As you may have already inferred by our scripture and our music, the fourth Sunday of Easter is widely known as “Good Shepherd” Sunday. Each year, preachers are inclined to spend an inordinate amount of time on the wikipedia page for “sheep”, hoping to find a pithy anecdote or a zoological-theological insight to wow the congregation.
I will do no such thing this morning, because I serve at the pleasure of the Rev. Dr. Pamela Dolan, and I know that in this house, we prefer goats.
The interpretive leap I will take us on, though, is that a literal good shepherd has provided his good sheep with such a good life that they have produced good wool which has become good thread which has been woven into good fabric, which a good woman named Tabitha has made into tunics and other clothing for the widows in her community. We have heard of this good woman this morning in the Acts of the Apostles.
Tabitha was a disciple, one of the few named women disciples, and the only woman disciple whose story of healing is in our scripture. Not to bury the lede or anything, but she is also the only woman in our scripture to be resurrected from the dead. And resurrected by Peter, no less!
You remember Peter from his greatest hits such as misunderstanding the Transfiguration of Jesus, denying Jesus three times after his death, and falling out of the boat into the sea more than once. He’s also Saint Peter, who is responsible for the beginnings of the institutional Church. Peter contains multitudes.
As the story goes, Peter has been summoned by two disciples to the home of a woman who has died. We do not know why those disciples believed that there was something Peter could do about this, since we have no other stories of Peter raising someone from the dead. But the apostles understand, to whatever degree, the power of God. They understand that there is life, and death, and life again. So Peter arrives at her home, prays, and says, “Tabitha, get up.” And she does!
We do not know very much about Tabitha, which is a shame, because the little we do know tells us that there is quite a story here.
“We know that Tabitha was beloved, because two disciples search out Peter to restore her life. She was dedicated to doing good works for widows, and the community of widows that mourns her passing attests to her success….We do not know whether she was a widow herself. We do not know whether she was financially self-sufficient. We do not know whether she was a leader in her community. Some commentators make the case that Tabitha was all of these.” [1]
In the world in which Tabitha and the other disciples lived, women were not full members of society. Their attachment to men was their connection to the social order, whether that man was their father, brother, husband, or son.
In general, women did not work for pay outside the home, women did not own property—in fact, women were property—and women did not speak for themselves. A widow, then, is in a precarious position.
If her late husband had no brother with the means to take her into his household, or if she had no adult sons, or if she was far from her family of origin, she was adrift. There was not a social safety net in place, nor would she have accumulated any sort of stability or wealth that belonged to her.
This same precariousness was also true for orphaned children. This is why we hear so often in our scripture—from the Hebrew prophets and Jesus alike—that it is our responsibility as the people of God to care for the stranger, and the widow, and the orphan. Those whose connections have been severed.
Enter Tabitha. Based on what we do know of her, and what we do know of the disciples, and what we do know of their society, we can safely extrapolate that Tabitha was “a disciple who stood in solidarity with widows by using her personal resources to care for them.” [1] We do not know where that money came from, but we know where it went.
I am unsure as to whether any commentators will back me up on this, but this morning I’d like us to regard Tabitha as a feminist icon.
As a feminist, Tabitha knew that the personal is political. As a feminist, Tabitha understood “the suffering of widows and the political implications of their suffering….By ministering to widows, [Tabitha] resists a [patriarchal] way of life that marginalizes women devoid of male economic support.” [1]
Frequently, preachers will tell you about how different the context was for the stories from our scripture compared to our present. This week, the practical application for our life embedded in these stories rings loud and clear.
As you have heard from me from this pulpit on numerous occasions now, you know that I prepare my sermons with the Bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other. [2] I know that St. Martin’s is a congregation of at least as many opinions as people, and it is unlikely that we have engaged this week’s news in identical ways. But we are a community of people who listen for the voice of God, and who know that the good news of Jesus the Christ is liberation from the ravages of sin and death and freedom from the powers and principalities of this world. And so when we hear that our liberties and the liberties of the most vulnerable among us are in jeopardy, we act.
Early this week, a document leaked from the Supreme Court of the United States about an upcoming landmark decision that has yet to be formally and officially decided. The document makes it clear that the court’s conservative majority will vote to overturn Roe vs. Wade, the 1973 decision guaranteeing the right to abortion. The opinion also hints at where this precedent could lead, when it comes to other constitutional rights—including contraception and marriage equality for queer couples as well as for interracial couples. Though these rights are not explicitly mentioned in the United States Constitution, they are rights to privacy, autonomy, equality, and dignity. The leaked opinion mentions that these rights are not guaranteed because they are, quote, “not deeply rooted in the Nation’s history and traditions”. [3] This is alarming, because the rights that are deeply rooted in the nation’s history and traditions are for white, land-owning men to literally own everything and everyone else. Everyone else’s full humanity is on the chopping block.
In our scripture this morning, the example of good and righteous living that we are presented with is Tabitha, the good and kind woman who did what she could to improve the lives of those cast off. This is not an exception, but rather the rule, when it comes to whose examples we should follow in our lives as Christians. We are not told the story of the Roman occupying forces, the lawmakers, the deciders, the powerful people who chose to render these widows and so many beloved children of God powerless.
We are not told the story of those who made the rules that meant destitution and death for the vulnerable among them. We are not given that example to emulate. We are not instructed by the Torah, the Hebrew prophets, the Gospels, or any of our other sacred literature to use and abuse our neighbors, or to ignore their exploitation or peril.
We are told the story of a woman who knew that the most vulnerable in her community were to be loved and cherished, not rejected. We do not know anything about these widows that Tabitha served. We do not know if they were good, or kind, or righteous, or for how long they had been widows or if they had had any children or why it was that they did not have a family to support them. Tabitha did not see anything wrong with these widows, but rather something wrong with the society that cast them aside.
Knowing, as we do, about women’s lack of standing in their first century society, it is incredible that Tabitha was able to make this difference in the lives of her neighbors. And it is incredible that her story carried all the way from that time, through every Act of every Apostle, through every iteration and translation of our scripture, here to us, now. Perhaps you think that Tabitha’s resurrection is the most interesting thing about her. Personally, I think the most interesting thing about this story is that we’ve managed to hear it.
As the discourse rages around abortion and freedom and gender and sex and every other controversial issue in our culture, it can be quite attractive to go full ostrich, head in the sand. Earmuffs, blindfolds, pick a metaphor, any metaphor.
But in the Gospel According to John, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”
There are so many voices we can listen to out in the world. So many individuals and institutions and cultural norms are all yelling over each other to get our attention—our families, our peers, employers, politicians, business leaders, celebrities, cable news anchors, social media influencers. It can be hard sometimes to tell the difference between this noise and the voice of God.
In a reflection on this Gospel text, Jesuit Father James Martin wrote that “It’s important to know what is and is not God’s voice.” [4] A simple sentence, but basically the thesis of the thing.
The voice that tells you you are not enough is not God’s voice.
The voice that tells you that you are too much is not God’s voice, either.
The voice that tells you that your body is wrong, that your feelings are wrong, that your way of being in the world is wrong, that is not God’s voice.
The voice that tells you that your gender, or race, or class, or citizenship, or ability, or education make you worth more than another person—that’s not God’s voice, either.
It’s not always easy. But God’s voice is the one that tells you that you are loved unconditionally.
God’s voice is the one that tells you that your sin is forgiven.
God’s voice is the one that tells you that you are created good, as you are and as you are becoming.
God’s voice is the one that tells you that you are doing your best and your best is enough.
God’s voice is the one that tells you that you are the only one who has control over your body.
God’s voice is the one that tells you to get up, to breathe deeply, and live.
Amen.
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[1] Scott C. Williamson, “Fourth Sunday of Easter” in Preaching God’s Transforming Justice: Year C, 212-216.
[2] This adage is attributed to 20th-century German theologian Karl Barth.
[4] From a tweet by @JamesMartinSJ from 12 May 2019.
