Catholics in the United States generally don’t go to church on Dec. 26, so they might be surprised that — a day after the birth of Jesus Christ — the Church is marking the feast of its first martyr, the deacon Stephen. Catholics in Europe — where Christmas is often a two-day affair — are perhaps more familiar with the red vestments on the “second day of Christmas” or, as another carol puts it, “on the feast of Stephen.”
But we should not be surprised at the coincidence. Jesus very clearly associates his life with his Passion (and death and resurrection). At the climax moment in the Gospels, when St. Peter declares in Caesarea Philippi, “You are the Christ!” Jesus immediately follows up with predictions of his suffering. And when Peter attempts to rebuke him — in one sense, a very human gesture — he’s rebuked right back in no uncertain terms: “You are thinking not of the things of God but of man” (Matthew 16:23). And since “a servant is not greater than his master” (Matthew 10:24), why would we be surprised at the proximity of martyrdom to Jesus’ Nativity. Jesus has always been a “sign of contradiction” and division, even from his birth: in two days, we’ll recall how Herod plotted to kill the Infant Jesus. No, while confessing Jesus may gain you some heavenly friends, it may also gain you lots of earthly enemies.
What we know of St. Stephen can be found in the Acts of the Apostles, chapters 6-8. He’s introduced among the seven men chosen at the institution of the diaconate. The account of dissension in the Jerusalem church between Jewish and Greek-speaking widows in the distribution of food precipitates controversy which the Apostles find distracting them from preaching the Gospel. They therefore pray over and install “seven reputable men, filled with the Holy Spirit and wisdom” upon whom they laid hands (Acts 6:3-6). Among them, in the first place and specifically singled out as “a man filled with faith and the Holy Spirit” (v. 5), is Stephen.
Very quickly on, we learn that Stephen preaches to a group of Greek-speaking Jews, some of whom may be from the diaspora, who reject his message, notwithstanding the “great wonders and signs” he worked among the people (v. 8). So they denounce him as a blasphemer to the Sanhedrin, the Jewish religious governing council. Repeating the accusation used against Jesus (that he will destroy the Temple and rebuild it in three days) they perjure themselves against Stephen. Challenged to defend himself, Stephen launches into an accusation of Israel’s infidelity to God through the millennia, the content of Acts 7. Hearing this, the Sanhedrin is “infuriated” (7:54) at him.
What seals Stephen’s fate is that, as they are stewing against him, he announces a vision: “I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God” (7:56). That precipitates their mob rush on him.
Why? Jesus uses similar language before Caiaphas at his own kangaroo court (Matthew 26:64) and elicits a similar reaction.
In both instances, the vision alludes to Daniel 7:9-14. In that text, the prophet speaks of a vision of God in heaven and “one like a Son of Man” leading before him and receiving power, authority, and kingship. “Son of Man” as a title most basically means “an individual.” “Man,” in the Hebrew mind, was the collective: mankind. One member of that collective, an individual, is a “Son of Man.” So, when Jesus speaks of himself as the “Son of Man,” he means “me,” this “concrete person.” And because it was a title Jesus frequently associated with himself, the association also probably remained in the Sanhedrin’s mind.
Now, Daniel is writing long before these events. When he speaks of “one like a Son of Man” he means someone, a concrete person that appears to be a human being, sharing in attributes that are God’s alone: power, authority, kingship. So, for Daniel, this is an eschatological text, a prophecy of what is to come (and why we read it in the last weeks of the Church year, e.g., last November). When Jesus associates himself with that figure, he is saying in a manner intelligible to the Jewish Sanhedrin that he is God. And since they reject that claim, they accuse him of blasphemy, saying they do not need the niceties of judicial inquiry of witnesses because they are all eye-and-ear witnesses to that blasphemy.
The same thing with Stephen. That’s why they cover their ears. Leviticus 24:16 sets the penalty for blasphemy as death by stoning.
That is exactly what the crowd does. Two details should be noted:
First, Stephen explicitly associates his death with Christ’s, repeating two of Jesus’ own words from the cross. He asks that they be forgiven for their deed and that the Lord receive his soul. Clearly, the way of Christ is the way of his disciples. Nor is Stephen’s death a one-off: it unleashes a local persecution of Christians (8:1-3).
Second, one member of the crowd is explicitly named: Saul (7:58). He serves as cloak-check boy while the others kill Stephen. It’s not that his own hands are innocent, as Acts 8:1-3 make clear. Later, he will be on his way to Damascus, intending to do the same to any Syrian Stephens, when God knocks him off his high horse.
Stephen’s story ends with “devout men buried [him] and made a loud lament over him” (8:2).
Stephen’s martyrdom is depicted by the great Flemish Baroque painter, Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640). The painting comes from a triptych he created as an altarpiece for a church in Valenciennes, a town in northern France near the current Belgian border, i.e., the Flemish lands. A triptych is a three-paneled artwork, usually hinged, whose two side panels can be closed over the center panel, which depicts the most important aspect of the work. In this case, our painting is the center panel, showing the murder of Stephen. The side panels show Stephen preaching — the proximate cause of his arrest — and his burial, the final chapter. When the triptych is closed, it depicts the Annunciation.
I chose Rubens’ depiction because the Baroque genre best expresses the power and vehemence that must have gone into killing Stephen. (Compare to Carracci’s painting from about a dozen years earlier.)
Baroque figures are typically big and muscular, showing the strength of physiology: look at the two men on Stephen’s right and the one on his farthest left. Look also at the size of the rocks and boulders they are holding. Of all the figures, Stephen seems the frailest. The color selection is typically Baroque: strong reds, blues, and golds. All the human figures seem fixated on their gruesome task. All except three. Stephen, of course, is also focused on his vision of “the Son of Man coming on the clouds,” in this case with an angel ready to award Stephen the crown of victory. But, on the far left, are two figures whose glance also seems to be looking, not at Stephen but towards that vision: a man in a red hat, who clearly represents the Jewish establishment, and a Roman soldier in a gold helmet. “Every eye will see him, even those who pierced him” (Revelation 1:7). Death is not just another moment in history; it is an eschatological one, too. And, like Daniel’s original vision, the scene is capped with the Father and “one like a Son of Man” on his right.
To read more, see here and here.
