Sermon by Tom Are Jr. | April 14, 2024 | Fourth Presbyterian Church

Third Sunday of Easter
April 14, 2024

The Miracle of Kindness

Tom Are Jr.
Interim Pastor

Psalm 133
Acts 9:36–43

Students of the book of Acts have pointed out that a trait of this narrative is that the risen Christ sometimes shows up so clearly in the church that, as scholar Willie Jennings says, the church “repeats Jesus” (Willie James Jennings, Acts: Belief Commentary, p. 100).

It happens here. Peter is summoned to Joppa because a beloved saint of the church there had died. Her name was Tabitha, although some called her Dorcas. We have never heard of Tabitha before, and after this moment, we will not hear of her again, but her death is important enough to the saints in Joppa that they summon Peter.

We learn two things about Tabitha. One is that she had two names. The other is that she was devoted to good works and acts of charity. She was kind.

Years earlier, in the ministry of Jesus, Jairus’s daughter died. But Jesus held her hand and said, “Little girl, get up.” And she did. Well, here Peter “repeats Jesus.” Peter says, “Tabitha, get up.” And the dead woman breathes.

I’m not going to pretend I can explain that. I’ve been in church a long time, and I have never seen the power of Christ show up in just this way. And yet I think this story tells us something important.

This is a story about Peter, but even more so it is a story about this woman with two names. Tabitha is her Aramaic, or Jewish, name. It’s what Peter calls her. Her Greek friends call her Dorcas. Both names mean “gazelle.” She is remembered as the gazelle woman who darted around her community engaging in acts of kindness. I think that is why she had two names.

When I was a kid, I was called Tommy. From time to time I get an email or a Facebook message “Dear Tommy.” I don’t have to read any further to know this comes from someone with ties to Shallowford Church in Atlanta, where I grew up. To them I will forever be sixteen years old.

When I was in college, my suitemates gave me a nickname, and were you to mention that name it would, in an instant, take me back to Smyth Hall, Room 305. Of course, that’s not likely to happen, because I will never tell you that name.

My point: sometimes names speak of our belonging to a community. If I understand the text, this woman had two names because everyone in the church — Jews and Gentiles — felt connected to her.

A little church history: the most difficult, complex, all-consuming social issue of the early church was the relationship between Jews and Gentiles. It was about race. For centuries Jews were set apart from Gentiles. One way to define being Jewish is to say you were not Gentile. Their worlds were divided. They didn’t share meals; they didn’t share prayers. They were divided.

But by the end of Acts you discover the most amazing thing: in the church, Jews and Gentiles are coming together. Jews and Gentiles worship together. They eat together. They learn to love one another. I’m sure there were issues, of course, but the division that was assumed eternal was being bridged.

I wonder if that bridging began with this woman with two names. Her name is Tabitha. That’s how Peter would have known her — by her Jewish name. But her heart was too big to be defined by one people. She was also known as Dorcas. That’s the name her Gentile friends gave her.

How did she become beloved by both groups? How did she begin to erode divisions that had existed for generations? I think it was because she was kind.

When Peter came, it says the widows of the community gathered around displaying tunics and shawls and blankets Tabitha had made. She had darted from need to need bringing gifts, showing kindness. To Dorcas it didn’t matter who you were; it just mattered that you had a need. Maybe your need was because you were victimized in some way. Maybe your need was because you had made dumb choices. It didn’t matter. She just lived kindness. Do you understand — kindness is a power.

This is a story about Peter, but I think Peter is summoned because he needed to see this — the power of kindness to bring people together, the power of kindness to build bridges, the power of kindness to create community. Peter needed to learn that from Tabitha.

A few years ago, Carol and I went with our kids to Scotland. I had never been before. It was beautiful. We were taking the train from Edinburgh to Oban, so that we might ferry over to the Isle of Iona. We had to change trains in Glasgow. There we were, four Americans, trying to figure out the Glasgow train station. An official there said, “How can I help?” “We need the train to Oban.” “Oh, that train doesn’t leave for over an hour. You should enjoy the city while you wait.” “But we already turned in our tickets.” I didn’t want to buy new tickets. “No worries, mates. I’ll let you back in.” So we went and got lunch. I was fully prepared to buy new tickets to reenter the depot, but as we returned, there he was: “There you are, mates. Come on in.”

My son, who was living in New York at the time, said, “This would never happen back home.”

It was kindness. And the kindness made me feel, in a surprising way, that I was not completely an outsider. I was welcome. I might even belong in this country new to me. Kindness is a power.

Our trip ended, and we flew home. We landed in Philly and then boarded our next flight to Chicago to then catch a flight to Kansas City. But storms in this fair city were bad that night. Our flight to Kansas City was delayed for hours, and then at 1:00 in the morning it was canceled. Having been awake for twenty-seven hours, we stepped outside to hail a cab to catch a nap in a hotel. It was the worse cab ride in the history of transportation. The defroster didn’t work, so the driver kept a window down, which meant the snow was accumulating on me in the back seat. The seatbelts were missing. He had no map, so he asked me to use my phone to direct him to the hotel. I was not overly kind. I was not mean. I was just, what my family calls, “short.” I said, “I’m not supposed to be telling you how to get there. That’s your job. Turn right at the next light.”

When we got to our hotel, Carol asked, “Tom, what do you think that guy’s life is like?” From his language it was clear he hadn’t been in the country long. His cab was in bad shape, and he was driving the midnight shift. If he is like other immigrants I have known, I imagine he spent the day emptying trashcans at a nursing home or working a loading dock and he was spending his night driving this broken-down cab. She said, “It looks like he is doing everything he can to make it, and he is barely holding on. You could have at least been kind.”

I was ashamed. I was grateful that he didn’t know I was a pastor. This immigrant from somewhere in Africa, he very well may have been a Christian himself, but I did not treat him with kindness. There was a moment when I could have chosen to repeat Jesus, but I didn’t.

I wish in that moment I had remembered Tabitha. She was a friend to everyone in her community. Like a gazelle, she darted from need to need. I think Luke lingers with this disciple with two names to remind the church that kindness is a power.

Philip Simmons, a former English professor at Lake Forrest College, was thirty-five years old when diagnosed with ALS. He battled ALS for ten years. During those years he wrote a book entitled Learning to Fall. He says:

“We know we are truly grown up when we stop trying to fix people. … About all we can really do for people is love them and treat them with kindness. … Others don’t need ‘fixing’ so much as simple kindness” (Philip Simmons, Learning to Fall, pp. xii–xiii).

I think that is true. I also wonder if in this divided, fractured, disrespectful culture of ours, I wonder if a consistent practice of kindness can work a miracle or two.

My friend David was a one-shop attorney in Jacksonville, Florida. His wife, Winkie — yes, I’m not making that up — was quite the football fan. David was quite the cook. When the Sunday School class met at their home for a social, Winkie was in the backyard debating the benefits of zone defense; David was in the kitchen swapping recipes for lemon meringue pie.

He never called attention to himself. To my knowledge he never served on a board. He never held a leadership position. He was no mover and shaker, not really.

But every time I asked him, “David, how are you?” he replied, “I’m better now that I’ve seen you. So good to see you.”

“I’ve been wanting to talk with you. Do you have a minute? Tell me about everything,” he’d say.

He went to the doctor because he had a cough. Within a couple weeks he was gone.

When it was time for his service, we couldn’t get everyone in the church. There were leaders of the community, and there were people that no one else knew. People who couldn’t get inside stood outside in the Florida heat because … because he had been kind to us. To all of us. We all carried to that sanctuary our memories of his kindness like blankets and tunics and shawls and laid them before God as a prayer of gratitude for kindness. Kindness is a power.

Tabitha was kind. I’m sure the people she cared for were like people you know. Some of them brooding, some of them self-absorbed. Some of them angry at the cards life had dealt. Some of them campaigning for their issues. But she didn’t try to fix them; she just showed kindness.

I’m glad to remember Tabitha today. I think we need that kind of miracle, because we are divided in this country. We don’t like each other. And America is not a given. We should not act like she is. America is not a given; America is a choice. We are being eaten alive by self-righteousness on the left and self-righteousness on the right and hand-wringing apathy in the middle.

We need a miracle of healing. We need kindness for the stranger and the immigrant. We need kindness for the political foe and the person of a different faith. Instead of trying to push away, or keep out, or drive away anyone who doesn’t appear to fit in, we need some kindness to create some community where it hasn’t existed before.

People who are divided can be brought together in community. That’s why we know of this remarkable woman with two names, and we know of her because she was kind. So, I suggest a practice of kindness. Perhaps the risen Christ may just show up in the church again and we might “repeat Jesus.” Now, I know we are Presbyterians, so we don’t think of ourselves as miracle workers. But engage in a discipline of kindness, and who knows, you might work a small miracle or two.

It’s happened before.