The Shepherd calls us back to life

We hear this morning of a resurrection story. This time it is not Jesus, or Lazarus, or Jairus’s daughter raised from the dead, it is a woman in Joppa named Tabitha.

The text tells us her name in two languages: Tabitha in Aramaic. Dorcas in Greek. And we are told she is a disciple. Not just a believer. A disciple. The only woman in the New Testament to be called that word in Greek. It’s a rare word, and the writer chooses it deliberately. Tabitha is not a helper, or an assistant. She is a disciple in her own right.

The text says she follows Jesus and was full of good works and acts of charity. She was known for these good works, particularly for acts of love stitched into garments. For she was a seamstress, a weaver. She clothed the naked, she preserved the dignity of widows—ones whom empire and patriarchy and even sometimes the church would prefer to forget. She built the church with the work of her hands. She funded ministry with the skill of her labor. She gave from herself. She did the kind of work that rarely gets noticed until it’s gone.

When she dies, the widows come. They don’t give Peter a speech. They don’t even ask him for a miracle, really. They show him her work. They show Peter the clothing she made. They don’t try to explain her. They simply point to her work. In an incredibly honest expression of grief, they hold up her love. They let Peter see it. They say, without words:

She loved us. Look.

She remembered us. Look.

Peter sees all this. And let’s recall for a moment who Peter is. Peter—the guy who denied Jesus. The guy who fumbled his way through just about everything in the Gospels. The guy who cut off an ear in a panic and then disappeared when the cross got too close. That Peter. He’s the one they know to call. Because Jesus didn’t give up on Peter.

You may remember from our reading last week, after that night of fishing, and breakfast at the fireside, Jesus gives Peter his calling rather plainly:

Do you love me? Then feed my sheep. Do you love me? Then take care of my people.

And here, in this little room in Joppa, Peter is doing that. He sees the women. He sees the tunics, the clothing. He sees their grief. He doesn’t give a sermon. He prays. Because prayer is not the last resort—it is the first act of resurrection. Then he speaks her name, says the simplest thing: “Tabitha, get up.”

And she does. The woman who made clothing for the forgotten ones is raised up, clothed again in life.

It is a resurrection story. And yet it happens in such an ordinary space. There is no trumpet. No earthquake. There is love. And shaky hope. And a disciple, once again on her feet.

Now, let me say this plainly. Most of us will not get a resurrection story as clear as this. Most of us will bury our friends, our loved ones, our parents, our siblings. Most of us will not hear the words, “Get up,” and see someone literally breathe again.

But the early church put this story in Acts—right in the middle of the first steps of this fledgling Jesus movement—not to dazzle us, but to remind us:

God raises the ones we forget. God lifts up the ones who did their work quietly. God sees the people holding communities together behind the scenes. The resurrection is not just something that happened to Jesus. It is something that echoes through God’s beloved. Something that moves through a community like breath.

And it is no accident, I think, that this story comes to us on Good Shepherd Sunday.

Jesus the Good Shepherd is a deeply personal and comforting image. He knows our name. He walks with us through the darkest valleys. He restores our souls. But He also calls us to join Him in the work of shepherding—to love one another not only with words, but with action.

Tabitha did this. Peter learned to do this. And we are all called to do the same. But we might be surprised at what this action may look like, what it may be shaped like…

The Good Shepherd does not shout from the hilltop. The Shepherd does tough work, but leads gently. Knows the sheep by name. Sees the ones others overlook. And this, too, is resurrection: To be seen. To be remembered. To be called back to life.

Tabitha is called back to life. And perhaps more subtle, but just as real, Peter is called back to life.

Because this is the moment where all those times Jesus said, “Do you love me?” start to mean something. This is where Peter’s “yes” turns into action.

And I think that’s the question this story asks us today:

What are we going to do when someone holds up the tunic? When someone says, “She mattered”? When someone says, “I’m not okay”? When someone asks, without asking, “Can you see what I lost?” Will we step in with love? Will we feed the sheep? Will we say, with all the shaky hope we can muster: “Get up”?

For the the Good Shepherd isn’t only here for our comfort. The Good Shepherd calls us out of our comfort zone and says:

Feed my sheep. Take care of the ones who are grieving. Stay close to the ordinary.  Notice the widows. Love people the way they need to be loved. Bless the garments. Offer your hands for the work of comfort. Make space for beauty and dignity.  Kneel down and pray when you don’t know what to say. Say yes when Jesus asks, “Do you love me?”; show love in small persistent ways. In witness, in care, in rising again.

There is a quiet courage in this kind of love. It doesn’t always make headlines. It is often unseen. But it holds communities together. It brings dignity where there is disregard. It restores hope where there is sorrow.

Tabitha lived this kind of gospel love. She made it tangible. Peter answered a call to this kind of love. He prayed for restoration he knew was possible. And when Tabitha got up, the Church remembered what resurrection looks like. Not always thunderous. But holy. Present. Communal. Continual. Active.

I wonder about that moment when Tabitha opens her eyes. What did she see? Maybe she saw Peter, still kneeling. Maybe she saw the tears on the faces of the women. Maybe she saw the light coming in through the window and thought, It’s not over yet. May we hear this clearly: It’s not over yet. Whatever it is in your life that feels buried—Whatever grief you’re holding— Whatever hope has stopped breathing— It’s not over yet. The Shepherd is still calling. The sheep are still waiting. And love—real love—is still powerful enough to raise what we have deemed dead in our world. So take heart. And when the moment comes—whether it’s quiet or full of noise, whether it’s in a church or a hospital or a kitchen— Be ready to say: “Get up.” Because resurrection doesn’t always come with trumpets. Sometimes it comes in the form of people like Tabitha. People like the widows. Ordinary, deeply loved people like each of us. Amen.