The Commemoration of Tabitha of Joppa with the 50th Anniversary of the Life Profession of Sister Madeleine Mary, CSM| by the Rev. Dr. Julia Gatta

Acts 9:36–42

Psalm 139:1-13

Matthew 25:1–13

From the first, Jesus attracted women disciples. And small wonder. In a society in which women’s roles were narrowly circumscribed, Jesus stepped across boundaries and broke cultural taboos to speak with them, take them seriously, draw them into discipleship and even friendship with himself. Think of the Samaritan woman at the well, or the Syrophoenician woman verbally sparring with Jesus on behalf of her daughter, or Mary and Martha of Bethany. He lets women touch him, anoint him, cry at his feet. He needed and welcomed their hospitality and, in the case of wealthy women like Mary Magdalene and Joanna and some others, their financial support for himself and his ministry. And it was women, who after the crucifixion, who thought they were only going about the work, both lowly and loving, of anointing Jesus’ dead body, who ended up the first witnesses to his Resurrection.

In the Acts of the Apostles, we see this pattern continuing as the gospel is spread. We often hear about how the “leading women” in a certain locale were among those who responded most readily to the proclamation of Jesus, risen from the dead. But it’s not just women of prominent social circles we find among the first converts, but also quite ordinary women and men, craftspeople and slaves: all hear the gospel as good news for them. And so today in our reading from the Acts of the Apostles we come with St. Peter to Joppa, where there is already established a recognizable Christian community. But alas! One of their company, Tabitha, a woman rich in good works has recently died, and this fellowship is deep in mourning. After the womenfolk have washed her body and laid her out, they quickly send for Peter, who is at that time in nearby Lydda, about 12 miles to the southeast. Two men take off on this errand. And just what were they expecting? They weren’t inviting Peter to preside at Tabitha’s Requiem Mass, now were they? To them, it simply follows, almost as a matter of course, that the power of Jesus to raise the dead could manifest again through this leading apostle. And so it does. In a scene reminiscent of Jesus’s raising of the daughter of Jairus, itself reminiscent of raisings by the prophets Elijah and Elisha, Peter prays--and Tabitha is restored to life, given back to her community.

Now within this gathered community of Christians at Joppa, there seems to be a smaller community within this larger company—and that is the community of widows. As soon as Peter arrives on the scene, you will recall, it is the widows who are especially bereft at Tabitha’s death and who are eager to show Peter the evidence of her good works—tunics and other clothing made for the poor. It is likely that Tabitha was one of this group. Of course, the care of widows, given their vulnerability, lack of male protection, and often attendant poverty, had long been a special concern in Torah—an ethical tradition inherited by Jews and passed on to Christians. But as we can see from other NT writings, widows also began to constitute a recognizable order and ministry in the Church, a group of women given over to prayer and, as in the case of Tabitha, good works.

Fast forward a bit, and we can see that it did not take long for unmarried women and widows to organize themselves into households given over to prayer, ascetic disciplines, hospitality, and service to the poor and sick. Later, there would follow the desert ascetics, the desert mothers or ammas of noted holiness and wisdom. For the gospel and the teachings of Jesus on celibacy gave women an unprecedented freedom from the scripted roles that had bound them to marriage, childbearing, and a society in which family obligation was everything. It opened the door to a more contemplative life and, in some cases, to literacy and education. Above all, it allowed women to follow Jesus and to love Jesus as he had particularly called them.

Over the centuries, as we know, monastic and religious life evolved: in some times and in some places, as great and powerful abbeys, and at others, as small family-like communes, and everything in-between. We are grateful for the revival of religious life in the Anglican Communion in the nineteenth century, and we are indebted to the early, brave pioneers who enriched our church by their witness and legacy. I think of religious life as a particular distillation of Christian life, whose significance goes far beyond its distinctive ministries of prayer, hospitality, spiritual guidance, teaching, nursing, and care of the poor, among others. The radical commitment entailed in religious life serves as a compass needle for all of us, pointing us toward our true North: our center in Christ and our ultimate eschatological orientation. Monastic vows do not make sense otherwise. Aside from the purely practical need in cenobitic monasticism for singleness, common ownership, and, yes, a hierarchy of office that requires a measure of obedience, all of these sacrifices would be sheer, life-denying foolishness if our hope was for this life only.

And so, we hear in today’s gospel of the wise maidens awaiting return of the bridegroom, a parable about the end of time and the Lord’s final return. Thomas Merton saw this gospel as one dramatizing contemplative longing, and he did not miss the erotic edge of passionate yearning for the bridegroom. Like the wise maidens, we keep the lamp of ardent love burning in the night of faith, in the darkness of this world—a world that seems very dark just now, and the night endless. Yet in the darkest part of the night, at midnight, the cry goes up: “Behold the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!” Jesus meets us in the night of our souls, in this night of our country, and the bleakness of our world--yes, even now, as he will come on the last night of the world dispelling all darkness before him.

Meanwhile, we have some Tabithas among us: women such as we find in the Community of St. Mary. Not widows for the most part, but women who have brought their singleness together, to form a community, dedicated to love and serve the Lord with gladness and singleness of heart. Such Tabithas witness to the significance before God of innumerable small acts of generosity and kindness. Like Tabitha, they bring joy to their communities; they help keep hope alive. Today we give special thanks for that singleness of heart and of commitment that has drawn Sister Madeleine Mary through 50 years of religious life. It hasn’t always been easy or smooth: as in any life and with any community, there have been ups and downs, and a transition from one religious community to another. What’s more, not so very long ago, Sister Madeleine Mary might well have wondered, having thrown in her lot with St. Mary’s Southern Province, and having assumed the burden of guiding it as prioress—she might well have wondered whether this particular community was destined to survive. Yet she persevered, her lamp of faith and hope still alight. Now we have the joy of seeing the community grow year by year. With the psalmist, Sister might well pray, “You trace my journeys and my resting places, and are acquainted with all my ways.” (Ps. 139:2). So much to ponder, so many blessings for which to give thanks.

Tabitha was raised from the dead, and no doubt began again making more tunics, and offering more prayers, until she lived out the full measure of her days: a blessing to those she helped and a loving and beloved member of her community. And so the church in Joppa continued in its witness to Christ, as are all the communities to which we belong--to our Lord and one another in him.