A Vision of Glory in the Face of Violence

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
4^th May 2025


By Rembrandt - Œuvre appartenant au musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon Public Domain, 
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15686766
 

Acts 6.7–15; 7.1–2a, 51–60

The story of Stephen is one of the most powerful, and most disturbing, moments in the early chapters of the Book of Acts.

 

It is a moment of radiant faith and horrifying violence.

 

It is a vision of glory that emerges in the midst of injustice.

 

And it is, I believe, a story that continues to speak into the life of the church in every age—especially in times when bearing witness to truth comes at a cost.

 

Stephen, described as full of grace and power, is one of the first deacons chosen by the early church—a group of seven appointed to serve the needs of the community, especially to ensure the fair distribution of food among the widows.

 

But Stephen is more than a functionary or administrator. He becomes a prophetic voice, a preacher of the gospel, and, ultimately, the church’s first martyr.

 

His words are bold, his vision is clear, and his death is chilling.

 

This morning, I want us to linger with Stephen—on the edge of his stoning—not simply to remember a moment of persecution from the distant past, but to allow his witness to search us, challenge us, and invite us into a deeper faithfulness.

 

Because Stephen’s story is not just about what happened to him. It is also about the God who was revealed in his life and death.

 

And it is about the kind of church we are called to be, in the face of powers that resist the liberating truth of the gospel.

 

Accusation and Identity

Our reading begins with accusations.

 

Stephen is dragged before the council, accused of speaking against the temple and the law.

 

The charges sound familiar—they echo the charges brought against Jesus himself: blasphemy, disrespect for tradition, a threat to the religious and social order.

 

And like Jesus, Stephen faces a system that has already made up its mind.

 

It is important to note that Stephen is not guilty of these charges in the way his accusers claim.

 

He has not blasphemed; he has not denied the law; he has not desecrated the temple.

 

But he has spoken a difficult truth—that God is not confined to sacred buildings or to legal systems that serve the powerful.

 

He has pointed to Jesus as the righteous one, rejected and killed, but vindicated by God. And for this, he is deemed dangerous.

 

In every age, those who bear witness to inconvenient truths are often accused of being threats to the status quo.

 

Whether it is prophets denouncing injustice, or whistleblowers revealing corruption, or disciples proclaiming a gospel that challenges systems of oppression—there is always resistance.

 

Stephen stands in a long line of witnesses, from Amos to Jesus, who have been told to keep quiet, to stop rocking the boat, to stay within acceptable bounds.

 

But Stephen does not stay silent.

 

And this is where we begin to glimpse the shape of his faith—a faith that is not merely intellectual assent, not simply religious affiliation, but a living, dangerous allegiance to the God who liberates and transforms.

 

A Confronting Word

In the dramatic speech Stephen gives, which we only hear a portion of in this morning’s reading, he rehearses the story of Israel, reminding his hearers of their own history

 

—the call of Abraham, the leadership of Moses, the wilderness journey, the building of the temple.

 

It is a sweeping narrative, and for a while it seems fairly safe. But then comes the turn.

 

“You stiff-necked people,” he says. “You are forever opposing the Holy Spirit, just as your ancestors used to do.”

 

This is not a polite sermon. It is not a measured reflection. It is a prophetic indictment. And it gets him killed.

 

Stephen is holding up a mirror, and what he reflects back is not flattering.

 

He is saying, in effect, “You have always resisted the voice of God—when God spoke through Moses, through the prophets, and now through Jesus. And in doing so, you have aligned yourselves with those who persecuted the righteous.”

 

This is dangerous speech. Not because it is hateful, but because it is truthful.

 

It names the pattern of religious power turning away from divine justice. It names the way institutions can become idols.

 

It names the refusal to recognise God in the face of the other, especially when that other is poor, or marginalised, or crucified.

 

The church today must hear this word too. We are not immune.

 

We too are capable of becoming stiff-necked. We too can close our ears to the Spirit, especially when the Spirit speaks through voices we would rather not hear—through those who challenge our comfort, our privilege, our self-understanding.

 

Stephen’s words come to us as a call to repentance, and a call to humility.

 

A Glimpse of Glory

And then, in the midst of this fury, something extraordinary happens.

 

As the council rushes upon him in rage, Stephen looks up and sees a vision. “I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.”

 

It is the only place in the New Testament where Jesus is described as standing at the right hand of God; elsewhere, he is always seated. It is as if Jesus is rising to welcome Stephen, to honour his witness, to be present with him in his suffering.

 

This vision is Stephen’s strength. It is his comfort. It is, in a profound sense, his vindication. Though he is condemned on earth, he is affirmed in heaven. Though the council sees only blasphemy, Stephen sees glory.

 

And this, perhaps, is the heart of his witness. Not just that he speaks truth to power, not just that he dies with courage—but that he sees something greater than the violence around him.

 

He sees Christ. He sees the kingdom. He sees the presence of God breaking into a courtroom of hatred with a vision of mercy.

 

In moments of crisis, what we see matters. Do we only see the threats, the enemies, the dangers?

 

Or do we see Christ, standing with us, standing for us, welcoming us into the company of the faithful?

 

Stephen’s vision invites us to lift our eyes—to see beyond the rage of the mob, to the mercy of the risen Christ.

 

The Echo of Forgiveness

As the stones begin to fall, Stephen echoes the words of Jesus from the cross. “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,” he prays. And then, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

 

It is breathtaking.

 

Stephen dies as he lived: full of grace. His last words are words of forgiveness.

 

And in that moment, the power of death is broken. Not because the stones stop falling—they don’t. But because violence does not get the final word. Love does.

 

This, too, is part of the gospel. Not only that Christ is risen, but that those who follow Christ are transformed into his likeness.

 

Stephen becomes Christ-like—not only in his suffering, but in his compassion. He does not curse his killers. He prays for them.

 

What kind of church would we be, if we too could learn to forgive like this?

 

What kind of witness might we offer, if our response to hostility was not fear or retaliation, but grace and prayer?

 

This is not easy. It is not sentimental. It is the hard, costly work of love in the face of hatred. But it is the way of Christ.

 

The Seed of the Church

There is one more detail that the narrator gives us, almost in passing, but it changes everything.

 

As Stephen is stoned, we are told, “the witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul.”

 

We know what Saul becomes. We know that the one who approved of Stephen’s death becomes the apostle to the Gentiles, the tireless preacher of grace. But in this moment, he is still part of the system of violence.

 

And yet, something is planted. A seed. A memory. A vision.

 

The early church would often say that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.

 

Stephen’s death is not the end of the story. It becomes the beginning of something new.

 

His witness does not fall silent. It reverberates through the life of Paul, through the spread of the gospel, through the ongoing courage of disciples in every age who have dared to follow Christ even to the point of death.

 

And so we return to our own time. We are not facing a council with stones in their hands. But there are still forces that resist the truth.

 

There are still powers that suppress the Spirit. There are still prices to pay for standing with the marginalised, for proclaiming justice, for naming sin.

 

And yet there is still a vision. There is still Christ, standing at the right hand of God.

 

There is still the call to bear witness—with our words, with our lives, even with our deaths if it comes to that.

 

And there is still grace—grace to forgive, grace to endure, grace to love.

 

Faithful Witness in a Time of Untruth

If Stephen’s story was only about a holy man dying well, it might move us—but it would not transform us.

 

What makes Stephen’s witness so compelling is that it takes place in a deeply political and theological context.

 

He is not killed in a vacuum. He is executed by a religious system colluding with empire, terrified of losing control, unwilling to be disrupted by the inconvenient truth of the gospel.

 

In this way, Stephen's death exposes not only the violence of empire, but the complicity of religion in perpetuating that violence.

 

We are, I believe, living in a moment with disturbing echoes.

 

Around the world, we are witnessing a resurgence of authoritarian ideologies cloaked in religious language.

 

In the United States, the rise of Trumpism has not only destabilised democratic institutions, it has corrupted large swathes of the Christian church, drawing it into an unholy alliance with power, wealth, and white nationalism.

 

And this is not an isolated phenomenon. Across the globe, from Brazil to Russia, from Israel to India, we are seeing religious rhetoric used to justify oppression, marginalisation, and the silencing of dissent.

 

What does it mean to be a church of Stephen in such a world?

 

It means, first, that we must learn again the courage of confrontation.

 

Stephen does not shrink from naming the truth, even when it costs him everything.

 

And the truth today is that many churches have become more concerned with preserving their influence than proclaiming the gospel.

 

The truth is that nationalism, racism, and misogyny are not just political problems—they are spiritual deformations.

 

And the truth is that when the church fails to stand with the vulnerable, it ceases to be the church.

 

Like Stephen, we must call these things what they are. Not because we enjoy conflict, but because silence is not an option.

 

We are followers of Jesus, who was crucified by empire and betrayed by religion. We are heirs of Stephen, whose face shone like an angel even as the stones fell.

 

Our witness must not be timid. It must be truthful.

 

But the second thing it means is that we must resist the temptation to fight empire on its own terms.

 

Stephen does not meet violence with violence. He does not become bitter or cynical.

 

He bears witness through love, through forgiveness, through a vision of glory that cannot be extinguished by hatred.

 

In a world where outrage is cheap and cruelty is viral, Stephen shows us a different way—a way of resistance rooted in mercy, a way of protest grounded in prayer.

 

This is not weakness. It is power. The kind of power that cannot be legislated against.

 

The kind of power that topples empires, not through force, but through faithfulness.

 

It is the power that sustained Martin Luther King as he faced bombs and bullets with nonviolence.

 

It is the power that animated Oscar Romero as he stood with the poor against the death squads. It is the power of the Lamb who was slain—and yet lives.

 

So let us be a Stephen church.

A church that names injustice and refuses to be silent.

A church that speaks truth even when the world closes its ears.

A church that sees heaven opened and Christ standing beside the oppressed.

A church that forgives even in the face of betrayal.

A church that lives not for safety or success, but for the glory of God revealed in a crucified and risen Christ.

 

This is not the easy way. But it is the faithful way.

And if we choose it, if we take up this calling, then we too might shine like angels.

And the world might just see, even for a moment, the glory of God breaking through the darkness.