Saints and Widows

Peter put all of them outside, and then he knelt down and prayed. He turned to the body and said, “Tabitha, get up.” Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up. He gave her his hand and helped her up. Then calling the saints and widows, he showed her to be alive. This became known throughout Joppa, and many believed in the Lord [Acts 9:40-42].

I’ve shared some poignant, pensive, and even painful stories with some of you concerning the slow demise of our dad, who died November 22, 2014. During the last half decade of his life, he suffered from dementia. The illness took a bit of him from us each day until finally, there was nothing left.

I remember going with Dad and Mother to the doctor one day, perhaps eight or ten months before his death. Normally, I’d just drop them by and pick them up later, when my mother would call to say that they were ready for their Uber driver (i.e., me). I don’t recall why that day she was so insistent that I accompany them to see the doctor, but I did so.

I do remember sitting in the small examining room with the doctor and my parents—Dad was 90, Mother, 89. I remember that the physician mostly ignored Dad, talking directly to Mother and me. I remember that I was not offended by his attitude, that I recognized he needed information that Dad could not give him. Dad just sat quietly, in the typically gentle manner. As Mother and I engaged with the doctor, I recall wanting to scream out at the top of my voice, “You know, he wasn’t always like this. He used to be vibrant, funny, and gregarious. He was generous, always had a loving smile for those around him, and was utterly devoted to his work, his church, “his Betty,” and “his boys.” I wanted so much to share that about our dad.

I thought about that doctor’s visit when earlier this week I initially gazed at the First Reading for this upcoming Sunday [Acts 9:36-43, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, RCL, Year C]. Last Sunday, we walked with Paul—actually, with Saul—as he traveled toward Damascus and suffered his famous encounter with our Lord. This week’s lesson turns away from Paul and centers in on Peter, who represents the church.

In the verses preceding this week’s First Lesson, Peter had come to Lydda, a small town in central Israel, on the Plain of Sharon. There he met Aeneas, a man who had been paralyzed and bedridden for eight years [Acts 9:33]. Peter said to him, “Aeneas, Jesus Christ heals you; get up and make your bed!” [Acts 9:34]. And, of course, Aeneas did just that.

Well, as one would expect, news of an event like this tends to get out quicker than the first draft of an adverse SCOTUS opinion. With the news that Aeneas had been healed, there was an accompanying surge of excitement throughout the area around Lydda. Peter was an important leader. Peter represented what would eventually become “the church.” He not only was a follower of Christ and one of the first disciples; he clearly echoed the power that had pulsed within the frame of Jesus Himself.

And so, in this week’s lesson, we read that in the nearby town of Joppa there was a disciple whose name was Tabitha, a woman “devoted to good works and acts of charity” [Acts 9:36]. Unfortunately, Tabitha has died. Her friends, mostly widows, washed her body and laid her in a room upstairs. Luke tells us that some of the disciples—remember that there were many more than 12—knowing that Peter was nearby, sent for him with a request, “Please come to us without delay” [Acts 9:38b]. And Peter does just that. Like church folks have done for many generations, Peter visits with the friends and family.

Why in the world did they want Peter to come to Tabitha’s house in Joppa? After all, to borrow a phrase from the wonderful mid-80s novel, Cold Sassy Tree, by Olive Ann Burns, Tabitha “was as dead as she was going to get.” I think that many of them had the same sort of feeling—the same need to communicate—that I had on that day with my parents in the doctor’s office. I wanted someone important to know what a wonderful father our dad had been. I wanted someone who stood for authority to understand that while Dad appeared helpless now, he had been robust and powerful. I wanted to share my love with someone who never had the chance to know the real “T.E.”

I think that’s what happened at Tabitha’s house. As Peter visits, “all the widows stood beside him, weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Tabitha had made while she was still with them” [Acts 9:39b]. Can’t you see them now? One little lady touches Peter on the arm, points to a beautiful garment and says, “Kind sir, look at the care that Tabitha took with the cloth of this tunic. Have you ever seen such fine stitching?” Another points to a scarf or shawl, saying “Tabitha’s loving hands knitted this for me. What a wondrous gift.” Still another says, “And kind Peter, you have no idea how much she gave to the local hunger fund. The mouths that she fed when she was alive—It’s just more than one can imagine. She was such a saint, a devoted follower of Jesus …. And now she’s gone.”

Or is she? For then, of course, Peter does a strange thing. He sends them out of the room. He kneels down beside Tabitha’s lifeless body and prays. And, in words almost identical to those of his Lord when Jesus brought Jairus' daughter back to life [see Mark 5:35-43; Matthew 9:18-26; and Luke 8:40-56], Peter says “Tabitha, get up” [Acts 9:40]. Tabitha, though dead, hearing the voice of divine authority, does just that. She gets up. And what does Peter do next?

Then calling the saints and widows, he showed her to be alive [Acts 9:41b, emphasis added].

Notice what Peter did not do. He didn’t call together the important leaders of the synagogue. He didn’t gather the local civic power brokers, the ones who control the businesses, the ones who dole out political favors, the ones who “organize” the community, the ones who might be in a strong position to help the church. Instead, he gathers the saints and widows. As Dr. Walter Brueggemann, noted Old Testament scholar (and skilled NT scholar as well) has written in a short piece on this passage from Acts, Peter, now the embodiment of the church, enters the room where there is “the smell of death.”

He prays. He engages the body. He utters his commanding imperative. And life is given, life that is celebrated by saints and widows [Brueggemann passage jotted down in my Journal, April 2007].

The story doesn’t mean that every loved one can be brought back from death by a leader of the church. It doesn’t mean that the ache in our hearts will always be pushed aside by the power of prayer. It does mean, however, that the active, engaging, surging, wondrous activity of Jesus the Christ continues in the church after His resurrection and ascension down to this day. The power of Christ still lives, for those who are adept at seeing it—no, it’s more accurate to say that Christ’s power lives for those who are adept at hearing it.

We see the fullness of that truth in the Gospel lesson appointed for this Sunday [John 10:22-30]. Peter and his church concentrate on the saints and widows because they are particularly attuned to the voice of the Messiah.

My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand [John 10:27-28].

Brueggeman argues that the saints are those who do not flee from the smell of death. The widows are the ones who, particularly in the time of Peter, lived their days within their vulnerability—at the edge of death. These are the only witnesses to the revival of Tabitha.

In a communicant’s study group years ago, a 12-year-old looked me in the eye and said, “Why did the miracles stop?” I fumbled for some words and then, knowing how fond he was of his younger sister, I said, “They’ve never stopped. How else can you explain—not her real name—Sarah?”

As long as there are saints and widows, miracles will continue. Miracles will continue because our Messiah will always find a way to reach out with and through the power and strength of His great Love. Saints and widows will always be guided by the voice of the Shepherd.

On Dad’s final birthday, August 11, 2014, our mother maneuvered her walker crossed Carver Street, which separated her apartment from the nursing home where Dad—or what was actually left of him—was housed. She slowly trudged up the ramp, down the hallway, and into his room. He seemed unusually quiet, she thought. He wasn’t attentive to her several questions as she inquired about his sleep, his breakfast, his bath.

Sensing that this might be one of “those days” when the dementia caused him to be even more confused than usual, she took both his hands in hers, looked into his eyes, and gently said, “T.E., do you know who I am?”

Dad looked at her face for a full five seconds, and then responded, “No …, but I DO know that I love you.”

Saints and widows—the ones who refuse to flee from death—they’ll always be guided by the voice of the Shepherd. He’s the Shepherd who knows us, the Shepherd who loves us. No one and no-thing will ever be able to snatch the saints and widows from the hand of Christ. Hallelujah!