(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on May 12, 2019, Easter IV)
Cats’ Nine Lives
They say that cats have nine
lives. Already, I think, my
brother’s cat Sydney is on his second.
Sydney is about a year old and the friendliest, most outgoing cat I know. He’s the opposite of the proverbial
“scaredy cat.” He greets every
stranger with a leg rub. When the
vacuum cleaner emerges from the closet and turns on, Sydney’s brother scampers
under the bed. But Sydney saunters
over to the vacuum cleaner to sniff it, as if to say, “Welcome back to the
house, old friend.” When the
coffee grinder begins grinding, Sydney hops up onto the counter and watches
with curiosity.
Sydney regularly lounges at the
highest elevation he can find: countertops, bookshelves, window ledges. It was probably from one of these
places that he had his mysterious fall.
One morning my brother and sister-in-law woke up to find that Sydney
could barely walk. He was hobbling
around gingerly, barely using one of his back paws. For a few days, it appeared that Sydney’s jumping and
climbing days were over. One could
even argue that his life wouldn’t even really be life anymore, as he was
restricted from doing all the things he loved to do.
But we should have known
better. Cats have nine lives. Sydney had only expended his
first. Within a couple weeks, he
was traipsing about the house again: rushing to the door to greet strangers,
hopping onto whatever height he could find. Contrary to our grim expectations, life was far from over
for Sydney.
Widows in Jerusalem
In ancient Palestine, life was
practically over for you if you were a widow. In a society run by men, widows quickly fell through the
cracks. They had no man to support
them or to protect them. You may
remember from our reading of the gospel of Mark how Jesus singles out the
widows as a particularly vulnerable group in Jerusalem. In particular, he criticizes the
religious leaders for failing to take care of the widows in Jerusalem: rather
than support them, he says, they demand taxes from them. They rob them of their households.
Imagine that for all your life a
man had provided for you: first your father, then your husband. They made sure there was food on the
table. They made sure there were
clothes enough to wear through the year.
And then one day they’re all gone.
What do you do in this world where men buy and sell and provide and negotiate? You’re a nothing, a nobody in that
world. There’s no way you could
break into their world of business.
There’s no way you could manage.
But against all the odds, life
was not over for the widows in
Jerusalem—because there was a disciple of Jesus named Tabitha who devoted her
ministry to the widows and made sure that they had what they needed. When the weather turned cool and
they had no coat, there was Tabitha with thick, tight-knit tunics that she had
made herself for them to wear. The
book of Acts doesn’t say this, but I imagine it was same thing whenever the
widows went hungry. There would be
Tabitha, ready to give thanks for whatever bread she had, and to break it and
share it with every last person in her company. I like to think of Tabitha as a Rhonda Sneed on the streets
of Jerusalem. Because of her, the
widows were not at a dead-end. For
them, life was far from over.
A Resurrection into This Life
All of this brings us to today’s
scripture. Not only does Tabitha
die. The widows of Jerusalem have
died a little too. Their life is a
dead-end again. As Peter ascends
the stairs to the room where Tabitha’s body lies, I imagine he can hear muffled
weeping from within the room. And
as he enters, our scripture tells us, he sees the widows grieving together,
sharing with each other the loving handiwork of Tabitha, and memories too no
doubt. They must be wondering,
“How will we go on now? Who will be
there to help us when we can’t help ourselves?”
I’m always fascinated with the
resurrection stories of persons other than Jesus. They are miracles, for sure. But they are not the final miracle. These resurrections are not the final
resurrection, beyond which there is no more death, no more grief, no more
pain. No, these are little resurrections. Tabitha, in other words, will die again
one day. Her body has not escaped
an eventual burial. How then are we
to describe this resurrection?
Hers is not resurrection into an afterlife later. Hers is resurrection into
this life now. This resurrection
means more life now. Not only for Tabitha, but also for the
widows to whom she ministers.
Notabout Something Later
More life now. It’s like the second or third or ninth
life of a cat, when you think life is surely over but it’s not. That is the good news according to
Acts. Reading through the first
part of the book, I am struck by how often Peter tells the story of Christ’s
crucifixion and resurrection. Each
time he concludes telling the story, he does not offer the hope of an
afterlife. He proclaims the
possibility of more life now, better life now, abundant life now. He refers to this life differently:
sometimes he talks about the Holy Spirit, which is a way of saying that we can
live in harmony with God; at another time, he says that following Christ will
bring about “times of refreshing” (3:20).
And on another occasion, he addresses a crippled beggar not with money
but with a loving touch and a trusting heart, which not only raise the crippled
beggar up but also welcome him into community, bringing him more healing than
money ever could. More life now.
The good news that animates the
early church is not about something later. It’s about something now. It’s about more life when you thought you had reached a
dead-end. It’s about more life
when you thought you were in a stalemate.
It’s about more life for all of the people who have reached an
impasse—the crippled beggar, the widows of Jerusalem, and Tabitha lying
motionless in the upper room. All
of them receive more life now. Is
it magic? Or is that the power of
love, the power of a community whose hands not only give but touch, whose
hearts do not give up but ever trust?
Dead-Ends Into New Beginnings
Is this not the power that we
bear witness to as Christ-followers?
Is it not the same power that we have experienced today in our own
lives? When in moments of illness,
we find healing and a way forward among hands that hold onto us and hearts that
won’t let go of us? When in
moments of great change and uncertainty, we discover new opportunities by
trusting in the love of God and in the relationships into which it draws us?
We certainly see this power in
the trailer next door, in what might be the greatest ministry that happens on
this corner of Ridgefield, where people who have reached the dead-end of
addiction discover that their life is not in fact over, but that in their
shared cry of helplessness and their shared desperation for grace there is more
life now.
I want to conclude by sharing a
story I heard this past week of an old church in Seattle that was dying. It had thrived for most of the
twentieth century, when it could be taken for granted that most residents of
the city were Christian and participated in a community of faith. But a couple of decades ago, it began
to stall. Shortly after that, it
realized that it was entering into a sharp decline. The city had been changing, but the church had not. It did a wonderful job of welcoming the
already-churched, but it had no way to communicate or relate to the increasing
number of unchurched among its city’s population. It had reached a dead-end. It appeared that its life was over.
Its next move was a simple one,
inspired by the same book we’re reading today. Observing that the early church met in houses and around
tables, it started what it called “dinner church” on a Thursday night. For the first time in years, the church
began to welcome seekers, non-Christians, and other curious folks who could
appreciate a meal, a story, and the strange power of this community’s love and
fellowship.
What had looked like the end,
became a beginning. Not through
the power of money, not through the power of an extensive program or plan, but
through the power of love. Call it
the Holy Spirit, call it resurrection, call it more life now. Call it whatever you want. It’s the good news that we proclaim,
the good news in which we put our faith.
Prayer
Christ of resurrection,
Whose love transforms
Dead-ends into new beginnings,
Whose good news is more life now—
Where we are motionless,
Raise us to something new.
And where the needful around us
Have hit an impasse,
Empower us like Tabitha and Peter
To hold their hand
And share our faith
In the possibility of more life
now.
Amen.
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