Sermon Seeds: Life-giving Acts
Fourth Sunday of Easter Year C
Worship resources for the Fourth Sunday of Easter Year C can be found at Worship Ways
Additional reflection on creation care by Dr. Christina Hutchins and Dr. Riess Potterveld
by Kathryn M. Matthews
This is no peaceful meditation on the goodness of God, this book of “The Acts of the Apostles.” For example, by the end of this ninth chapter, we have just come off the adventures of Saul, the persecutor of early Christians, who went from “ravaging” and “breathing threats and murder” against them to getting, so to speak, knocked off his high horse — flattened, that is, and blinded by the light, before he rose up again and made his way, with the help of others, to Damascus, where his sight was restored and more importantly, his vision clarified.
Of course, it wasn’t easy convincing the disciples who had lived in fear of Saul that he was now on their side, and the pace of the story is relentless as he runs from the Jewish authorities in Damascus (lowered in a basket through the city walls! — a first-century version of the car chase scene) and escapes to Jerusalem. There he encounters more skepticism from the believers and arguments with the Hellenists — the Greek-speaking Jews — who want to kill him. But then the camera backs up, giving us a wider view of “the church throughout Judea, Galilee, and Samaria” growing in peace and in faith, and in numbers as well. A curious pairing of words follows: “fear” and “comfort.” As it grew, the church somehow lived, mysteriously, in both “the fear of the Lord” and “the comfort of the Holy Spirit” (9:31b).
From Paul to Peter
We leave the tumultuous Saul/Paul and find ourselves suddenly back with Peter, who had actually walked with Jesus and was a witness (after Mary Magdalene) to the Resurrection. Filled now with the Holy Spirit, Peter can’t help sharing the Good News of his life transformed and the power of that same Spirit of God to transform the lives of others. He visits “the saints” living in various places, and continues the work of his teacher, Jesus, who had healed the sick and raised the dead. Luke writes this story of the early church as exactly that: a continuation of the story of Jesus, risen, present and at work through the power of the Spirit in the life of the early church. In the busy urban center of Lydda, a paralyzed man is healed by Peter, or rather by the Holy Spirit, or, as Peter says, by Jesus Christ (9:34b), and the whole region (“all the residents” — yes, it says “all”) come to believe in Jesus.
But there’s more to the story than that, for scholars make a persuasive case that the man Peter heals is a Gentile. His name may sound familiar, because many of us remember the great Roman hero Aeneas from reading Virgil’s epic poem, The Aeneid, in school. According to Charles Cousar, Aeneas would have also been a familiar name to Luke’s audience, for the poem was a familiar, well-loved work in that day, and perhaps Luke is using this name to hint at what is to come in the dramatic events in chapter ten, and the mission to the Gentiles that will unfold in the book of Acts (Texts for Preaching Year C). The stage is set, then, for new life, and a new, surprisingly expanded vision of ministry in Jesus’ name.
Raising a “gazelle”
We imagine the earliest Christians listening, and like us, being amazed, and eager to hear what happens next in this exciting and inspiring account of the Adventures of the Apostles. Here we are, in the Easter season, with resurrection on our minds. However, like those earliest Christians, including Luke himself, we more likely hear in this story of the raising of the saintly widow Dorcas/Tabitha (many scholars note the elegant meaning of her name in both Aramaic and Greek: “Gazelle”) the echoes of other stories from both the Old and New Testaments: most dramatically, the raising of the daughter of Jairus. Luke had described that miracle in his Gospel (8:40-56) but must have also known about it from the Gospel of Mark, whose account so closely parallels this one that even the name of the dead person differs by only one letter: Talitha/Tabitha. That’s probably not an accident, because the story happens the same way, the command is the same, and the results are the same, as well.
Again, Luke’s point is clear: Peter, and the other disciples, the early church, are continuing the work of Jesus. (It helps us better understand the term, “Body of Christ,” to describe the church.) However, Carl Holladay takes us back even further, recalling the ancient story about Elijah raising a widow’s son from the dead, which puts Peter in a direct line stretching back to the Old Testament prophets (Preaching through the Christian Year C). We might ask ourselves, then, the following questions: Is the church continuing the work of Jesus today? Is the church acting like the ancient prophets, our ancestors in faith? Would those who hear about us, and those who watch what we do, hear and feel echoes from the story of Christ? Would they recognize us as prophets, filled with the power of the Spirit?
A living saint
Back now to that room full of widows mourning the death of an early pillar of the church: even a short passage like this one has important and revealing details. Tabitha sounds very much like a living saint, very much like many of the living saints in our churches today, who spend enormous amounts of time, energy, and resources in ministry to those in need. (In New Proclamation Year C 2010, Philip Culbertson recalls the sewing ministry of the Dorcas Guilds in local churches years ago.) We were given few details, really, about the paralyzed man, Aeneas, except for what we may read between the lines about his being a Gentile, but we learn a great deal about this extraordinary woman.
Luke refers to Tabitha as “a disciple,” and we might easily read past a word that by this time seems so common in the New Testament, without realizing that Tabitha, Gail R. O’Day writes, is “the only woman explicitly identified as a disciple in Acts, and 9:36 is the only occurrence of the feminine form of ‘disciple’ (mathetria) anywhere in the New Testament.” An extraordinary woman, yes, and an unusual use of the feminine form, but O’Day also poses the provocative question of “why when men take care of widows, Luke calls it ‘ministry’ (6:4) but when Tabitha performs the same services Luke calls it ‘good works'” (“Acts,” The Women’s Bible Commentary). Good question, and one that illuminates for us the power of words, especially when we consider the exclusion of women from ordained ministry for so many centuries (and in some churches, even today).
Quiet but powerful
Tabitha, nevertheless, in her own quiet, servant ministry, is a powerful woman. Indeed, she has had such an impact on the community around her that they can’t bear to let her go. Even though they wash her body, they still send for Peter when they hear that he’s nearby. What sort of faith was moving around in their midst? What do you think they were thinking? Stephen Jones reflects on the scene and on our own growing understanding that prayer, attitude, and medicine all work together for healing, along with the support of a community. For Jones, Peter is not as important in this text as that community of widows and saints who cared for her, mourned her passing, and kept vigil outside while something remarkable happened (Feasting on the Word Year C, Vol. 2).
Charles Cousar’s words go well with Jones’ reflection: “Often,” he writes, “it is the faith of those who bring the crisis moment to the attention of a person of God that seems to be the channel through which the grace of the Spirit flows” (Texts for Preaching Year C). These early Christians’ lives were affected, transformed by the compassion and service of Tabitha, and they in turn offered prayers, presence, and tears, but they also took action for the sake of the one who could do nothing, at this point, for herself. Their faith went to work, and amazing things followed.
What was in Peter’s heart?
And so we come to that dramatic yet quiet moment when Peter empties the room of all those mourners, and approaches the bedside of this good and holy woman. Peter kneels, and he prays. You can almost hear the quiet, because Luke doesn’t put words in Peter’s mouth, long-winded prayers or persuasive pleading to God on behalf of Tabitha. No, Luke uses the simplest of words when Peter speaks directly to the dead woman: “Tabitha, get up.”
We wonder what went through Peter’s mind, what was in his heart, what memory and what hope gave him the audacious confidence that he could say two words, and then count on God, right then and there, to do something so astonishing. In this Easter season, perhaps we know that we don’t really have to wonder long, and Peter’s confidence is testimony to the power of God in his life, the things he has seen and experienced, and the effect all of it has had in his life. It also speaks of the power of the resurrection in the life of the church, and in our lives today.
Living in a “Humpty Dumpty” world
This short passage from Acts provokes a number of questions, especially about the miracle of bringing someone back to life. Dorcas and Jesus, of course, are very different “cases”: while Dorcas is temporarily brought back to life, Jesus’ resurrection is a sign of who he is, and we still live today in the light and power of that new life. But what does this particular story mean to us, if we don’t have an apostle traveling around, bringing dead people back to life?
Joseph Harvard suggests that the story gives us reason to hope even when we think that there is no possibility of restoration: he says that we live in a “Humpty Dumpty” world in which we are convinced that things can not be put back together again, but the book of Acts tells a different story, about people “empowered to ‘turn the world upside down’ (17:6)” (Feasting on the Word Year C, Vol. 2). This interesting image is in counterpoint to Richard Swanson’s frequent image of God “turning the world right-side-up” (see his Provoking the Gospel series). In either case, the world is not as it should be, and God is at work, often through us, putting it right again. Doing that might indeed turn it upside down from where it is now, and all of that is, mysteriously, grounds for hope. Robert Wall uses a powerful phrase to describe what underlay the request of the widows for Peter’s help: they lived and moved out of “an optimism of grace” (Feasting on the Word Year C, Vol. 2).
The mystery in the story
Stephen Jones’ reflection wrestles both with the faith of those widows and with our own, scientifically formed questions as modern, or post-modern, Christians today. He focuses on the mystery in this story, the things we do not understand but can trust to God, and he urges us to pray for healing in ways we cannot predict or imagine. As we have seen, he also emphasizes the work of communal healing, and the widows provide excellent role models for that ministry, despite the messages that bombard us from the culture around us, telling us to take care of ourselves, to be private in our pain.
Jones provides a wonderful description of the early Christians that makes us want to be church in the same way: “They were unafraid to wade into each other’s lives in transforming ways.” And he reminds us that while Dorcas rose from her bed that day, she did eventually die (Feasting on the Word Year C, Vol. 2). Isn’t it intriguing to imagine how she used the “extra” time she received? Does your church think about physical health and wholeness in relation to spiritual health and wholeness? Does your congregation put resources toward such a ministry?
Surprised by God
Even the ending of this episode has meaning between the lines, because it puts Peter in a place with between-the-lines meaning: we remember Joppa, Robert Wall observes, where Jonah was sent on a mission to people he didn’t particularly want to help, and he was surprised by God, too (Feasting on the Word Year C, Vol. 2). Charles Cousar, like many other scholars, notes the significance of the description of Peter’s host, the tanner, who was considered unclean, another boundary-breaking hint of what is ahead for the church (Texts for Preaching Year C).
Of course, there’s a call in this text for us, too. Carl R. Holladay sounds like Francis of Assisi (“Preach the gospel, and when necessary, use words”) when he lifts up the power of witness, especially when our witness is in our actions rather than our words (Preaching through the Christian Year C). We can talk and talk and talk, but our “acts of mercy” will say what really needs to be said. The radiance of our faith will speak volumes, and lead others to want to know more about what has truly worked wonders in our lives.
But that doesn’t mean that our words don’t have power, too. I believe the telling, the sharing, and the hearing of our stories of faith, the stories of ancestors long ago, not so long ago, and even the our own stories, have the power to transform lives, individually and communally. Hearing the witness of others, we can each of us learn and be strengthened and sometimes, even rise up when life presses in and trouble has us down. Like Paul getting back up on his feet on that dusty road to Damascus and beginning a whole new life and ministry, like Dorcas/Tabitha rising again to her ministries of compassion and generosity, we are invited to begin again and to taste the sweetness of new life lived “in the fear of the Lord and the comfort of the Holy Spirit.” It’s one reason we don’t travel alone on this journey of faith.
The Rev. Kathryn M. Matthews serves as dean of Amistad Chapel at the national offices of the United Church of Christ in Cleveland, Ohio.
You’re invited to share your reflections on this text in the comments below the post on our Facebook page.
A Bible study version of this reflection is at Weekly Seeds.
For further reflection:
Voltaire, 18th century
“It is not more surprising to be born twice than once; everything in nature is resurrection.”
Jacob Boehme, 17th century
“What kind of spiritual triumph it was I can neither write nor speak; it can only be compared with that where life is born in the midst of death, and is like the resurrection of the dead.”
C.S. Lewis, 20th century
“Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.”
Sr Joan Chittister, 21st century
“The death of Jesus left a fledgling faith community bereft until they themselves rose out of his grave to begin life over again, wiser for what they knew, stronger for what he was, determined now to finish what had already been begun. All things end so that something else can begin.”
Willa Cather, Death Comes for the Archbishop, 20th century
“Miracles… seem to me to rest not so much upon… healing power coming suddenly near us from afar but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that, for a moment, our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there around us always.“
Elizabeth Berg, 21st century
“I thought, the only good thing about sorrow is that it brings us down to ground zero inside ourselves, it reacquaints us with our best and truest self, and it releases compassion like some mighty hormone and if there is one thing that is good for us it’s to have compassion, because it brings us together.”
Marguerite de Valois, 16th century
“Love works in miracles every day: such as weakening the strong, and strengthening the weak; making fools of the wise, and wise men of fools; favoring the passions, destroying reason, and in a word, turning everything topsy-turvy.”
Additional creation care reflection on Psalm 23 and Acts 9:36-43 (originally written for Mission 4/1 Earth 2013):
by Dr. Christina Hutchins, Pacific School of Religion
Dr. Riess Potterveld, Graduate Theological Union
Biblical images of natural landscapes, the seas and the air, together with their myriad, living inhabitants tend to be presented as one of two extremes, thriving or distressed. Often there is either fecund nature, bursting with abundance and splendor, or drought-ridden, destroyed or devastated nature, in which the springs have dried up and the myrtle trees have been transformed into thorny bushes that bite and tear at clothing and human flesh. Fig trees are either barren, withered, dead, or they are restored, begin to flower and produce fruit once again.
There are some powerful biblical narratives, too, that integrate human ethical failures with calamitous consequences for the environments and ecosystems that sustain all life on earth. Of these texts, Hosea, Chapter 4, is one of the most clear and chilling in its brief recitation:
“… God has a controversy with the inhabitants of the land.
There is no faithfulness or kindness, and no knowledge of God in the land;
There is swearing, lying, killing, stealing, and committing adultery;
They break all bounds and murder follows murder.
Therefore the land mourns, and all who dwell in it languish,
And also the beasts of the field, and the birds of the air;
And even the fish of the sea are taken away.”
This text suggests that what we humans do to one another has consequences even beyond our humanity, and our misdeeds are consequential, are etched into the landscape like toxic footprints. In our present era, we use many means of measuring whether we perceive the world and/or humanity as improving or declining. The human measures by which we apprehend progress toward justice for those oppressed: percent of people living in poverty, infant mortality rates, unemployment rates, crime rates, prison populations. There are also local and global environmental measures by which we mark improvement or decline in our era: number of species that have gone extinct, how many have been pulled back from the edge of extinction, rates of shrinkage of glaciers and polar icecaps, sea-level risings, loss of arable land, and the scarcity or abundance of resources key to economic systems and to human life.
Hosea does not separate the human measures of distress from the environmental measures of decline and destruction. It is ethical failure among humans that brings the land to mourn and all who dwell in it to languish. It is our ongoing failure to comprehend our inseparable interrelations, and the failures of our kindness by which even the fish of the sea are being taken away. What is truly awful about this text is its reality as a mirror to us this day. The destruction, the disappearance from existence, occurs not primarily to those who behave with greed and corruption, but rather, the effects land on others around and coming after them: the voiceless, the vulnerable, the precarious. The text suggests that to love God and walk in covenant “with God in the land” is to attend to relations with all that lives, and to notice and to value that which may be in the “background” of our lives but which is vivid, essential, irreplaceable. That the destruction comes after destructive human behaviors also suggests that to love God is to value the living that spills toward the future, toward those who will inherit the lasting consequences of our habits of living.
Psalm 23 is one of the texts given to our consideration on this Fourth Sunday of Easter, with Earth Day 2016 approaching this Friday. Because this favorite poem of many is often read at celebrations of life and at memorial services, readers and hearers tend to focus on the warm and reassuring movements between a pastoral God and a broken human figure in need of solace and protection. The images of the divine as a shepherd and as the host of a banquet are echoed in New Testament texts.
Behind the actors in Psalm 23, however, there is the backdrop of the pastoral scene, which is again presented as two scenes of nature in dramatic contrast or opposition:
“… makes me lie down in green pastures; … leads me beside still waters” (vv.1-2).
“… walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” (v. 4).
The extremes of nature are the background, the immense, not-human landscapes that quickly orient and place the hearer in a zone of safety and pleasurable ease, or a zone of danger, grief, and desolation. The poetic language and vividness of the images heighten the felt intensity of two diverse human conditions that mark “blessing and curse.”
For both the early 20th-century philosopher, Alfred North Whitehead, and for late 20th-century feminist theologians, the process of “foregrounding” that which is in the background is necessary in order to notice relations and lives that dominant modes of thought and religious practice may obscure. The significance of women’s lives, and the lives of other marginalized people, are obscured by the androcentric contexts that frame most biblical texts. In a similar way, the significance of plants, animals, algae, and insects, the powerful beauty of oceans, the dynamic geologies of earth, tend to be obscured by the dominance of God-human relations in biblical narratives.
Our tendency to focus on the actors in this Psalm may lessen our sense of the landscape as a literary device for displaying the ways new (human) life may emerge. In addition, the actual presence of the natural environments, themselves webs of relation, declares a mutuality of wellbeing with humanity. We don’t even know if the valley of the shadow of death is the very same valley as that of the green pastures. Is it one place in two different seasons? Are they two different natural environments, both precious? Is the grass-blooming valley a return to what had been previously demolished, the way that nature, when we let it, with time and a cessation of active destruction, heals itself and may heal us?
While Psalm 23 seems to look beyond the human condition to a sacred agency whose intervention will make the difference between an individual or community triumphing in dangerous or grief-stricken conditions, the message of Hosea is different: a clarion call to humans to act differently, to be responsible for the ways we conduct ourselves, to remember the responsibilities we have covenanted with our God to perform as we walk together. Hosea’s is a prophetic voice reminding the hearer or reader that the broken world in which we live bears and will continue to bear the marks of our own unjust and sacrilegious behaviors.
The images of contrasting nature in both texts flash as mirrors, reflecting back the images that humans have etched into the glass. Globally, we are beginning to ponder the gross abnormalities occurring in the biosphere that are persuasively linked to the activity of a small percentage of human beings, among whom many of us, with our consumer-driven habits, belong. There is clear evidence that 2012 was the hottest year on record, worldwide, since records have been kept. [Note from Sermon Seeds: According to NASA and NOAA, 2015 is now the hottest year on record: http://www.cnn.com/2016/01/20/us/noaa-2015-warmest-year/index.html.] In the U.S., drought has lowered the Mississippi River to the point where “river bottom” has appeared and burst into gardens. Barges must be loaded with significantly less cargo to allow passage. Such disruptive events are not only problematic because they are abnormal and change patterns of commerce, but they also act as threatening harbingers of a frightening and erratic future for our humanity and for the non-human relations that grace this irreplaceable planet. [Note from Sermon Seeds: simply Google “dead sperm whales” to find heart-breaking evidence of our effect on “the non-human relations that grace this irreplaceable planet.”]
To read about these advancing changes and disruptive events with the intention of “making a difference,” of being people committed to “change-making,” is to respond to this information, not as neutral data, but as a call to radically changed behaviors: as individuals, churches, organizations, educational institutions, governmental bodies, and global alliances.
Psalm 23 is paired with the healing and raising of Tabitha (Dorcas). Tabitha, who in Acts 9:36 happens to be a “disciple,” this being the only occurrence, anywhere in the New Testament of the feminine form of “disciple” (mathetria), had the distinction of taking care of widows. This rings a bell for the reader, because in Acts 6, the Hellenists “murmured” criticism against the Hebrews for neglecting the widows in their daily distribution of food and other necessities. Tabitha is valued for her “good works and acts of charity.” The expression, “acts of charity” is better translated “almsdeeds”; in other words, Tabitha is a valuable member of the early Christian community as a philanthropist.
And the widows who are keeping watch over her, the ones who love Tabitha as the maker of their own tunics and garments, are ushered from the room by Peter. Why are they not present for the drama of raising Tabitha from the dead, this scene with which the author of Acts establishes and bestows on Peter the inheritance of the healing power of Jesus? Don’t we need all of us, all together, to participate in the healings of humanity and of the environments, plants and creatures of our world? Who were those widows, and what power did they hold in early Christianity? As feminist biblical scholar, Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, writes in Bread Not Stone, “It is important to note that the redaction of the Gospels and of Acts was undertaken when the patriarchalization process of the early church had begun.” When women characters appear in New Testament texts, “they are like the tip of an iceberg, indicating a rich heritage now lost to us…we must carefully read the clues of the text pointing to a different historical reality, part of the submerged traditions of the egalitarian early Christian movement.”
How do we give voice to that which has been lost, to that which is being lost now and that which will be lost as we continue to behave in ways that corrupt the diversity of life, human and non-human, that is the imagination of a divine creativity? How do we give voice to the humans who are “backgrounded” as well as to the listening landscape and ebullient creatures of the seas? Former U.S. Poet Laureate W.S. Merwin frequently writes elegies for a disappearing natural world, for the great, gray whale “we are sending… to the End.” His poems bear an urgency we need.
“I want to tell what the forests
I will have to speak
in a forgotten language.”
We are grateful to Tat-siong Benny Liew, Academic Dean and Professor of New Testament at Pacific School of Religion, for suggesting, too, the possibility that the paired raisings by Peter of a man Aeneas and a woman Tabitha may also be an act of compensation for the harsh acts of destruction in Acts 5 when Ananias and Sapphira, husband and wife, fall dead at Peter’s accusation that they have not given as they ought to from their own resources. That is, they did not turn over everything! If we read this text in the pattern that we have been developing, then the regeneration and raising of Tabitha may be a moment when Peter, as an individual, commits to actions that reverse death and loss and unjust outcomes for humans and for all that lives. We can say it is miraculous when people express courage and act to reverse that which would otherwise be a cause for lamentation.
And, still, we need to be singing and speaking the languages of the background! How do we love what has been relegated to “backgrounds”? Can we shift our habits of behavior, as Alfred North Whitehead writes in Process and Reality, to raise “elements to shine with immediate distinctness,” which “in some circumstances,” in a culture’s prevailing values, otherwise “retire into penumbral shadow”?
We conclude with an 1895 poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, “God’s Grandeur,” in which the background is raised to shimmering, “like shining from shook foil,” a phrase that musically sounds like its meaning. Likewise, Hopkins’ “Generations have trod, have trod, have trod,” carries the rhythm of repeated habits, the sound an icon of the motion that footstep by footstep wears out the fragile world. And yet, Hopkins, like the Psalmist, does not give up the new moment provided at the break of day, each morning. He draws an image of the “Holy Ghost” as a bird on her nest. There is a process, given time and an abatement of active destruction, that can be trusted in its regenerative power. “There lives the dearest freshness deep down things.” Here is the poem in full, a sonnet:
By Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–1889)
“The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
“And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”
The Rev. Dr. Christina Hutchins is Lecturer in Theology and Literary Arts at Pacific School of Religion, and the Rev. Dr. Riess Potterveld serves as president of the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, California.
For further reflection:
Haruki Murakami, 21st century
“Not just beautiful, though – the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they’re watching me.”
Albert Einstein, 20th century
“Our task must be to free ourselves… by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty.”
E. B. White, 20th century
“I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for [us] if [we] spent less time proving that [we] can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.”
Sylvia Plath, 20th century
“I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery – air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, ‘This is what it is to be happy.'”
Now in Joppa there was a disciple whose name was Tabitha, which in Greek is Dorcas. She was devoted to good works and acts of charity. At that time she became ill and died. When they had washed her, they laid her in a room upstairs. Since Lydda was near Joppa, the disciples, who heard that Peter was there, sent two men to him with the request, “Please come to us without delay.” So Peter got up and went with them; and when he arrived, they took him to the room upstairs. All the widows stood beside him, weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was with them. 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. Meanwhile he stayed in Joppa for some time with a certain Simon, a tanner.
God is my shepherd,
I shall not want.
God makes me lie down in green pastures,
and leads me beside still waters;
God restores my soul,
and leads me in right paths
for the sake of God’s name.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I fear no evil; for you are with me;
your rod and your staff — they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of God
my whole life long.
After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands. They cried out in a loud voice, saying,
“Salvation belongs to our God
who is seated on the throne,
and to the Lamb!”
And all the angels stood around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures, and they fell on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, singing,
“Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom
and thanksgiving and honor and power and might
be to our God forever and ever! Amen.”
Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, “Who are these, robed in white, and where have they come from?” I said to him, “Sir, you are the one that knows.” Then he said to me, “These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
For this reason they are before the throne of God,
and worship him day and night within his temple,
and the one who is seated on the throne will shelter them.
They will hunger no more, and thirst no more;
the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat;
for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd,
and he will guide them to springs of the water of life,
and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”
At that time the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.” Jesus answered, “I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. 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. What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father’s hand. The Father and I are one.”
Notes on the Lectionary and Liturgical Colors
by the Rev. Susan Blain, Curator for Worship and Liturgical Arts (email@example.com)
Faith Formation Ministry, Local Church Ministries, United Church of Christ
(Essay based on an article by Laurence Hull Stookey: “Putting Liturgical Colors in their Place” in Calendar: Christ’s Time for the Church ©1996 Abingdon Press.)
The use of colors to differentiate liturgical seasons is a custom in use among some Western churches for hundreds of years. Although the custom of using colors is an ancient one, there has not always been agreement on what the colors should be. The Council of Trent in 1570, a Roman Catholic response to the Reformation, codified the colors for the Roman Catholic Church. When we talk about “traditional” colors today, we usually are referring to that codification. There were four basic colors in that codification: purple (penitence), red (Spirit or Martyrs memorials), green (long season after Pentecost) and white (festivals). Other colors, or no color at all, were acceptable variants in some regions.
The Reformation of course was a watershed for Christian ritual practice. Anglican and Lutheran churches often used some form of liturgical colors; however, the Reformed tradition of churches, where the UCC falls, for the most part did away with the custom of using colors, opting for much more simplicity. During the ecumenical liturgical movement of the mid-20th Century, Protestant churches began to look back at some of the ritual and colorful practices of the past with an eye toward reclaiming them to help give expression to feeling, tone, and imagery underlying the lectionary stories.
Before the Reformation’s iconoclasm, and Trent’s code, practices varied from place to place, often depending on what was available. Indeed, in some places the custom was to organize vestments into practical categories of “best,” “second best,” and “everyday” — not depending on the color at all. For Christmas and Easter the “best” vestments were used, no matter the color! Other, less prominent feasts or Sundays got “second best” or “everyday.”
So, here is a challenge to worship planners: Take it upon yourselves to develop and expand the “received” tradition!