Lichfield lies in the pastoral English Midlands, an ancient cathedral city with black and white timbered houses and shops, and a cobblestone market place.
In the market place is a memorial tablet with an inscription.
It reads "Edward Wightman of Burton–on–Trent was burnt at the stake in this market place for heresy, 11th April 1612". Strolling round sleepy Lichfield on a summer afternoon, you find it difficult to visualise the jeers of a hostile crowd, the crackle of the faggots, and a brave man dying because he loved his Lord and would not recant his beliefs.
We dismiss such ugly pictures as belonging to an earlier, more violent age. But think of the hatred that wracked Northern Ireland, and you realise that religious bigotry still claims lives. Men do not change. Religion somehow brings out the worst as well as the best in us. It is as if the stronger the light grows, the more intense become the shadows. Jesus strictly forbade his disciples to use violence; "All who take the sword will perish by the sword," he said. But when churches grow old and strong and find political power, they conveniently forget the pure teaching of the first century, and anything goes. Organised religion has repeatedly crushed the faithful few who love truth more than life, as Edward Wightman found to his cost.
This brings us to the next chapter in the story of the Jewish Christians at Jerusalem. Their numbers grew quickly after the preaching at Pentecost. The Jewish leaders had tried to gag Peter and the apostles by threats and flogging, but still the new sect expanded. The wrath of the authorities eventually burst over Stephen. He was a prominent disciple who had upset the synagogue for overseas Jews by his powerful arguments from the Old Testament scriptures. Finding themselves unable to answer the telling proofs he advanced that Jesus of Nazareth was the promised Messiah, they resorted to the law to silence him. They soon found witnesses who promised to show Stephen in a bad light, and informed the Sanhedrin, the Jewish Parliament, against him.
Feelings ran high as the aged councillors packed the chamber. Stephen was accused of blasphemy – he had taught, they said, that Jesus would destroy the Temple and bring to an end the Law of Moses. Stephen must have known that he had no hope of justice in that biased assembly. His spirited defence recalled that, like Jesus of Nazareth, the great Moses they revered so much had, to begin with, been rejected by the people he came to save. He pointed out that Solomon, the founder of the Temple, had never claimed any permanent role for it; God is not confined to a house made with men's hands. The Old Testament prophets who had predicted the coming of the Messiah, he reminded them, had lost their lives for their message, and now they had killed the Messiah himself. His speech was cut short. Without even the semblance of legality, they dragged Stephen outside the city walls and killed him. It was the first blood spilt since the death of the Master himself, and a shudder passed through the assembly of believers at Jerusalem.
Jesus had always warned the apostles to expect persecution. "If the world hate you" he said "know that it has hated me before it hated you … If they persecuted me, they will persecute you … Indeed the hour is coming when whoever kills you will think he is offering service to God" (John 15:18,20, and 16:2).
His words were prophetic. One of the youngest of the councillors who voted for Stephen's death became the mastermind of a nationwide operation to exterminate the disciples. It was as if a catch had been removed, and violence and hatred descended on the heads of those whose only crime was believing in Jesus. The young Saul's zeal became legendary. He admitted himself, years later, that he "persecuted this Way to the death, binding and delivering to prison both men and women" (Acts 21:4)
