Sword of the Spirit

Well, good evening. It’s a privilege to be here. I don’t want to take up time telling you how delighted I am. I want to read from the Bible. It seems appropriate that I would read from the Bible, given the nature of our event. And I’m going to read from a small portion of Acts chapter 8, beginning in verse 26, which reads as follows:

“Now an angel of the Lord said to Philip, ‘Rise and go toward the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.’ This is a desert place. And he rose and went. And there was an Ethiopian, a eunuch, a court official of Candace, queen of the Ethiopians, who was in charge of all her treasure. He had come to Jerusalem to worship and was returning, seated in his chariot, and he was reading the prophet Isaiah. And the Spirit said to Philip, ‘Go over and join this chariot.’ So Philip ran to him and heard him reading Isaiah the prophet and asked, ‘Do you understand what you[’re] reading?’ And he said, ‘How can I, unless someone guides me?’ And he invited Philip to come up and sit with him. Now the passage of … Scripture that he was reading was this: ‘Like a sheep he was led to the slaughter and like a lamb before its shearer is silent, so he opens not his mouth. In his humiliation justice was denied him. Who can describe his generation? For his life is taken away from the earth.’

“And the eunuch said to Philip, ‘About whom, I ask you, does [this] prophet say this, about himself or about someone else?’ Then Philip opened his mouth, and beginning with this Scripture he told him the good news about Jesus. And as they were going along the road they came to some water, and the eunuch said, ‘See, here is water! What prevents me from being baptized?’ And he commanded the chariot to stop, and they both went down into the water, Philip and the eunuch, and he baptized him. And when they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord carried Philip away, and the eunuch saw him no more, and [he] went on his way rejoicing. But Philip found [him] at Azotus, and as he passed through he preached the gospel to all the towns until he came to Caesarea.”

This is the Word of the Lord.

I like to see how many Anglicans are here. That’s why I do that. You can never be too careful.

Well, surely this place is just completely loaded with history. And as I was thinking about it, I said to myself, “Well, I think that my history teacher at Ilkley Grammar School in Yorkshire would be just amazed that someone such as myself should be immersed in the immensity of this history.” He taught us history, and he was a good teacher. But of all the things he taught us, he said there was only one thing that we needed to remember, and that was, he said in a fairly strong Yorkshire accent, “Now, listen here, lads. Make sure that whatever you forget, you never forget this: that Bradford City won the FA Cup in 1911.” And so I stand to testify that I have remembered what he told me to remember. It hasn’t helped me at all in life, but it gave me something of an introduction.

Many of us who are here are from the American side of the ocean. And I have to be very careful, but here we recognize the fact that America is not known for its grasp of history. It doesn’t have a very long history to start with. But when Americans travel, they love to be immersed in a setting like this. And the story’s told of a couple from one of the Southern States who had been in London and received an invitation to go down to Runnymede, down the Thames, to discover where the Magna Carta had been signed. The husband was not really paying much attention, and he wasn’t particularly enthralled, but the person who was introducing them to the subject said at one point, “And here, June 15, 1215, King John signed the Magna Carta.” And the fellow turned to his wife, and he said, “Do you realize we only missed that by twenty minutes?”

Some eighty-two years later—some eighty-two years later: the Battle of Stirling Bridge, the first of the wars of Scottish independence, led by Andrew Moray and, of course, by William Wallace. Everybody thinks they know William Wallace because of Braveheart, but I’m sure that William Wallace did not look much like Mel Gibson. He must have been a fairly tall man. Historians say that in the thirteenth century, the average height of a Scotsman was barely over five foot. So it is hard to imagine that the sword of William Wallace, which has become the subject of debate over many years, could have been wielded by somebody as small as that. Because his sword, the William Wallace sword, was five foot, six inches in length, and the blade was fifty-two inches, and, of course, it was double-handed. It eventually, at least we believe, ended up in a museum—which, of course, makes perfect sense, because how could you possibly use a five-foot, six-inch, two-handed, very heavy sword in contemporary warfare? There’s no place for it. It deserves to be in a museum. It has no longer any lasting value.

I mention that because what we’re here about in these few days is “the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God,”[1] which, in many parts of the world, including this part of the world, it is regarded by many in the same way as the sword of William Wallace is regarded—namely, historically of interest but actually of little practical value at all. So people would look on and say, “What an amazing thing, that here, in this setting of such historical value, these people from different parts of the world have come together in order that they might discover how more effectively to take this ancient sword, as it were, and see it wielded so that the nations of the world might know the subject matter of this book and may be brought to know Jesus himself!”

The Bible is a book about the Son of God. It’s a Bible about Jesus.

It’s hard to engage anybody in conversation at the moment without things very quickly turning, at least in the Western world, to an awareness of the fact that our world is broken, that it is actually desperately sick, that any sort of framework and narrative that has been able to get us out of the nineteenth century and into the twentieth century has largely collapsed over the last half a century. And as a result of that, people, if you engage them in conversation, will often find themselves somewhat bemused, with no real ability to make sense of who they are, where they are, and why they are. It was said that the Tommies in the [First] World War used to sing to one another in the battlefields, to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne,” “We’re here because we’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here.” In other words, “We don’t know why we’re here.” I guarantee you that if we were to walk out from here into Stirling tonight and engage any person under the age of twenty-five or thirty, you would find largely the exact same answer: “a world that … has lost its story,”[2] a world that possesses in itself, apparently, nothing to really give life purpose.

But, of course, we always have the clergy, don’t we? Those people are supposed to know. But here, in the nation that was once regarded as “the Land of the Book,” in many, many places, the message from the pulpit is a compromised message; it is unclear; it is harmlessly vague; it is dreadfully accommodating. And as a result of that, many, many people right here in this context where we gather this evening are in need of the story that we’ve come to share.

It’s not possible to just have incipient denials of the truthfulness of the Bible over a long period of time without it actually yielding its fruit. And that’s why in every generation from the Bible on, the apostolic transmission has not come through popes and leaders; it has come as a result of the gospel being transferred from one generation to another, so that, as Paul says to Timothy as he writes his final letter to them, he says, “Timothy, I want you to continue in the things you have become convinced of, knowing those from whom you have learned it and how from your earliest days, from the ancient Scriptures, you have discovered the life that is truly life”[3]—in other words, faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.

It is the Word of God that does the work of God by the power of the Spirit of God. But the Bible is a book about the Son of God. It’s a Bible about Jesus. In the Old Testament, he is predicted; in the Gospels, he’s revealed; in the Acts, he is preached; in the Epistles, he’s explained; and in the book of Revelation, he’s expected. And it is actually distinctly possible to be excited even about the translation of the Bible, about being able to give Bibles to people, without ourselves having actually come to know he who is the living Word, the Lord Jesus.

And it’s also true to say that if we were able to sit and converse with one another, we would be able to record ways and times, perhaps, in which this has come across most forcibly to us. And if I understand correctly the reason for our gathering, it is because we long for this to happen throughout the nations of the world in the heart languages of people so that they in turn might come to know not only the Book but the one of whom the Book speaks.

That’s why I read from Acts chapter 8. Some of you are saying, “Well, good. I’m glad you mentioned it, because I was beginning to wonder why you’d even read from it at all.” Well, no, I read from it because I thought, “Let’s just consider one encounter.” And we only have time to consider one encounter.

It’s set in motion by an angelic visitation. Philip has been involved in a significant evangelistic endeavor in Samaria. And I would imagine that he was enjoying a happy and an encouraging time, and as he goes to bed in the evening, he is disturbed in the night. He is wakened by a dream, and in the dream, he is given an assignment, and that is that he’s to leave the place in which he’s been spending effective time and to make a journey of some sixty miles to a desert place, largely nowhere at all.

Let me just pause and acknowledge something, and that is that God is involved in simple journeys, in routine events, and in personal encounters. And it may well be that that kind of thought is beginning to press itself on certain ones of us. Because think of all that we’ve learned in the last two days. Think of the vastness of the horizon that is open before us. And think of the almost inevitable response that must come from us if we have any kind of spiritual vitality at all, which is to say, “Why am I actually here for this? And what is it that I could possibly contribute to this vast venture?”

In many ways, you know, it is a strange occurrence, isn’t it? Because this is largely an American-driven deal that comes back into Europe—a Europe that gave to America the gospel in the first place—to say to the Europeans, “Let’s make sure that we reach the world in this endeavor in the time that is before us as a result of joining our hands.”

Now, how does it happen? Well, it happens in big things. It happens in small things. It happens in encounters just like this. God said to Philip, “I want you to go to this road.” Philip goes to the road. You can only imagine him saying to himself, “I hope that it wasn’t just the pizza last night that made me think I was supposed to do this! I hope that was a genuine, bona fide angelic visitation. Because otherwise, this is a sixty-mile journey to nothing.”

Can you imagine when he just stands there? And then, eventually, over the horizon, he sees something coming. And the closer it comes, it’s a chariot. Fair enough. And as the chariot is getting even closer, the word now comes to him, “You go and run and join yourself to that chariot.” Okay.

And what happens? Well, when he gets to the chariot, the fellow, who’s a high-ranking official from Ethiopia, is reading the Old Testament Scriptures. How bizarre is that, right? I mean, how many times have you, you know, hitched a ride or got an Uber, and when you got in the thing, the guy was reading Isaiah chapter 53? How many times has that happened to you? Correct! None! Okay. So it is a divine encounter.

He’s reading out loud, the way my grandmother used to do as the older she got. Her mouth was always moving as she was reading. I couldn’t understand it. Now I find myself doing the same thing. It’s most disturbing. It’s very disturbing. But he’s reading it out loud. He looks at the guy. He looks like Denzel Washington sitting up there in the chariot—big, handsome Ethiopian guy. And Philip emerges, pops up: Dustin Hoffman speaking to Denzel Washington.

And the whole conversation turns on four questions. Number one: “Do you understand what you’re reading?” Number two: “How can I, unless someone teaches me?” Number three: “Who’s the prophet speaking about, himself or someone else?” And number four: “Hey, there’s water. Why shouldn’t I get baptized?”

Now, let me just spend twenty minutes on each of those questions. (Yeah. “Yeah, go ahead and try,” he said.) No, no. The man’s humility and his honesty is exceptional. You don’t find many people like that. I don’t. It’s actually an indication that God was at work in this Ethiopian treasurer’s life.

We’re told by Luke that he was coming back from Jerusalem. He presumably had been at a conference up at the temple. He’d gone into the—not the bookshop but the scroll shop in the temple, and someone had said to him, “You know, if you want something to read on your way home, I’ve got a lovely section here of the prophecy of Isaiah.” And so he had taken it, and he was reading it.

“Do you understand?” “How can I, unless somebody teaches me?” Let’s just play with that a little bit: “Do you understand?” “How can I, unless someone translates it for me? Translates it for me so that my heart will ring with the message in this book”—such an ancient book, such a strange encounter, such a wonderful story.

Through the cross, God grants pardon to those who believe in Jesus. At the cross, the justice of God is fully satisfied. At the cross, the love of God is magnificently displayed.

And so what does he do? He goes straight at it. He’s an evangelist, for goodness’ sake! He doesn’t begin with a bunch of nonsense. He simply goes to the objective, historical facts of Jesus of Nazareth. He says, “Let me tell you about Jesus—his life. And he died. And he’s the Lamb that you’re reading about here. He’s the one who bears sins. He’s the one who triumphed. He’s the one who has ascended. He is the one who is going to return.” He told him that through the cross, God grants pardon to those who believe in Jesus; that at the cross, the justice of God is fully satisfied; that at the cross, the love of God is magnificently displayed.

And what was happening is what always happens, whether we see it in the immediacy or not. And this is what was happening: that by the Holy Spirit, the seed of the Word of God was being planted in the heart of a man whom God had already prepared to receive the seed. And he gets it. He was actually—I wanted to make sure the Anglicans are here because I don’t want to upset them—but he decided he would get baptized. Right out of the chariot and baptized! Fantastic!

When I used to come here as a boy to Stirling Castle, there was a battery of soldiers here. There was a garrison here. They used to march up and down where we just came in, up the hill and in the parade ground there. And sometimes on a bank holiday Monday, we would come, and we’d go for a picnic out somewhere in the area. But I always wanted to come here with the soldiers. And they would march, and the roadway that we came up was free to walk on, so I would march beside them. They would march, and I would march. But they were soldiers; I was a bystander. They had uniforms; I had none. What happens to this man? Well, he believes, and he puts on his uniform, and the world sees the difference in him.

Isn’t it so strange that that happened so long ago and so far away? Isn’t it wonderful that it still happens today? And isn’t it ultimately why we want to do what we’re here to do? And that is to take the Bible, the very Word of God, even that people may regard it as outmoded, irrelevant, and beyond usefulness in our contemporary world—especially in the West—and let them know, “No, it’s actually active. It’s like a two-edged sword. It cuts into the heart of things.”[4]

And what’s our vision? Well, it is, of course, to translate the Scriptures. It is to advance the cause. It is to invest our lives, our time, our talents, our money, our resources. We’re all on a limited time scale—everyone in this room, by and large, it would appear, from what I can see of you. We have more behind us than we have in front of us in terms of time. You think that’s funny? I think it’s scary.

But in other words: What do you want to do with the rest of your life—the time he’s given you, the money he’s given you, and the talents he’s given you? Why not just invest them for the gospel? Why not just pour them out in order that the world might know—and in order that on that day when we are gathered into that company, we might be able to look around, and there we will see an innumerable company from every tribe and nation and people and language?[5] And we might see one another and just nudge each other, say, “Hey, do you remember that thing at Stirling Castle? What was that guy’s name?” Someone says, “I don’t know,” and another guy says, “It doesn’t matter!”

[1] Ephesians 6:17 (ESV).

[2] George Weigel, foreword to Light of the World: The Pope, the Church, and the Signs of the Times; A Conversation with Peter Seewald by Benedict XVI (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2010), x.

[3] 2 Timothy 3:14–15; 1 Timothy 6:19 (paraphrased).

[4] See Hebrews 4:12.

[5] See Revelation 7:9.