A sermon for Breathing Space Holy Communion
Today’s first reading is one of my favourites from the book of
Acts, the story of Tabitha – Dorcas in Greek. Here is someone who might never
have featured in any history book, whose life would have passed entirely
unnoticed if it weren’t for this story. She was evidently just a kind woman, a
good neighbour, who simply wanted to do what she could to help others, the kind
of person I have met many, many times, not showy, not looking for praise, but
always there when you needed her. Dorcas’s particular skill, it seems, was
needlework – perhaps that’s why I have always had a soft spot for her, since
that’s something I do a lot of too. Dorcas made clothing for those in need, by
the sound of it – this seems to be the “acts of charity” the story refers to,
and clearly it was something that others valued so much they just couldn’t
imagine a world without Dorcas and her needle.
I recall many years ago, before I was ordained, a young couple had
started coming to the little church I was a member of, which was on a very poor
council estate in Bridgwater. They were still in their teens, both estranged
from their families, very poor, not married, and she was heavily pregnant. It
was a pretty chaotic situation, but they were doing their best, and they had
decided, that, with the baby coming, they wanted to get married. So a date was
fixed for a small, simple wedding, just them and their friends, and some of the
church community. We all said we’d bring some food and put on a little do in
the church hall afterwards.
Everything was set until about a week before the wedding, when a
friend of mine in the church suddenly wondered to herself what this girl was
going to wear on her big day. We’d never seen her in anything other than jeans
and t-shirts or baggy, shabby, borrowed maternity clothes. So she asked her. The girl just looked blank
and shrugged her shoulders. “Just my normal clothes” she said. “I haven’t got
anything else”. I don’t think she had even allowed herself to think about it.
But it didn’t seem right. Of course she could perfectly legally get married in
jeans if she wanted to, but not to be able to dress up on what was supposed to
be one of the most important days of your life seemed like a pretty sad thing
to my friend. So she decided to do something about it. She roped in a few of
the rest of us and the word went out. Did anyone have a wedding dress stored in
the attic that might fit this girl? A few were produced, but she was seven
months pregnant – none of them stood a chance of fitting her. There was only
one that came near, a dress which had been worn by one of our number who was,
shall we say, generously proportioned. It would be too big in many dimensions, but at
least we thought it might go round the bump. The bride to be tried it on, and
sure enough it did go round the bump. Unfortunately that was about the only
place it fitted though. She might as well have been wearing a marquee. We were
all very glad there was no mirror in the room so she couldn’t see the true
scale of the problem. “Hmm, “ we said as cheerfully as we could manage, “it
just needs a few alterations here and there, and it will be fine, “
I don’t think any of us were convinced, though, and by this stage
we only had about two days before the wedding. I think we virtually took that
dress entirely to pieces. We might as well have started from scratch in the end.
I remember working late into the nights, attaching bits of lace here and there
to cover the more obvious alterations. But we finished just in the nick of
time, on the morning of the wedding. There
were moments when I’d wondered whether this was really worth it. But when “our”
bride walked up the aisle, all those questions faded to nothing. It didn’t look
like an expensive designer creation, but it did look like a wedding dress, and
she looked like a bride, a real, proper bride, which was something she had
never imagined she would be. She was
utterly transformed. It wasn’t really the dress that did that, but the fact
that she now knew there were people in the world who cared enough to have done
such a crazy thing for her.
I wonder whether that is why Dorcas’ death seemed so terrible a
loss to those who wept so noisily for her and waved the garments she had made
in Peter’s face until he just had to do something about it. They hadn’t just
lost a companion. They’d lost someone who’d shown them what love really looked
like. Sometimes – perhaps often - love isn’t a matter of great dramatic
gestures. It comes in the shape of something as small as a needle and thread,
or a bag of groceries from the Loaves and Fishes foodbank, or a quick phone
call to check someone is ok, or a steady commitment to some unseen, unsung task
which is nonetheless vital.
Not everyone who loves like this will be brought back to life as
Dorcas is, but there is a sense in which that kind of love can never really
die. It is life-giving in itself, transforming those it touches, bringing them
to life, giving them new opportunities, new vision, and maybe that’s enough.
In the silence tonight, perhaps we could give thanks for the
Dorcases we have known, and pray for the grace to be a Dorcas to others too,
paying attention to those small things that make the big difference to others.
Amen
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