A Character of Our Communities

  The Character of Our Communities 

Acts 9:36-43 

The title of my sermon this morning comes from a book by a pastor and ethicist named Gloria Albrecht. Like many theologians and biblical scholars and just plain “regular folks,” Gloria Albrecht finds herself frustrated with the uniquely American emphasis on “rugged individualism” and the sense that we’re all just in it for ourselves on our way to the top. Albrecht argues that Christians should be different. That we should be about “conversion to community,” in all of its diversity, where we all share one heart that touches the least of us. And calls us to a shared commitment in our individual stories and experiences. Which I think we have seen in droves this week in response to violence and bloodshed all across the world.

The true “character” of our communities, Albrecht says, comes when we integrate the struggles within the stories of our tradition with the diversity of our lived experiences and a genuine resistance to violence and oppression that is practiced over and over and over again through the course of a shared common life.

Which is, I think, a fancy way of saying that the character of our communities is shaped by paying heartfelt attention to the characters of our communities. Including—and perhaps especially—those who ask the toughest questions and present the toughest struggles and invoke the toughest challenges.

One of the characters of our community here at Madison Square who asks questions and invokes challenge is Bob Allen. And I think everyone who knows Bob will agree: he is quite a “character”!

When I first visited Bob in the hospital about a year ago, he confessed to me that he just isn’t in to “all that religious hocus pocus.” He had taken a bad fall and hit his head. And it was bad enough that he needed minor surgery and a fairly lengthy recovery period. And although we were reluctant to admit it out loud, especially in his presence, we were a little bit worried that maybe this might be the beginning of the end.

I knocked on the door of his hospital room with more than a little fear and trepidation. But of course, Bob being Bob, put me at ease right away. He was lying flat on his back and could barely move his body. But there was nothing wrong with his mind. Or his mouth! And he said he was doing just fine, thank you very much.

And then he told me about his life before this hospital bed. He said he had served in the military in World War II but because of the trauma of that experience he has devoted his life to peacemaking ever since. He said he had built a business when he came back to Texas—and was successful—but that he always felt his true labor was to “the common good.” And of course he told me about how he had met and married his beloved Betty Lynn. And I was mesmerized. And as far as I could tell he really was doing ‘just fine, thank you very much.’

But then he got quiet. And he lowered his voice. And he said, “You know, Gusti, I’m really glad you’re here. And it’s been great to talk to you. But I’m afraid I’m just not into all that religious hocus pocus. I hope you’re not offended.” And I could tell by his eyes that he was genuinely concerned.

I will admit I was taken a bit off guard. But I knew that Bob had a heart of gold. So I blurted out without much thought: “Well, I guess I won’t pray for you, then!”

And thank God, he laughed! And I laughed. And he got better. And I got away with a really big lie. Because of course we did pray for Bob, didn’t we? Right here in worship. Every Sunday. Until he got better. Not because we care so much about all that religious hocus pocus. But because we care so much about Bob. As a character of our community . . .

And so we can imagine, in some small way, what it is like for that early Christian community in the Book of Acts, in the little town of Joppa, full of people who care so much about Tabitha, who has become ill, and is dying before her time, that they beg Peter to come rushing from the next town over and do something to help them.

When Peter enters the room he finds Tabitha’s community weeping over their loss. They are inconsolable. Tabitha has been their leader. Perhaps even their “pastor,” although that term as we understand it does not yet occur in the early church at the time of this story. Whatever her role, the Greek text tells us that Tabitha is officially a “disciple.” It is the only time the feminine form of that word is used in the Bible. Which means she must have earned the respect and authority and responsibility that come with that official title, as a character of her community.

So how does Tabitha earn the designation of “disciple” in the church in Joppa? Is it because she is “into all the hocus pocus of religion”? Or is it instead because she literally clothes her congregation with the steadfast love of God, sharing her sewing talents far and wide among those who need them most? The ones on the margins. Including the widows, who in her time are very likely penniless. And who, like Tabitha, are dying much too young.

According to New Testament scholar Margaret Aymer, who teaches at the Interdenominational Theological Seminary in Atlanta, first century women like Tabitha—and the widows who surround her weeping—and their husbands—most often succumb to poverty, malnutrition, illness, or violence before they reach their fortieth birthday. Meaning that yours truly—who is still considered a “young pastor” in the twenty-first century Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)—would be nearing the end of my life if I were in Tabitha’s church.

But because Tabitha cares about the character of her community, she is not willing for her people to surrender submissively. She wants them to live! So she does exactly what Gloria Albrecht suggests: integrating the struggles within the stories of her tradition with the diversity of the lived experiences of her community. In a genuine resistance to violence and oppression that is practiced over and over and over again through the course of their shared common life.

How does Tabitha do it? She devotes herself to good works. To acts of charity. Which, in the Book of Acts, means pooling together whatever resources she can scrape up to cultivate the common good. And she doesn’t stop with her own tribe, either. The fact that she is known by a Greek name, as well as a Hebrew one, tells us she very likely practices her discipleship across all boundaries of culture and religion and ethnic identity.

Which is why Peter comes running when he hears of her death. And puts everyone else out of the room. And prays for her. And offers her—perhaps for the first time in a long time—the same kind of communal care she has offered to so many. And the call to “rise up” and keep on going. And the gift of a hand to help. And somewhere, somehow, Tabitha summons the strength to respond.

And she rises!

Which is what the people of Boston—at their best—have done in the face of the violence that literally exploded in their midst. It’s what the people of central Texas—at their best—are doing in response to a different kind of explosion that has shaken the core of that community at risk. It’s what all of us do—in ways large and small—when the Character of the Risen Christ takes over in our midst. Even in the face of overwhelming anguish. Teaching tolerance. Resisting violence. Rushing to one another’s aid when death comes too soon and despair rears its ugly head.

Because the true character of our community trusts that God will still yet find a way to turn our mourning into dancing. Not because we’re “into all that hocus pocus.” But because we have made a choice to live in the light of the common good.

Today, this week, we have witnessed true evil. Too many people dying way too soon. And we could very well dismiss the story of Peter raising Tabitha from the dead as something like “religious hocus pocus” in the face of true anguish. Or we can lament it as a special power that belonged only to Peter, while we mere mortals still struggle with abject suffering.

But I think the character of Bob Allen teaches us something different. Last Sunday, as we danced and marched and sang in the light of God, a kind of chaos ensued at the end. The choir was singing one verse of the song, and I was singing a different verse, and the congregation was singing something different, and none of us really knew where things were heading. Yours truly wasn’t so sure if this dancing idea was such a good one after all.

But unbeknownst to the rest of us, Betty Lynn Allen whispered in Bob’s ear. To the man whose body was completely immobile just a year ago. And said, “do you think you could get your walker out into the aisle and walk down a little ways to the music?”

Which is modern-day Madison Square English for “Tabitha, get up!”

And Bob said, “Sure!” And stunned us all, as he shook his shoulders and swayed his hips and swished down the aisle.

Proving to all of us once and for all that the resurrection of the body really is real.

This is the true character of our community isn’t it? The character of the community of Christ. To rise up. To keep dancing. To keep singing. To keep serving.

And so we will! Amen.