Clothed in Dignity (Acts 9:36-43)5/11/2025
And this week was chock full of fashion statements from across the world. Which may sound unrelated to scripture, but I promise you it’s not, so stick with me. Last Monday was the annual MET Gala fundraiser where celebrities dress -- or, more precisely, are dressed by some of the world’s most distinguished designers -- in extravagant, over-the-top suits & gowns, paying homage to the year’s theme. And with five Black men chairing the Gala for the first time ever this year, its theme was, “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” and the dress code was “Tailored for You.” Inspired by Monica L. Miller's book, Slaves to Fashion: Black Dandyism and the Styling of Black Diasporic Identity, the Gala was an unapologetic, emphatic celebration of Black dandyism, which “is at its core,” Ty Gaskins writes, “a fashion revolution, a movement steeped in history, resistance, and pride. … a cultural statement, an act of protest, and, above all, an enduring celebration of individuality.” And wow, was it ever all that! Then on Thursday, in a much different but no less extravagant event halfway across the world, white smoke billowed from the chimney of the Sistine chapel, and Cardinal Robert Prevost was named Pope Leo XIV. In the eternity between the release of white smoke and Pope Leo’s presentation on the balcony, I openly wondered to my clergy sisters why it was taking so dang long, while the former catholics among us explained that popes wear really big outfits so it takes a long time to get dressed. And when he finally did step onto the balcony in different robes than Pope Francis had worn, we listened intently to MPR’s discussion of how some popes choose their robes as they do their names, both a reflection and declaration of who they are and intend to be as pontiff. Pope Francis, you may recall, was always robed in the white minimalism of his Jesuit roots which spoke to his intentional kinship with the poor and powerless. The new Pope -- the first born in the US, progeny of Black Haitian and Creole ancestors, whose spiritual roots lay in the Augustinian tradition -- chose to wear more traditional papal garb: a cardinal’s white cassock with attached red pellegrina, under the same ornate red and gold stole donned by Popes Francis, Benedict, and John Paul before him. It was kind of a let down, if I’m honest. But even prior to the week’s events, I was already on a journey into the significance of fabric and flesh which began as I thought about Peter and Tabitha in our Easter stories. In last week’s Gospel, when he recognized Jesus on the beach, Peter's immediate reaction was to cover his nakedness and jump in the lake. That reminded me of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden where they were unclothed and unashamed until they believed the lie that God was withholding goodness and beauty and fullness from them, and ate the fruit. Then, as Genesis 3 tells it, “Both their eyes were opened, they realized they were naked, and they sewed fig leaves together to make coverings for themselves.” When God called out looking for them, and Adam said they were naked and afraid and so they hid, God’s reply was a simple but telltale question: “Who told you you were naked?” I guess they didn’t know how perfectly clothed they’d always been in God’s love and goodness. That brought to mind Matthew 6, where Jesus points to lilies more beautiful than Solomon in all his splendor, assuring the worried poor that the God who so adorns fields of grass, will certainly clothe them too. And as I wandered from there through the Bible in my mind, I began to realize just how often stories in scripture are punctuated by clothing, like in the many allusions to the Hebrew custom of wearing sackcloth and ashes during periods of mourning and repentance and, conversely, the excessive, almost comical design of Priestly Garments prescribed under the law in Exodus 28 and 39: Their robes were to be spun of the finest linen, sewn with blue, purple, and scarlet yarn; With a breastplate inlaid with an array of precious stones set in gold filigree; and a crown of solid gold to be worn with a turban on the head. Without a doubt, these Holy Vestments were a far more extravagant get-up than anything we might ever see at the Met or on the Pope. But then I also thought about all the women of the Bible whose stories were punctuated not by their dress but by their undress: Women accustomed to exploitation and erasure, who, like Rahab, Tamar, Ruth, and Hagar, knew God personally, and learned to use their nakedness, vulnerability, and sex, to secure a future for themselves and their people. I thought about women like Mary Magdalene, apostle to the apostles, the first to preach the risen Christ to unbelieving men; Mary the Tower who was central to the story of God in Flesh, but was later whore-ified and turned into a scandalous footnote by men who either could not or would not concede her significance and authority. And of course, then, I thought about my own experiences of whorification and erasure, which began when I was told at just 4 years old that I couldn’t wear a two-piece swimsuit because “I might cause men to stumble.” The ironic vulgarity of such a thought is obvious to me now, but as a little girl I had neither the framework nor the power to call on Jesus’s dire warning in Matthew 18 against adults who cause children to stumble under the weight of their own depravities. And so, over time, I internalized the oft-repeated message that what I wore could bring down even the holiest of men. And those messengers robed me in hatred and fear of my own body. It not only came to dictate all my fashion choices, but also launched me into decades of disordered eating and deformed self-perception. So you see, clothing does matter. A lot: From one of the most lavish events of the year to one of the most consequential elections of our lifetimes, from the pages of Scripture to the shirts I now thrift, cut, and hand-sew into my own unique priestly garb, in the words of writer Haniyah Philogene, “every stitch [tells] a story. Every hem is a declaration.” And Tabitha -- beloved Tabitha -- knew this. One of only 3 dozen or so women named in all of the New Testament, Tabitha was named by parents who clearly understood the assignment, and gave her one which, according to Dr Wil Gafney “is revelatory.” By naming her Gazelle in three languages, her parents clothed her in the swift strength and nimble grace she would need to thrive under occupation. By naming her Tavitha -- a name rooted in the Hebrew word for gazelle, “zivyah” -- they robed her in the majesty and royalty of “one of Judah’s great queen mothers who ruled for her son when he ascended the throne at the tender age seven...” And by naming her in Aramaic, the language of former “empires that had once dominated their people,” and giving her a name which “so easily translated into Greek, the language of their current oppressor,” her parents dressed their daughter in the defiance by which their ancestors outlived their oppressors, and which would sustain her and her descendents for generations to come. Which is to say, Tabitha’s name was more than a word, it was a wardrobe. So it’s no wonder she became a maker of wardrobes for others. But she is more, still! For she is also the only woman in all of scripture to be named a disciple in its feminine form, which is mythetria in Greek. She was not, of course, the only female disciple -- but the fact that she is the only one given that specific designation speaks to the specific kind of work she was doing. And here in Acts 9, Rev. Michele Ward explains, her works and deeds are described with phrasing typically reserved for “[the] healing, miracles, and teachings” of the disciples and apostles we already know. So when Luke uses that phrasing in reference to Tabitha it is no doubt meant to draw our close attention. So let us attend: Because now, Tabitha is dead. Her body has been ritually cleansed, anointed, and dressed in burial linens by the very women she dressed in life. And it’s been carried to another upper room where it will be attended until the funeral, or until Peter arrives. And when he does, a day or maybe two later, Peter is taken up to that room and immediately surrounded by grieving widows who are wailing and showing him all the garments Tabitha had made for them. This is significant. These were women living on the margins of society, widowed and unmarried, many of them probably very poor and otherwise destitute. And they lived in a society where clothing was expensive, and even most middle class people could only afford one or two well-made garments, which they would wear, mend, and repair for as many years or even decades as they could. Without the resources of marriage they were relegated to the lowest echelons of society where their options for employment were as threadbare as their robes, and forced to depend on the kindness of others to meet their basic needs and keep them, as Tabitha did, from the humiliation of wearing garments so worn out they might as well be naked. So when this throng of weeping widows surrounds Peter, waving their robes and other clothing before him as they wail over the woman who clothed them, they are grieving more than the death of a tailor. To them, Tabitha was a healer and miracle worker who, by fitting them with garments that honored their bodies, and embroidering their lives with unassailable worth, restored them to life. By creating robes and dresses that would last their whole lives and longer, she declared with every stretch of fabric their eternal belonging to the beloved community. And by making their problems her problem, and identifying with them in their suffering, she wove her life together with theirs, stitched their burdens into her own kind of priestly garment, and crowned them with all dignity, respect, and new life. What I’m saying is that Tabitha made resurrection so real among them, that when she died, they died with her, and when she was raised by Christ, through Peter, they were all raised again, too. The widows are who I think this story is really about, for theirs is the resurrection we cannot miss. Friends, I don’t know how many of us will ever get to see the dead breathe again the way Tabitha breathed again. But I do know, like those widows, that resurrection is much bigger and more mysterious than clothing designers called back from death. And I understand, the way Peter understood, that the mechanics of a mystery are far less interesting than learning to recognize its manifestations all around us, because they are all around us. Resurrection is everywhere, and the mystery of the gospel is being revealed every single day. In disciples like Tabitha, who was as profoundly normal as the rest of us. She could’ve been anyone or no one, except that in devoting the mundane everyday work of her own hands to dressing those widows’ in honor, she became a healer, a miracle worker, and the only woman in scripture to wear the feminine name disciple. And why? Because she cared. That’s it: She cared deeply. Tangibly. For the least of these within her reach. And so beloved of God, Let us go and do likewise that we may also raise the dead. Amen.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply.AMY COURTSSermons + Songs + Poems Archives
June 2025
Categories |
RSS Feed