Fifth Sunday of Easter

I’d like to start today with the first reading we heard, the story of Stephen, the first of many Christian martyrs over the centuries. Stephen had just made a long speech before the council and high priest, recounting the history of God’s saving works – which was all well and good. But then he had the audacity to end his speech by saying, “You stiff-necked people, uncircumcised in hearts and ears, you are forever opposing the Holy Spirit, just as your ancestors used to…” And then he carried on with that theme for a while longer, which was not, of course, an effective strategy to make friends and influence people!

“They became enraged,” it says, “and ground their teeth at Stephen.”

And it’s at this point in the story that our reading picked up this morning:

“Filled with the Holy Spirit, Stephen gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God.”

It’s an interesting thing – this unveiling of heaven to one who is about to die. Hospice workers are well familiar with the phenomena. It is not at all uncommon, when people are nearing death, for them to share visions of loved ones who have already crossed over. Is it a true miraculous vision, a gift of the Holy Spirit? Is it a deprivation of oxygen doing strange things to the brain? Is it just the core longings of a dying soul focused on what matters most at the end – their reunion with those they love and yearn to see? Is it all of these things combined? I don’t know. Who can know, except those who are no longer here to testify of what they have discovered? Perhaps we don’t even have any business asking the question. After all, it is a truth reserved only for those whose time it is to enter in and occupy this ultimate reality.

It is sufficient for me simply to respect the experience of those who are confronting the impending reality of their death. The substance of their entire life is culminating before my eyes, and far be it from me to construe the mystery of how God is leading and accompanying them through such a liminal space.

Russell White was such person. In the weeks leading up to his death a few years ago, he began to report nighttime visitors – family members who had predeceased him. He would describe these visits quite matter-of-factly, without any sense of surprise or speculation. It simply was. A few days before he died he told me that he himself had died the night before, and that he’d been to heaven, where he’d seen both Lauretta and me, and he’d heard the Sanctus being sung. “Holy, holy, holy,” he chanted for me.

Now, I can’t say what Russell was or was not seeing. But I can say what I saw in him, and how visions such as these reveal who the seers themselves have become by this stage in their lives. They’ve reached a portal in their own faith formation, such that it’s not just a vision they’re reporting; it’s their character they’re displaying.

I remember seeing this in Lucy Sharp who also died a few years ago. Years before, she’d said, “When I get to heaven, I don’t want to meet my mother.”

Harsh words, surely. But theirs was a relationship that had left a lingering pain, a kind of relationship not many would want rekindled. But over time, as the clay of Lucy’s life continued to be molded by the healing love of God, she came to a place where she would finally say, shortly before she died, “It would be fine if I met my mother there.”[1]

And it is this kind of ongoing formation – right to the end – that we see so prominently in Stephen, the Martyr. Not only did he see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God, look what he did after the vision: When they drug him out of the city and began to stone him, he cried out in a loud voice, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” And he died.

“Do not hold this sin against him.”

It’s so reminiscent of Jesus’ own last words on the cross: “Forgive them, Lord, for they don’t know what they are doing.”

At the point of Stephen’s death – a pain-filled death by stoning – his character had been so formed that his last remaining desire was for the well-being of his murderers.

It’s extraordinary.

It makes me think of what Jesus taught elsewhere, “Whatever you bind on earth, is bound in heaven. Whatever you loose on earth, is loosed in heaven.” Stephen was setting his killers free. Imagine what that means! What power it suggests. What power to do good as Jesus did good – to forgive his murderers and set them free from their sin, from their crime.

Stephen had become like Christ.

Which also means, from today’s gospel reading, Stephen had become like God: “If you know me,” said Jesus, “you will know my Father also.” What is God like? God is like Jesus. What is Jesus like? He is like God.

And now we can say of Stephen: He is like them, too.

“Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do…. I will do whatever you ask in my name.”

And what does Stephen ask for? “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

At the end of Stephen’s life, he had become like Christ – he had become like God.

And so may it be true of us, that as we continue to be formed in the way of Jesus, we would become as those who forgive. Including our enemies.

I wonder, though, at this point, do we want to become such a person? I imagine for most of us, we can at least perceive the benefit (or potential desirability) of forgiving family members who have hurt us, even if we have not yet arrived at that point of forgiveness. But what if we were to begin thinking a little more generously about the breadth of our forgiveness and its potential efficacy? I’m thinking now of those people with whom we have no actual kinship or relationship, but who we hold guilty of great crimes – people who stand in flagrant opposition to things we value.

If you’re an environmentalist, will you forgive the executives of Exxon or BP for their oil spills, their crimes against the environment?

Or for others, will you forgive your political adversaries or politicians whose policies and their consequences are totally antithetical to your values, as a Christian and a citizen?

The list of such people for us can be very long indeed.

And to be clear, what I’m asking here, is do you want these people to be forgiven? Do you want them to be set free from facing the penalty for their crimes? Think honestly about that question.

Now it’s possible, in being so asked, that you immediately head down another path: “But they didn’t hurt me directly, so is it really my place to forgive?”

Fair enough.

But I would suggest two things, 1) this whole creation is so intricately linked together, that there is no way these crimes have not touched you, and harmed you, in some form or another. And 2) listen to your heart. In asking if their forgiveness is someone else’s responsibility (or privilege or burden), are you really saying, “I don’t want them forgiven, and certainly want no part of it. I want them to remain laden with guilt. I want to continue in my disdain for them. (And quite frankly,) I want them to be damned by God”?

Stephen shows us what Jesus cares about. And Jesus shows us what God cares about. And, ultimately, it is always forgiveness. It is forgiveness even for those who have not yet repented – who are still just as committed to their crimes as they ever were. Stephen and Jesus were both appealing to God for their murderers’ forgiveness while they in the process of murdering!

The heart of God – to set us free from our sin and delusions – precedes any contrition on our part.

And if we’re moving towards godlikeness, before we even begin to try forgiving others, we need to consider the more fundamental question: Do we want them to be free? Do we desire their good? To think in ultimate terms, would we find heaven to be a better place if those dwelling places Jesus is preparing, were not only for us and those we love, but for those we regard as guilty of great crimes?

And if we can begin to imagine that, yes, heaven would be better if they were there, forgiven and restored, just as we hope to be, then we can begin to ask the question, Might Jesus be inviting me to participate in their redemption?

What might it mean for us, not only to pray for our enemies, but to become active contributors to their forgiveness, to their salvation? When we read the news, and our blood begins to boil, to respond by praying as Jesus prayed, “Forgive them, Lord, they don’t know what they’re doing” or as Stephen prayed, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

And what would it look like for Gig Harbor, if the spirit emanating from this place, from this community of St. John’s, were one so oriented towards forgiveness, towards setting our enemies free? How would it change the tenor of our conversations? How might we become a beachhead where the Kingdom of God has landed and is advancing with grace and authority to heal this fractious and hopeless world?

“Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

For surely it is prayers such as these that reveal a heart that has begun to believe that Jesus is indeed the way, and the truth, and the life, for now we are walking in that way, living by this truth, and sharing in his life.

“If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.”

Jesus, in your name we pray, teach us to forgive that we may join you, in setting the captives free.

[1] Memories from the Rev. Marilyn Behrens who preached at Lucy’s funeral