The Good Works We Leave Behind
Sermon
Sermons on the First Readings
Series III, Cycle C
Object:
It's a poignant scene: the gathering place of mourners.
In our culture, that scene is usually played out in a funeral home, a chapel, a sanctuary, or at the graveside. In that day, however, it most often took place in the home of the deceased. And the body was there, too, similar to our visitations with open caskets; though without some of the cosmetic advantages.
So it is that the grieving friends of Tabitha are gathered together in her home. She must have died rather recently, for she hasn't been buried yet. Instead, she is upstairs; her corpse laid out on her bed.
As the sad and surprising word spreads through town, more of her many admirers arrive at the house. The initial conversations at the door are all essentially the same. "I just heard the news." "I can't believe it!" "How did it happen?" "Was anyone with her?" "She was such a wonderful person!"
The growing crowd of grieving friends and neighbors reminisce together, sharing their favorite stories about Tabitha. Without the benefit of the kind of photographs and videos that we have today, their recollections had to be entirely verbal. And so they talk on for hours, saturating themselves in the happy memories.
On the other hand, while they do not have scrapbooks to hold in their hands and picture albums to show one another, they do have something else that's physical. Something perhaps even more personal than photographs. They have the things that Tabitha herself had made.
Evidently this saintly woman was skillful at making clothes. Not just skillful, but generous, as well. Was there a friend or a neighbor who hadn't received something from her hand? The reminiscing turns into a lovely sort of show-and-tell as the townspeople bring out the tokens of Tabitha's kindness.
"She gave this to me for my last birthday," one woman tearfully reports, as she holds up a lovely shawl. "She was so thoughtful! She never forgot a birthday, you know."
"She was always thinking of other people," another chimes in.
"This robe," says another woman, drawing attention to the one she's wearing, "I'm sure she was making this robe for herself. But when I visited one day and commented about how pretty it was, she held it up against me and said, 'A perfect fit! It's yours!' "
On and on the stories went.
You and I don't get to hear those stories. And the fact is that we don't really know Tabitha. Scripture does not follow the story of her life or even any portion of her life. Indeed, the only part of her biography that is preserved for us at all is the story of this one particular day; and she was dead for most of it. We have no record of any words that she ever spoke.
And yet, for all of that, we feel like we know her, don't we?
We feel like we know Tabitha because we all have been blessed to know someone like her somewhere along the way. Perhaps it was our grandmother, an aunt, or a neighbor lady. Perhaps it was an older gentleman from church, a customer on the paper route we carried as a youngster, or a former teacher. Some saintly soul whose skillful hands and generous spirit combined to leave behind a lovely legacy of good works.
Personally, I know that all of Gladys' adult grandchildren still have Christmas stockings that she sewed for each of them when she was alive. Elizabeth's crocheted afghans are still gracing countless homes so many years after her death. Jack's carefully crafted stained-glass art hangs now in the windows of the homes of family and friends all over the country. And William built more bookcases, picture frames, cabinets, and shelves than he could remember before he died, but those of us who have pieces of his craftsmanship all remember him.
So it was with Tabitha. The family members, friends, and neighbors gathered together in her home, clothed and armed with the good works that she had left behind. Together they admired her loving handiwork. Together they fondly remembered her. Together they showed the symbols of her goodness to the apostle.
Peter, the well-known disciple of Jesus and pillar of the early church, had been staying in the nearby town of Lydda. He was just a few miles from Joppa where Tabitha had lived. And so the Christians there sent word to Peter, urging him to come to Joppa right away.
Peter did. When he arrived, he was taken immediately up to the room where the body of Tabitha lay. There he was surrounded by the grieving friends, each one with an article of clothing to show him, each one with a story to tell him. Surely the apostle's heart was blessed by the stories of this saint who had died and by the good works she had left behind.
Then he did something unusual. Peter sent them all out of the room.
I wonder if that seemed abrupt to the people gathered there. I wonder what they whispered to one another as they walked down the stairs, leaving the apostle alone in the viewing room.
As a pastor, I have seen a number of occasions when a loved one has wanted to be alone with the body of the deceased. They wanted an opportunity to say a personal and a private good-bye. They wanted an opportunity to say some things that ought not have an audience.
But this was not Peter's circumstance. He was not among the bereft that he should want to be alone with the corpse. He didn't know Tabitha; and he had not known anything about her until the past fifteen minutes. Why, then, would he send everyone away? Why would he seek to clear the room and be alone with the body?
Why? Because that's what he had seen Jesus do.
Years before, when Peter and the rest of the twelve had accompanied Jesus all along the dusty roads of Galilee, Peter had been in a similar bedroom. The twelve-year-old daughter of Jairus had died, and the house was full of mourners. But Jesus sent them away. Or at least out of the room. And then, accompanied only by a select few disciples and the grieving parents themselves, Jesus spoke to the little girl. And in speaking to her, he raised her to life.
So, now, the disciple followed the example that he had seen set by the Master. He sent the mourners out of the room, and then he spoke to the corpse. "Tabitha, get up," Peter said, and the dead woman opened her eyes. Then she sat up. And then, next thing you know, Peter is leading her out to present her to her astonished friends and loved ones.
Can we even fathom the scene that ensued? All of the warmth of the people's grief now combined with their joy and surprise at the sight of Tabitha alive to form an uncommon sort of welcome and embrace. Have tears of sadness ever turned more quickly and completely into tears of joy? The gathered mourners, who not so long before had cried over her corpse, could now hug her person. The friends who had whispered their affection and appreciation in her ear where she had layed could now say it to her face.
And then, in the midst of it all, watch the apostle leave the scene.
The grateful people are loathe to let him go. They hug and thank him repeatedly. They cling to him in their appreciation.
We human beings are accustomed to saying thank you for routine things: a door held open, a compliment, a gift. But how do we adequately thank a person who has brought a loved one back from the dead?
Peter goes on his way, on to the next place where he will stay, where he will preach, where he will heal. He leaves Tabitha, alive and well, behind in Joppa. She is among the good works that Peter leaves behind.
Earlier, we caught a glimpse of the good works that Tabitha had left behind. Tunics, cloaks, robes, shawls, and such. But Peter has his own profound collection. Healed bodies, saved souls, and a living Tabitha -- these are among the good works that the apostle leaves behind.
Peter's example and Tabitha's example challenge us. We see what each left behind, and we ask, "What is it that I leave in my wake? What is the impact and effect of you or I having been in a community, a church, a school, a workplace, a family?"
Where Tabitha had been, she left behind symbols of love and generosity, tokens of thoughtfulness and sweetness. Where Peter had been, he left behind life and health, gladness and rejoicing.
We consider the example of Tabitha, and we observe that the good works she left behind remind us of her Lord. For he is the original artisan, after all, and he has generously shared his handiwork with us. We see both his skill and his sweetness in what he has made. The works of his hands inspire our praise and adoration.
Likewise, we consider the example of Peter, and we see that the works he left behind also remind us of his Lord. We follow Peter, and we remember the one who sent his followers out "to proclaim the good news ... Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment" (Matthew 10:7-8). We remember the one who went about doing good (Acts 10:38) and then told Peter and the rest that they would do the works he had done and even greater works (John 14:12).
The deeds and lives of his people, you see, remind us of him. For in the end, they are -- we are -- the good works that he leaves behind. Amen.
In our culture, that scene is usually played out in a funeral home, a chapel, a sanctuary, or at the graveside. In that day, however, it most often took place in the home of the deceased. And the body was there, too, similar to our visitations with open caskets; though without some of the cosmetic advantages.
So it is that the grieving friends of Tabitha are gathered together in her home. She must have died rather recently, for she hasn't been buried yet. Instead, she is upstairs; her corpse laid out on her bed.
As the sad and surprising word spreads through town, more of her many admirers arrive at the house. The initial conversations at the door are all essentially the same. "I just heard the news." "I can't believe it!" "How did it happen?" "Was anyone with her?" "She was such a wonderful person!"
The growing crowd of grieving friends and neighbors reminisce together, sharing their favorite stories about Tabitha. Without the benefit of the kind of photographs and videos that we have today, their recollections had to be entirely verbal. And so they talk on for hours, saturating themselves in the happy memories.
On the other hand, while they do not have scrapbooks to hold in their hands and picture albums to show one another, they do have something else that's physical. Something perhaps even more personal than photographs. They have the things that Tabitha herself had made.
Evidently this saintly woman was skillful at making clothes. Not just skillful, but generous, as well. Was there a friend or a neighbor who hadn't received something from her hand? The reminiscing turns into a lovely sort of show-and-tell as the townspeople bring out the tokens of Tabitha's kindness.
"She gave this to me for my last birthday," one woman tearfully reports, as she holds up a lovely shawl. "She was so thoughtful! She never forgot a birthday, you know."
"She was always thinking of other people," another chimes in.
"This robe," says another woman, drawing attention to the one she's wearing, "I'm sure she was making this robe for herself. But when I visited one day and commented about how pretty it was, she held it up against me and said, 'A perfect fit! It's yours!' "
On and on the stories went.
You and I don't get to hear those stories. And the fact is that we don't really know Tabitha. Scripture does not follow the story of her life or even any portion of her life. Indeed, the only part of her biography that is preserved for us at all is the story of this one particular day; and she was dead for most of it. We have no record of any words that she ever spoke.
And yet, for all of that, we feel like we know her, don't we?
We feel like we know Tabitha because we all have been blessed to know someone like her somewhere along the way. Perhaps it was our grandmother, an aunt, or a neighbor lady. Perhaps it was an older gentleman from church, a customer on the paper route we carried as a youngster, or a former teacher. Some saintly soul whose skillful hands and generous spirit combined to leave behind a lovely legacy of good works.
Personally, I know that all of Gladys' adult grandchildren still have Christmas stockings that she sewed for each of them when she was alive. Elizabeth's crocheted afghans are still gracing countless homes so many years after her death. Jack's carefully crafted stained-glass art hangs now in the windows of the homes of family and friends all over the country. And William built more bookcases, picture frames, cabinets, and shelves than he could remember before he died, but those of us who have pieces of his craftsmanship all remember him.
So it was with Tabitha. The family members, friends, and neighbors gathered together in her home, clothed and armed with the good works that she had left behind. Together they admired her loving handiwork. Together they fondly remembered her. Together they showed the symbols of her goodness to the apostle.
Peter, the well-known disciple of Jesus and pillar of the early church, had been staying in the nearby town of Lydda. He was just a few miles from Joppa where Tabitha had lived. And so the Christians there sent word to Peter, urging him to come to Joppa right away.
Peter did. When he arrived, he was taken immediately up to the room where the body of Tabitha lay. There he was surrounded by the grieving friends, each one with an article of clothing to show him, each one with a story to tell him. Surely the apostle's heart was blessed by the stories of this saint who had died and by the good works she had left behind.
Then he did something unusual. Peter sent them all out of the room.
I wonder if that seemed abrupt to the people gathered there. I wonder what they whispered to one another as they walked down the stairs, leaving the apostle alone in the viewing room.
As a pastor, I have seen a number of occasions when a loved one has wanted to be alone with the body of the deceased. They wanted an opportunity to say a personal and a private good-bye. They wanted an opportunity to say some things that ought not have an audience.
But this was not Peter's circumstance. He was not among the bereft that he should want to be alone with the corpse. He didn't know Tabitha; and he had not known anything about her until the past fifteen minutes. Why, then, would he send everyone away? Why would he seek to clear the room and be alone with the body?
Why? Because that's what he had seen Jesus do.
Years before, when Peter and the rest of the twelve had accompanied Jesus all along the dusty roads of Galilee, Peter had been in a similar bedroom. The twelve-year-old daughter of Jairus had died, and the house was full of mourners. But Jesus sent them away. Or at least out of the room. And then, accompanied only by a select few disciples and the grieving parents themselves, Jesus spoke to the little girl. And in speaking to her, he raised her to life.
So, now, the disciple followed the example that he had seen set by the Master. He sent the mourners out of the room, and then he spoke to the corpse. "Tabitha, get up," Peter said, and the dead woman opened her eyes. Then she sat up. And then, next thing you know, Peter is leading her out to present her to her astonished friends and loved ones.
Can we even fathom the scene that ensued? All of the warmth of the people's grief now combined with their joy and surprise at the sight of Tabitha alive to form an uncommon sort of welcome and embrace. Have tears of sadness ever turned more quickly and completely into tears of joy? The gathered mourners, who not so long before had cried over her corpse, could now hug her person. The friends who had whispered their affection and appreciation in her ear where she had layed could now say it to her face.
And then, in the midst of it all, watch the apostle leave the scene.
The grateful people are loathe to let him go. They hug and thank him repeatedly. They cling to him in their appreciation.
We human beings are accustomed to saying thank you for routine things: a door held open, a compliment, a gift. But how do we adequately thank a person who has brought a loved one back from the dead?
Peter goes on his way, on to the next place where he will stay, where he will preach, where he will heal. He leaves Tabitha, alive and well, behind in Joppa. She is among the good works that Peter leaves behind.
Earlier, we caught a glimpse of the good works that Tabitha had left behind. Tunics, cloaks, robes, shawls, and such. But Peter has his own profound collection. Healed bodies, saved souls, and a living Tabitha -- these are among the good works that the apostle leaves behind.
Peter's example and Tabitha's example challenge us. We see what each left behind, and we ask, "What is it that I leave in my wake? What is the impact and effect of you or I having been in a community, a church, a school, a workplace, a family?"
Where Tabitha had been, she left behind symbols of love and generosity, tokens of thoughtfulness and sweetness. Where Peter had been, he left behind life and health, gladness and rejoicing.
We consider the example of Tabitha, and we observe that the good works she left behind remind us of her Lord. For he is the original artisan, after all, and he has generously shared his handiwork with us. We see both his skill and his sweetness in what he has made. The works of his hands inspire our praise and adoration.
Likewise, we consider the example of Peter, and we see that the works he left behind also remind us of his Lord. We follow Peter, and we remember the one who sent his followers out "to proclaim the good news ... Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment" (Matthew 10:7-8). We remember the one who went about doing good (Acts 10:38) and then told Peter and the rest that they would do the works he had done and even greater works (John 14:12).
The deeds and lives of his people, you see, remind us of him. For in the end, they are -- we are -- the good works that he leaves behind. Amen.
