Tabitha
Stories
Contents
“Tabitha” by Keith Hewitt
“Dancing” by C. David McKirachan
“Washed in Blood” by C. David McKirachan
Tabitha
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 9:36-43
Can I be honest?
When the two men from Joppa came to tell me about Lydia, I had no idea who she was, no idea what they wanted me to do…and no idea what was going to happen when I got there. Would I find family and friends of this woman who were angry with me for not getting there sooner? Would I find family and friends who were expecting some kind of miracle?
And if that was the case, what would I be able to do — or, rather, what would God be able to do through me? Even after all this time, I knew I was an imperfect servant, a fragile vessel for the Holy Spirit. Sharing the Good News was one thing; healing the sick was another; but raising the dead — that was a whole different plane of wonders, and the thought of it made my chest hurt.
As we walked the eleven miles from Lydia to Joppa, the young men who had come for me filled me in on who Lydia was — and I found myself wishing that I had gotten to know her before she fell ill. She had a heart for helping others that went back long before any of us had ever heard of Jesus, and she continued her works of charity even as she came to be one of his disciples.
It was a reminder to me that some of the best preaching is done with deeds, not words, and I mused that she had done far more than most to actually live out the teachings of our leader. Not in big, flashy ways, perhaps, but with smaller acts of mercy that actually persisted and became a part of many people’s lives. Weaving, with your own hands, a tunic for someone who has none, and will wear it every day…and every day be reminded of the giver, and the reason for the gift—that’s a powerful ministry.
It was late in the day when we arrived at Joppa, at the house of Lydia, to find a crowd of fellow believers in and around the house, waiting…waiting for me, I realized with a kind of empty feeling, and once again uncertainty set in. After a short conversation, her family escorted me to the upper room where they had laid her out.
I hesitated at the doorway. By now darkness had fallen, and there was only the light of a couple of lamps to see her by. From across the room I looked at the body, lying as though asleep on a bed of reeds, arms crossed at her waist, a cloth covering her face. There was a faint, fresh scent of spice in the air, and I knew that she had already been washed, as bodies are washed when the owners take their leave of them.
The room was silent as well, death, the only sounds being muffled weeping from the floor below.
“Well?” her sister said, after what seemed like a very long time.
I licked my lips, tried to keep my voice steady and low. “How long has she been…” I trailed off, couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Dead?” her sister said, finishing it for me. “She took ill last night, and passed just after first light. So it has been all day, and into the evening now.” She nodded toward the darkness outside.
“Right,” I said, my brain marking time until I could think of what to say. Mercifully, it didn’t take long. “Very good then,” I said suddenly, and straightened up slightly. “By his own resurrection, our Lord and Savior has taught us that death need not be final. I will pray for her, and let God’s will be done!”
“God’s will be done,” her sister murmured, along with the others who had come with us.
And then they waited, expectantly.
“No,” I said firmly, “I must be alone.”
They looked at one another, then filed out.
And we were alone, Tabitha and I.
I stood in the doorway for a bit longer, then walked across the room and knelt near the bed. My chest was tight, now, as I lay with my face to the floor and prayed quietly and fervently. “Lord,” I said, “I know there is nothing I can do. I also know that there is nothing you can’t do. I do not know what your will might be, but I can tell you that this woman, here, is a good woman. She has done much for her neighbors. She has done much for your children. If it is your will that she come into your presence today, then let her fly swiftly to your bosom, and be in glory. But if there is work here for her to do, yet…if there are ways she might preach the Good News that she has not done, yet…if you think that returning her to her family and friends tonight might be a sign that will bring them to you…then I pray that you will raise your daughter, Tabitha, from her sleep. Raise her in health. Raise her in life. Raise her as a sign of your everlasting, ever present glory. Amen.”
Considering I had not known what I was going to say, the words seemed to pour forth with ease, and I knew the Spirit was in me…and that gave me hope. I hesitated, remembering that when Jesus called Lazarus from the tomb, it had been a much shorter, simpler prayer. I reached back to that memory, and added lamely, “Lord God, I know that you have heard me.” Then, heart pounding, but without raising my face from the floor, I said firmly, “Tabitha! Wake up!”
How long between heartbeats? I lay there, counting each beat of my heart, and they seemed to stretch endlessly…before I heard a sudden, indrawn breath — a gasp. A cough. And then a weak voice saying, “What happened?”
I was glad I had sent the others from the room, then, because I sprang to my feet with virtually no dignity at all. I turned to the bed to see her face, now, with the cloth grasped in one hand, and she was looking at me as though she couldn’t figure out what was happening.
Well, she probably couldn’t. I reached out with my hand and took hers, and gently helped her to her feet. She was still looking bewildered, and I just smiled and said, “You’ve been on a bit of a journey, Tabitha — but you’re home, now.”
“But — how?” she said softly. “I — I think I died.”
I smiled again. “You did,” I said gently, “but I guess God had other plans for you.”
And together, with her clutching my arm, we walked downstairs to her waiting family.
* * *
Dancing
C. David McKirachan
John 10: 22-30
In seminary I took a series of classes on Dance, jazz and interpretive. We had to do it. The biggest hurdle for this Clydesdale was getting limber. Back then I was made out of rubber bands, so a routine of humiliation and patience and sweat did the trick. I played Rugby. Dance is different. Other than being physically capable we had to listen and collaborate.
The teacher told us that we had to listen with our bodies. That took some interpretation and trial and error. Then we had to pay close attention to the others we were dancing. Otherwise the whole thing would be a jerky mess. We had to learn to get into harmony with them, physically. That took a lot of paying attention, close attention. I’ve sung in choirs all my life. I’ve played sports, team sports. They demand collaboration. This was a new form of it. Needless to say, quite a few people dropped out of a class they thought would be an easy filler. This was one of the most challenging experiences I had in the herd of challenging experiences stampeding through those years.
Our involvement in the disciplines of faith is often a jerky mess. Though we are supposedly dancing to the same tune, it seems we have a hard time getting limber, listening, and collaborating. It feels sometimes that we’re not paying attention. It’s no wonder new people have a hard time getting involved in church life. It can be confusing, even painful, with uncertain goals other than keeping the whole strange machine moving.
This bunch of church folks that confronted the Lord at the Feast of Dedication waltzed right up to him and told him to declare his credentials. He knew what they were asking for, he knew why they were asking for it. Their demand was a veiled threat, ‘Say it! We double dog dare you!’ If he did, they had proof against him. If he didn’t the people would hear his denial. It’s the old, ‘Did you stop cheating?’ routine, a question that can’t be answered without putting yourself in a hole. Aristotle would yell, ‘Foul!’ Dr. Lossey, my logic professor would calmly intone, ‘Perhaps you should consider your assertion. It is a Complex Question, a fallacy.’ He never yelled.
Jesus said, ‘We’re dancing to different tunes. You aren’t paying attention. Either collaborate, or get out of our way.’ (You have to go back to the Greek to get that translation).
Over the years in my experience in the church, I was confronted by bunches of situations, setting me up to fail. Sometimes I didn’t pay attention. Sometimes I didn’t believe in the authority of the Holy Spirit. Sometimes I sincerely didn’t like or love the people coming after me and I responded in like kind. That was rarely pretty. These approaches invariably yielded some form of a jerky mess.
Staying limber and staying alert enough to pay attention to God’s presence in the whispers and shouts of our days and nights is a disciplined journey. It demands that we believe in the power and validity of the Good News and God’s choice of us as disciples. It demands that we listen to God’s music, listen with our ears, our minds, and our bodies. And it insists that we ‘…have this mind among ourselves as was in Christ Jesus…’, living lives of collaboration that witness to the power of the Holy Spirit and the utterly inclusive love of God.
Needless to say, there are a lot that drop out. Periodically, I try. But this dance is addictive. Harmony with other people of faith and God’s still small voice is an experience that calls us back past all our exhaustion and reservation and frustration.
No wonder dancers keep coming back to the mystery and glory that is dance.
Thanks be to God.
* * *
Washed in Blood
by C. David McKirachan
Revelation 7:9-17
Stains have followed me throughout my life. As a child I was an expert at finding new ways of permanently marking garments in record time. I was informed of this talent by my sister. My mother never commented. She just sang hymns louder as she did the laundry. ‘Come Labor On’ was a favorite on laundry day.
This passage always got her attention. “‘Washed in the blood of the lamb…?’ that’s just plain crazy. You wash anything in blood and you get a permanent stain. I dare anyone to get that stain out.” That was when I mutilated a knee and had the audacity to bleed all over my jeans and my sox. I thought it was pretty cool. I felt like a maimed Viking.
During devotions one day, I lifted the issue to the theological expert in the house, Dad. He had the PhD, but I wondered sometimes, because when I asked him questions he always asked me what I thought. My comment at the time led to a round table discussion that diverted onto Grampa’s farm, where there seemed to be a lot of stains that Grandma was really good at removing, including blood. Then we got off on scars. But I knew about scars. I had a couple. My sister mumbled that I was a scar, or maybe a scab. My mother told her to stick to the subject and be nice to her little brother. My father said scabs had to do with another discussion. So back to scars.
He asked me what good a scar was. We went from evidence of healing to something that helped us remember. A scar was kind of like a stain. And though most stains and scars are marks that we’d rather do without, some help us remember things that we really shouldn’t forget. Sometimes it’s better to remember pain than to forget it. How are we going to learn a lesson if we forget about it?
Then my father looked straight at me and asked me, “Did you ever do anything wrong?” My sister laughed. Then shut up when my father asked me again, “Did you?”
I sat there going back over all the mortal sins I had committed in the last 24 hours. Summoning up the courage of a hero, I intoned, “Uhhh….” Evasion usually worked, but everybody just sat there looking at me, waiting for a list.
“Now, you feel on the spot, guilty. You know you’re not perfect but usually you can get by without having to worry about it. That’s called being human. It’s our normality. None of us are perfect, but usually we can get by.
“That’s what the cross is about. It’s a scar. It reminds us of the pain we cause every time we say or do something that isn’t the best we can say or do, every time we say or do something that hurts someone or even every time we just ignore someone else’s pain. If we say or think, ‘I don’t care.’
“That’s what the cross is about. It reminds us that God loves us more than our worst. More than our sin. And we don’t want to forget that. So, we’re sad about the pain, but we’re glad about God’s love. So we hang onto the cross. It’s like cherishing a scar or a stain.”
Cherishing a stain was a real reach for somebody who spent time getting grass stains out of kid’s clothes. I thought my mother would react, but she just smiled and looked at him. It was the opposite of the look. You didn’t want that. But now she gave him the other look.
The PhD continued. “So, washed in the blood is a pretty nasty idea, but it gets the point across. It got us into a good discussion, didn’t it?”
My sister chimed in, “Yeah, but he still hasn’t told us what he did wrong.”
That’s the good thing about theology. The theoretical is safer.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 12, 2019, issue.
Copyright 2019 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
“Tabitha” by Keith Hewitt
“Dancing” by C. David McKirachan
“Washed in Blood” by C. David McKirachan
Tabitha
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 9:36-43
Can I be honest?
When the two men from Joppa came to tell me about Lydia, I had no idea who she was, no idea what they wanted me to do…and no idea what was going to happen when I got there. Would I find family and friends of this woman who were angry with me for not getting there sooner? Would I find family and friends who were expecting some kind of miracle?
And if that was the case, what would I be able to do — or, rather, what would God be able to do through me? Even after all this time, I knew I was an imperfect servant, a fragile vessel for the Holy Spirit. Sharing the Good News was one thing; healing the sick was another; but raising the dead — that was a whole different plane of wonders, and the thought of it made my chest hurt.
As we walked the eleven miles from Lydia to Joppa, the young men who had come for me filled me in on who Lydia was — and I found myself wishing that I had gotten to know her before she fell ill. She had a heart for helping others that went back long before any of us had ever heard of Jesus, and she continued her works of charity even as she came to be one of his disciples.
It was a reminder to me that some of the best preaching is done with deeds, not words, and I mused that she had done far more than most to actually live out the teachings of our leader. Not in big, flashy ways, perhaps, but with smaller acts of mercy that actually persisted and became a part of many people’s lives. Weaving, with your own hands, a tunic for someone who has none, and will wear it every day…and every day be reminded of the giver, and the reason for the gift—that’s a powerful ministry.
It was late in the day when we arrived at Joppa, at the house of Lydia, to find a crowd of fellow believers in and around the house, waiting…waiting for me, I realized with a kind of empty feeling, and once again uncertainty set in. After a short conversation, her family escorted me to the upper room where they had laid her out.
I hesitated at the doorway. By now darkness had fallen, and there was only the light of a couple of lamps to see her by. From across the room I looked at the body, lying as though asleep on a bed of reeds, arms crossed at her waist, a cloth covering her face. There was a faint, fresh scent of spice in the air, and I knew that she had already been washed, as bodies are washed when the owners take their leave of them.
The room was silent as well, death, the only sounds being muffled weeping from the floor below.
“Well?” her sister said, after what seemed like a very long time.
I licked my lips, tried to keep my voice steady and low. “How long has she been…” I trailed off, couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Dead?” her sister said, finishing it for me. “She took ill last night, and passed just after first light. So it has been all day, and into the evening now.” She nodded toward the darkness outside.
“Right,” I said, my brain marking time until I could think of what to say. Mercifully, it didn’t take long. “Very good then,” I said suddenly, and straightened up slightly. “By his own resurrection, our Lord and Savior has taught us that death need not be final. I will pray for her, and let God’s will be done!”
“God’s will be done,” her sister murmured, along with the others who had come with us.
And then they waited, expectantly.
“No,” I said firmly, “I must be alone.”
They looked at one another, then filed out.
And we were alone, Tabitha and I.
I stood in the doorway for a bit longer, then walked across the room and knelt near the bed. My chest was tight, now, as I lay with my face to the floor and prayed quietly and fervently. “Lord,” I said, “I know there is nothing I can do. I also know that there is nothing you can’t do. I do not know what your will might be, but I can tell you that this woman, here, is a good woman. She has done much for her neighbors. She has done much for your children. If it is your will that she come into your presence today, then let her fly swiftly to your bosom, and be in glory. But if there is work here for her to do, yet…if there are ways she might preach the Good News that she has not done, yet…if you think that returning her to her family and friends tonight might be a sign that will bring them to you…then I pray that you will raise your daughter, Tabitha, from her sleep. Raise her in health. Raise her in life. Raise her as a sign of your everlasting, ever present glory. Amen.”
Considering I had not known what I was going to say, the words seemed to pour forth with ease, and I knew the Spirit was in me…and that gave me hope. I hesitated, remembering that when Jesus called Lazarus from the tomb, it had been a much shorter, simpler prayer. I reached back to that memory, and added lamely, “Lord God, I know that you have heard me.” Then, heart pounding, but without raising my face from the floor, I said firmly, “Tabitha! Wake up!”
How long between heartbeats? I lay there, counting each beat of my heart, and they seemed to stretch endlessly…before I heard a sudden, indrawn breath — a gasp. A cough. And then a weak voice saying, “What happened?”
I was glad I had sent the others from the room, then, because I sprang to my feet with virtually no dignity at all. I turned to the bed to see her face, now, with the cloth grasped in one hand, and she was looking at me as though she couldn’t figure out what was happening.
Well, she probably couldn’t. I reached out with my hand and took hers, and gently helped her to her feet. She was still looking bewildered, and I just smiled and said, “You’ve been on a bit of a journey, Tabitha — but you’re home, now.”
“But — how?” she said softly. “I — I think I died.”
I smiled again. “You did,” I said gently, “but I guess God had other plans for you.”
And together, with her clutching my arm, we walked downstairs to her waiting family.
* * *
Dancing
C. David McKirachan
John 10: 22-30
In seminary I took a series of classes on Dance, jazz and interpretive. We had to do it. The biggest hurdle for this Clydesdale was getting limber. Back then I was made out of rubber bands, so a routine of humiliation and patience and sweat did the trick. I played Rugby. Dance is different. Other than being physically capable we had to listen and collaborate.
The teacher told us that we had to listen with our bodies. That took some interpretation and trial and error. Then we had to pay close attention to the others we were dancing. Otherwise the whole thing would be a jerky mess. We had to learn to get into harmony with them, physically. That took a lot of paying attention, close attention. I’ve sung in choirs all my life. I’ve played sports, team sports. They demand collaboration. This was a new form of it. Needless to say, quite a few people dropped out of a class they thought would be an easy filler. This was one of the most challenging experiences I had in the herd of challenging experiences stampeding through those years.
Our involvement in the disciplines of faith is often a jerky mess. Though we are supposedly dancing to the same tune, it seems we have a hard time getting limber, listening, and collaborating. It feels sometimes that we’re not paying attention. It’s no wonder new people have a hard time getting involved in church life. It can be confusing, even painful, with uncertain goals other than keeping the whole strange machine moving.
This bunch of church folks that confronted the Lord at the Feast of Dedication waltzed right up to him and told him to declare his credentials. He knew what they were asking for, he knew why they were asking for it. Their demand was a veiled threat, ‘Say it! We double dog dare you!’ If he did, they had proof against him. If he didn’t the people would hear his denial. It’s the old, ‘Did you stop cheating?’ routine, a question that can’t be answered without putting yourself in a hole. Aristotle would yell, ‘Foul!’ Dr. Lossey, my logic professor would calmly intone, ‘Perhaps you should consider your assertion. It is a Complex Question, a fallacy.’ He never yelled.
Jesus said, ‘We’re dancing to different tunes. You aren’t paying attention. Either collaborate, or get out of our way.’ (You have to go back to the Greek to get that translation).
Over the years in my experience in the church, I was confronted by bunches of situations, setting me up to fail. Sometimes I didn’t pay attention. Sometimes I didn’t believe in the authority of the Holy Spirit. Sometimes I sincerely didn’t like or love the people coming after me and I responded in like kind. That was rarely pretty. These approaches invariably yielded some form of a jerky mess.
Staying limber and staying alert enough to pay attention to God’s presence in the whispers and shouts of our days and nights is a disciplined journey. It demands that we believe in the power and validity of the Good News and God’s choice of us as disciples. It demands that we listen to God’s music, listen with our ears, our minds, and our bodies. And it insists that we ‘…have this mind among ourselves as was in Christ Jesus…’, living lives of collaboration that witness to the power of the Holy Spirit and the utterly inclusive love of God.
Needless to say, there are a lot that drop out. Periodically, I try. But this dance is addictive. Harmony with other people of faith and God’s still small voice is an experience that calls us back past all our exhaustion and reservation and frustration.
No wonder dancers keep coming back to the mystery and glory that is dance.
Thanks be to God.
* * *
Washed in Blood
by C. David McKirachan
Revelation 7:9-17
Stains have followed me throughout my life. As a child I was an expert at finding new ways of permanently marking garments in record time. I was informed of this talent by my sister. My mother never commented. She just sang hymns louder as she did the laundry. ‘Come Labor On’ was a favorite on laundry day.
This passage always got her attention. “‘Washed in the blood of the lamb…?’ that’s just plain crazy. You wash anything in blood and you get a permanent stain. I dare anyone to get that stain out.” That was when I mutilated a knee and had the audacity to bleed all over my jeans and my sox. I thought it was pretty cool. I felt like a maimed Viking.
During devotions one day, I lifted the issue to the theological expert in the house, Dad. He had the PhD, but I wondered sometimes, because when I asked him questions he always asked me what I thought. My comment at the time led to a round table discussion that diverted onto Grampa’s farm, where there seemed to be a lot of stains that Grandma was really good at removing, including blood. Then we got off on scars. But I knew about scars. I had a couple. My sister mumbled that I was a scar, or maybe a scab. My mother told her to stick to the subject and be nice to her little brother. My father said scabs had to do with another discussion. So back to scars.
He asked me what good a scar was. We went from evidence of healing to something that helped us remember. A scar was kind of like a stain. And though most stains and scars are marks that we’d rather do without, some help us remember things that we really shouldn’t forget. Sometimes it’s better to remember pain than to forget it. How are we going to learn a lesson if we forget about it?
Then my father looked straight at me and asked me, “Did you ever do anything wrong?” My sister laughed. Then shut up when my father asked me again, “Did you?”
I sat there going back over all the mortal sins I had committed in the last 24 hours. Summoning up the courage of a hero, I intoned, “Uhhh….” Evasion usually worked, but everybody just sat there looking at me, waiting for a list.
“Now, you feel on the spot, guilty. You know you’re not perfect but usually you can get by without having to worry about it. That’s called being human. It’s our normality. None of us are perfect, but usually we can get by.
“That’s what the cross is about. It’s a scar. It reminds us of the pain we cause every time we say or do something that isn’t the best we can say or do, every time we say or do something that hurts someone or even every time we just ignore someone else’s pain. If we say or think, ‘I don’t care.’
“That’s what the cross is about. It reminds us that God loves us more than our worst. More than our sin. And we don’t want to forget that. So, we’re sad about the pain, but we’re glad about God’s love. So we hang onto the cross. It’s like cherishing a scar or a stain.”
Cherishing a stain was a real reach for somebody who spent time getting grass stains out of kid’s clothes. I thought my mother would react, but she just smiled and looked at him. It was the opposite of the look. You didn’t want that. But now she gave him the other look.
The PhD continued. “So, washed in the blood is a pretty nasty idea, but it gets the point across. It got us into a good discussion, didn’t it?”
My sister chimed in, “Yeah, but he still hasn’t told us what he did wrong.”
That’s the good thing about theology. The theoretical is safer.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 12, 2019, issue.
Copyright 2019 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
