence that will follow in Chapter 7, we have a pretty good idea what he was saying and it was closely related to what Jesus had said.  Just like Jesus, just like Peter, just like the preaching we see through Acts, Stephen told the story of God and his people and how it leads to Jesus.

 

There were four things that were all-important for the Jews and that marked out their identity.  There was the temple; the torah or law; the land of Israel itself and especially Jerusalem, where the temple was; and there was their ethnic identity as Jews—the sons and daughters of Abraham, delivered by God from Egypt when Moses led them through the Red Sea to Mt. Sinai.  Those things marked them out as God’s people.  Those things marked them out as separated, as different from the pagan peoples and nations around them.  Compromise those things, and you’d be sliding down a slippery slope into the same idolatry that had got their ancestors exiled to Babylon.  So when Stephen spoke, as any of the Christians would have, about God establishing a new temple or about Jesus fulfilling torah, out came the angry charges of blasphemy.

 

But those first Christians—just like Jesus—were never attacking the temple or the law.  The problem was that Israel—despite knowing her own story so well and so thoroughly—had forgotten where it was going and then failed to recognise how Jesus was bringing it to its climax.  When Jesus or when Peter or when Stephen said that God was doing a new thing, what people like the priests and the scribes, the Pharisees and the Sadducees, people like Saul of Tarsus heard was that these Jesus people were saying was the law and the temple were bad.

 

What Stephen (like Jesus and Peter before him) was trying to say is that the word of God tells a story and that this story was moving forward and, as it moved forward, new things would happen.  This didn’t mean that the old things that had happened were bad.  Just the opposite!  They were good.  They were necessary to get the story to the point it’s at now.  Imagine you take a trip to Montreal.  First you drive your car to Nanaimo to get to the ferry, then you take the ferry to Horseshoe Bay, then you get off the ferry and get on a bus that takes you downtown, where you take SkyTrain to the airport, where you finally board an airplane that flies you across the country.  The fact that you left your car parked in Nanaimo to get on a ferry or that you left Skytrain to get on an airplane or even that you stopped travelling once you arrived in Montreal, none of that means that the car or the ferry or the bus or the airplane or even the trip itself was bad.  You couldn’t get where you are without them!  And, just so, God gave Israel the law.  God gave Israel the temple.  And they were good things.  They were necessary things.  They were gracious things.  They were things that prepared the people for and brought them to the part of the story where Jesus became a part of it.

 

But they tuned this part out.  Some modern Christians do the same.  I’m not sure where it comes from.  Maybe it comes from listening to Luther with only one ear.  But we get the idea that the old covenant was a bad thing.  People will get the wrong idea that the old covenant was about being saved by works and that’s why Israel refused Jesus, who came to offer salvation by grace.  A thousand time, no.  If that’s what Stephen had been saying, the Jews would have been right to be angry with him, because he would have been wrong.  The status of God’s people has never been because of works; it has always been because of grace.  That’s part of how the old covenant prepared people and led them to the part of the story where Jesus enters.

 

Other times we just ignore God’s story altogether and try to write our own.  But what’s often even more dangerous is when we know God’s story to a point, but then we lock it down and refuse to let him take it in a new direction.  We do that.  And that’s what these folks mad at Stephen are doing.  Jesus just couldn’t be where the story they knew was heading; instead, Jesus became a threat to their version of the story.

 

And yet Stephen persisted.  Even as they dragged him before the Sanhedrin with a slate of false witnesses against him.  And think about that.  They’re convinced they’re in the right.  They’re convinced that they represent God and everything that is good and right and true.  They think they’re the heaven on earth people.  And yet what do that they do in response to his preaching?  They lie. By their actions they condemn themselves.  And in contrast stands Stephen.  For all his speaking with power, he’s full of grace.  And as he stands before the Sanhedrim, as false witness after false witness testified against him, the Spirit, God, transforms—almost transfigures him—to the point that the whole assembly is left staring at him.  Luke says his face became like the face of an angel.

 

As far as literal appearance, I don’t know what that means.  But the important thing is that everyone recognised what was happening and in that moment, the Spirit revealed Stephen—and along with him the church—for what he, what they, what we really are: In that moment Stephen was revealed as the face of Jesus’ heaven on earth people.  He was actively part of the church living out heaven on earth.  He was preaching the good news about Jesus and he is the fulfilment of God’s promise to bring heaven and earth back together.  And in the middle of this controversy, in the middle of the false accusations, in the middle of these men who, despite all the evidence, were digging in their heels and refusing to accept the message about Jesus, refusing to let God lead the story they new so well in a new direction, God himself vindicated Stephen and made him a manifestation of heaven on earth.  Stephen was full of the Spirit, a little temple in miniature full of God’s presence.  As if the shekinah—the cloud of glory visibly representing God’s presence that had been missing from the temple ever since Israel’s exile—suddenly became present with Stephen.  God announcing: “In this man, in this people, through my son, in this gospel I am fulfilling my promises.  Listen to him.”

 

Brothers and Sisters, this should be a picture of us.  The bit where Stephen was transfigured and looked like an angel—whatever that means—that was unique.  But the rest of it, that ought to be us.  A people committed to be a covenant family, not just overflowing with talk of love and grace and mercy, but a family of people where love and grace and mercy are abundant in real, practical ways.  A family where we make a point of doing what needs doing to make sure that nothing gets in the way of that love and grace and mercy.  We ought to be a people of word and of prayer who are bold for the gospel, because we know that the power lies not with us, but with God.  His word, not ours, brings life.  His Spirit has the power to renew minds and regenerate hearts.  And so we pray, entrusting ourselves and our ministry to him and we proclaim not our word, but his.  We tell the story that leads the world to Jesus.  And if we’re doing all these things, that word, that story will have power, but our telling of it will also be full of grace.

 

The world, the flesh, and the devil will do their worst.  People will dig in their heels.  People will tell lies about us and about the story and the good news we proclaim.  People may even violently persecute us one day.  But remember: It’s all of grace.  The story that leads us through the law and the prophets, through torah and temple, is all about the grace of God towards rebellious sinners, and so is the story that leads to forgiveness and life with God, the story that leads us to Jesus and the Spirit and eventually to the New Jerusalem.  Brothers and Sisters, it’s all of grace.  Live the story of God’s grace and the light of heaven will permeate the church.  Proclaim the story of God’s grace, and that light will being to permeate the world.

 

Let’s pray: Lord, fill us with your grace.  And don’t just fill us with it; ensure that we’re ever and always overwhelmed by the knowledge and understanding of your grace, so that we will live it out in practical terms as your church and so that we will go out with boldness to proclaim your good news, not to win arguments, but make your grace known.  Through Jesus we pray.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

There was a package slip from Canada Post below the mail slot when I got here last Friday.  I was kind of annoyed, because not only did I have no idea where the package was from, for some reason I had to go all the way over to the post office in Comox to pick it up.  And when they handed it to me I was perplexed.  The sender was just some distribution company.  The box was large and heavy.  A mystery.  And when I got it home and opened it up, it was still a mystery.  A boxed set of about fifteen books from a ministry called Be United in Christ.  Nice looking hardcovers.  The set looks expensive.  A few of them were reprints of books by Jonathan Edwards, Jeremiah Burroughs, and Charles Spurgeon, but frustratingly none of the others say a word about their authors and I couldn’t find much online about the ministry itself or who’s behind it.  The books are a generous gift.  But do I just put them out for you all to take home and read?  Edwards, Burroughs, Spurgeon are okay.  Puritans, not Anglicans, but still part of the same general theological tradition—for the most part.  But are they there just to get me to trust the other anonymous books?  I don’t know.  This is the shepherd’s dilemma.  I don’t have time to read them or really even to meaningfully skim them.  The problem would be solved if I knew something about who sent them.

 

And I think that illustrates well what St. Luke is getting at in our text today.  We’ll be looking at Acts 5.  [Page 1084 in the pew Bibles.]  And at first Acts 5 might seem like a series stories or events that are related only because they happened in the order Luke presents them, but are kind of otherwise “random”.  But the more I thought about the Chapter, the more a common theme started to take shape.  So far, Luke has shown us the birth of the church through the preaching of Peter and the work of the Spirit.  And then he’s shown us the church taking shape, not just as some new religion—which I think is how we’re often (wrongly!) prone to seeing it—but as the fulfilment of God’s promises to Israel.  Luke shows us the church as the new temple.  God has returned to his people as he promised, but not to the bricks-and-mortar temple on the mountaintop above Jerusalem. Instead, he’s come to indwell the people whom Jesus has purified with his blood.  This is a human temple meant to one day fill the whole earth and with it God’s presence.  And Luke has shown us the church not just as a family, but as the family that Israel was always supposed to be, but failed to be; the family in which God is fulfilling his promises through Jesus and the Spirit; the family in which his kingdom, his new creation, his renewed humanity is being born.  It’s a community meant to take up the vocation of Jesus and to be prophets, priests and kings, proclaiming the good news about the lordship of Jesus to Jerusalem and Judah—and eventually to the whole world.

 

But as we’ve seen, it’s not just the proclamation.  It’s not just the preaching.  That’s absolutely necessary.  But it’s the lived community—the “family-ness”—of the church that backs up the message and says that this is the real deal.  Because Israel had been talking the talk for a thousand years.  But Israel ended up in exile in Babylon because she failed over and over to walk the walk.  You can’t preach light while living in darkness.  You can’t claim to be God’s people while you worship idols.  You can’t proclaim new creation while living like the old.  That’s why, at the end of Chapter 4, which we saw last week, Luke talked for a second time about the way the church in Jerusalem became a family and took care of those in need.  They were actively living out the bounty and generosity of God and his new creation.  As the new Israel, they were a little land of milk and honey.  And Luke held up Jospeh the Levite as particularly exemplary, because he unselfishly sold some land and brought the proceeds to the apostles to help their ministry.

 

It wasn’t a requirement for church membership.  It sounds like Joseph was wealthy and so he used his wealth to build up the church and it was his way of living out new creation.  And it was obviously unique—not something everyone did—because they nicknamed him Barnabas, which means “son of encouragement”.  And that leads straight into Acts 5 and the story of Ananias and Sapphira.  This couple wanted the same sort of attention Barnabas was getting.  Luke writes, “There was, however, a man named Ananias with his wife, Sapphira.  He sold some property and, with his wife’s knowledge, kept back part of the price.  He brought the rest and laid it at the apostle’s feet.  ‘Ananias!’ said Peter.  ‘Why did the Satan fill your heart to make you tell a lie to the Holy Spirit and to keep back part of the price of the land?  While it was still yours, it belonged to you, didn’t it?  And, when you sold it, it was still in your power.  Why did you get such an idea in your heart?  It isn’t men that you’ve lied to; it’s God!’  When Ananias heard these words he fell down and died.  Everyone who heard about it was scared out of their wits.  The young men got up, took him away, wrapped up his body and buried him.  After an interval of about three hours, his wife came in, not knowing what had happened.  Peter spoke to her.  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you sell the land for this much?’  ‘Yes,” she replied, ‘that was the price.’  ‘So why,’ Peter answered, ‘did you agree together to put the Holy Spirit to the test?  Look, the feet of those who have buried your husband are at the door and they will carry you out too!’  At once she fell down at his feet and died.  The young men were just coming in and they found her dead, so they took her out and buried her beside her husband.  Great fear came upon the whole gathering and on all who heard about these things.”

 

Great fear!  No kidding.  Now, growing up—and for years afterward—I thought this was a story about “tithing”.  In Sunday school we would sing a song about how Ananias and Sapphira got together to conspire a plot to cheat the church and get ahead.  They knew God’s power but did not fear it, tried to cheat the Holy Spirit.  Peter prophesied it and they both dropped dead. Uh!  (That “Uh!” was the good part—one of the few times you could be rowdy in church.) And the chorus of the song went on to sing about how God loves a cheerful giver, give him all you’ve got.  It had me terrified as a kid.  I didn’t have any income, but I knew that someday when I did, I’d better give God his due or I might drop dead.  No one ever talked about the part where they lied about what they were giving.  And no one ever paid attention to the context of the story.

 

It is a terrifying story.  Even the people in the church who saw it and heard about, Luke writes, were pretty terrified.  But the way we usually hear about Ananias and Sapphira, I think, gets us worried about the wrong thing.  Because, Brothers and Sisters, this is isn’t a story about tithing; it’s a story about the need for holiness.  It’s a story that reminds us that if we’re going to be God’s temple, if we’re going to be the place where he dwells in the person of his Spirit, if we’re going to be the place where the world meets God, we need to take holiness seriously.

 

The first thing that ought to tip us off here is the way these first chapters of Acts are all centred on the temple.  More specifically, they’re focused on how the church has become the new temple and how it—particularly through Peter and John spending their days in the old temple—how the church is confronting and challenging the old: the old temple, the old Israel, and the priests and elders associated with both.  The second thing that ought to tip us off is the nature of the story.  It’s not a common thing, even in the Bible, for God to just suddenly strike someone dead.  But the few times we do see that happen, what’s it associated with?  Think Nadab and Abihu, Aaron’s sons, playing around with the holy things of God and offering “strange fire” on the altar.  Zap.  Dead.  Instantly.  And poor Uzzah when David’s men were rescuing the ark of the covenant from the Philistines.  They didn’t carry it the way God had told them to.  Instead, they put it on a cart.  And the cart started to tip and Uzzah—well meaning, but horribly wrong—reached out to steady it.  And zap!  Uzzah was struck dead on the spot.  I can think of a few other slightly less dramatic.  There was Achan who, in the ruins of Jericho, stole some of the treasure that belonged to the Lord.  His sin had consequences for the whole community of Israel in their next battle, but maybe most importantly, it was the Lord who revealed the guilty to Joshua.  And Achan and his family died.  Or King Uzziah who arrogantly entered the temple to burn incense and was immediately struck with leprosy.

 

The point is this, Brothers and Sisters, if you’re going to walk with God, holiness is not an option.  The wages of sin is death.  For the vast majority of us, living and then dying is just so normal that sometimes we need a reminder that life is God’s gift, that sin separates us from God, and that we die because of that separation.  Sometimes the reminders are instantaneous, dramatic, and terrifying.  Other times they play out over generations.  Like Israel herself: generation after generation of faithlessness and idolatry that eventually led, for the northern kingdom, to annihilation—national death—and for the southern kingdom exile.  St. Paul warns the Corinthians that some of them are sick and dying because they’ve abused the Lord’s Supper.  In John’s revelation, Jesus warns the churches that if they aren’t faithful, if they fail to properly represent him and his kingdom, he will take away their lampstands.  They will, as churches, die.  God requires holiness of his people and holiness is serious business.  The church is God’s means of making the good news of Jesus known.  The church is God’s means of making his new creation visible and real in the world.  And if we undermine the credibility of the gospel through unholiness—well, God is patient—most of the time—but if we refuse to repent, he will make us witnesses to his power and sovereignty through his discipline rather than his blessing.

 

Ananias and Sapphira lied because they wanted a reputation they hadn’t earned.  How do we misrepresent the gospel and the kingdom and Jesus?  In what way do we or does the church compromise our witness?  What idols have we set up alongside the cross?  What things do we do that bring public shame on Jesus and the Spirit?  What compromises our holiness?  And do our compromises and our idolatries and our hypocrisies run so deep or are they so common that maybe we no longer even see them.  But people out there do.  And God does.  Brothers and Sisters, that’s what the story of Ananias and Sapphira is about.

 

But Acts 5 is more than a terrifying warning to holiness.  It’s also an exhortation.  Look at verse 12: “Many signs and wonders were performed by the apostles amongst the people.  They were all together in Solomon’s Porch, while none of the others dared join them, though the people spoke highly of them.  But more people, a crowd both of men and women, believed in the Lord and were added to their number.  They used to bring the sick into the streets and place them on beds and mats so that at least Peter’s shadow might fall on them as he went by.  Crowds gathered from the towns around Jerusalem, bringing people who were sick or infested with unclean spirits.  All of them were cured.”

 

God struck down the people who were compromising the church’s gospel witness, but he blessed the ministry of Peter.  As Luke notes, after the confrontation with the Jewish authorities, no one dared to join him, but when Peter went out with boldness to proclaim the good news, God made him a walking pocket of new creation.  It makes me think of the dead temporarily raised on Good Friday, as if the shockwave of life was so powerful it had an almost undiscriminating effect as it went out from the cross.  The same sort of thing happens with Peter.

 

I think when we read this, our modern democratic mindset has us wondering why we don’t see this happening today.  Why doesn’t this happen when my shadow falls on people when I’m walking around.  And again, I have to come back to the biblical witness itself.  The point of miracles is that they don’t happen every day.  And when they do happen, even in the Bible, they cluster around those times and places where God is doing something new.  They clustered around Jesus and now we see them clustering around the apostles, validating them in the same way they validated Jesus.  And they’re happening right at the gate of the temple—God’s not so subtle way to announce that, yes, he’s come back to dwell with his people just as he promised, but he’s not dwelling in the holy of holies in the bricks-and-mortal temple; he’s come to dwell in this people purified and made even holier than the holy of holies by the blood of Jesus.  Think of it like a rocket launch.  There’s a blast of almost uncomprehensible power that launches a rocket off the ground and into orbit.  Once it’s up there, it just needs a little nudge from time to time to keep it there.  This was God’s way of launching the gospel.

 

Now, verse 17: “Then the high priest got up and all who were with him, namely the group called the Sadducees.  They were filled with zeal [think “righteous indignation”] and seized the apostles and put them in the public jail.  But an angel of the Lord came in the night, opened the prison doors, and brought them out.  ‘Go and take your stand in the temple,’ he said, ‘and speak all the words of this life to the people.’  When they heard this, they went in at early morning and began to teach.  When the high priest arrived with his entourage, they called the official assembly and all the elders of the sons of Israel, and they sent to the prison to have the apostles brought in.  But when the attendants went they didn’t find them in the prison.  So they came and reported back.  ‘We found the jail shut up with maximum security,’ they said, ‘and the guards were standing in front of the doors.  But when we opened up we found no one inside.’  When they heard these words, the commander of the temple police and the chief priests were at a loss about them, with no idea what had happened.  But then someone came with a message for them.  ‘Look!’ he said.  ‘The men you put in prison are standing in the temple and teaching the people.’  Then the commander went with his attendants and brought them.  They didn’t use force, though, because they were afraid that the people might stone them.”

 

Luke has a sense of humour.  So does God.  The high priest is full of zeal.  This idea of “zeal” characterised what the Jews of those days thought of as faithfulness.  Their heroes were men like Phinehas, who speared a law-breaking idolater to the ground; like Judas Maccabbeus, who led a revolt against the pagan Geek rulers of Israel.  They were zealous for God and for his law and they burned with anger at anyone who compromised it.  And that’s how they felt about the apostles.  Peter and John, just like Jesus, were challenging the temple.  The temple leaders wanted them dead, but they also feared the people.  Everyone else could see new creation and the power of God—life—bursting into the world, but all these guys could see was a threat to the status quo.  And so they throw the apostles into jail.  And God sends an angel to set them free and not just that, but to send them straight back to the temple, to the place where they were arrested.  And there’s an urgency to the angel’s words.  “Go back the temple.  Take your stand.  Speak the words of this life to the people.”

 

The miracles were wonderful.  The miracles said that God was doing something, that new creation life was breaking in.  That there was something about the apostles.  But Brothers and Sisters, miracles without preaching lead to superstition.  Good works without preaching leave people applauding the people doing the good works.  It’s our proclamation, our preaching, our announcement of the good news about Jesus, crucified and risen and lord, that makes sense of the miracles and the good works.  It’s the preaching that points people to Jesus—not just in a generic sense to “God”, but specifically to Jesus.  It’s the preaching that makes clear that in the Messiah, God has provided a sacrifice that purifies us from the stain of sin to make us fit to be his temple, filled with his own Spirit, to bring his grace and his mercy and his love and his holiness and his new creation to the world.  It’s our life as God’s working model of new creation that attracts people, but it’s our preaching that calls them specifically to Jesus in repentance and faith.

 

This whole chapter is a reminder that preaching alone without holiness and without living out new creation is not enough, but that it’s also not enough to live out that new creation, to be a heaven on earth people, even to work miracles.  It has to be accompanied by the proclamation of the good news about Jesus.  Otherwise we’re like the mystery box of books.  Who’s this from?  Should I trust it?  So the angel sends them back to preach.  And there they are preaching in the temple just as the priests assemble to hold court.  And they send for the accused and no one can find them, until someone runs in and shouts: “They’re back preaching right under your noses!”

 

“So,” Luke goes on in verse 27, “they brough them and stood them in the assembly.  The high priest questioned them.  ‘We gave you strict orders, didn’t we?’ he demanded.  ‘We told you not to teach in this name, but look what you’re doing.  You have filled Jerusalem with your teaching and you’re trying to bring this man’s blood on us.’  ‘We must obey God, not men!’ responded Peter and the apostles.  ‘The God of our fathers raised Jesus after you had laid violent hands on him and hanged him on a tree.  God exalted him to his right hand as leader and saviour, to give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins.  We are witnesses of these things and so is the Holy Spirit, which God gave to those who obey him.’  When they heard this, they were infuriated and wanted to kill them.  But then a Pharisee by the name of Gamaliel stood up in the assembly.  He was a law-teacher, highly respected by all the people.  He ordered the men to be put outside for a short while.  ‘Men of Israel,’ he said to the gathering, ‘be careful what you do to these men.  Before these times Theudas rose up, claiming to be someone special and about four hundred men went off to join him.  But he was killed and all the people who trusted him were dispersed.  The movement came to nothing.  After that Judas the Galilean arose in the days of the census and drew a crowd after himself.  But he was killed and all those who trusted him were scattered.  So my advice to you now is this.  Leave off from these men; let them be.  You see, if this plan or work is merely human in origin, it will come to ruin.  But if it’s from God—well, you won’t be able to stop them.  You might even be found to be fighting against God.’  They were persuaded by him and called the apostles back in.  They beat them and told them not to speak in the name of Jesus.  Then they let them go.  They, however, went out from the presence of the assembly celebrating, because they had been reckoned worthy to suffer disgrace for the name.  And all day, in the temple and from house to house, they did not stop teaching and proclaiming the Messiah.”

 

The assembly has the apostles beaten, but they know the scriptures.  They’ve seen how Jesus suffered and died as part of his ministry to fulfil those scriptures.  So Peter and John and the others take this opposition as confirmation.  And Luke goes into these details here, because this is going to be a pattern throughout the book of Acts.  Suffering for the name of Jesus is a privilege.  But he also highlights the importance of the church’s integrity to its—to our—witness.  Again, we are God’s temple.  He’s returned as he promised, not to the stone building that once sat over Jerusalem, but by filling us—the people purified and made holy by the blood of Jesus.  The beauty of a human temple is that it can grow and grow and grow until it fills the earth with God’s presence, with his wisdom, with his gospel life.  But it’s also important that the temple remain pure.  Jesus has purified it.  The Holy Spirit has sanctified it.  But we’re still human.  We’re not perfect—not yet.  Brothers and Sisters, this is why, as Paul puts it, we need to put on the Messiah.  To put off the old, corrupt, sinful and selfish way of being human and put on Jesus and the new life of the gospel, the new life of the Spirit.  To be the holy people Jesus and the Spirit have made us.  To walk in integrity: in our personal affairs, in our relationships, in our marriages, in our business, in our politics, in our finances, in our life together as the church, as the temple.  We really do need to be the new humanity and God’s new creation.  We need to be—so much as Jesus and the Spirit make it possible—to be God’s future right here in the present.  And we need to take our stand and proclaim the name of Jesus so that when people notice our holiness and our integrity, they’ll also know that it’s not just us, but that it’s all about this Jesus who died and rose again—for us, for them, for the sake of all creation—to forgive, to purify, to heal, and to set to rights.  I can’t say exactly what it’s supposed to look like.  Acts was unique.  The rocket ship was launching.  Now it’s in orbit.  Our shadows are highly unlikely to heal anyone, and yet Peter’s shadow and Peter’s preaching really do represent the ministry of the faithful church to bring healing to the world, to wipe away tears, to announce what Jesus has done and what Jesus is doing and what Jesus will, finally, one day finish as we bring hope to the world.  Do it with integrity, Brothers and Sisters.  And do it in holiness.

 

Let us pray: O God, the protector of all who trust in you, without whom nothing is strong, nothing is holy: Increase and multiply upon us your mercy; that, with you as our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things temporal, that we lose not our hold on things eternal; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

by William Klock

 

Chapter and verse breaks in the Bible are not part of the original text.  Chapter breaks were added about eight hundred years ago and verses about five hundred.  There’s an old biblical studies urban legend that Robert Estienne, the French printer who published one of the early New Testaments with verse division, marked them out while riding on horseback from Paris to Lyon, explaining the often frustrating way they cut through thoughts and sentences.  Chapter breaks can be just as annoying.  I say this because last week we left off our study of Acts at the end of Chapter 3, but the end of Chapter 3 isn’t where this story ends.  You’ll remember that this story about Peter and John and the lame man followed right on the heels of Pentecost.  Peter and John were on their way to the temple to pray when they met a lame man begging at the temple gate.  “Silver and gold have I none,” said Peter, “but such as I have I give.  In the name of the Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth, get up and walk!”  And he lifted up the man the man began to jump up and down and to praise God.  And as everyone began to gather around, Peter began to preach.  He reminded them of their own story, of God’s promises going all the way back to Abraham, and how all those promises were fulfilled and how the story was brought to its climax in the death and resurrection and ascension of Jesus. I won’t repeat everything I said last Sunday, but needless to say—and even if you aren’t familiar with the story—you probably knew that trouble was coming.  But that pesky chapter break.  It saved you from an hour-long sermon, but it also cut the story in half.  So we’ll pick up after the break, with Chapter 4, now.  [It’s page 1083 in the pew Bibles.]

 

Luke continues: “As they were speaking to the people, along came the priests, the chief of the temple guard, and the Sadducees.  They were greatly annoyed that they were teaching the people and proclaiming that the resurrection of the dead had begun to happen in Jesus.  They seized them and put them under guard until the next day, since it was already evening.  But a large number of the people who had heard the message believed it and the number of men grew to five thousand.”

 

The idea of the resurrection of the dead was a big deal for the Jews and you’d think that announcing that it had somehow begun in Jesus would be good news.  And obviously it was for the thousands who believed.  Not so much for the Sadducees.  They were sad, you see, because they didn’t believe in the resurrection of the dead.  Okay, not really.  Their name goes back to Zadok, the high priest in the days of David and Solomon.  That name, Zadok, is also related to the Hebrew word for righteousness.  So the Sadducees thought of themselves not only as the sons of Zadok, but also as the righteous ones.  And in the First Century, they controlled the priesthood.  They were aristocratic and they were in power and people like that don’t usually like revolutionary ideas, and if there was there was a great revolutionary idea alive in Judah, it was the idea of the resurrection of the dead.  Resurrection means that things are broken and that God will, one day, come to set things to rights—and that implied that the Sadducees were part of the problem needing to be set right.  So they’re upset at Peter’s preaching.  The Pharisees didn’t like this talk either.  As far as they—and everyone else who hoped for resurrection—were concerned, all God’s people would be raised from the dead at the end of the age.  The idea that Jesus was raised all by himself was like heresy.  And, of course, if Jesus had been raised, it meant he was the Messiah and they refused to accept that idea.  So no matter how many eyewitnesses there were to the risen Jesus, it had never happened, so far as they were concerned.

 

But back to the Sadducees.  They controlled the priesthood and the priests were the gatekeepers of Israel.  And this talk about Jesus as Messiah and his being resurrected, which means he’d initiated the age to come already, that was the sort of talk that might spark a revolution.  And, of course, a revolution was what was already happening as the gospel and the Spirit were beginning to do their work.  But just as they hadn’t recognised it in Jesus, the leaders of Israel refuse to recognise it now and they have Peter and John locked up for the night.  Even still, Luke goes to the trouble to make the point that thousands believed anyway.  The gospel cannot and will not be stopped!

 

Verse 5: “On the next day their rulers, the elders, and the scribes gathered in Jerusalem, along with Annas the high priest, Caiaphas, John, Alexander, and all the members of the high-priestly family.  When they’d stood them in the midst, they asked, ‘How did you do this?  What power did you use?  What name did you invoke?’  Peter was filled with the Holy Spirit.  ‘Rulers of the people and elders,’ he said, ‘if the question we’re being asked today is about a good deed done for a sick man, and whose power it was that rescued him, let it be known to all of you and to all the people of Israel, that this man stands before you fit and well because of the name of the Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth, whom you crucified, but whom God raised from the dead.  He is the stone which you builders rejected, but which has become the head cornerstone.  Rescue won’t come from anyone else.  There is no other name given under heaven and among men by which we must be rescued.’”

 

Do you remember that scene in Luke 11 where Jesus is confronted after casting out a demon?  “You can only cast them out, because you’re one of them,” they accused him.  The same thing is happening again.  I think Luke wants to highlight that what’s happening here might be an “act” happening through the apostles, but it’s still ultimately Jesus acting.  Or the Spirit, which amounts to the same thing.  Luke makes a point of saying that Peter was full of the Spirit when he answered the accusation.  So just like Jesus, when the council asks them in whose name they healed the lame man, not only is Peter bold to announce that it’s Jesus of Nazareth, they boldly assert that he is the Messiah—the one they crucified, but whom God raised from the dead.  So Peter is reasserting everything: It’s Jesus.  Yes the one they crucified.  And this isn’t just about a lame man walking again, this is about the resurrection of the dead.  It’s about the fact that Jesus is Lord and that the revolution has begun.  The age to come, new creation, the kingdom of God is here.  In fact, they quote Psalm 118 at the council to explain it all.  Psalm 118 is a psalm of the temple.  It’s about people going up to the temple to celebrate God’s new day to claim his rescue, his salvation.  It’s a psalm about God’s life-giving power and it’s about God bringing his people through trouble and rescuing them from danger. It’s a psalm about trusting in God’s mercy and it’s a psalm about God’s victory over the powers of the world.  “It is better trust in the Lord, than to put confidence in man…than to put confidence in princes,” says the Psalmist (vv. 8-9).

 

So they’re saying, “It’s Jesus.  He really is the Messiah and he really has inaugurated God's new age.  But then it’s like they’re deliberately poking a stick in these folks’ eye.  The Sadducees (and the Pharisees, too, and most people) were all about the temple.  It was the embodiment of Israel’s hopes for God’s rescue and for the fulfilment of his promises to one day come again to dwell with his people.  And so this whole episode started with a man who’d been sitting in the temple gate for years, hoping for a rescue, yet never healed, and now suddenly healed by Peter and John—in the power of Jesus.  So that’s the first thing.  It says that God has, in fact, returned to dwell with is people, but instead of being in the holy of holies, he’s indwelling the disciples of Jesus.  And then, in case they hadn’t made the connection, Peter, inspired by the Spirit, quotes Psalm 118 at them.  Yes, the hope of God’s return is happening—in Jesus.  Yes, God is now present in his temple—but that temple isn’t made of stone, it’s these Jesus people.  And yes, God has come to rescue us just as he promised, to set this broken world to rights, to wipe away the tears—through Jesus.  And at the same time, it would be hard for the council to miss the hint that the mortal princes, the people from whom God’s people need to be rescued are not the pagan nations, but the Sadducees and elders and scribes who are rejecting Jesus.  (Yes, the pagan nations, too, but first, God’s got to deal with the corrupt leaders of his own people.)

 

It’s the same thing Peter has been preaching, first on Pentecost, then to the crowd who gathered around the lame man when they saw him jumping up and down.  Every time, Peter grounds God’s salvation in Jesus as the fulfilment of his promises and of Israel’s story.  Every time, it’s the announcement that Jesus is Lord; that he’s come to rescue his people; and every time, it’s a call to repentance and faith.  This sort of situational astuteness and gospel boldness is what it looks like to be full of God’s Spirit.  And the council recognised this, even if they didn’t want to admit what (or who) it was.  Verse 13: “When they saw how boldly Peter and John were speaking and realised that they were untrained, ordinary men, they were astonished and they recognised them as men who had been with Jesus.  And when they saw the man who had been healed standing with them, they had nothing to say in reply.  They ordered them to be put out of the assembly while they conferred amongst themselves.  ‘What can we do to these men?’ they said.  ‘This is a spectacular sign that has happened through them.  All Jerusalem knows it, and we can’t deny it.  But we certainly don’t want it to spread any further amongst the people.  So let’s threaten them with awful consequences if they speak anymore in this name to anyone.’  So they called them in and gave them orders not to speak at all or to teach in the name of Jesus.”

 

It’s comical and I think that’s what Luke intended.  It’s like they’ve completely missed the significance of what Peter and John have seen.  They’ve seen Jesus risen from the grave.  They saw him ascend to his throne.  They heard everything he said.  They saw everything he did.  And now they’re doing the same sorts of things themselves in his name.  They know, without a doubt, that in Jesus God has come, that Jesus is Lord, that the kingdom is now, and that the days of the principalities and powers, the old temple, and its priests are numbered.  Peter and John know which is the winning side…without a doubt.  Threatening them isn’t going to change that.

 

Brothers and Sisters, we really need to think on that.  Don’t just read Acts and let it go in one ear and out the other.  Stick a finger in one ear if you have to, but let this sink in.  Because you and I have just as much reason to be as confident as Peter and John.  No, we aren’t eyewitnesses to the resurrection or the ascension, but we have every reason to believe the accounts of them.  Someone a while ago asked me about difficulties with the creation accounts in Genesis and with the history of the Exodus.  There are difficulties in the Bible.  There are hard philosophical questions for which I haven’t yet found the perfect answer.  But I do know that Jesus rose from the dead.  I’ve heard all the arguments against it.  And they don’t hold up.  I don’t want to get into those details here, because that’s not what our text today is about.  My point is simply that we have every reason to believe that Jesus rose from the dead and just like St. Paul, confronted by that inescapable reality, we have to accept that Jesus is the Messiah and that the rest of it all is true—even we have to wait til the New Jerusalem to understand the ins and outs of exactly how some of it is true.  It’s true.  As Matt reminded us last week: Christ has died.  Christ is risen.  Christ will come again.  And not only do those three facts change everything, they ought to give us confidence and boldness to proclaim the good news that Jesus is Lord, that God has come to our rescue, and that his kingdom is now.  I’m not terribly concerned, for example, about Bill C-9.  But even if I were, I’m not going to let it stop me proclaiming the good news.  Because Jesus is King and in him the resurrection of the dead has begun.  And that truth ought to be as revolutionary for us as it was for Peter and John and the King and his Parliament and his Prime Minister ought to be just as afraid of this resurrection revolution as the Sadducees, the elders, and the scribes were.

 

So Luke goes on in verse 19: “But Peter and John gave them this reply: ‘You judge,’ they said, ‘whether it’s right before God to listen to you rather than to God.  As far as we’re concerned, we can’t stop speaking about what we have seen and heard.’  Then they [the council] threatened them some more, and let them go.  They couldn’t find any way to punish them because of the people, since everyone was glorifying God for what had happened.  After all, the man to whom the sign of healing had happened was over forty years old.

 

Brothers and Sisters, don’t stop talking about what you have seen and heard.  Peter and John were witnesses to the resurrection and ascension of Jesus.  You know what you’re a witness to?  You’re witness to the transforming power of those events.  Somehow most Christians seem totally unaware of this witness.  Maybe it’s because we’re so oblivious to our own history.  Maybe we need to read up on history so that we’ll be aware of the power of the gospel.  The very thing that Peter and John looked forward to is now—at least partially—in our past.  Luke says there were five thousand believers in those days just after Pentecost.  Brothers and Sisters, today there are 2.6 billion.  They lived in a world in which no one outside Judaea had ever heard of Jesus.  We live in a world where Jesus is known the world over.  They lived in a little Jewish pocket surrounded by pagan nations so mired in moral filth it’s hard for us to image the depth of depravity, because even as bad as might think the world is today, it has been so dramatically transformed by the gospel.  Our world, even the secular parts of it, value things like mercy and compassion, because of the transforming power of the gospel.  Brothers and Sisters, we live in a world that has been radically transformed by the power of the gospel.  If Peter and John had reason to be confident, you and I have even more.

 

But notice, too, what they do when faced with opposition.  Verse 23: “When they had been released, they went back to their own people and told them everything that the chief priests and the elders had said.  When they heard it, they all together lifted up their voices to God.  ‘Sovereign Lord,’ they said, ‘you made heaven and earth and the sea and everything in them.  And you said through the Holy Spirit, by the mouth of our father David, your servant, “Why did the nations fly into a rage, and why did the peoples think empty thoughts?  The kings of the earth arose and rulers gathered themselves together against the Lord and against his anointed Messiah.” It’s true, Herod and Pontius Pilate, together with the nations and the peoples of Israel, gathered themselves together in this very city against your holy servant Jesus, the one you anointed, to do whatever your hands and your plan had foreordained to take place.  So now, Lord, look on their threats and grant that we, your servants, may speak your word with all boldness, while you stretch out your hand for healing, so that signs and wonders may come about through the name of your holy servant Jesus.’”

 

It would do us well—and it would do the kingdom well—if we responded to opposition the way the disciples did.  We need to pray more and fret less.  There is a battle raging in the world.  Jesus has won the decisive victory, but that doesn’t mean that the powers of this old age aren’t trying to maintain their grip.  They’re like the bad guys in the movies, hanging on to the edge of the cliff with their fingers—doomed, but unwilling to give up.  To pray is to stomp on their fingers and to send them falling.  Pray.  Pray the psalms.  Pray Psalm 2 the way they do here.  This was Israel’s prayer, but Jesus and the events surrounding those first Christians reoriented it.  They cry out with the Psalmist: Why do the nations rage?  Why do the peoples think with empty thoughts? The kings of the earth have huddled together against the Lord.  Except this time Israel herself had become one of the nations, her priests huddled together with Pontius Pilate.  They’d crucified Jesus.  And yet the disciples, in their prayer, also acknowledge that God is sovereign.  Remember that for Jews to quote a line from a Psalm was to call to mind the whole thing.  And in Psalm 2, yes the nations raged and their kings gathered together against his anointed, but then—do you remember Psalm 2?—God laughs at them, because they’re fools.  And God establishes his king on Mount Zion.  The once raging nations become his inheritance.  And Peter and John and the rest knew that in Jesus this psalm was being fulfilled.  The Psalm concludes addressing those kings, “Now therefore, O Kings, be wise” and just so the disciples pray, “Now therefore, Lord, look on their threats and grant that we, your servants, may speak your word with all boldness, while you stretch out your hand for healing, so that signs and wonders may come about through the name of your holy servant Jesus.”  Brothers and Sisters, pray the Spirit-inspired scriptures back to God and things will happen.  Luke writes in verse 31: “When they had prayed the place where they were gathered was shaken.  They were all filled with the Holy Spirit and they boldly spoke the word of God.”

 

We should learn this prayer.  When the principalities and powers of the old age push back, pray this prayer.  When the local council or the legislature or Parliament or the King or the courts push back, pray this prayer.  When the gospel gets you in trouble with your family or at school or in your work, pray this prayer.  When you become discouraged, if you’re struggling to keep the faith, if you’re wrestling with sin, if you feel cornered by the world, the flesh, and the devil, pray this prayer.  Remember that you are a witness to the power of the gospel in the world.  And pray this prayer.

 

And immediately Luke shows us the church—not just boldly proclaiming the good news—but also living it out as a community.  Luke shows us the church as the working model of God’s new creation in the midst of the old.  Luke shows us the church being the new temple: the place of God’s presence and the fulfilment of his promises of abundance and generosity.  Look at verses 32-37.  I was tempted to save these for next week as they lead us into Chapter 5.  I actually think they could warrant their own sermon.  But look at them now: “The company of those who believed had one heart and one soul.”  Remember Paul telling the Philippians to “Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Messiah Jesus”?  Be of one Jesus-like mind.  That plays out in all sorts of ways and Luke shows us one here: “Nobody said that they owned their property; instead they had everything in common.  The apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus with great power and great grace was upon all of them.  For there was no needy person among them, since any who possessed lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sale, and placed it at the feet of the apostles, who then gave to each according to their need.  Joseph, a Levite from Cyprus, to whom the apostles gave the surname Barnabas, which means ‘son of encouragement’, sold some land which belonged to him, brought the money, and laid it at the apostle’s feet.”

 

As I said a few weeks ago when we looked at Chapter 2, this doesn’t mean they became a bunch of proto-Marxists.  Luke’s point is that they became a family that live out the generosity and abundance of God’s new creation.  We know from what we read later, that they had their own homes in which to meet.  And the focus of their charity was on the truly indigent, especially widows—on people notably with no family to take care of them.  And Paul will warn in his own letters that the able-bodied should get jobs instead of mooching off the community.  Again, the point here is that they very visible became the community in which torah itself was being fulfilled.  They’ve become the land of overflowing with milk and honey.  They’ve become the people who truly love their neighbours.  They’ve become the new temple in which God has returned to dwell with his people.  And they’re doing and being this community right in Jerusalem: showing up the old Israel, exposing the priest and the council, showing that the old temple and its sacrifices are done.  God has fulfilled his promises and he’s done so in Jesus and in the people who gathered around him in faith.

 

And, Brothers and Sisters, we ought to be the same sort of new creation, heaven-on-earth community here.  As in Peter and John’s day, the powers that be will tell us to go away and concentrate on heaven while they run the earth.  They’ll warn us not to shove our religion down anyone’s throat, while they, of course, will do their best to shove their materialism, their commercialism, their hedonism down our throats.  They’ll get frustrated with us when we refuse to worship in their temples to money and power and sex and politics and war.  And when that happens, Brothers and Sisters, pray.  And remember that Jesus has died, Jesus has risen, and that Jesus will come again.  Be shaped by that story.  Be confident, knowing that God has and is and will fulfil his promises.  Be bold knowing that the gospel has power and that we live in a world transformed by that power, even if everyone ignores it or denies it.  Pray.  Remember.  Be bold.  And then remember that we are the family of the Messiah, marked out by his powerful name in our baptism and that in those baptismal waters, he’s plunged us in to his Spirit.  He has made us new and we’re not the family meant be and to bring and to live out his new creation, to live out heaven on earth in anticipation of the day when Jesus finally sets it all to rights.  We are the family that refuses to stop singing his praises and proclaiming his glory.  That’s what we were created to do in the first place.  That’s what Jesus has rescued us to do right now.  And it’s what all creation will one day, by his grace, do again.

 

Let’s pray: O Lord, hear us in your mercy, we pray, and grant that we, to whom you have given the desire to pray, may be defended and comforted by your mighty aid, and strengthened in all dangers and adversities, through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.