What do you do if someone who has been vicious to you comes to Christ? - Acts 9:1-19 Sermon | Anglican Church Prescott

God made Saul new.

Text: Acts 9:1-19

Acts 9:1-19 is one of the most dramatic and well-known moments in Acts. As Saul heads to ravage the church in Damascus, Christ confronts him with a bright light and asks him Why are you persecuting me? As blindness sets in and Saul sits, fasts, and prays, another person is introduced: Ananias.

In many ways, Ananias represents active Christians, challenged by their enemies' conversion. He has the same hesitancy that we might, yet he never questions God's prerogative to extend Saul grace. The passage invites those who feel too lost to enter God's grace, while challenging believers to welcome them as brothers and sisters.

Manuscript, lightly edited:

Let us pray.

Heavenly Father, we pray for all those whom you are building up and calling home to yourself. We pray that, as they hear from you—or sit in pews and hear from preachers—they would hear your gospel clearly proclaimed and that their lives would be fundamentally changed.

We pray especially for any of those people who may be coming toward us. May we welcome them as those whom you have called to be our brothers and sisters. Grant that we would see your goodness in all its fullness and truth.

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of our hearts be always acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.

Please be seated.

I always find myself complaining about June. I think most of you know that I do not like June. It is hot, it is dry, and it is my least favorite month. But my favorite season—at least, I think it is—is monsoon season.

It is not only because we get rain, or because my skin no longer feels like an alligator’s. It is the thunderstorms themselves. I love thunderstorms.

I cannot tell you exactly what it is about them, but I think it has something to do with experiencing a power so much greater than myself—a power I cannot control. It is humbling and beautiful and wild.

There is a way a thunderstorm gathers itself, if we think of it poetically rather than scientifically. You look into the distance and see a dark cloud. If you know anything about clouds, you can tell that it is going to become a thunderstorm. You watch it build. Then you hear the first crack of thunder, and you know it is coming. At least for me, it is soul-stirring. Then the storm is upon you in all its power.

This morning, we have been watching a storm cloud gather in the distance. Perhaps you have noticed it; perhaps you have not. It has been building gradually and quietly. This morning, it breaks over Saul as he is struck down by the glory of Christ.

Saul is a fascinating figure, and Luke is a wonderful storyteller. I do not want to overemphasize that, but it matters here because Luke has been dropping little hints that this man will become very important.

We first met Saul as a witness to Stephen’s death. He stood by, watched, and approved. Then the storm built a little more: Saul began ravaging the church.

We passed over that word rather quickly when we encountered it, but it is important. The Greek word translated ravaging appears only one other time in Scripture: in the Greek translation of Psalm 80, where it describes a wild boar ravaging a vineyard.

Most of us do not have vineyards, so that image may feel distant. But we can imagine a javelina ravaging our trash cans. That may be less elegant, but it captures the image. We have probably all seen javelinas go after the trash. You might throw something near them and hope they will leave, but they do not. They are intent on finding food and tearing apart whatever stands in their way.

That is the image Luke uses for Saul: a beast ravaging something beautiful—a vineyard meant to produce grapes and wine. Saul is destroying the church like a wild animal.

That is where we meet him this morning:

But Saul, still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord, went to the high priest and asked him for letters to the synagogues at Damascus, so that if he found any belonging to the Way, men or women, he might bring them bound to Jerusalem.

Think about that. Saul is so intent on destruction that he is willing to travel about 150 miles north to continue ravaging the church. That is how deep his hatred runs. His passion is boiling. He has become like a wild animal determined to destroy.

Yet before we continue, notice that there is also a hint of hope here. Luke has quietly moved us from one end of the region to the other. We went north to Samaria, then south toward Gaza, and now far north again to Damascus. Luke is showing us something: Saul is ravaging, but the church is spreading. The gospel is spreading.

There will always be people who stand against the gospel of Christ and try to destroy it. Yet it continues to move outward, toward the ends of the earth. That is profoundly hopeful.

Saul draws near to Damascus at the end of what was probably a week-long journey. He is ready to enter the city. His intention is destruction. Picture this proud man striding toward Damascus, confident and strong, perhaps even entering in his own glory.

Then everything changes.

Suddenly, a light from heaven shines around him.

My friends, this is the glory of Christ. During his earthly ministry, that glory was veiled in human flesh. Jesus looked like us—perhaps a little more tan and a little hairier than many of you—but his divine glory was hidden. Now heaven is opened, and Saul sees Christ’s glory poured out around him.

Again and again in Scripture, when human beings are confronted by a manifestation of God, they do exactly what Saul does: they fall down. If anyone doubts that Jesus is fully divine, here again we see his divinity—the glory of the second Person of the Trinity confronting Saul.

This brings us to one of the great tragedies of our day: we have normalized and trivialized God. I say that intentionally, because what we often carry around is merely an idea of God. But when we encounter the God of Scripture—the triune God whom we worship—we meet one who is anything but trivial. He is power and glory and might.

Yet we make worship seem trivial. It becomes simply a thing we do on Sunday morning. We come together, and we look forward to coffee hour because Ed brought snacks—and they really are good. I am not making fun of them. Thank you, Ed.

But think about what we are doing now. We are hearing God’s Word. We are coming to his table. We are singing songs of praise. Ed’s snacks are wonderful, but this is so much better.

Our gathering to worship is better than anything this life can offer. God is infinitely more powerful than the magnificent thunderstorms I love and look forward to each year. He is more powerful, more glorious, and more mighty.

And Jesus confronts Saul:

Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?

Later, when Saul recounts this moment, he includes an additional phrase: “It is hard for you to kick against the goads.” A goad is a pointed stick used to drive cattle forward. If an animal kicks against it, the animal only wounds itself.

Why does Jesus say this? Look back at what Saul has already experienced. We can be almost certain that he heard Stephen’s speech—an extraordinary theological argument showing how the Old Testament points to Christ. Saul stood there and watched Stephen die. He saw this man at peace and perhaps saw the glory of Christ reflected in his face.

Then Saul traveled. I do not know whether Saul was anything like me, but when I travel and have time to think, my mind winds on and on. I think and think and think. Perhaps Saul had been thinking about everything he had seen.

Christ had been goading him—prodding him, calling him.

So this moment is sudden, but it has also been building. If the glory of God burst into this room right now, it would be sudden, and we would fall on our faces just as Saul did. But for Saul, the storm had long been gathering. It is like the thunderstorm you watch approach until a crack of thunder less than a mile away shakes the whole house. It surprises you, but it does not. You knew the storm was coming.

Christ had been calling Saul.

What is even more astonishing is the way Jesus speaks to him. Jesus is gentle.

Did you notice that? I am not very good at confrontation. It usually goes badly; there may be raised voices or something else awful, which is why I do not like it. But Jesus simply asks, “Why are you persecuting me?” He does not yell at Saul. He does not beat him or scream at him. He asks a question, and they speak.

“Who are you, Lord?” Saul asks.

Jesus answers, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. But rise and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do.”

Jesus says no more. He lets those words stand.

But he also gives us another reason for hope: Christ identifies himself with his church. He does not ask, “Why are you persecuting my followers?” He asks, “Why are you persecuting me?”

When we suffer for Christ and for the sake of the gospel—when it is painful, lonely, and hard—we suffer with Christ. My friends, that is deeply encouraging. You do not suffer alone. You suffer with Christ.

Saul had intended to enter Damascus proudly. He carried letters of authority that he planned to place before the synagogues. He would confront the followers of Jesus, seize them, and drag them away.

Instead, he enters the city a broken man. He has to be led by the hand because he cannot see.

At the end of the first half of this passage, we see Saul crushed beneath the weight of his sin. For three days he is blind, and he neither eats nor drinks. For three days he is buried beneath the realization that, in his sin, he is dead. For three days he waits, learning what it means to depend completely upon Christ and the Holy Spirit.

Then the story makes a sudden turn. Saul is no longer the central figure. We meet a man named Ananias.

Ananias receives what is essentially a prophet’s call. His call echoes those of Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and Isaiah. God calls each of them by name, and they answer, “Here I am.”

The Lord calls, “Ananias,” and he replies, “Here I am, Lord.” He knows who is calling him, and he knows he may be sent to do something far larger than he can imagine.

Here we encounter another danger in normalizing and trivializing the glory of God. There is something good in wanting to experience God’s glory, but too often we try to manufacture the experience. We want spectacular worship or powerful emotions to sweep over us.

But notice who experiences the fullness of God’s glory in this passage. It is the sinner—the one who is far from God. Saul experiences the glory of God in a mind-blowing way that throws him to the ground. Ananias is simply called. He does not need the same display, because he already believes. He already knows that the fullness of God’s glory awaits him in eternity.

We need to remember that. Some Sunday mornings we will come to church and it will be wonderful. Other Sundays, we will have had six cups of coffee and still want a nap. You may not like my sermon. You may not like the hymns Elizabeth chose. The service may feel long.

But that is not why we are here. We are here to hear the gospel, to be reminded of the goodness and grace of God, and to receive a foretaste of a glory far greater than anything we experience now.

God gives us glimpses of his glory in ways we do not always recognize or understand. We probably will not experience it as Saul did in this life—and that is all right.

Ananias receives his call, and his response makes clear that Saul’s persecution has touched people he knows. When persecution scattered the Christians from Jerusalem, some undoubtedly came to Damascus and told him about Saul.

So Ananias replies:

Lord, I have heard from many about this man, how much evil he has done to your saints at Jerusalem. And here he has authority from the chief priests to bind all who call on your name.

Think about everything going through Ananias’s mind. What will my friends think if I extend grace to this man—the man who may have nearly killed them? Will Saul try to kill me?

Have you ever tried to help a trapped wild animal? Even when you mean to free it, it wants to bite, buck, or kick you. It will do everything in its power to fight you. Ananias must be thinking, “This man is out of control. What is he going to do to me?”

Yet what Ananias does not say is just as important as what he does say. He never says, “Jesus, this man is not worthy of your grace.”

Did you notice that? Ananias never questions whether Jesus may extend grace to Saul. So often, we think about those who have mistreated us—those who may even have persecuted us or done some genuine evil—and we conclude that they do not deserve Christ’s grace.

And we are right: they do not.

Neither do we.

Ananias does not want to be beaten, killed, or arrested. But he recognizes that if Jesus is at work in this man’s life, Jesus has the right to show him grace—the very same grace Ananias has already received.

It is interesting to read this passage in light of Paul’s later writings. One of my favorite sections is in 2 Corinthians 11. The Corinthian church is fascinating. We have two New Testament letters written to them, along with later writings from the early Church, and much of it amounts to: “Get it together, people.”

Paul is again warning them not to listen to false teachers. Then he says, in effect, “If they are going to boast, I will boast too.” But Paul’s boasting is not like ours. He writes:

Five times I received at the hands of the Jews the forty lashes less one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I was stoned. Three times I was shipwrecked; a night and a day I was adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from robbers, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, in hunger and thirst, often without food, in cold and exposure. And, apart from other things, there is the daily pressure on me of my anxiety for all the churches. Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is made to fall, and I am not indignant? If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness.

Paul suffers. We see his suffering as we continue through Acts, and he writes about it elsewhere. Yet he comes to boast in it because his suffering reminds him of his weakness and his dependence upon Christ. In that dependence, he discovers joy because the grace of God overflows.

The proud man who approached Damascus is confronted by Christ. Now Jesus calls Ananias to go to him:

Go, for he is a chosen instrument of mine to carry my name before the Gentiles and kings and the children of Israel. For I will show him how much he must suffer for the sake of my name.

In Saul’s life, we see a fundamental transformation: a raging beast intent on destruction becomes a man who is utterly weak and totally dependent upon God for his calling.

My friends, this is the invitation of Christ.

As these conversion stories unfold, it is difficult not to think of the parable I call the Two Lost Sons, more commonly known as the Prodigal Son. Here we suddenly encounter the older brother.

We often misread the parable by assuming that the older brother simply remains outside. But Jesus does not tell us what the older brother finally does. That is the point. The question is: If you are the older brother, what will you do?

Ananias stands in the older brother’s place. Saul has squandered his gifts terribly. He is obviously brilliant; we can see that in his letters. But he has used that brilliance to persecute Christ and ravage the church.

Ananias stands outside the house, asking Jesus, “Are you sure? Is this really a good idea?”

Then he enters.

And he says two of the most beautiful words in Scripture—or at least the most beautiful words we hear this morning. Every time I return to them, I find myself deeply moved.

Ananias enters the house, lays his hands on Saul, and says, “Brother Saul.”

Brother Saul.

This man had wanted to devour Ananias. That is why he came to Damascus. Just three days earlier, Saul was fixed on destroying people like him. Yet the first greeting he receives from the church after Christ confronts him is this: “Brother Saul.”

My friends, make no mistake: if you have come here feeling crushed, broken, or ruined by your sin—if you are wondering whether there is room at the table, whether grace is for you, whether you will be welcomed—Christ is calling you. He is prodding you. He is welcoming you. And he will make you new.

He is calling you so that we may greet you as brother or sister.

Ananias prays. Saul is healed, baptized, and filled with the Holy Spirit. It is astonishing.

Verse 19 is a hinge between this week and next, but it leaves us with the image of a beast—broken and exhausted—being healed by the very people he intended to crush.

The distant thunder began with Stephen proclaiming the gospel while Saul listened. The storm gathered until the glory of Christ broke over Saul. That glory could have destroyed him completely. Instead, it raised him to a new life—a life marked not by pride or earthly power, but by weakness, suffering, grace, and joy.

Christ took this wild beast of a man, intent on destroying Christ and his church, and made him a brother.

He has taken those who were once his enemies and made them his own. So the invitation is twofold.

If you are far off, Christ is calling you to surrender—the surrender we see in Saul this morning.

And if you are in Christ, enter the house, whatever that house may be, and greet the person whom Christ has made your new brother or sister.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.