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No Favouritism Acts 10:23-48 by William Klock   Last Sunday we looked at the first half of the story of Peter and Cornelius in Acts 10.  Peter had gone down to the coast to visit the little Christian communities that were popping up there, and while he was there he had a vision.  He was hungry and waiting for his lunch and he fell asleep.  And he saw this great linen cloth, like a sail, coming down from heaven full of every animal he could imagine.  “What this?” he thought.  And the Lord spoke and told him, “Kill and eat.”  “But Lord, some of these animals are unclean.  They’re animals you forbade us from eating.  I’ve never deliberately broken your law.  I can’t start now!”  And the Lord responded, “Don’t be prejudiced, Peter.  Don’t call something unclean that I have made clean.”  Three times this was repeated.  And Peter, confused, was just trying to figure out what it meant when there was knock at the door.  There were three Romans there.  And they explained that their master, A Roman centurion named Cornelius, had been visited by the God of Israel in a vision and was told to send his people to go down to Joppa to fetch Peter and bring him back to Caesarea to talk with him.   So it starts to click for Peter.  It wasn’t really about food.  It was about people.  Jews didn’t mix with gentiles.  They were unclean.  They didn’t live according to God’s law.  They worshipped idols.  You didn’t go into their houses.  You didn’t eat with them.  But Peter understood the vision now—or at least got the gist of it: It was God’s way of telling him to go with these Romans to meet Cornelius.   And Luke explained: Cornelius was a God-fearer.  He was one of those gentiles, one of those people from the pagan world, who had seen something in the people of Israel.  He’d heard the stories about their God.  And he was drawn to them.  In the world of brutality and moral filth he’d come from, he saw purity and holiness in Israel.  In contrast to the distant, fickle, and immoral gods he’d know, the God of Israel stood out as radically different.  Cornelius couldn’t actually become a Jew and live by torah.  He’d lose his job and probably everyone he knew, but he drew near—as close as he could.  He had his face pressed against the glass, longing for the people, the community, the family, and the God he saw inside.  Even if he couldn’t get in there, he somehow found hope just in being as close as he could get—again, think of him pressing his face against the glass, longing to get inside.   So Peter did the unthinkable: he invited these three Romans in, shared his lunch with them, and put then up for the night.  Now, continuing with 10:23 [page 1092 in the pew Bibles], Luke goes on and tells us. “The next day he got up and went with them.  Some of the brothers from Joppa went with him.  They reached Caesarea the following day.  Cornelius had summoned his relatives and close friends and was waiting for him.  When Peter came in, Cornelius went to meet him.  He fell down at his feet and worshipped him.  “Get up!” said Peter, lifting him up. “I’m just a man, too.” So they talked together, and Peter came in and found lots of people assembled.   The temple came to Cornelius.  The thing he’d been longing for.  The place he wanted to go, to be in the presence of God, not any of his Roman gods, but the real God, the God of Israel who had made his glory known in history, it came new to Cornelius.  Brothers and Sisters, do you realise what we are.  What we are when we go out into the world.  What we are when we meet people out there?  We’re God’s temple.  A people purified by Jesus and made fit to be God’s dwelling place.  A people filled with his presence because he’s poured his Spirit into us.  Brothers and Sisters, when Peter met Cornelius, Cornelius recognised the presence of God somehow—in him, with him—he recognised it the way people who went to the temple recognised God’s presence there.  Cornelius recognised or sensed or saw that in Peter.  And you and I, we should be the same.  Maybe it helped that Cornelius was in tune with this.  It was his desire to meet the one, true, living God.  He’d had his face pressed against the glass for so long, was so wanting to be in that presence, that he was especially ready to know it.  But there should be something in us that the people we encounter see or sense or know the way Cornelius recognised the presence of the living God in Peter.  He was meeting the living temple of God and that is what the world should see in the church, in us.  This would be good to reflect on.  Ask yourself what people recognise in you.  Is it God’s presence or is it maybe worry or pride or anger.  Do they find the fruit of the Spirit or the fruit of the works of the flesh?  Do they see the glory of God in you?   And so Cornelius did what came naturally.  He bowed down and started worshipping.  Cornelius’ response raises the question: Does a pagan see enough of the Holy Spirit in us that he might just bow down and try to worship?  I can imagine how shocked Peter would be.  Jews knew better, but it was the natural response to encountering God’s presence.  So Peter pulled him up and set him straight and he got them up to speed on what had happened to him:  Verse 29: “You must know,” he said to them, “that it is unseemly for a Jewish man to mix with or visit a foreigner.  But God showed me that I should call nobody ‘common’ or ‘unclean.’  So I came when I was asked, and raised no objections.  Do tell me, then, the reason why you sent for me.”   And now it’s Cornelius’s turn to get Peter up to speed on what this is all about.  Luke writes, “Cornelius gave him the answer. “Four days ago,” he said, “I was praying in my house at around this time, about three o’clock, and suddenly a man stood beside me in shining clothes.  ‘Cornelius,’ he said, ‘your prayer has been heard, and your almsgiving has been remembered by God.  So send someone to Joppa and call Simon, who is called Peter; he is staying in the house of Simon the tanner, beside the sea.’  So I sent for you at once, and you have been kind enough to come.  So now we are all here, in God’s presence, to listen to everything which the Lord has told you to say.”   I would think that Peter and Cornelius’ men would talk on the journey and Peter would figure out that this is no ordinary Roman centurion.  But Cornelius makes it clear here: he’s someone who respects the God of Israel and it’s the God of Israel who has spoken to him.  Luke then says in verse 34 that Peter opened his mouth and began to speak. I think it might better to translate that as, “Peter took a deep breath and began.”  Because things are starting to get clearer for him, but this isn’t easy.  He’s starting to wrap his head around what God is doing here, and he’s realising that it’s a total game changer.  He’s about to say something that he probably never thought he’d ever say.  “It’s become clear to me,” he said, “that God really does show no favouritism.  No, in every nation, people who fear him and do what is right are acceptable to him.”   Now, we need to pause here, because as modern people—I talked about this last week when we read about God telling Peter not to be prejudiced—as modern people what we’re prone to hearing Peter saying here that there are all sorts of paths to God.  Like Peter used to think that the Jewish people were God’s favourites and that only they had an in with him, a way to him, and everyone else in the world was doomed and lost forever, but now, somehow in light of Jesus, he’s realised that the ways that the gentiles—or at least some of them—go seeking after God, well, those ways are just as good and that Israel had nothing special.  And we think that, because this is the dominant view in our postmodern pluralistic culture.  Justification is by death—unless you’re one of those really obviously bad people like Hitler—so all paths lead to God and how dare anyone remind the world that Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father except through me.”   So, no, what Peter is saying is that when he—along with most of his fellow Jews—thought that they were God’s favourites and that everyone else in the world was simply doomed to one day know the wrath and judgement of God.  They were wrong.  They were wrong for thinking that when God came to visit his people as he promised, he would set them on top and rain down fire and brimstone on the nations.  There’s a sense in which that story is true, but they had the timing wrong.  God will come to establish the faithful and to judge the wicked—at the end, after the gospel and the Spirit and the Church have done their work and his glory fills the earth—but God had something else to do first.  He had a great act of amazing grace to make first in order to redeem both Israel and the nations.  This was the massive revelation that was now beginning to settle on Peter.  You can almost sense how Peter is thinking this through and working it out as he talked to Cornelius.  I think he’s explaining it to himself as much to these Romans.   It’s important to understand: the gospel is still exclusive.  I think this was why it wasn’t easy for Peter to work this through.  Jesus changes everything.  Jesus opens the way to God for all.  And yet unclean, unholy, idolatrous gentiles are still on the outside.  What Jesus has done is to reconstitute the people of God around himself.  Faith in him, not torah, has become the defining characteristic, the mark of membership in this new family.  His blood purifies us, Jew and gentile alike and makes us new.  This is why Paul, writing to the gentile Corint

What God has Made Clean Acts 9:32-10:23 by William Klock   Back in 2012 Barack Obama, in what became something of an infamous campaign speech, told business owners, “You didn’t build that.”  His point was that private business relies on public infrastructure, but most people just heard him dismissing their hard work as irrelevant to the businesses they had built.  It wasn’t a good campaign move.  But that line keeps coming back to my mind as I read the closing verses of Act 9.  Amazing things were happening in the church.  The apostles were doing amazing things.  The church was growing by leaps and bounds.  And in the middle of it all, Luke says, “You didn’t build that.  Jesus did.”   You might remember back to when we first started out look at Acts and I said that even though we call the book “the Acts of the Apostles,” what Luke really makes clear throughout is that this is really about the acts of Jesus—picking up where the Gospel left off.  It’s just that now Jesus is working indirectly through his people.  We—and I can say that especially pastors—need this reminder.  When we look at the church, when we’re tempted to take credit for the things we see happening, Luke reminds us: “You didn’t build that.  Jesus did.”  Brothers and Sisters, the glory—all of it—belongs to God and this long story of God and his people, of Israel and the church that continues today has one purpose and one purpose alone: to reveal God’s glory.   Now,most of Chapter 9 was about Saul of Tarsus and his encounter with Jesus.  That’s going to be important.  But first Luke brings us back to Peter.  We’ll pick up with 9:32 [page 1091 in the pew Bibles]: “As Peter was going through various places among all the believers, he went down to God’s people who lived in Lydda.  There he found a paralyzed man named Aeneas who had been confined to bed for eight years. “Aeneas,” Peter said to him, “Jesus the Messiah heals you!  Stand up and fold up your bed!”  And at once he stood up.  Everyone who lived at Lydda and Sharon saw it, and they turned to the Lord. In Joppa [today it’s Jaffa not too far from Tel Aviv] there was a disciple named Tabitha, whose name translates as Dorcas.  She was full of good works and generous deeds.  Around that time she fell ill and died.  They washed her and laid her in an upper room.  Lydda is near Joppa, and the disciples, hearing that Peter was there, sent two men to him with the urgent request that he shouldn’t delay, but come to them at once.  So Peter got up and went with them. When he arrived, they took him to the upper room, where all the widows were weeping. They showed him the tunics and the other clothes that Dorcas had made while she was with them.  Peter requested them all to leave.  Then he knelt down and prayed, and turned to the body.  “Tabitha,” he said, “get up!”  She opened her eyes, and when she saw Peter she sat up.  He gave her his hand and lifted her up. Then he called God’s people, including the widows, and presented her alive.  This became known throughout the whole of Joppa, and many believed in the Lord.  Peter stayed on in Joppa for some days, at the house of Simon the tanner.”   I don’t want to spend too much time on this interlude.  Surely there were other wonderful things happening, but Luke focuses us on Peter and the healing of Aeneas and the raising of Dorcas and in them he gives a sense of the church’s growth through Judaea.  Dorcas is interesting, because she seems to have lived in a community of widows—and we know that was one group, one demographic where the gospel spread early on—to a group of women living with poverty and grief.  Jesus was good news.  But I think Luke’s key point in these verses is in the words of Peter when he told Aeneas to get up: “Jesus the Messiah heals you!”  Not just, “Get up.”  Not, “I’ve healed you.”  “Jesus the Messiah heals you.”  Peter knew who was at work.  Jesus—and the Spirit—are behind everything we do as the church.  And we need to be reminded of this sometimes.  Sometimes when we’re tempted to take the credit for things.  Sometimes when we get frustrated with a lack of things happening or with what seems like too slow a pace and we wish bigger things would happen faster in the church.  Brothers and Sisters, it’s Jesus’ church, not ours.  He’s the one who makes things happen.  If Saul’s conversion isn’t proof of that, then nothing is.  Trust Jesus.  Wait on Jesus.  Give Jesus the credit.   And then there’s one other detail here.  Peter’s staying at the home of Simon the Tanner.  This says something about who the first Christians were.  Tanning was dirty, smelly work.  It didn’t necessarily make you unclean as people used to think, but it was nasty work and it put tanners on the social fringe of society.  But Peter doesn’t shrink from Simon’s hospitality.  He stays at his house, even though it probably stinks to high heaven.  Most people would think he was crazy, but Brothers and Sisters, this is what the gospel does.  It makes people of unlikely—and even unsavoury backgrounds—family.   Now, Luke goes on in 10:1.  “In Caesarea there was a man named Cornelius, a centurion with the cohort called the Italian.”  He was devout, and he and all his household revered God. He gave alms generously to the people, and constantly prayed to God.”   As Twenty-first century Christians we might miss how significant these two verses are.  Luke says that there’s a centurion named Cornelius at Caesara.  Caesarea was the main Roman base in Judaea.  It was a port city built by Herod the Great to funnel all the shipping into one place to make it easier for him to tax.  But it was also the home of the Roman governor.  It wasn’t a backwater.  It was a significant outpost of the Roman Empire and a centurion stationed there—a centurion was the commander of a unit of one hundred soldiers—he had some status.  Cornelius had the respect of his Roman superiors.  But then Luke says that he was “devout”—eusebes.  He was godly, pious, and reverent, not in a vague religious sense, but towards the God of Israel.  He was generous with his money so far as the local Jewish community was concerned, and he was constant in his prayer, again, to the God of Israel.   That wasn’t unheard of, but it was unusual.  I’ve said before, there was this group of people, gentiles, pagan in their background, whom the Jews called “God-fearers”.  They were attracted to the God of Israel, to the purity of Jewish life, and to the community they saw there.  Remember, pagan life in the pre-Christian world was mean and brutal and merciless.  The gods were mean and brutal and merciless too—along with being unknowable and fickle.  Sexual immorality was everywhere.  Women and slaves existed to satisfy the desires of men.  In the upper classes, boys were initiated into adulthood through sex with older men.  Marriage was pragmatic and divorce was common.  So were abortion and infanticide.  When you look around the world today and you see the darkness and the brokenness around you and know in your bones that this is not how God meant for things to be, the pre-Christian pagan world was much, much worse.  And for all of Israel’s failings, she still stood out as a light in the darkness.  And a lot of the pagans, seeing that, mocked Israel.  But some were drawn to it.  They didn’t go all the way.  They had their reasons.  A centurion like Cornelius, for example, would probably have to give up his career—or would be forced out of it—if he was circumcised and chose to live by torah.   So it’s interesting—because the progression of the story in Acts will eventually lead us with Paul to Rome.  And it sort of starts here, although it starts with Peter.  And the first Roman we meet breaks all the stereotypes.  He wasn’t one of those soldiers who took pleasure in abusing the local Jewish people.  He wasn’t one of those Romans doing unspeakable things at the bathhouse.  Caesarea had a huge temple—built by Herod!—a huge temple to the goddess Roma and to Caesar Augustus.  And I can imagine Cornelius going there and going through the motions for his job, but he wasn’t the sort to otherwise frequent the pagan temples.  He’s a little like Jesus’ good Samaritan.  He’s supposed to be the enemy.  Everyone wants him to be the enemy.  Everyone wants to hate him.  But he’s actually a good guy and even the Jews in his community grow to respect him.   So, Luke goes on in verse 3: Cornelius ‘had a vision.  Around three o’clock in the afternoon he saw, quite clearly, one of God’s angels coming to him. “Cornelius!” said the angel.  He looked hard at him, terrified.  “What is it, Lord?” he said.  “Your prayers and your alms have come to God’s notice,” said the angel.  “What you must do is this.  Send men to Joppa, and ask for someone called Simon, surnamed Peter.  He is staying with a man called Simon, a tanner, whose house is beside the sea.”  When the angel who had spoken with him went away, he called two of his household and a devout soldier from among his retinue.  He explained everything to them, and sent them off to Joppa.”   So God’s obviously been working in Cornelius for a while now and he’s been doing it through his people and their witness.  This why God created a special people.  And Cornelius has been hearing the scriptures—probably in the local synagogue.  But that’s not enough.  I mean, even as far at the old covenant went, that wasn’t enough.  He wasn’t circumcised.  He didn’t live according to torah—except maybe in a few ways easy for a gentile to do.  He’d never taken part in Passover.  He couldn’t enter the temple.  He was drawn to God, but he

On the Road to Damascus Acts 9:1-31 by William Klock   When I was a sophomore in University I took the first of several art history courses, where I discovered—I should say it was more like I was confronted by—Caravaggio’s famous painting of the conversion of St. Paul: Paul fallen from his horse, hands covering his face, his servants scrambling to figure out what’s going on and to help him, everything in darkness—except Paul, bathed in heavenly light.  I’d read Act 9 who knows how many times before then.  But seeing Caravaggio’s interpretation of that scene suddenly piqued my curiosity—made me wonder what really happened to Paul that day, what did he actually see, and why did it make such a powerful change in him.  Paul, that day, became for me—I suppose after Jesus—the most intriguing character in the Bible and I wanted to figure him out, to understand him—I think, because I wanted a faith of my own like Paul’s, because I wanted to know the same kind of transformation, the same kind of passion, that Paul had after meeting the risen Messiah.   And one of the things I came to realise is that Paul’s passion, his zeal didn’t start when he met Jesus on the road to Damascus.  Actually, let’s call him “Saul” for now, because that’s where he’s at in Acts 9.  Saul’s zeal was already there: for the God of Israel, for righteousness and justice, for the world to be set to rights.  He truly hoped in the God of Israel, whom he knew to be good, and just, and faithful to the promises he’d made to his people.  That was what it meant to be a Pharisee.  Paul knew that his people had sinned, they had been unfaithful, they had engaged in idolatry.  They had ceased to be a holy people, so the Lord departed from them.  His presence—the cloud of glory—departed from the temple and then the people were conquered and exiled to Babylon.  “You want to worship pagan gods,” the Lord was basically saying, “Fine, you can spend a few decades in Babylon living with the pagans and their gods and see how it works out for you.”  And the people of Judah learned the lesson.  They set aside their idols, they embraced the torah, and they longed for an end to their exile—they longed for the return of God’s presence.  And they became a people of hopeful longing.  It’s funny how experiencing God’s discipline so often gives us more hope, because it just underscores all the more his faithfulness—to do what he said, even if it’s making good on his promise of judgement.  They knew his promises of restoration if they repented were just as true.   And in the meantime, with no temple and with no visible manifestation of the presence of God, they did the best they could.  They devoted themselves—the Pharisees more than others—but they devoted themselves to torah, to holiness.  If they couldn’t go to the temple, they would become like the temple themselves—a holy people waiting for God to return to them.  And when they returned to Judaea and rebuilt the temple and the Lord still did not return, the empty temple—all the more—became the symbol for their longing.  And missing his presence, they would meditate on the very idea of the Lord’s presence.  If they dared—and at least the later rabbis urged caution, based on the Lord’s warning to Moses that “no one may see my face and live”—but if they dared, some would meditate on Ezekiel’s weird and mysterious vision of the Lord in his heavenly chariot—not looking for some personal mystical experience, but out of a hope and a longing for the day when the Lord would return, when heaven earth, so long sundered by our sin, would be brought back together, for the day when the Lord’s people would once again live in his glorious presence.  It was a longing borne of the absence of the temple and of God’s presence there.   It was this passionate longing for the Lord’s return that fuelled the zeal of men like Saul of Tarsus.  This zealous young Pharisee, steeped in Israel’s scriptures and Israel’s story, with a passion for the Lord and a longing to see his return.  And in his mind, if anything was going to hinder the Lord’s return to his people, it was the new Jesus movement, these people who blasphemously believed in a crucified Messiah.  It had to be stamped out.  And so Saul supervised the stoning of Stephen.  And now, as we get into Acts 9 [page 1090 in the pew Bibles) we find that he’s one of the chief orchestrators of the persecution of the early church.  Luke writes: “Meanwhile, Saul was still breathing out threats and murder on the Lord’s disciples. He went to the high priest and requested from him letters to the synagogues in Damascus, so that he could find people who belonged to the Way, men and women alike, tie them up, and bring them back to Jerusalem.”   And along the way, I think that Paul was probably meditating.  Luke doesn’t fill in these kinds of details, but between his telling of the story here and Paul’s telling it later in his epistles, there are parallels with the accounts we have of Jews engaging in this practise of meditating on Ezekiel’s vision.  Paul was a man of faith, a man of hope, a man who knew that the Lord is faithful to his promises.  And so he knew the Lord would return to his people and I think Paul lived out that hope in the present by just this sort of meditation on scripture.  Up and down with the rhythmic movement of what was probably a donkey—there are some stunning parallels here with Balaam even if this donkey never says a word—the hot sun beating down on him.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Recall Ezekiel.  Eyes closed, Paul pictures as best he could the four bizarre living creates, all wings and eyes, and the chariot wheels, somehow wheels within wheel all going different directions.  He concentrated and mentally looked upward from the wheels to the crystal chariot itself, and then to the throne where Ezekial wrote that he had seen a figure not unlike a human, but gleaming with holy fire.  I expect Paul had meditated like this before.  Maybe it had never come to much.  Just try it yourself.  Try to visualise what Ezekiel describes.  Good luck making sense of it.  Or maybe Paul had done this many times before and had really been met by the Lord, the God of Israel through this kind of meditation.  But this time was different.  Luke goes on: “While he was on the journey, and was getting near to Damascus, suddenly a light from heaven shone around him.  He fell on the ground and heard a voice speaking to him.  “Saul, Saul!” said the voice.  “Why are you persecuting me?”  “Who are you, Lord?” he asked.  “I am Jesus,” he said, “and you are persecuting me.  But get up and go into the city, and it will be told you what you have to do.”   Saul, in his mind’s eye looks up: angels, wheels, chariot, throne—and then the figure on the throne—to his shock—is Jesus, the crucified Messiah, now risen from the dead and here.  And Paul tries to tear himself away.  No!  He tries to open his eyes to escape the vision and realises that his eyes are already open.  This isn’t a vision.  It’s not in his head.  It’s real.  It’s really Jesus.  And the sight is too much to bear—in so many ways.  He throws up his hands as Caravaggio imagined him doing, as—stunned—he loses his balance and topples off his donkey.  And the vision of glory is still there.  Where Paul expected to see the God of Israel, there was Jesus and Jesus was asking, “Why are you persecuting me?”  And Paul’s thinking that this just can’t be.  “Who are you?” he asks, even though he already knows.  And the figure of glory confirms it, “I’m Jesus.”  And he might as well have said at the same time, “I’m the God of Israel, the God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”  And again, “Why are you persecuting me?”  And Paul, stunned, his whole world being rearranged and reinterpreted faster than he can take it in, he says nothing as Jesus tells him simply to go to Damascus and to wait.   Luke says in verse 7: “The men who were traveling with Saul stood speechless.  They heard the voice but couldn’t see anybody.  And Saul, he been struck absolutely blind by the vision.  So they led him by the hand and took him to Damascus.  He went for three days, being unable to see, and he neither ate nor drank.”   I expect the gears in Saul’s mind were spinning away like never before during those three days.  This man of prayer was suddenly praying like never before.  If Jesus was alive, it meant he really was Israel’s Messiah.  It meant that the Lord, in him, had fulfilled already the very promises that Saul so longed to see fulfilled.  It meant that the Lord, in Jesus, had returned to his people.  It meant that God’s new world had already begun.  Paul, intelligent and deeply steeped in Israel’s scriptures, began the long, slow process of rethinking everything he knew in light of Jesus.  Paul knew—really knew the story, the scriptures.  I try to steep myself in those same scriptures and I’m like a watered down Americano compared to Saul.  Saul was a dark, black, espresso—the kind your spoon will stand up in.  That’s how steeped he was in God’s word.  It wasn’t so much a “conversion” he experienced as it was a reorientation.  The temple, the presence of the Lord, the place where heaven and earth meet, had finally come to Saul.  And, too, those words of Jesus: “You’re persecuting me.”  It meant that these people he’d been dragging off to prison, they were Jesus’ people, his covenant family, even in some way an extension of himself.  God’s promises to Abraham and to Moses and to David, the words of the Prophets, it all spent three days spinning through Saul’s mind as he reevaluated everything in light of Jesus.

A Sermon for the Twelfth Sunday after Trinity 2 Corinthians 3:4-9 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 th

An Inheritance in Jesus Acts 8:26-40 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

The Temple Comes to Samaria Acts 8:4-25 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 missin

Telling the Story: Part 4 Acts 7:35-53 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

Telling the Story: Part 3 Acts 7:35-53 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 th

Telling the Story: Part 2 Acts 7:1-16 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 pe

Telling the Story: Part 1 Acts 7:1-16 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 p