Sermon: "Strangely Warmed: She Lived Love"
The Fourth Sunday of Easter, Year C
In Joppa there was a disciple named Tabitha (in Greek her name is Dorcas). Her life overflowed with good works and compassionate acts on behalf of those in need. About that time, though, she became so ill that she died. After they washed her body, they laid her in an upstairs room. Since Lydda was near Joppa, when the disciples heard that Peter was there, they sent two people to Peter. They urged, “Please come right away!” Peter went with them. Upon his arrival, he was taken to the upstairs room. All the widows stood beside him, crying as they showed the tunics and other clothing Dorcas made when she was alive. Peter sent everyone out of the room, then knelt and prayed. He turned to the body and said, “Tabitha, get up!” She opened her eyes, saw Peter, and sat up. He gave her his hand and raised her up. Then he called God’s holy people, including the widows, and presented her alive to them. The news spread throughout Joppa, and many put their faith in the Lord. Peter stayed for some time in Joppa with a certain tanner named Simon. Acts 9:36-43
The Lord is my shepherd. I lack nothing. He lets me rest in grassy meadows; he leads me to restful waters; he keeps me alive. He guides me in proper paths for the sake of his good name. Even when I walk through the darkest valley,
I fear no danger because you are with me. Your rod and your staff—they protect me. You set a table for me right in front of my enemies. You bathe my head in oil; my cup is so full it spills over! Yes, goodness and faithful love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will live in the Lord’s house as long as I live. Psalm 23The time came for the Festival of Dedication in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was in the temple, walking in the covered porch named for Solomon. The Jewish opposition circled around him and asked, “How long will you test our patience? If you are the Christ, tell us plainly.” Jesus answered, “I have told you, but you don’t believe. The works I do in my Father’s name testify about me, but you don’t believe because you don’t belong to my sheep. My sheep listen to my voice. I know them and they follow me. I give them eternal life. They will never die, and no one will snatch them from my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all, and no one is able to snatch them from my Father’s hand. I and the Father are one.” John 10:22-30
Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!
Christ is risen and the story of resurrection continues, not just as a singular event we celebrate once a year, but as a living reality that shapes our faith, our witness, and the way we inhabit the world. We are now in the fourth week of Eastertide, this long and beautiful season when the Church dares to say that resurrection changes more than a graveyard. It changes people. It changes relationships. It changes how we live. Throughout this series, Strangely Warmed, we’ve been reflecting on stories where the risen Christ shows up, not only in glory, but in moments of fear, confusion, and disruption. We began with the disciples locked in a room, afraid of what would come next, and we watched as Christ entered their fear and spoke peace. Then last week, we watched as Christ met Saul on the road and Peter on the shore, stopping them mid-stride and calling them to a new kind of life. Resurrection, we’ve said, doesn’t just comfort. It changes things. It reroutes our lives.
But not all transformation comes through bright light or dramatic intervention. Sometimes resurrection is made visible through the quiet faithfulness of those who live love day after day. This week’s readings draw our attention to that kind of transformation, the kind that happens not in public spectacle, but in extraordinary acts of care, devotion, and service. In the book of Acts, we meet a woman named St. Tabitha, also known by her Greek name, Dorcas. We are told she is a disciple, and that she was devoted to good works and acts of charity. And well…that’s it. That’s her whole résumé in scripture. No long sermons. No dramatic prophecies. No leadership credentials. She is remembered for how she lived and whom she loved. When she dies, her community grieves. The widows she clothed gather around St. Peter, weeping and showing him the garments she had made for them, tangible pieces of grace stitched together by her hands. This woman didn’t write theology like the many of the saint we read about, but she lived it. She didn’t need to be the loudest voice in the room. Her life spoke with clarity.
And St. Peter, when called upon to respond, doesn’t preach a sermon or offer platitudes. He kneels beside her body, prays, and then says simply, “Tabitha, get up.” And she does. But I want us to note that the miracle in this story is not only that Tabitha is restored to life. I think the deeper part of this story is that her community already knew she had been a vessel of resurrection long before she ever died. She had been raising people up for years through her love. Her faithfulness had already brought life to those around her. And when she returns to them, it is a continuation of that same love, a love that made resurrection real in everyday ways.
The Gospel reading for today adds another layer to our understanding. In John, Jesus identifies himself as the Good Shepherd, the one who knows his sheep and whose sheep know his voice. Here again, Jesus doesn’t speak of force or grandeur but of relationship, of intimacy, of being known, of belonging. “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” The shepherd’s job isn’t just to lead. It’s to protect, to accompany, to feed. It is a vocation of care, of vigilance, of daily presence. It’s an image that pairs beautifully with the life of St. Tabitha. She, too, shepherded her community, not from a pulpit (that we know of—women “clergy” were perfectly acceptable in the early church), but through fabric and food, kindness and generosity. Her life testifies to what it means to be known by the Good Shepherd and to follow his voice by living out his love.
This kind of faithful, ordinary resurrection encounter is not a secondary or lesser calling. It is the very heartbeat of the Church. The earliest Christian communities didn’t grow because of flashy signs and wonders. They grew because people saw in each other a new way of being human. They saw a call to be people who shared everything that they had, who cared for the sick, who welcomed the stranger, who stayed with the suffering. St. Tabitha’s story reminds us that the Church was not just built by apostles and martyrs. It was built by weavers and caregivers, cooks and companions, by people who, known and unknown, let their lives become small sanctuaries of resurrection grace.
As Church and the Holy Spirit go, this pattern is not limited to the first century. We see the same rhythm of faithful love throughout history in revivals but especially running through the early Methodist movement. From the beginning, Methodism was not just a revival of belief but a reordering of life. It took hold not only in cathedrals but in coal towns and crowded city streets. The early Methodists were shaped by a theology of grace that called them not only to be saved, but to be sanctified, to grow in love, to bear one another’s burdens, and to live holiness through acts of mercy and justice. They organized themselves into societies and class meetings not for self-congratulation but for accountability, confession, and care. They took up collections for the poor, visited the sick, taught children to read, and cared for widows and orphans. Like the early Church, they believed that resurrection was meant to be practiced, not just preached.
And if you want to see what that looks like, you need look no further than Susanna Wesley, the mother of Methodism. We don’t have a means to make people official “saints,” but if we did, I would very quickly call her St. Susanna. Her life was not easy. She bore nineteen children, ten of whom survived into adulthood. Her household was often financially unstable, her marriage often strained, and her role demanding beyond measure. And yet, she built a sanctuary in her home. She educated her children herself when schools were not accessible. She structured her days with discipline and prayer, carving out time for study and devotion even amid the chaos of household life. And she gathered her children weekly, sometimes daily, for family worship. When her husband was away and the local priest’s sermons did not provide what she thought she and her family needed, Susanna began holding her own services at home, offering her own commentary on the scriptures. Neighbors heard of her readings, prayers, and exhortations, and began to join. At one point, over 200 people were gathering in her kitchen each week to hear her speak, not because she sought an audience, but because her faith and her clarity offered something real. Now, I don’t know if y’all are just keeping it a secret, but I haven’t yet been invited to an after-church church meeting. Please let me know if you do.
Susanna Wesley did not carry a title. She was not ordained. She did not stand in a pulpit. And yet, she preached. She taught. She shepherded. She lived love. And through her quiet faithfulness, she shaped the theological and spiritual imaginations of all of her children, but we know her sons John and Charles. And through them, she shaped the Methodist movement and much of the life of the Anglican Church as well. Her life was her sermon. Her home became a parish. Her kitchen table, a pulpit. Like St. Tabitha, St. Susanna lived in the power of resurrection not through spectacle, but through steadfastness. And like Tabitha, her legacy is found in the people she lifted up, the ones she clothed in wisdom, in dignity, and in grace.
We often forget that much of the early Christian witness was held together by women whose names only appear briefly, if at all, in the pages of scripture. St. Tabitha is one of the few who is named, and even then, we’re given only a glimpse of her story. But that glimpse is full of meaning. It reminds us that the Church was never only built by apostles and preachers. It was built by women who gathered food for the hungry, who mended the torn clothes of the poor, who created spaces of dignity for those cast aside by the world, and who lived and preached the Gospel message of Jesus Christ. These women didn’t clamor for attention. They quietly embodied the resurrection through daily acts of grace. And when they were gone, their absence was deeply felt, but not because they held power, but because they held community.
In that way, resurrection is a deeply communal act. It is not something we receive and keep to ourselves, as I’ve been saying a ‘private miracle.’ It is something that flows outward. Something that binds people together. When St. Peter arrives at St. Tabitha’s home, the widows don’t come to him with Tabitha’s theological arguments. They come with the work of her hands. They come with her legacy in fabric, just like these quilts that we’re enjoying for the next few weeks. They hold up tunics and cloaks, not just as garments, but as testimonies. She made this. She loved me. She saw me. That is resurrection. That is what it looks like when love takes root and bears fruit in a life.
Too often, we have measured spiritual maturity in terms of how much we know or how much we do. But St. Tabitha’s story suggests another measure entirely: how deeply we love. Not abstract love, but practical, embodied love. Love that feeds, clothes, lifts up. Love that heals through presence and patience. Love that does not seek the stage but makes resurrection visible in small, faithful ways. In that sense, Tabitha stands in the line of countless saints whose lives changed the world without ever drawing attention to themselves. And that, too, is a call to us. Not to do everything, but to love well the people in front of us.
We must also be honest that this kind of love is not always recognized. Caregiving work, whether it happens in homes, hospitals, classrooms, or kitchens, is often undervalued. Those who live out their calling through nurture, caregiving, and hospitality are often assumed to be doing “less important” work. But scripture and history tell us a different story. The Church grew because people like Tabitha and Susanna built its foundation with patience, consistency, and compassion. The work of love is holy work. It is Gospel work. And it is through that work that the Church becomes a body, not just an institution.
Susanna Wesley’s kitchen gatherings weren’t dramatic, but they were revolutionary. She offered stability and structure in an unstable home. She offered scripture and song in a world that often dismissed women’s voices. And my favorite part was that she didn’t wait for permission. She did what love required. She stepped into the calling that grace had already given her. Her husband Samuel often was greatly offended by her services, instructing her to knock them off, but she didn’t. Her legacy reminds us that we don’t need to wait until the world notices us or somebody gives us permission in order to live faithfully. Some of the deepest faithfulness is lived in the unnoticed hours, between meals and laundry, in the quiet of prayer, in the choices to show up when it would be easier to pull back. She did not claim the title of pastor, but my goodness, she lived as one.
As we continue to move through this season of resurrection, we are invited to ask ourselves what kind of resurrection are we making visible? Are we living love in ways that restore life to others? Are we becoming people whose presence mends what has been torn, whose hands build what has been broken? Are we shaping lives that, like Tabitha’s, will one day be remembered not for how much we accomplished but for how well we loved? The good news is, we do not do this alone. The Shepherd still calls. The Spirit still guides. Grace still makes us capable of more than we imagine.
So let’s not wait for our lives to feel dramatic or important. Let us begin again today, wherever we are, with whatever we have. Let us make resurrection visible, one act of love at a time. And when the world begins to wonder where God is, may they find the answer in our care, our presence, and our faithfulness. Because sometimes the clearest sign of resurrection is a hand that reaches out, a meal that is shared, or a life that is lived, quietly, gently, boldly, in love. Amen.
