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Sermon Text:

When I was in seminary we gathered every day at 7:00 am in the chapel for worship. One morning during my third year, when the Associate Dean stood up to preach, we noticed that she was holding a small rock in her hand. Now as background, it may surprise you to know how emotionally invested seminarians can get in points of theology or liturgy or ecclesiology or incense or who put decaf coffee in the urn for the regular. Feelings could run high, and relationships could get pretty prickly at times. Apparently, this was one of those times. The Dean’s message, as she held that rock, was pretty much a come-to-Jesus reminder that we were a family, with more in common than not. Instead, we had come to see ourselves in factions instead of as a Christian community. The message was loud and clear; we needed to stop throwing words and side eye and snarkiness at each other, like so many stones. 

And when she finished, she put that rock right there on the chapel altar, where it stayed for the rest of the academic year, as a reminder to us to remember who we were. And whose we were. I’ve never forgotten the sight of that little gray stone on the white linen.

Today’s passage from Acts is in many ways another story about community identity, but maybe not in the way we think.

“But they covered their ears, and with a loud shout all rushed together against him.”

How did we get here? 

As you may know, the book of Acts is the Evangelist Luke’s account of the growth of the Christian community from the Ascension of Jesus to the death of Paul in a Roman prison. The believers in the Way of Jesus were not known as Christians until much later; they were still a Jewish sect, magnetically attracting other believers through their healings, proclamation of the Good News, and their common life of prayer and shared possessions, as Luke writes, “devoting themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread and the prayers.” In the verses leading up to today’s episode, Stephen, one of the first deacons, who has been “doing great signs and wonders”, has been arrested and called to defend himself before a decidedly hostile council of the synagogue. Luke reports that they looked intently at him, seeing that “he had the face of an angel.” At which point the Holy Spirit takes over and Stephen begins speaking, and speaking…and speaking, summarizing Jewish history, from Abram on, with an emphasis on all of the times when the people of Israel turned away from God and rejected God’s messengers. Stephen builds up a massive head of steam towards the end: 

“You stiff-necked people, uncircumcised in heart and ears, you are forever opposing the Holy Spirit, just as your ancestors used to do. Which of the prophets did your ancestors not persecute? They killed those who foretold the coming of the Righteous One, and now you have become his betrayers and murderers…”

It is probably no surprise that the Council responded with such outrage.

But this is not to blame the victim. Luke’s intention was to set the stage. Stephen is known as the first martyr because he died for his faith in Jesus, resolutely proclaiming him as the Messiah—the Righteous One– and passionately speaking truth to those in power. And like Jesus, Stephen forgives them as he dies. Stephen became a model of a faithful Christian in a time of persecution.

Luke’s imagery is vivid and his details deliberate. So when he mentions a young man named Saul, standing in tacit approval of the slaughter in front of him as he guards the coats of the stone-hurlers, Luke is foreshadowing. Saul will have an encounter with the risen Christ and receive the name Paul, becoming arguably the most influential evangelist in the history of Christendom. 

Luke would have us see a story of redemption; of the fact that God can use even the most flawed in the unfolding of God’s Dream. Yes, and… underlying this is an assumption, of two factions in opposition; Christians and Jews. That’s what tradition would have us understand, and given the trajectory of history it’s not an awful assumption. 

Except that in a fundamental way they weren’t two groups. At this moment in Luke’s story they were all Jews, albeit with very different understandings of what God was doing in the world. 

We’re invited to consider this: that they were one household; one (squabbling) family; yet all children of the God who loved Creation into being. 

Hurling words. Hurling stones. 

It wasn’t the first time, and God knows it wouldn’t be the last. 

We can throw a lot more at each other now. Bullets, drones, bombs. We cover our ears rather than listen to one another. We would rather be right than in right relationship. 

In the face of perceived threat or of loss the primal lizard brain that is in all of us can take over and we become reactive, territorial, angry, and fearful; not optimal for facing uncertainty with any kind of grace.

Jesus understood this. He understands the vulnerability that accompanies grief. In his Farewell Discourse at the Last Supper, he is preparing his friends for loss:

“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. 

This passage from John’s Gospel is often used at funerals, for good reason. There is a sense of reassurance for those who mourn the death of a loved one–a comforting earthly image of a final home. And whether the translation refers to dwelling places or mansions or rooms, Jesus also reminds us of the amazing breadth of God’s welcome—the doors wide open– for all of God’s people. One family, one Creation. 

All one.

But there is something else here. Jesus is reassuring his friends of his continued, albeit noncorporeal, presence, taking them to himself; an image of divine indwelling that has particular warmth and intimacy. 

Jesus says, you are never alone. When I take you to myself, it is not possible to be alone. We are One.

Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”

New Testament scholar Lisa Holmes observes that a more accurate translation would be, “You all, [plural] don’t let your heart [singular] be troubled.” (Some might say, “y’all”, you know who you are…) Holmes writes: 

“In other words, Jesus says to this group of disciples that they have one heart, and that they, collectively, have a responsibility for it not to be troubled at Jesus’s departure. When they are no longer a community together, it is much more likely for hearts to become troubled.”

One heart. One in community. This is the legacy that Jesus yearned for for his disciples. It is God’s Dream—God’s heart beating through one family. 

You can probably see where this has been leading. As of last Sunday, St. Martin’s entered into a time of loss and transition at the retirement of our Rector, with every single emotion that goes with it. I’m not worried that there will be rocks flying, but this is a tender as well as exciting time, and let’s face it, the stone-throwing world we live in does not set a good example of how to meet change with grace. Therefore it is up to us, as we embark today on the process of calling a new shepherd, to remember that we are one family with one heart, to listen carefully to one another and to speak truth in love, trusting in the guidance of the Holy Spirit. And while we’re at it, let’s show the principalities and powers outside of our doors how it’s done. 

Y’all, don’t let your heart be troubled. We are one in Christ Jesus. Amen.