Where Am I?

September 9, 2019

One of the cardinal rules of Bible study is to ask ourselves where we are in the story. Often when I do that, I don’t like what I see. In Acts 7, Stephen has been hauled before the Sanhedrin, which was the first century Jewish court. For preaching about Jesus, he was accused of blasphemy against God and the temple, which being considered treasonous, was a capital offense. Not satisfied with simply defending himself, Stephen goes on the offense, recounting Jewish history from Abraham to Joseph to Moses and the prophets, concluding with a scathing denunciation of his accusers, which resulted in his own demise. Stephen, a layman, was the first Christian martyr.

As he recounts their history, Stephen says something quite telling in verse 39. Speaking of their Israelite ancestors, he slips in this remark: “in their hearts they turned back to Egypt.” And I ask myself, “Where am I in this story?” 

I would like to think I am Moses, steadfastly leading God’s people in spite of opposition and trial. Or perhaps faithful Joshua and Caleb who stood against the spies who instead of turning their eyes upon the God who had delivered them from Egypt, were intimidated by the people of Canaan. In their minority report, they in vain tried to convince the people of the viability of the conquest of the land. But too often, I fear that in my heart, I turn back to Egypt. Temptation challenges, and Egypt beckons. Danger frightens me; instead of meeting big challenges with an even bigger God, I cower before the seeming impossibility that looms ahead. I prefer the comfort and safety of the familiar to the challenge and danger of what lies ahead. I let what I see trump what I believe, and in my heart I say, “let’s turn around.”

As St. Paul said, “all these things happened to them as examples, and they were written for our admonition, upon whom the ends of the ages have come.” —I Corinthians 10:11. The Scriptures aren’t stories of shining examples of faith for us to emulate; they are the record of stumbling, failing, foolish, and sinful people whom God chose to love and save. I’m not the hero; Jesus is. I’m the one he keeps grabbing just as I’m about to go under for the third time. When Stephen hurls his accusation at the Sanhedrin, I discover I’m sitting on the bench, and he’s talking about me. In Acts 7, they’ve had enough, and drag him outside and rock him to sleep—permanently. Maybe hearing this story once again, I’ll drop my stone and fall to my knees in repentance, that I might receive again the grace for which Stephen prayed as he died: “Lord Jesus, do not charge them with this sin.” Thank you, Lord for this amazing grace!