April 20, 2008
Easter 5, Acts 7:54-60
Our first reading this morning is a little bit gruesome – the stoning of Stephen. Just to give a little background, Stephen was one of the original seven deacons chosen by the apostles to distribute food to widows. He was chosen because he was “full of the Spirit and of wisdom” and we’re told that he “did great wonders and signs among the people.” But, as you might have gleaned from our reading this morning, sometimes wonders and signs aren’t all that appreciated, and some of the leaders began stirring up the people against Stephen. He was accused by false witnesses and, not unlike Jesus, delivered up to the council and questioned by the high priest.
“Are these things so?” asked the high priest. And then Stephen responded with a 53 verse diatribe that pretty much summarizes the history of God’s saving interactions with humanity from Abraham to Jesus. And Stephen doesn’t mince words when he recaps the long and disappointing history of humanity’s blindness and mistrust of God and persecution of the prophets. All of which culminates in the betrayal and murder of Jesus, the Righteous One.
Stephen then proceeds to lump his accusers and judges in with that history of “stiff-necked peoples, uncircumcised in heart and ears, who always resist the Holy Spirit.” Unsurprisingly, they become enraged and “grind their teeth against him.” And a few verses later St. Stephen becomes the first martyr of Christianity. But even amidst their rage and their violence, we are told that they “saw that [Stephen’s] face was like the face of an angel.”
Stephen’s unafraid, unapologetic preaching reminded me of a conversation John and I had not long ago. I’m sure none of you could have missed the abundant news stories about Jeremiah Wright, Barack Obama’s pastor. Probably everyone has heard at least a few snippets of his more inflammatory sermons that caused such guilt-by-association trouble for Obama. Holden is a fairly recent YouTube devotee, so one night we watched clips from Wright’s sermons about how “the stuff we have done overseas is now brought back into our own front yards – America’s chickens are coming home to roost” and his sermon that included “God damn America, as long as she pretends to act like she is God.” My first instinct was to empathize with Reverend Wright. Afterall, I’m now in this same business he is -- what if someone took a few lines out of context from one of my sermons and judged me by them? But then John very astutely pointed out that probably nothing from any of our sermons had ever been that inflammatory and maybe, just maybe, that meant we weren’t doing our jobs.
Prophetic, provocative preaching is a staple of the Bible. From Old Testament prophets like Jeremiah who interpreted the sufferings of the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah as punishment for their failure to live up to their covenant with God, to New Testament prophets like John the Baptist who called the people to “repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” This is tough, uncomfortable stuff. And it doesn’t end with the Bible. Throughout history, we’ve had prophetic teachers and preachers who have spoken truth to power in ways that have been awkward for PR – Martin Luther, Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglass, Deitrich Bonhoeffer, just to name a few. My homiletics professor used to say that the job of a preacher is “to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” I think we tend to be better at the first half. And Peter Gomes, a Harvard professor and Baptist minister, suggests that a good sermon should have enough in it to offend everyone.
But the possibility of living and speaking prophetically isn’t just for preachers, but for all Christians. We Christians aren’t called to celebrate the status quo but to take seriously the gospel’s call to radical love. It reminds me of those questions that sometimes get asked in Sunday school or in sermons: “If being Christian were a crime, would there be enough evidence to convict you?” Or “Would your checkbook back up what you think and say your priorities are?” What do we believe in strongly enough to be willing to risk, to offend, to put our whole selves into?
Just after the 40th anniversary of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s death, I watched a documentary on the History channel about him called “King.” It was another chance to hear his inspiring words and see clips of the marches and sit-ins. To witness that seemingly insatiable energy or will or spirit to keep fighting against all odds: “Our feet are tired but our souls are rested,” preached King. Whenever I read about or see bits of that piece of history, I wish I could have been part of it. Part of such a righteous and focused movement; part of a time when right and wrong seemed so clear. Of course, what seems so clear now, in retrospect, obviously was not so clear to everyone then. As evidenced by the cruel brutality of police officers and white people fighting to protect the status quo. And as evidenced by the non-participation of plenty of well-meaning whites and blacks who either feared retribution, doubted the efficacy of Dr. King’s protests, or didn’t think it was their fight to fight.
There were interviews with all kinds of people on the King special. But one that struck me especially, funnily enough, was from Bono, who asked, “Is Martin Luther King a historical figure, or a present challenge to the way we see the world?” It’s pretty easy to revere him as a historical figure, someone we can quote admiringly and respect. Someone we can de-claw and put safely up on a pedestal. But it’s much more dangerous when we let Dr. King’s words and actions challenge the way we live and view the world around us.
I think the same question can be asked about Jesus. Is he a historical figure to us? A great moral teacher who told good stories and loved little children and outcasts? Someone we use to feel safe and loved and then disregard the rest? Or is he a challenge to everything we do and say, someone that causes us to think and act differently? Does Jesus both comfort us when we are afflicted and afflict us when we are comfortable?
We might disagree about what they are, but I’m certain we can all agree that there are plenty of things in our time that 40 years from now will look just as black and white as the cause of racial justice looks to us now. The inequalities that King fought against still exist; the poverty and injustice that he decried still exist; we are no closer to peace now than we were then.
And just as surely, the hatred and hypocrisy and idolatry that Jesus worked against are still rampant; God’s creation is in a bigger shambles than ever; the Kingdom of God still seems awfully far off.
Of course, there is always a reason not to get involved. There is almost always some cloud that muddies the line between black and white, something that makes us lean towards the status quo. But where might we end up if we are living prophetically, living into the challenge of God?
What piece of the vision of the Kingdom of God burns in your heart? Because that is probably the place to start. As Martin Luther King urged, "If you can't fly, run. If you can't run, walk. If you can't walk, crawl. But by all means, keep moving."
Amen.
Elizabeth