Sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Easter, Year A (5-3-26)

Before us this morning stands the witness of Saint Stephen alongside Jesus’ words in Gospel of John: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.” At first glance, those readings seem to pull in vastly different directions. One offers comfort—promise, dwelling, peace. The other confronts us with violence, rejection, and death. But the lectionary holds them together because, in a deeper sense, they interpret one another. Stephen’s martyrdom isn’t just a moment of heroic endurance at the end of his life; it’s the visible shape of a life already formed by Christ. But to see that more clearly, we need a touch more context.

Just before his stoning, Stephen recalls the story of God's saving work from the very beginning - and he is careful to remind the religious leaders that they — not the whole of God's people — were the ones to reject Christ. So, when he stands before his accusers, he doesn’t simply defend himself—he tells the truth about God’s faithfulness and about the long history of people missing what God is doing right in front of them. And when he is dragged out and stoned, his final words echo Jesus himself: “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” This isn’t imitation at a distance. It’s participation. Stephen’s life has been so caught up in the life of Christ that, even in his death, the pattern of the cross shows up again.

This is why Stephen's vision during the last moments of his life is so powerful. As the stones are hurled, he looks up and sees “the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.” More than just a private moment of comfort, this is a glimpse into something true about Christian promise. The “place” Jesus promises—the house with many dwellings—is not just a far-off, future hope. It’s the life of communion with God that Christ himself embodies, and into which he invites us. And Stephen doesn’t just wait for that dwelling; somehow, he’s already living in it. Even there and then.

Stephen’s witness helps me to hear Jesus’ words more clearly. To prayerfully attempt to not let our hearts be troubled is not a denial of suffering — far from it, actually. Rather it’s a kind of invitation to consider where true, abiding peace comes from. In John’s Gospel, peace isn’t about circumstances going smoothly; it’s about being rooted in the life of God. When Jesus says, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life,” he’s not just stating some religious trade secret —he’s naming himself as a unique place where humanity and God are brought together. So, to trust him is to be drawn into that shared life, and to have our own lives reshaped by his life - way, his death - truth, and his resurrection - life.

With all this in tow, we might say martyrdom isn’t even actually mainly about dying. It’s about witness (it's original meaning, by the way) —about a life so deeply aligned with Christ that it reveals who God is, even under pressure. Stephen’s death is the culmination of that witness, not the whole of it. For most of us, that cumulation won’t take the form of literal martyrdom. And it’s right to give thanks for that. But the deeper pattern still holds. To abide in Christ—to trust him as your way—means slowly being reoriented, so that our instinct to protect ourselves at all costs begins to loosen its grip, and the shape of the cross starts to take root in us.

Theologian Sarah Coakley speaks of vulnerability before God: a kind of disciplined openness where we stop trying to control everything and allow ourselves to be changed by God’s presence. A critical reminder that the Christian life is participation in the life of the Triune God, a life that doesn’t cling to power, but pours itself out in love. So, when Jesus says that those who believe in him will do “greater works,” it’s probably less about dramatic, visible achievements and more about the spread of his life through ordinary people. The “greater works” are the ongoing presence of Christ’s love in the world—lived out in forgiveness, in truth-telling, in acts of mercy and justice. They’re “greater” not because they go beyond Jesus, but because they extend his life across time and place through his people.

And that brings it close to home. The call to witness shows up in the ordinary texture of our lives. It shows up when we’re tempted to protect ourselves through silence, or fear, or indifference—and instead find ourselves pulled, sometimes reluctantly, toward the way of Christ. It might look like telling the truth when it would be easier to go along. It might look like leaving room for reconciliation when shutting down would feel safer. It might look like carrying something difficult or costly without letting it turn us bitter. None of that is dramatic in the way Stephen’s story is dramatic, but it’s all part of the same reality: the dying and rising of Christ taking shape in us.

The point isn’t to romanticize martyrdom or go looking for suffering. The point is to recognize that, in Christ, even suffering can become a place of communion rather than abandonment. “Do not let your hearts be troubled” doesn’t ignore the world’s pain—it promises that the life of God has already entered into pain, and will not let it have the final word. Stephen’s witness invites us to see that the “dwelling place” Christ prepares is not only something waiting for us at the end, but something we begin to inhabit now. To live by faith is to step, however imperfectly, into that communion. And over time, that kind of trust becomes its own form of martyrdom—not usually in one dramatic moment, but in a life gradually given over to the truth that God is most clearly revealed not in control or power, but in crucified and risen love.

Amen.