Ac 6

Last week, it was my intention to preach the sermon, “Maybe It’s Okay to Be the Grinch.” As Banu no doubt informed you, I was at home, sick. She may or may not have added, feeling like the Grinch!

The Grinch is our generation’s way of adding a “cold prickly” to the “warm fuzzy” that Christmas is supposed to be. An earlier generation relied on Ebenezer Scrooge to perform that job. Still, Dr. Seuss and Charles Dickens aren’t the first to inject that aspect into the season.

From the very beginning, the New Testament has contained those elements of light and darkness in the telling of the story, even if we choose to leave out the stuff that makes us uncomfortable.

For example, when Joseph and Mary, who is very much with child, have to spend the night in a dirty, drafty, nasty barn, the words “silent night, holy night,” probably don’t come to mind. And by the way, why isn’t there a place for them in the inn? And why don’t any of Joseph’s family or friends in Bethlehem welcome them? Why don’t they observe their culture’s strong tradition of hospitality? Is the presence of Mary, with her suspicious pregnancy, enough to cause rejection?

Not only is rejection part of the Christmas story—so is murder. King Herod and his little band of assassins can’t be taken out of the picture. Stephen, the subject of our epistle reading, is often called the protomartyr, the “first martyr.” Actually, those little boys in Bethlehem become the first martyrs for Christ.

Who would have thought that Christmas could teach us lessons about intolerance and martyrdom? It’s certainly counter to the version that our consumer culture force feeds us.

Martyr. We hear that word used a lot these days. There seems to be no end to the number of people committing acts of violence, killing others and themselves, only to be proclaimed “martyrs.”

Well, these next few days of the Christmas season present a different idea about what it means to be a martyr. Today, the 2nd day of Christmas, is St. Stephen’s Day. Tomorrow is dedicated to St. John the Apostle, and Tuesday the 28th is the Feast of the Holy Innocents, the little ones that I just mentioned from our gospel text (Mt 2:13-23). One thing they all have in common is that they died for Christ. The New Testament version of martyr isn’t one who kills, but is killed.

After our affirmation of faith, we’ll sing about another martyr, “Good King Wenceslas.” You’ll notice that some of the language is rather archaic. Instead of “hither” and “thither,” we would say “here” and “there.” And I feel compelled to point out that “Christian men” in the final stanza isn’t just for men!

The first line of the song, “Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen,” might pose some questions. Just who was this Wenceslas—and is it true that he really was good? And as for the Feast of Stephen…as I said, that’s today. This hymn got me thinking about Stephen, and that’s why we’re using as our epistle reading the passages about him from the book of Acts.

Concerning King Wenceslas, here’s a quick bio, courtesy of Ed Hird, an Anglican minister in British Columbia. He “was the Duke of Bohemia who was murdered in [the year] 929 by his wicked younger brother, Boleslav. As the song indicates, he was a good, honest, and strongly principled man. The song expresses his high moral character in describing King Wenceslas braving a fierce storm in order to help feed a poor neighbor. [He] believed that his Christian faith needed to be put into action in practical ways. Wenceslas was brought up with a strong Christian faith by his grandmother St. Ludmila.

“[His] own mother Drahomira, however, joined forces with an anti-Christian group that murdered Wenceslas’ grandmother, and seized power in Bohemia. Two years later in 922 AD, the evil Drahomira was deposed, and Good King Wenceslas became the ruler.”[1] Wenceslas is the patron saint of the Czech Republic, and Wenceslas Square is at the heart of the capital, Prague.

Some have wondered why “Good King Wenceslas” is even considered a Christmas carol. Remember, as I’ve pointed out, the Christmas season is about more than a supposedly warm and cozy stable, with an angelic choir providing the soundtrack. This story of one who himself would be martyred, behaving in a Christlike fashion, expresses the very essence of Christmas.

I realize that what I’ve been saying may possibly strike you as curious, even strange, and maybe even irrelevant. If my message so far hasn’t connected with you, consider this: in the New Testament, the same Greek word (martu", martus) has the meaning of both “martyr” and “witness.” They’re two sides of the coin named martu".

To be a martyr is to be a witness. But the reverse is also true. To be a witness is to be a martyr. If we stressed that link between martyr and witness, plenty of people who are declared “martyrs” would be more readily seen not to be. It’s not enough to simply die for something you believe in. It’s not even enough to die for Jesus. To be a martyr first means living for Jesus. It means being a witness for Jesus. The word “martyr” speaks more of one’s life than one’s death. And there’s probably no better example of that than Stephen.

His story is told in Acts chapters 6 and 7. We first meet Stephen when an argument about distribution of food to widows comes to the apostles. Seeing the need to delegate authority, the apostles arrange for seven men to take charge of this ministry. First on the list is Stephen, “a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit” (6:5).

But as the beginning of our scripture reading shows, Stephen starts getting a reputation. “Full of grace and power,” he does “great wonders and signs among the people” (v. 8). It doesn’t matter that he isn’t an apostle; he lives the life of Christ anyway. And for that very reason, he stirs up opposition.

You know, a witness/martyr for Jesus will stir up opposition. It’s inevitable. It’s not a question of seeking conflict, like those false martyrs I spoke of earlier. Rather, living the way of Jesus in this world of violence can’t help but mean encountering obstacles. The more we decide to be witnesses for Christ, the more we go against the flow of this world of death. We need to ask ourselves: are we witnesses for Christ? Do others perceive us as such?

We’re told that Stephen’s enemies had no answer to “the wisdom and the Spirit with which he spoke” (v. 10). So, unable to deal with him in a good faith dialogue, they resort to digging up some scoundrels to lie for them. After being accused of blasphemy, Stephen is hauled before the Sanhedrin, the Jewish council of elders. That’s where he presents his defense, beginning with a recitation of the history of Israel. It takes up most of chapter 7.

Stephen doesn’t say anything controversial until the end of his defense. That’s when he accuses his accusers of betraying the history of Israel—of betraying the prophets. That’s when they become gripped with fury, and as we begin the second part of our reading, Stephen says something that sends them over the edge. He claims to have a vision of “the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!” (v. 56).

That did it. They look at each other and say, “Boys, let’s gather up some rocks!” By stoning him, they can execute him without touching him—without becoming ritually unclean. And yet, even as the cruel stones are pounding the life out of him, Stephen cries out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them” (v. 60).

Stephen’s use of the term “Son of Man” is the only place in the New Testament in which someone other than Jesus says it. And if the boys in the Sanhedrin weren’t already mad about his proclamation of Christ, that alone just might do it. “Son of Man” has a universal tone to it. “Son of David” suggests that the Messiah is still the property of the Jewish nation. It’s bad enough that Stephen insists that Jesus is the Messiah, but calling him the Son of Man opens the matter up to the entire world—even to the hated Romans.

There’s some creative foreshadowing here. Luke, the presumed author of Acts, includes a note about “a young man named Saul” who watches the garments of “the witnesses” who proceed to kill Stephen. The irony is too much to ignore. These false witnesses kill a true witness; false martyrs kill a true martyr. And the young man named Saul becomes the missionary Paul, who spreads the gospel of Christ throughout the Roman world.

The stones of his killers don’t change who Stephen is. They simply mark the spot at which his identity of “witness” becomes that of “martyr.” Flip the coin. By imitating Jesus’ plea of mercy for his own executioners, Stephen “ends his own creation with the last act of disassociating himself from the violent story of this world, which is to leave it behind, with no resentment, no desire for revenge.”[2] As a true witness for Jesus, he can do nothing else.

On this second day of Christmas, we are reminded that the cost of the gift of love is no less than martyrdom, being a witness for the One who saves the world from its shame and despair. Julian of Norwich, who lived six centuries ago, says this in one of her writings: "God places upon everyone he longs to bring into his bliss something that is no blame in his sight, but for which they are blamed and despised in this world. Scorned, mocked, and cast out.” In other words, we receive things that, to the world and maybe even to ourselves, are disgusting, reprehensible. But to God, they are beautiful.

“[God] does this to offset the harm [we] should otherwise have from the pomp and vainglory of this earthly life, and to make [our] road to him easier, and to bring [us] higher in his joy without end."[3]

Down deep within our heart of hearts, we know we have hidden treasures waiting to be unlocked. We are afraid; because the cost of revealing those treasures may be scorn, mocking, being cast out, or even death. We look at the world and ask ourselves, “Who is really worth such a sacrifice?” God is. Jesus Christ is, because in doing so, we unleash the joy which only comes from Emmanuel, God with us.

[1] www3.bc.sympatico.ca/st_simons/cr9212.htm

[2] girardianlectionary.net/less_fest/st_stephen.htm

[3] girardianlectionary.net/less_fest/st_stephen.htm