I used to think that Acts 28 verse 31 was a pretty anti-climactic ending for the book of Acts. Basically, it ends with Paul under house arrest in Rome, preaching the Gospel to anyone who comes to see him and waiting for his trial before Caesar. And that's it. But the more I study Acts, the more fitting, even perfect, this ending seems. Acts began with Jesus' promise that the Christians would become his witnesses to the ends of the earth. Of course, when he said that, the Faith was just a little off-shoot of Judaism from the back-woods of the Empire; hardly something to make the world sit up and take notice. But by the end of the story it's causing waves in the capital itself, about to be heard by the very emperor of Rome.
Even so, there is something nagging-ly incomplete about Acts 28:31. As if no one knows exactly how Paul's story is gonna end--or the story of the Gospel, for that matter. And I think that's part of the point. It's sort of like God's asking us, at the end of Acts: "And where will the Gospel of Jesus go next? What will the next chapter be? It's really up to you." And when you think about it like that, it leaves you wondering: how am I helping to write the "29th" chapter of Acts? Am I doing my part to "finish this story" about the love and lordship of Jesus and how it reached every corner of the world?
The Final Chapter of the Rest of Your Life, a devotional thought
Success Story, a devotional thought
The very last sentence in the book of Acts—after all the intrigue and danger, toil and tears, adventures and brushes with death—is that while under house arrest, Paul “proclaimed the Kingdom of God with all boldness and without hindrance!” Some commentators note that Acts seems to end somewhat abruptly, but for my money, this sentence: “He proclaimed the Kingdom of God with boldness and without hindrance” is about as fitting a conclusion to Acts as I could imagine. After all, isn’t this what Jesus promised would happen way, way back in Chapter 1: that his Spirit-filled disciples would become his witnesses “to the ends of the earth”? And isn’t Paul’s preaching in Rome, at the very epicenter of the known world, a direct, if somewhat unexpected, fulfillment of that promise?
I call it unexpected because from a strictly worldly perspective, everything has seemingly fallen apart for Paul: the Romans have him under house arrest, he’s been waiting two years for his case to be heard by Caesar, the Jewish leaders have rejected him, and God only knows what’s next to come. And yet, measured by God’s measuring stick, two years of free, uninhibited telling-others-about-Jesus (to heck with house-arrest and forthcoming trials) is a major score for the Gospel. It gets me thinking about earthly measures of success versus God’s measures of success. If I could reach the end of my journey and say, “I got to tell others about Jesus, boldly and without hindrance,” then regardless my circumstances or my worldly achievements, by God’s standards that’s a life shot through with success.
Going Public, a devotional thought
In Acts 26:26, Paul is on trial for creating a stir in Jerusalem, and is giving his defense to the Roman Governor (Festus) and the King of Judea (Herod Agrippa). He recounts his meeting with the Resurrected Jesus on the road to Damascus, his conviction that Jesus is the Messiah promised in the Hebrew Scriptures, and his mission to proclaim this fact among the Gentiles.
And then in verse 26 he says something that makes you stop and think: “I am convinced that none of this (the events surrounding the life, death and resurrection of Jesus) has escaped notice, because it was not done in a corner.”
It’s that “not done in a corner” bit that gets me thinking, anyways, because it reminds me that there is something unavoidably public about the Gospel. God did not do what he did in Jesus quickly, quietly, and then sweep it under the rug; he did it openly, publicly, and announced it to the world, with public parades into the City of Jerusalem (Palm Sunday), a public execution of an innocent man (Good Friday) and an empty tomb on display for any and all to see (Resurrection Sunday).
What’s more, Paul’s own ministry demonstrates that what happened that first Holy Week so long ago is meant to be broadcast around the globe. It was not, that is to say, “done in a corner”; nor can it be tucked away into a corner. The very fact that this harried and homeless itinerant rabbi—Paul—is proclaiming the message of Jesus to the likes of Festus and Agrippa—the power brokers of his world—is proof of God's determination not to let the Good Thing he did in Jesus fade into a quiet corner of the global scene.
Christianity is, and always has been a matter of the public record, meant for public display and requiring public engagement. Of course, when you do stop to think about this, it leaves you with all sorts of challenging questions: Are we living our faith in corner? And what might it look like for us, to follow Paul’s example and bring the message of Jesus out into the open?
Risky Business, a devotional thought
In Acts 25:11, while on trial before Festus, Paul appeals to Caesar, effectively forcing the governor to send him to Rome. Later King Agrippa will marvel about it, and comment that if Paul had not appealed to Caesar he would have been set free. As it is, he remains in chains and gets sent on the long, dangerous journey to Rome, so that his case can be heard by Caesar himself. If Paul's goal was the pursuit of life, liberty and personal happiness, this appeal to Caesar would have been a major strategic blunder--the last thing he should have done. But Paul has his eye on a bigger prize. He wants to get the message of Jesus to Rome, and from there to the ends of the earth; and in his mind, no sacrifice is to big to make for the sake of that goal. It leaves me wondering: what "appeals to Caesar" (that is to say, what risky sacrifices for the sake of the Gospel) am I unwilling to make because of the uncertain and uncomfortable journey I might find myself on if I did?
Just in Time, a devotional thought
The other day I was reading Acts 24-25, and it occurred to me that God’s timeline for our lives unfolds in his own way and at his own pace, and it does not always make a lot of sense from a human perspective. Here we have Paul being held in custody by the Roman Governor in Caesarea, because the Jewish Leaders had him arrested in the Temple in Jerusalem. The Roman officials aren’t really sure what to do with him (he’s on trial for a matter of Jewish law, not Roman), so they defer his case until he can be properly tried.
And then in Acts 24:27, in a rather off hand way, it says, “But after two years had passed, Governor Felix was succeeded by Governor Festus.” Wishing to earn political points with leadership in Jerusalem, Felix decided not to release Paul from prison before he left. Paul went to Jerusalem at the leading of the Holy Spirit, with a sure word from Jesus that he will, eventually, preach the Gospel in Rome itself, and yet for all appearances, his mission has been stalled out for two years in Caesarea.
Two years is a long time in the life span of a ministry. A lot can change, a lot can come unravelled, a lot of opportunities can be missed. And I imagine it was pretty easy to wonder, at some point during that two-year waiting game, if God was really up to anything? Had God forgotten Paul in prison? Would he really get to Rome in the end?
Of course, as the story progresses it will become clear that God was doing all sorts of things behind the scenes in those two years, to make sure Paul got to Rome (Historical note: Governor Festus, who replaces Felix at the end of two years, is one of the more honest and trustworthy governors Judea had. Unlike Felix, who kept hoping for a bribe from Paul, Festus hears his appeal to Caesar and promptly sends him to Rome). If you are in the middle of something that feels stuck—and maybe you’ve been waiting years for God to unstick it—take heart from Paul’s example today. It may not be that God is working out a change of Roman Governorship for you, but even so, you can trust that he is never not at work, behind the scenes, to bring about his very good purpose for you.
En-Couragement, a devotional thought
There’s a scene in Acts 23:11 that I find especially poignant. Here’s the background in a nutshell: Paul’s gone to Jerusalem where he’s been arrested by the religious leaders as a blasphemer and a disturber of the peace. He offers a public defense of himself before a gathered mob of his countrymen (visualize pitchforks and torches if you like...) at the end of which his own countrymen start crying out that he’s not fit to walk the earth.
The Roman centurion who’s arrested him decides to interrogate him by flogging, to get to the bottom of things. They bind him up and are just about to bring down the lash, when he mentions he’s a Roman citizen and it’s illegal to flog a Roman without trial. Having narrowly escaped a scourging, he’s forced to stand trial before the Sanhedrin, where his testimony illicit such a violent response, that the centurion is forced to “drag him away by force” lest the crowd “tear him limb from limb.”
Paul’s been having a very rough weekend in ministry; the kind of weekend that makes my toughest ministry challenges look like a Sunday afternoon in the park. So it’s poignant, like I say, and touching, when you get to verse 11.
After all this danger and disgrace—mobs nearly tearing him apart, public trials, and near-floggings—Paul’s locked for the night in the Centurion’s barracks, waiting to learn what will come of him. And in verse 11 we read: “That night the Lord stood near Paul and said, ‘Take courage! As you have testified about me in Jerusalem, so you must also testify in Rome.’”
I call it poignant because if ever a follower of Jesus needed encouragement from the Lord, surely it was Paul that night. And the way the verse is worded, it sounds like he received a personal visitation from Jesus himself (The Lord stood by him...), breathing courage into his harried spirit. Of course, part of Jesus’ message for Paul is that there was more to come (eventually he will preach the Gospel in Rome itself), trials in which courage will be especially hard to come by. But in this moment at least, with dangers behind him and dangers ahead, Jesus is simply standing by his friend and imparting to him the supernatural courage that only he can.
May we also know Jesus standing by us, today, in those ministry challenges we face where courage is most needed but hardest to come by.
All for Jesus, a devotional thought
The other day I was reading in Acts 22, and it struck me how strategic Paul is in using every bit of his story for the sake of introducing people to Jesus. His Roman citizenship (22:25), his training as a Pharisee (23:6), his involvement in Stephen's execution (22:20), everything fair game if it'll advance the Gospel, even these parts of the story that would have, at one time, made him an enemy of the Gospel. It left me thinking that for Christians that there's nothing we've gone through or experienced or lived that God can't use for his great purposes-- he really is the God who wastes nothing. But it also left me wondering: am I as open and generous with my whole life story as Paul is with his?
A High Calling, a devotional thought
There’s a line in Acts 20:26-27 that’s pretty sobering for a minister of the Gospel, like me. Paul is delivering a farewell address to the church in Ephesus, where he had served previously for some three years, “serving the Lord with great humility and with tears” (v. 19). He reminds them of his ministry among them, and then he says: “I declare that I am innocent of anyone’s blood ... because I did not hesitate to proclaim to you the whole will of God.”
The implication here is worth all kinds of careful reflection. On the one hand, if Paul were to have held back in his teaching, on this or that matter, let’s say, because maybe he thought it wouldn’t be well-received, or might step on toes, or what have you, then, apparently, he would be responsible—guilty of their blood—for whatever problems they faced down the road because they did not know God’s will, of God’s way, when they should have. On the other hand, because he did preach the whole Gospel, even the difficult parts that wouldn’t have won him any popularity contests, Paul can leave his ministry at Ephesus with a clear conscience.
Teaching, preaching and serving as a pastor is a great privilege, to be sure, but it is also a huge responsibility. And if Acts 20:26 is any indication, those who dare to take up this responsibility will give an account, in the end, of how faithfully we discharged our duty to proclaim the whole counsel of God. May the Lord give much wisdom and even more grace.
Thick or Thin, a devotional thought
There's a phrase in Acts 11:23 that I find both inspiring and challenging. The background is that persecution against the church has scattered believers from Jerusalem all across the region, with the ironic result that the Gospel now is reaching out to all sorts of places it never had before. At the same time, Cornelius, a non-Jewish centurion, has recently converted to the Faith, demonstrating to the church in Jerusalem that the Gospel’s for non-Jewish people as well (up to this point the church has been exclusively Jewish). At this point in the story, the Gospel’s reached as far as Antioch (in northern Syria), and the church has been growing there with Greek believers in particular; so the Church in Jerusalem sends a delegation led by Barnabas, up to Antioch to investigate.
And here’s the striking line. Because when Barnabas sees “the evidence of the grace of God” among the Greeks in Antioch, he is glad and he “encourages them all to remain true to the Lord with all their hearts.” That’s how my NIV phrases it, but in the original it’s a bit more vivid. Literally he tells them to “continue with the Lord” (the verb is prosmenō, to remain in, to continue with, to abide in), and to do it with “purpose of heart” (the noun is prosthesis, a purpose or intention).
In other words, Barnabas tells these brand new believers:“set an intention in your hearts to stick with the Lord.” It struck me because, on the one hand, Barnabas knows these Christians are likely to face persecution (it was persecution, after all, that brought the Gospel to them in the first place); and on the other hand, these believers are brand-spanking new in the faith, full of (presumably) untried, untested enthusiasm for Jesus.
What do new believers need especially to do, after they’ve come to the Lord and the sheen of conversion is starting to fade? Especially if and when following Jesus is going to mean sacrifices large and small? And what should pastors like Barnabas encourage them to do, well before buyer’s remorse sets in? Determine in your hearts—set it as a clear, conscious intention—that you’ll stick with Him, come what may, thick or thin. Such intentions won't make it any easier, maybe, when thick does get thin (or vice versa), but they certainly increase the likelihood that we'll get through the thin (or the thick) with our grip holding as firmly to the Lord as the hour we first believed.
Out of the Comfort Zone, a devotional thought
In Acts 9:43 we’re told that while Peter was on an itinerant ministry tour, he stayed for “many days” in Joppa with a tanner (i.e. someone who tanned hides and prepared them into leather), a tanner named Simon. This is just an offhand line, but it’s really interesting to me, because a tanner, of course, handled animal carcasses (which is where the hides came from), and according to Jewish Law at the time, anyone who handled a dead body was unclean; and so culturally, and traditionally, being a tanner was considered an unclean profession. We know from 10:14 that Peter is quite particular about Jewish cleanliness laws (nothing unclean has ever passed his lips, he says), and yet here we see him lodging at the home of an unclean tanner, of all people. God, of course, is about to explode his whole notion of cleanliness and uncleanness, by sending (gasp) some non-Jewish Gentiles to him, requesting an audience, but in a way, this has already begun when he came under Simon the Tanner’s roof. God, it turns out, does not share our concerns when it comes to keeping ourselves safely in our comfort zones, is my point. As uncomfortable as it may have made Peter to be surrounded by so much “ritual uncleanness” (according to Jewish tradition), this is precisely where serving God has brought him, his own hang ups about human defined comfort zones be damned. Where might we find ourselves serving God, if we shared the same indifference about our comfort zones, I wonder?
To the Rabble Rousers, a devotional thought
There’s this interesting line in Acts 9, just an offhand comment, but it gets me thinking. It’s in the middle of the story about Paul’s early ministry, just after he encountered the Lord Jesus and had the scales fall from his eyes, and two themes stand out sharply in these early days. 1) All the Christians are kind of afraid of him. Up till now, he’s developed quite a reputation as a persecutor of the church, so it’s maybe understandable that, now he’s converted, they’re all a little gun shy. And 2) all the non-Christians want to kill him. From the sounds of things he’s as zealous now for Jesus as he previously was against him. Everywhere he goes he’s getting in arguments and debates and trouble, “speaking out boldly in the name of Jesus.” He’s in Damascus until the Damascenes hatch a plan to kill him, so he moves to Jerusalem, until the Greeks try to kill him, so he moves on to Caesarea. Eventually, it says, the disciples “sent him away to Tarsus.”
And then comes the interesting line: then, it says, “the church throughout Galilee and Samaria enjoyed peace.” I say it gets me thinking, because Paul’s clearly a rabble-rouser for Jesus, and once they finally ship him off to Tarsus, that’s when the church experiences peace. But, of course, Paul’s more than just a rabble-rouser, he’s also a world-shaker for Jesus, and though his ministry might ruffle feathers (even some of his fellow Christian feathers), God intends to rock the foundations of the Roman Empire through him.
I’m pointing that out because sometimes in church life (or even our own individual discipleship), the people who disrupt our peace are the ones God most uses to move us, shake us and form us. We need the rabble rousers, is my point, even though it’s not always fun to have the rabble roused; and sometimes the worst thing we can do is to rest in a false, complacent kind of peace. And as difficult as it sometimes is, still I'm thankful to God for the rabble-rousers he’s used in my life and ministry, and even (tremulously) praying that he’ll send more my way.
The Face of a Martyr, a devotional thought
The other day I was reading the story of Stephen in the book of Acts, and I was struck by the description of Stephen at his trial before the Sanhedrin. Stephen is famous among Bible Trivia buffs for being the first believer to be martyred for his faith, and in Act 6:15, he’s about to give the incendiary sermon that will lead to his summary execution. But right before he speaks, it says, “All who were sitting [there] looked intently at Stephen, and they saw that his face was like the face of an angel.” Such a strange and yet powerful image: in giving his testimony for Jesus—the testimony that will cost him his life—Stephen was so filled with the glory of God that it shone in his face. Shone so clearly, mind you, that it was like the face of an angel to his interrogators. It got me thinking: does my witness for Jesus—my testimony to his love, his grace, his mercy, his truth—does it shine in my face with anywhere even near that kind of a heavenly radiance, when I’m sharing it? And how can I be so filled with His Spirit, like Stephen, that it might?
When the Devil went down to Ephesus
first appeared on the conneXion Aug 21, 2012I’ve been spending a fair bit of time in Acts these days, and feeling like it's a book I’ve read a dozen times but never seen before. One of the episodes I find particularly fascinating is the account of Paul’s visit to Ephesus.
And then I’d brace myself.
But I’d also point out that in Acts 16 we see the same thing happening. Paul performs an exorcism (16:18), freeing a girl from demonic possession. But it’s not just a demon that's being excised here. It's also the economic exploitation this girl's been suffering at the hands of her pimps. Because when the men who made their living off her “prophetic utterances” find out that their “hope of profit is gone," Acts says, that’s when the metaphorical excrement hits the proverbial air-circulation device.
By Acts’ reckoning, it seems: helping the vulnerable escape economic exploitation—girls the sex trade, say—or women the porn industry—or children the sweatshop—or workers the tyranny of the bottom line—or shop-a-holics the clutches of Mastercard—by Acts reckoning, at least, these are all ministries of exorcism with the potential to raise hell.
Saturday Morning Sermon (III)
Here's another excerpt from our sermon series in Acts. The text was Acts 14:8-23. Paul and Barnabas visit Lystra:
There’s this theologian named T. F. Torrance—he’s one of the deepest thinkers about God I’ve ever read—and he’s had a pretty major impact on my own understanding of God.
Well: T. F. Torrance served in North Africa during World War II. He was hoping to be a chaplain, but instead they made him head of “Huts and Canteens,” which meant he spent most of his time delivering supplies to troops in the field; which was okay, actually, because he loved ministering to the soldiers on the front line.
So: in October, 1944, he served as a stretcher-bearer during an assault on San Martino-Sogliano, in Italy. They were under heavy fire all night, and in the morning, Torrance had an experience that haunted him the rest of his life. He says, “When daylight filtered through, I came across a young soldier, a Private Philips, who was barely 20 years old, lying in the mud.” He was mortally wounded and didn’t have long to live, so Torrance knelt with him on the ground. As they sat there in that death-watch, at one point Private Philips said, ‘Padre, is God really like Jesus.’”
Is God really like Jesus? Torrance writes: “I assured him that he was—the only God there is, the God who had come to us in Jesus ... and poured out his love to us as our saviour. As I prayed and commended him to the Lord Jesus, he passed away.”
I don’t want this to sound at all flippant, and I guess I’ll only know for sure when my time comes, but I think that I would be able to die in peace, knowing that when I see God, he’ll be like Jesus.
But like I say, Private Philip’s question left a lasting impression on Torrance. Later he would write these words about the experience: “There is no hidden God lurking behind the back of Jesus... but only the one, Lord God, who became incarnate in him.” Jesus himself said it more simply still: “If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen the Father.”
I’m telling you this today, for the same reason Paul said it to those Lystrians that day, who were trying to sacrifice a bull to him because they were under the wrong impression about God.
Listen: if you’ve been struggling under the wrong impression about God—that God doesn’t care and can’t be trusted, that he’s out to get you, or doesn’t want anything to do with you—that “the Father up above will squish you like a bug”—if you’ve been living with these impressions of God—or worse—then this is your invitation today: look into the face of Jesus Christ, and let God make a lasting impression on your life.
Because the Gospel heals our wrong impressions of God.
Saturday Morning Sermon (II)
Another excerpt from our work in Acts this summer (August 5). The text was Acts 9:32-43, the post resurrection miracles of Peter.
You may not have heard of John Wimber before, but if you’ve attended a contemporary worship service sometime in the last 20 years, you’ve encountered his influence.You can hear the whole sermon here: Acts 9:32-43 "Doin' the Stuff"
He was actually the keyboardist for a band called the Paramours, back in the day. The Paramours would go on to form a group called The Righteous Brothers, but not with John Wimber; John met Jesus back in 1962 and his path had a major course correction.
After becoming a Christian, he read his Bible voraciously. The story goes that he would read about the life-transforming miracles in the Bible, and then attend church services where the only miracle, it seemed, was that everyone was still awake at the end. So one Sunday he approached one of the pastors.
He said: “Pastor, when do we the stuff?” “What stuff,” asked the pastor.
“You know: the stuff. In the Bible. Like healing the sick and raising the dead—the stuff Jesus did.”
“Well,” said the pastor, “We don’t do that anymore.” John looked confused: “So what do you do?” “What we did this morning.” And John said: “Pastor: you gotta understand, I gave up drugs for this.”
Wimber would go on to become an influential leader in the charismatic movement of the 80s and 90s, a revival that challenged the church to start taking the Holy Spirit more seriously—and—as Wimber would maybe put it—to start “doin’ the stuff.”
He wrote books with titles like “Power Healing.” He taught courses called “Signs, Wonders and Church Growth.” He was also the leader of the Association of Vineyard Churches, from 1977-1994.
But I’m telling you about him today, because Acts 9 here is kind of asking us the same sort of question John Wimber asked his pastor back in 1963. When are we going to do the stuff?
And just to be clear, the stuff I’m talking about are the signs and wonders that the Holy Spirit does through us and among us, to show the world that Jesus really is alive, and to give the world a glimpse of what his kingdom actually looks like when it draws near. Just to be clear. We’re talking about the ministry of the Resurrection.
And I think I’d side with Wimber on this one, in principle anyways: a church that isn’t doing the “stuff of the Resurrection,” probably has some explaining to do. So I guess we should listen closely to what this passage has to say here about “the ministry of the Resurrection”; and let me start by pointing out that—according to Acts 9, at least—every good resurrection ministry needs an Aeneas, a Tabitha and a tanner.
Saturday Morning Sermons (I)
Recordings of all our sermons are posted on our website, so rather than simply reduplicating the effort, I thought I'd post some short excerpts from individual sermons over the next few Saturdays-- a little spiritual food for thought to start your weekend off (and if it's only whetted your appetite, a link to the entire sermon is included below).
For starters, here's a snippet from a sermon on Acts 7:54-8:3, the Martyrdom of Stephen (July 29, 2012):
When you read closely, you’ll notice that the author has recorded Stephen's story very carefully, to show that his life is following the pattern of Christ’s life—I mean: Stephen’s story is shaped to look like Jesus’s story; and almost every detail here has been carefully worded so that it sounds hauntingly like the life and death of Jesus.You can hear the whole sermon here: Acts 7:54-8:3 "Witness: Exhibit A"
Let me explain.
I already pointed out how verse 55 says that Stephen was filled with the Holy Spirit and saw heaven standing open, right? Well: over in Luke 3:21-22, it says that when Jesus was baptized at the start of his ministry, as he was coming up out of the water he saw heaven standing open and the Spirit of God coming down on him in the form of a dove.
Coincidence? Maybe, but then, in verse 58, it says that they dragged Stephen out of the city to kill him. So: in Luke 4, after Jesus’ first ever sermon, it says that the people were so furious that the dragged him out of the city to kill him (they didn’t kill him that day, of course, but both Acts 7:58 and Luke 4 use the exact same phrase to describe the scene).
And that, too, might be a coincidence, but then in verse 59, just before he dies, Stephen looks into heaven and says, “Lord Jesus, receive my Spirit.” Anyone remember what Jesus’ final word from the cross was? Wasn’t it: “Father, into your hands I commit my Spirit.” (?)
And if you’re still not convinced, look at Stephen’s last words in verse 60. “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”
Sound familiar? I think it’s supposed to. In Luke 23:34, while they’re nailing Jesus to the cross, he prays this prayer: “Forgive them Father, for they do not know what they are doing.”
So: can you add one and one together with me: Jesus was the Father’s Spirit-filled servant who committed his life, body and soul to God, and prayed for the forgiveness of his murderers right to the cross... and Stephen, his faithful martyr, has followed that pattern to the letter.
The fancy-schmancy word for this is cruciform—which just means living a life that’s conformed to the pattern of the cross. And if Stephen’s story has anything to say about being a Christian martyr, it’s that Christ’s witnesses must live lives that look like his: they must be Spirit-filled servants who trust themselves body and soul to the will of God, and commit themselves, life and death, to the ministry of reconciliation. Like Jesus.
That’s the kind of life this story is calling us to pursue—a life conformed to the pattern of the cross— the cruciform life—a martyr’s life.