The first blood

Stephen has just finished his sermon, and the men in the council chamber are furious. He has walked them through the entire history of Israel and shown them, step by step, that their ancestors resisted God at every turn — and that they are doing the same thing right now.

Then he looks up and tells them what he sees: the heavens are open, and the Son of Man is standing at the right hand of God.

They cover their ears. They rush at him. They drag him out of the city.

The witnesses — the men who testified against him — take off their outer garments and lay them at the feet of a young man named Saul, who watches what happens next with approval.

The stones begin to fall.

And Stephen prays two prayers. The first is for himself: Lord Jesus, receive my spirit. The second is for the men killing him: Lord, do not hold this sin against them.

They are the same two prayers Jesus prayed from the cross, almost word for word. The student dying like the teacher. The first martyr dying like the first victim.

Then he falls asleep. That is the word Luke uses — asleep. Not executed. Not destroyed. Asleep.

The young man named Saul, who held the coats, will not sleep well for a very long time.

Stephen died forgiving the people who killed him, echoing the words of the man whose name he was dying for.

Forgiveness under those conditions is not a feeling. It is not the absence of pain. It is a choice made from a place so deeply rooted that even stones cannot dislodge it.

And notice: Jesus is standing. In every other New Testament text he is seated at the right hand of the Father — his work complete, his rest earned. But for Stephen's death, he stands.

Some moments, apparently, are worth standing up for.