Homily 21 — Acts 9, verses 26 to 43

“And when Saul had come to Jerusalem, he tried to join the disciples; but they were all afraid of him, and did not believe that he was a disciple. But Barnabas took him and brought him to the apostles, and told them how he had seen the Lord on the road.” [a]

One may well be quite at a loss here to understand how the writer can say the opposite of what Paul says in the Letter to the Galatians. There Paul says, “I did not go up to Jerusalem,” but went “into Arabia” and “to Damascus”; and, “After three years I went up to Jerusalem to see Peter” (Galatians 1, verses 17 and 18). There Paul says, “I saw none of the apostles”; but here we are told that Barnabas brought him to the apostles.

Well, then: either Paul means, “I did not go up with the intention of referring myself to them or attaching myself to them” — for what does he say? “I did not refer myself, nor did I go up to Jerusalem to those who were apostles before me.” Or else the plot laid for him in Damascus came after his return from Arabia. Or else, again, the visit to Jerusalem came after he returned from Arabia. Certainly he did not go to the apostles of his own accord; he “tried to join the disciples,” and he did it as a teacher, not as a learner. “I did not go,” he says, “for the purpose of going to those who were apostles before me; I certainly learned nothing from them.”

Or else he does not speak of this visit at all but passes over it, so that the order is: “I went into Arabia, then I came to Damascus, then to Jerusalem, then to Syria.” Or else, again, he went up to Jerusalem, then was sent to Damascus, then to Arabia, then to Damascus again, then to Caesarea.

Again, the visit “after fourteen years” was probably the one when he brought up the alms to the brothers together with Barnabas (Galatians 2, verse 1); or else he means a different occasion (Acts 11, verse 30). For the historian, to be brief, often leaves out incidents and compresses the times. Notice how free of any love of show the writer is: he does not even tell of that vision (it is told in Acts 22, verses 17 to 21), but passes it by. [c]

“He tried,” it says, “to join the disciples. And they were afraid of him.” This shows once more the ardor of Paul’s character. The proof comes not only from the mouth of Ananias and of those who were amazed at him there, but also from those in Jerusalem: “they did not believe that he was a disciple.” And truly, that was beyond all human expectation. He was no longer a wild beast, but a mild and gentle man! And notice how he does not go to the apostles — such is his restraint — but to the disciples, as being a disciple himself. He was not thought worthy of belief.

“But Barnabas” — “Son of Consolation” is his name, and that is why he makes himself easy for the man to approach. For “he was a kind man” (Acts 11, verse 24), exceedingly kind, and this is proved both by the present case and by the affair of John Mark (Acts 15, verse 39) — “took him and brought him to the apostles, and told them how he had seen the Lord on the road.” It is likely that he had heard all about him at Damascus too; that is why he was not afraid, though the others were, for Paul was a man whose very look inspired fear.

“How he had seen the Lord on the road,” it says, “and that he had spoken to him, and how in Damascus he had spoken boldly in the name of the Lord. And he was with them, coming in and going out at Jerusalem, and speaking boldly in the name of Jesus” (verse 28). These things proved the earlier ones: by his acts he made good what had been said about him. “And he spoke and disputed with the Hellenists” (verse 29). So, then, the disciples were afraid of him, and the apostles did not trust him; by this, therefore, he relieves them of their fear.

“With the Hellenists”: he means those who spoke the Greek language. And he did this very wisely, for those others, those thoroughgoing Hebrews, did not even want to see him. “But they,” it says, “set about killing him.” This was a sign of his energy and his triumphant victory, and of how extremely annoyed they were at what had happened. So, afraid that it would end as it had with Stephen, they sent him to Caesarea. For it says, “When the brothers learned of this, they brought him down to Caesarea and sent him off to Tarsus” (verse 30). They sent him both to preach and because he was likely to be safer there, being in his own country. [e]

But notice, I beg you, how far it is from true that everything is done by miraculous grace. On the contrary, God leaves them in many things to manage for themselves by their own wisdom and in a human way, so as to cut off the excuse of idle people. For if it was so in Paul’s case, how much more in theirs!

“Then,” it says, “the church throughout all Judea and Galilee and Samaria had peace, being built up and walking in the fear of the Lord, and it abounded in the comfort of the Holy Spirit” (verse 31). He is about to tell how Peter goes down from Jerusalem, and so, that you may not put this down to fear, he says this first. For while there was persecution, Peter was in Jerusalem; but when the church’s affairs are secure everywhere, that is when he leaves Jerusalem. See how fervent and energetic he is! He did not think that because there was peace there was no need of his presence.

Paul departed, and there was peace: there is no war and no disturbance. The apostles they respected more, since they had often stood before them and were admired by the crowd; but Paul they despised, and they were more savage against him. See how great a war, and then at once, peace! See what that war accomplished: it scattered those who made peace. In Samaria, Simon was put to shame; in Judea, the affair of Sapphira took place. It is not that matters grew slack because there was peace; the peace was of a kind that still needed encouragement.

“And it came to pass, as Peter went through all the regions, that he came down also to the saints who lived at Lydda” (verse 32). Like the commander of an army, he went about inspecting the ranks: which part was solid, which was in good order, which needed his presence. See how on every occasion he goes about in the front.

When an apostle was to be chosen, he was the foremost. When the Jews were to be told that these men were “not drunk,” when the lame man was to be healed, when speeches were to be made, he is ahead of the rest. When the rulers were to be spoken to, he was the man; when Ananias was to be dealt with, it was he (Acts 1, verse 15; Acts 2, verse 15; Acts 3, verses 4 to 12; Acts 4, verse 8; Acts 5, verses 3 to 15). When healings were worked by his shadow, it was still he. And look: where there was danger, he was the man, and where good management was needed. But where all is calm, they all act in common, and he asks no greater honor than the others. When there was need to work miracles, he springs forward, and here again he is the man to labor and toil. [g]

“And there he found a certain man named Aeneas, who had been bedridden for eight years and was paralyzed. And Peter said to him, Aeneas, Jesus Christ heals you; get up and make your bed. And he got up at once” (verses 33 and 34). And why did he not wait for the man’s faith, and ask whether he wanted to be healed? In the first place, the miracle served as an appeal to many. Hear, then, how great the gain was: “And all who lived at Lydda and Sharon saw him, and turned to the Lord” (verse 35). For the man was well known.

“Get up and make your bed”: he does well to give a proof of the miracle. For they not only freed people from their diseases, but along with health they gave strength as well. Besides, at that time they had given no proofs of their power, so the man could not reasonably have been asked to show his faith — just as they did not demand it in the case of the lame man either (Acts 3, verse 6). So, as Christ at the beginning of his miracles did not demand faith, neither did these men. In Jerusalem, as was only reasonable, the faith of the people came first: “they brought their sick out into the streets, so that as Peter passed by, at least his shadow might fall on some of them” (Acts 5, verse 15). For many miracles had been worked there, but here this is the first to take place. For of the miracles, some were worked to draw others to faith, and some to comfort those who already believed.

“Now there was at Joppa a certain disciple named Tabitha, which translated means Dorcas. This woman was full of good works and of the almsgiving that she did.”

“And it came to pass in those days that she fell sick and died; and when they had washed her, they laid her in an upper room. And since Lydda was near Joppa, and the disciples had heard that Peter was there, they sent two men to him, begging him not to delay in coming to them” (verses 36 to 38). Why did they wait until she was dead? Why was Peter not troubled before this? They lived so disciplined a life that they did not think it right to trouble the disciples over such matters and take them away from their preaching. Indeed, this is why it mentions that the place was near: they asked this as something outside his proper work, and not now in the ordinary course of things. “Not to delay in coming to them”: for she was a disciple. [i]

“And Peter got up and went with them. And when he arrived, they brought him up to the upper room” (verse 39). They do not plead with him, but leave it to him to rescue her. See what a cheering encouragement to almsgiving this is! “And all the widows,” it says, “stood around him weeping, and showing the tunics and cloaks that Dorcas had made while she was with them.” Peter went into the room as one who took it calmly; but see what an increase came of it!

It is not without purpose that the writer has told us the woman’s name. It is to show that the name she bore matched her character: she was as active and wakeful as a gazelle. For in many cases there is providence in the giving of names, as we have often told you. “She was full,” it says, “of good works” — not only of alms, but “of good works” first, and then of this good work in particular. “Which,” it says, “Dorcas had made while she was with them.” Great humility! Not as we do; they all lived together in common, and she made these things and worked in company with them.

“But Peter put them all outside, and knelt down and prayed; and turning to the body he said, Tabitha, get up. And she opened her eyes, and when she saw Peter she sat up” (verse 40). Why does he put them all out? So that he might not be confused or disturbed by their weeping. “And having knelt down, he prayed.” Notice how intent his prayer was. “And he gave her his hand” (verse 41). Christ did the same with the daughter of Jairus: “And,” says the evangelist, “having taken her by the hand.” [k]

Notice each thing in turn: first the life, then the strength put into her — the one by his word, the other by his hand. “And he gave her his hand and lifted her up; and when he had called the saints and the widows, he presented her alive.” To some she was given back for their comfort, because they had received back their sister and because they saw the miracle; to others, for their kindly protection. “And it became known throughout all Joppa, and many believed in the Lord. And it came to pass that he stayed many days in Joppa with a certain Simon, a tanner” (verses 42 and 43).

Notice the unassuming conduct, notice Peter’s modesty: he does not lodge with this lady or with some other person of distinction, but with a tanner. By all his acts he leads people to humility, not letting the lowly be ashamed nor the great be puffed up! “Many days”: for those who had believed through the miracles needed his teaching.

Let us look again, then, at what has been said. “He tried,” it says, “to join the disciples” (verse 26). He did not come up to them brashly, but with a subdued manner. They were all called “disciples” at that time because of their great virtue, for the likeness of the disciples could plainly be seen in them. “But they were all afraid of him.” See how they feared the dangers, how the alarm was still at its height among them. “But Barnabas,” and the rest (verse 27). It seems to me that Barnabas had long been a friend of his. “And he told them,” and so on. Notice how Paul says nothing of all this himself; nor would he have brought it up before the others if he had not been compelled to.

“And he was with them, coming in and going out at Jerusalem, and speaking boldly in the name of the Lord Jesus” (verses 28 and 29). This gave them all confidence. “But they set about killing him. When the brothers learned of it,” and so on (verse 30). Do you notice how, both there at Damascus and here, the others take care of him and provide him the means of leaving, and that so far we nowhere find him receiving direct supernatural help from God? This shows how energetic his character was. “To Caesarea, and sent him off to Tarsus”: so, I suppose, he did not continue his journey by land, but sailed the rest of the way.

And this departure was arranged by providence, so that he might preach there too. In the same way the plots against him were arranged by God’s providence, and so was his coming to Jerusalem, so that the story about him would no longer be disbelieved. For there he was “speaking boldly,” it says, “in the name of the Lord Jesus; and he spoke and disputed against the Hellenists”; and again, “he was with them, coming in and going out.”

“So the church throughout all Judea and Galilee and Samaria had peace” — that is, it grew; and it had peace with itself, the peace that is peace indeed, for the war from outside would have done them no harm — “being built up, and walking in the fear of the Lord, and it abounded in the comfort of the Holy Spirit.” And the Spirit comforted them both by the miracles and by the works, and, apart from these, in each person individually.

“And it came to pass,” and so on. “And Peter said to him, Aeneas,” and so on (verses 32 to 34). Before any discourse, before any exhortation, he says to the lame man himself, “Jesus Christ heals you.” The man believed this word at all events, and was made well. Notice how unassuming Peter is. He did not say, “In the name,” but rather he tells of the miracle itself as a sign, and speaks as its evangelist. “And all who lived in Lydda and Sharon,” it says, “saw him and turned to the Lord. Now there was at Joppa,” and so on (verses 35 and 36). [l]

Notice the signs taking place everywhere. But let us believe them as though we were seeing them now. It is not simply said that Tabitha died, but that she died after being sick. And yet they did not call Peter until she had died; then “they sent and told him not to delay in coming to them.” Notice that they send and call him through others. And he comes; he did not think it disrespectful to be summoned by two men, for it says, “they sent two men to him.”

Affliction, my beloved, is a great thing, and binds our souls together. Not a word of wailing there, nor of mourning. See how thoroughly everything is kept pure! “Having washed her,” it says, “they laid her in an upper room”: that is, they did for the dead body everything that was right. Then Peter came, and “knelt down and prayed; and turning to the body he said, Tabitha, get up” (verse 40).

They did not perform all their miracles with the same ease. But this was good for them, for truly God took thought not only for the salvation of others but for their own as well. He who healed so many by his very shadow — how is it that he now has to do so much first? There are also cases in which the faith of those who asked worked together with them. This is the first dead person he raises. Notice how he wakes her as if out of sleep: first she opened her eyes; then, on seeing Peter, she sat up; then she received strength from his hand. “And it became known throughout all Joppa, and many believed in the Lord” (verse 42).

Notice the gain, notice the fruit, and that it was not done for display. Indeed, this is why he puts them all out, imitating his Teacher in this too. For where there are tears — or rather, where there are miracles, there ought to be no tears; not where such a mystery is being celebrated. [m]

Listen, I beg you. Although nothing of the same kind happens now, yet in the case of our own dead too a great mystery is being celebrated. Tell me: if, as we sit here together, the emperor were to send and invite one of us to the palace, would it be right, I ask, to weep and mourn? Angels are present, commissioned from heaven and come from there, sent by the King himself to call their fellow servant — and you weep? Do you not know what a mystery is taking place, how awesome, how fearful, and truly worthy of hymns and praises? Would you like to learn, so that you may know, that this is no time for tears? For it is a very great mystery of the wisdom of God.

The soul goes out as if leaving its dwelling, hurrying on its way to its own Lord — and you mourn? Why, then, you should do this at the birth of a child too, for this also is in fact a birth, and a better one than that. For here the soul goes out to a very different light; it is released as from a prison; it comes away as from a contest. You say: “Yes, that is all very well to say in the case of those whose salvation we are sure of.”

Then what is wrong with you, my friend, that even in the case of such people you do not take it this way? Tell me, what can you find to condemn in a little child? Why do you mourn for it? What in the newly baptized? For he too has been brought into the same condition. Why do you mourn for him? [n]

For as the sun rises clear and bright, so the soul that leaves the body with a pure conscience shines with joy. The sight of the emperor coming in state to take possession of the city is nothing like it; there is no such hush of awe as when the soul, having left the body, goes on its way in the company of angels. Think what the soul must be then! In what amazement, what wonder, what delight! Why do you mourn? Answer me.

But is it only for sinners that you do this? I wish it were so! Then I would not forbid your mourning; I wish this were its object! That lamentation would be apostolic; it would follow the pattern of the Lord, for Jesus too wept over Jerusalem. I wish your mourning were guided by this rule. But when you speak the words of someone trying to call the dead back, and talk of your long friendship and of his kindnesses, it is for this that you mourn, not because he was a sinner; you only pretend to say so.

Mourn, weep for the sinner, and I too will let my tears flow — I more than you, the greater the punishment he faces as a sinner. I too will lament, for such a cause. But you must not be the only one to lament such a man; the whole city must do the same, and everyone who meets you on the way, as people weep for those who are led off to be put to death. For this is death indeed, an evil death, the death of sinners. But with you everything is turned completely upside down. Such lamentation marks a lofty mind and teaches a great deal; the other kind marks smallness of soul.

If we all lamented with this kind of lamentation, we would reform the people themselves while they were still alive. For just as, if it were in your power to apply medicines that would prevent that bodily death, you would use them, so now, if this death were the death you were lamenting, you would prevent its happening, both in yourself and in him. But as things are, our behavior is a complete riddle: though it is in our power to stop it from coming, we let it happen, and then mourn over it once it has come.

They are truly worthy of lament, when we consider how they will stand before the judgment seat of Christ, what words they will hear then, what they will suffer! These men have lived to no purpose — no, not to no purpose, but to an evil purpose! Of them too it may fitly be said, “It would have been good for them if they had never been born” (Mark 14, verse 21).

For what profit is it, I ask, to have spent so much time to one’s own harm? If it had only been spent to no purpose, would that not, I ask you, be punishment enough? If someone who had been a hired servant for twenty years were to find that all his labor had been in vain, would he not weep and lament and think himself the most miserable of men? Why, here is a man who has lost the labor of a whole life. Not one day has he lived for himself; he has lived for luxury, for debauchery, for greed, for sin, for the devil. Then tell me, shall we not weep for this man? Shall we not try to snatch him out of his dangers? [o]

For it is possible — yes, it is possible, if we are willing — to lighten his punishment, if we pray for him continually, if we give alms for him. However unworthy he may be, God will yield to our persistence. For if Paul showed mercy to one who had no claim on his mercy, and for the sake of others spared one he would not otherwise have spared, how much more is it right for us to do this. By means of the man’s possessions, by means of your own, by whatever means you choose, help him: pour in oil — or rather, water.

Has he no almsgiving of his own to show? Let him at least have that of his relatives. Has he none done by himself? Then let him at least have what is done for him, so that his wife may plead confidently for his release on that day, having paid the ransom for him. The more sins he has to answer for, the more he needs alms. This is not the only reason: alms do not have the same power now; their power is far less. For it is not the same thing to have done it himself and to have someone else do it for him. So, since the power is less, let us make it greatest by the amount.

Let us not busy ourselves with monuments, nor with memorials. This is the greatest memorial: set widows to stand around him. Tell them his name; ask them all to make their prayers and their petitions for him. This will overcome God. Though the man did not do it himself, yet because of him someone else becomes the author of the almsgiving. Even this belongs to the mercy of God: “widows standing around and weeping” know how to rescue — not, indeed, from the present death, but from the one to come.

Many have profited even from alms that others gave on their behalf. Even if they have not obtained full deliverance, they have at least found some comfort from it. If it were not so, how are children saved? And yet there the children themselves contribute nothing; their parents do everything. And women have often had their children given to them, though the children themselves contributed nothing. Many are the ways God gives us to be saved; only let us not be careless.

You say: “What, then, if a man is poor?” Again I tell you: the greatness of almsgiving is measured not by the amount given but by the intention. Only do not give less than you are able, and you have paid everything in full. You say: “What, then, if he is alone and a stranger, with no one to care for him?” And why is it, I ask you, that he has no one? In this very thing you suffer what you deserve: that you have no one to be such a friend to you, no one so virtuous. This is ordered on purpose, so that even if we are not virtuous ourselves, we may make it our concern to have virtuous companions and friends — wife, son, and friend — since we reap some good even through them: a slight gain, indeed, but still a gain. [q]

If you make it your chief aim not to marry a rich wife but to have a devout wife, and a religious daughter, you will gain this comfort. If you make it your concern that your son be not rich but devout, you will gain this comfort too. If you make these your aims, you will yourself become such as they are. This too is part of virtue: to choose such friends, and such a wife and children.

Not in vain are the offerings made for the departed, not in vain the prayers, not in vain the almsgiving. The Spirit has ordered all these things, wanting us to benefit one another. See: he is benefited, and you are benefited. Because of him you have despised wealth, spurred on to some generous act. You are the means of his salvation, and he is the occasion of your almsgiving. Do not doubt that he will get some good from it.

It is not for nothing that the deacon cries out, “For those who have fallen asleep in Christ, and for those who make the memorials for them.” It is not the deacon who utters this cry, but the Holy Spirit; I mean the Gift. What are you saying? The sacrifice is at hand, and everything is laid out in due order. Angels are present, archangels; the Son of God is there. All stand in such awe, and in the general silence those who stand by cry aloud — and do you think that what is done is done in vain? Then is all the rest in vain too: the offerings made for the church, and for the priests, and for the whole body? Far from it! Everything is done in faith.

What do you think of the offering made for the martyrs, of the naming made in that hour — martyrs though they are, yet even “for the martyrs”? It is a great honor to be named in the presence of the Lord, when that memorial is being celebrated, the fearful sacrifice, the mysteries beyond words. For just as, while the emperor is seated, it is the time for a petitioner to accomplish what he wishes, but once he has risen, whatever the man says is all in vain, so at that time, while the celebration of the mysteries is going on, it is the greatest honor for everyone to be counted worthy of mention. For look: at that moment the fearful mystery is proclaimed, that God gave himself for the world. And along with that mystery he fittingly reminds God of those who have sinned.

It is like the celebration of emperors’ victories. While it is under way, all who had a part in the victory receive their share of praise, and at the same time all who are in chains are set free in honor of the occasion; but once the occasion is past, whoever did not obtain this favor then no longer gets any. So it is here too: this is the time when a victory is celebrated. For, it says, “as often as you eat this bread, you proclaim the Lord’s death.” So let us not come carelessly, nor imagine that these things are done in any ordinary way.

But it is in another sense that we make mention of the martyrs: as an assurance that the Lord is not dead, and as a sign that death has received its deathblow, that death itself is dead. Knowing these things, then, let us devise what comforts we can for the departed. Instead of tears, instead of laments, instead of tombs, let us give our alms, our prayers, our offerings, so that both they and we may attain the promised good things, by the grace and love for humankind of his only Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, with whom to the Father and the Holy Spirit together be glory, dominion, and honor, now and always, forever and ever. Amen.