Homilies on Acts, Homily 21

“And when Saul came 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.” Here we may well be very puzzled about how, when Paul says in the Epistle to the Galatians, “I did not go to Jerusalem,” but “into Arabia” and “to Damascus,” and, “After three years I went up to Jerusalem,” and “to see Peter” (Gal. i. 17, 18), (ἱστορἥσαι Cat.), the writer here says the opposite. (There, Paul says,) “And I saw none of the Apostles”; but here, it says that (Barnabas) “brought him to the Apostles.”—Well then, either (Paul) means, “I did not go up intending to consult them or attach myself to them (ἀναθέσθαι)”—for what does he say? “I did not consult anyone, nor did I go to Jerusalem to those who were Apostles before me”—or else the plot to ambush 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 on his own initiative, but “tried to join the disciples”—as a teacher, not a disciple. “I did not go,” he says, “for the purpose of going to those who were Apostles before me: certainly I learned nothing from them.” Or he is not speaking of this visit but passes over it, so that the sequence 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 back to Damascus, then to Caesarea. Also, the visit “after fourteen years” was probably when he brought up the [alms to the] brothers together with Barnabas (Gal. ii. 1); or else he means a different occasion. (Acts xi. 30.) For the Historian often leaves out events and compresses the chronology to keep his account brief. Notice how little the writer seeks attention, and how he does not even recount that vision (related in ch. xxii. 17–21), but passes over it. “He tried,” it says, “to join the disciples. And they were afraid of him.” This again shows Paul's fiery character: not (only) through the words of Ananias and those who marveled at him there, but also through those in Jerusalem: “they did not believe that he was a disciple.” For this truly 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, but to the disciples, as a disciple himself: such is his restraint. They did not consider him trustworthy. “But Barnabas”—his name means “Son of Consolation,” which also explains why he makes himself approachable to the man; for “he was a kind man” (ch. xi. 24), exceedingly so, as both this incident and the affair of John (Mark) prove—“took him and brought him to the Apostles, and told them how he had seen the Lord on the road.” (xv. 39.) He had probably heard all about him at Damascus too. That is why he was not afraid, while the others were, for the man's very glance inspired fear. “How,” it says, “he had seen the Lord on the road, 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 and going in Jerusalem, and speaking boldly in the name of Jesus” (v. 28): these things proved the earlier account, and his actions confirmed what had been said about him. “And he spoke and debated with the Hellenists.” (v. 29.) So the disciples were afraid of him, and the Apostles did not trust him; through this, then, he frees them from their fear. “With the Hellenists”: he means those who spoke Greek. And he acted very wisely in doing this, for those others, those thoroughgoing Hebrews, did not even want to see him. “But they,” it says, “tried to kill him”: a sign of his energy and overwhelming victory, and of their extreme anger at what had happened. Then, afraid that the outcome might be the same as 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” (v. 30), both to preach and because he was likely to be safer in his own country. But notice, please, how far this is from everything being done by (miraculous) grace; on the contrary, in many things God leaves them to manage for themselves through their own wisdom and by human means. This takes away the excuse of idle people: for if this was true in Paul's case, much more in theirs. “Then,” it says, “the Church throughout all Judea and Galilee and Samaria had peace (they), being built up and walking in the fear of the Lord, and abounded in the comfort of the Holy Spirit.” (v. 31.) He is about to tell us that Peter goes down (from Jerusalem), so he says this first to keep you from attributing Peter's departure to fear. For while there was persecution, he was in Jerusalem; but when the Church's affairs are secure everywhere, then he leaves Jerusalem. See how fervent and energetic he is! He did not think that because there was peace, his presence was no longer needed. Paul left, and there was peace: there is no war or disturbance. They had the greatest respect for the others, who had often stood by them and were admired by the people; but they despised him and were fiercer against him. See what a great war, and immediately, peace! See what that war accomplished. It scattered the peacemakers. In Samaria, Simon was put to shame; in Judea, the affair of Sapphira took place. The peace did not mean that things grew lax; rather, it was a peace that still needed encouragement. “And as Peter traveled throughout the region, he also came down to the saints who lived at Lydda.” (v. 32.) Like an army commander, he went around inspecting the ranks: which part held together, which was in good order, which needed his presence. See how he always takes the lead as he goes about. When an Apostle had to be chosen, he took the lead; when the Jews had to be told that these men were “not drunk,” when the lame man had to be healed, when speeches had to be made, he was ahead of the rest. When the rulers had to be addressed, he was the man; when Ananias had to be addressed, it was he (ch. i. 15; ii. 15; iii. 4–12; iv. 8; v. 3–15.); when healings were performed through a shadow, it was still he. And look: where there was danger, he was the man, and where good management (was needed); but where everything is calm, they all act together, and he demands no greater honor (than the others). When miracles need to be worked, he steps forward, and here again he is the one who labors and toils. “And there he found a 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 immediately.” (v. 33, 34.) And why did he not wait for the man's faith and ask whether he wanted to be healed? First, the miracle served to encourage many people: listen to how great the gain was. “And all who lived at Lydda and Sharon saw him and turned to the Lord.” (v. 35.) For the man was well known. “Get up and make your bed”: he does well to give proof of the miracle, for they not only freed people from their diseases, but restored their strength along with their health. Besides, at that time they had given no proof of their power there, so the man could not reasonably have been required to show his faith, just as they did not demand it from the lame man. (ch. iii. 6.) So, just as Christ did not demand faith at the beginning of His miracles, neither did these men. In Jerusalem, to be sure, the people's faith was shown first, as was only reasonable: “they brought their sick out into the streets, so that as Peter passed by, at least his shadow might fall on some of them” (ch. v. 15); for many miracles had been performed there, but here this is the first. Some miracles were performed to draw others (to faith), and some to comfort those who believed. “Now in Joppa there was a disciple named Tabitha, which is translated Dorcas: this woman was full of good works and acts of charity that she did. And in those days she became sick and died. After washing her, they laid her in an upstairs room. And since Lydda was near Joppa, and the disciples had heard that Peter was there, they sent two men to him, asking him to come to them without delay.” (v. 36–38). Why did they wait until she was dead? Why was Peter not asked (ἐσκύλη) before this? They were so sensible (φιλοσοφοὕντες) that they did not think it right to trouble (σκύλλειν) the Disciples about such matters and take them away from preaching. Indeed, that is why it mentions that the place was nearby: they were asking him to do something outside his main task, something beyond his regular work. “To come to them without delay”: for she was a disciple. “And Peter got up and went with them. And when he arrived, they led him into the upstairs room.” (v. 39.) They do not plead with him, but leave it to him to restore her life (σωτηρίαν.) See what an encouraging incentive to give alms we have here! “And all the widows,” it says, “stood around him weeping and showing the tunics and garments that Dorcas had made while she was with them.” Peter entered the room as someone who could face this calmly, but see what an additional blessing came from it! The Writer has told us the woman's name for a reason: to show that the name she bore (φερώνυμος ἦν) matched her character. She was as active and alert as an antelope. For in many cases Providence guides the giving of names, as we have often told you. “She was full,” it says, “of good works”: not just of alms, but first “of good works,” and then of this particular good work. “Which,” it says, “Dorcas made while she was with them.” What humility! They did not act as we do; they were all together, sharing their lives, and she made these things and worked in their company. “But Peter put them all outside, 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.” (v. 40.) Why does he put them all outside? So that their weeping will not distract or disturb him. “And he knelt down and prayed.” Notice how intently he prays. “And he gave her his hand.” (v. 41.) Christ did the same for Jairus's daughter: “And (says the Evangelist) He took her by the hand.” Notice each step: first life, then strength was brought into her, the one by his word, the other by his hand. “And he gave her his hand and helped her up, and when he had called the saints and widows, he presented her alive”: to comfort some, because they had their sister back and had seen the miracle, and to provide loving support (προστασίαν) for others. “And it became known throughout Joppa, and many believed in the Lord. And he stayed many days in Joppa with a man named Simon, a tanner.” (v. 42–43.) Notice Peter's unassuming behavior, his moderation: he does not stay with this lady or some other distinguished person, but with a tanner. Through all his actions he leads people toward humility, allowing neither the lowly to feel ashamed nor the great to become proud! “Many days”: for those who had believed through the miracles needed his instruction.—Let us look again, then, at what has been said. “Tried,” it says, “to join the disciples.” (Recapitulation, v. 26.) He did not approach them brazenly, but with a humble manner. They were all called “disciples” at that time because of their great virtue, for their resemblance to the disciples was plain to see. “But they were all afraid of him.” See how they feared the dangers, how their alarm was still at its height. “But Barnabas,” etc. (v. 27.)—it seems to me that Barnabas was an old friend of his—“and told them,” etc.: notice how Paul himself says nothing about all this. Nor would he have brought it up to the others if he had not been compelled to. “And he was with them, coming and going in Jerusalem, and speaking boldly in the name of the Lord Jesus.” (v. 28, 29.) This gave them all confidence. “But they tried to kill him; and when the brothers learned of this,” etc. (v. 30.) Do you notice how both there (at Damascus) and here, the others look after him and arrange for him to leave, and how up to this point we nowhere find him receiving (direct supernatural) help from God? This shows the energy of his character. “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) is arranged by Providence so that he might preach there too. In the same way, God's Providence arranged the plots against him and his coming to Jerusalem, so that the account of 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 debated with the Hellenists”; and again, “he was with them, coming and going.—So the Church throughout all Judea and Galilee and Samaria had peace”—that is, it grew; and it had peace within itself, the peace that truly is peace, for war from outside would have done them no harm—“they were being built up and walking in the fear of the Lord, and abounded in the consolation of the Holy Spirit.” And the Spirit consoled them both through the miracles and through the works, and apart from these, within each individual. “And it happened, etc. And Peter said to him, Aeneas,” etc. (v. 32–34.) But before any speech, before any encouragement, he says to the lame man himself, “Jesus Christ heals you.” At any rate, the man believed this word and was healed. Notice how unassuming Peter is: he did not say, “In the Name,” but instead reports the miracle itself as a sign and speaks as its Evangelist. “And when they saw him,” it says, “all who lived in Lydda and Sharon turned to the Lord.—Now in Joppa there was,” etc. (v. 35, 36.) Notice how signs take place everywhere. But let us believe them as though we were seeing them now. It does not simply say that Tabitha died, but that she died after being ill. And (yet) they did not call Peter until she died; then “they sent and asked him to come to them without delay.” Notice that they send others to call him. 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 dear friends, is a great thing, and binds our souls together. There is not a word of wailing or mourning there. See how thoroughly these practices have been purified! “After washing her,” it says, “they laid her in an upstairs room”: that is, they did everything (that was right) for the dead body. Then Peter came, “knelt down and prayed; and turning to the body, he said, Tabitha, get up.” (v. 40.) They did not perform all their miracles with the same ease. But this benefited them, for God truly cared not only for the salvation of others, but for their own. How is it that the man who healed so many by his very shadow now has so much to do first? There were also cases in which the faith of those who asked for help played a part. This is the first dead person he raises. Notice how he seems to wake her from sleep: first she opened her eyes; then, when she saw (Peter), she sat up; then she received strength from his hand. “And it became known throughout Joppa, and many believed in the Lord.” (v. 42.) Notice the gain, notice the fruit: it was not done for show. Indeed, this is why he puts them all outside, imitating his Master in this too. For where there are tears—or rather, where there are miracles, there should be no tears, not where such a mystery is being celebrated. Listen, I beg you: although nothing quite like this happens now, a great mystery is being celebrated in the case of our dead too. Tell me, if, while we were sitting together, the Emperor sent an invitation for one of us to come to the palace, would it be right, I ask, to weep and mourn? Angels are present, commissioned from heaven and coming from there, sent by the King Himself to call their fellow servant—and tell me, do you weep? Do you not know what a mystery is taking place, how awesome, how fearsome, and how worthy of hymns and praise? Would you like to learn, so that you may know that this is no time for tears? For this is a very great mystery of God's Wisdom. As though leaving her home, the soul goes out, hurrying on her way to her own Lord, and you mourn? Then you should do this at the birth of a child, for this too is a birth, and a better one than that. For here she goes out into a very different light, is released as though from a prison, and leaves as though from a contest. “Yes,” you say, “this is all very well in the case of those whose salvation we are sure of.” Then what is wrong with you, man, that you do not view it this way even in their case? Tell me, what fault can you find in a little child? Why do you mourn for it? What fault in someone newly baptized? For he too is brought into the same condition: why do you mourn for him? For just as the sun rises clear and bright, so the soul, leaving the body with a pure conscience, shines joyfully. An Emperor's entrance in state to take possession of a city (ἐπιβαίνοντα πόλεως) offers no such spectacle, no such awed silence, as when the soul leaves the body and departs in the company of Angels. Think what the soul must be like then! What amazement, what wonder, what delight! Why do you mourn? Answer me.—But do you do this only for sinners? I wish that were so, and I would not forbid your mourning; I wish this were its purpose! Such lamentation would be Apostolic, patterned after the Lord, for even Jesus wept over Jerusalem. I wish this rule guided your mourning. But when you speak like someone who wants to call back (the dead), and speak of your long friendship and his kindness to you, this alone is why you mourn (not because he was a sinner); you only pretend that this is your reason. Mourn, grieve for the sinner, and I too will let my tears flow; I will weep more than you, because of the greater punishment he faces as a sinner. I too will lament with that purpose. But you should not be the only one to lament such a person; the whole city must do the same, and everyone who meets you along the way, as people mourn those being led to execution. For this is death indeed, an evil death, the death of sinners. But (with you) everything is completely reversed. Such lamentation shows a noble mind and teaches a great deal; the other shows a smallness of soul. If we all lamented in this way, we would reform these people while they were still alive. For just as you would use medicines to prevent bodily death if you could, so now, if this were the death you lamented, you would prevent it from happening, both to yourself and to him. As it is, our behavior is a complete puzzle: we can prevent it from coming, yet we let it happen and mourn over it afterward. They truly deserve lamentation (when we consider) that time when they will stand before Christ's judgment seat, what words they will hear then, and what they will suffer! These men have lived to no purpose—indeed, not merely to no purpose, but to an evil purpose! Of them too it may rightly be said, “It would have been good for them never to have been born.” (Mark xiv. 21.) For what benefit is there, I ask, in having spent so much time harming oneself? If it had merely been wasted, would that not be punishment enough, I ask you? If someone who had worked as a hired servant for twenty years discovered that all his labor had been for nothing, would he not weep and lament and think himself the most miserable of men? Yet here is a man who has lost the work of an entire lifetime: he has not lived a single day for himself, but for luxury, debauchery, greed, sin, and the devil. Then tell me, shouldn't we mourn this man? Shouldn't we try to snatch him from his dangers? For it is—yes, it is—possible, if we are willing, to lessen his punishment, if we pray for him continually and give alms for him. However unworthy he may be, God will yield to our persistent pleading. For if Paul showed mercy to one (who had no claims on his mercy), and for the sake of others spared someone (whom he would not have spared), much more ought we to do this. Help him through his property, through your own, by whatever means you choose: pour in oil—or rather, water. Does he have no acts of charity of his own to show? Let him at least have those of his relatives. Has he done none himself? At least let him have those done for him, so that his wife may confidently plead for his release on that day, having paid his ransom. The more sins he must answer for, the more he needs alms, not only for this reason, but because alms no longer have the same power, but far less: for doing it himself and having someone else do it for him are not the same. So, since their power is less, let us make it as great as possible through their quantity. Let us not concern ourselves with monuments or memorials. This is the greatest memorial: have widows stand around him. Tell them his name; ask them all to offer their prayers and supplications for him. This will prevail with God: although the man did not do it himself, someone else has given alms because of him. Even this belongs to God's mercy: “widows standing around and weeping” know how to rescue someone, not indeed from the present death, but from the death to come. Many have benefited even from alms others have given on their behalf: even if they have not received complete (deliverance), at least they have found some comfort from them. If this is not so, how are children saved? There too the children themselves contribute nothing, but their parents do everything; and often women have had their children given to them, though the children themselves contributed nothing. God gives us many ways to be saved; only let us not be negligent. “What if someone is poor, then?” you ask. Again I say, the greatness of the alms is measured by the intention, not by the amount given. Only do not give less than you can afford, and you have paid everything. “What then,” you ask, “if he is alone and a stranger, with no one to care for him?” And why, I ask you, does he have no one? In this very thing you suffer what you deserve: you have no friend of this kind, someone so virtuous. This is deliberately arranged so that, even if we are not virtuous ourselves, we may make an effort to have virtuous companions and friends—a wife, a son, a friend—since we can reap some good even through them: a small gain, certainly, but still a gain. If your chief aim is to marry a devout wife rather than a rich one, and to have a religious daughter, you will gain this consolation; if you work to make your son devout rather than rich, you will gain this consolation too. If you make these things your aims, you yourself will become like them. Choosing such friends, and such a wife and children, is also part of virtue. The offerings for the departed are not made in vain, nor are the prayers in vain, nor the acts of charity: the Spirit has arranged all these things, wishing us to benefit one another. See: he benefits, and you benefit. Because of him you have disregarded wealth and been moved to do something generous: you become a means of salvation for him, and he gives you the occasion for your almsgiving. Do not doubt that he will gain some good from it. It is not for nothing that the Deacon cries, “For those who have fallen asleep in Christ, and for those who hold memorials for them.” It is not the Deacon who speaks these words, but the Holy Spirit: I am speaking of the Gift. What are you saying? The Sacrifice is taking place, and everything has been laid out in its proper order; Angels are present, Archangels, the Son of God is there. Everyone stands in such awe, and amid the general silence those standing by cry aloud. Do you think what is done is done in vain? Then is everything else in vain too, both the offerings made for the Church and those for the priests and the whole body? God forbid! Everything is done with faith. What do you think of the offering made for the martyrs, of their names being called at that hour, even though they are martyrs, yet still “for martyrs”? It is a great honor to be named in the Lord's presence when that memorial is being celebrated, the fearsome Sacrifice, the mysteries beyond words. For just as the time for a petitioner to achieve what he wants is while the Emperor is seated, whereas once he has risen, whatever the petitioner says is in vain, so at that time, while the mysteries are being celebrated, it is the greatest honor for anyone to be considered worthy of mention. For look: then the awesome mystery is proclaimed, that God gave Himself for the world; alongside that mystery, he takes the opportunity to remind Him of those who have sinned. For when the Emperors' victories are being celebrated, everyone who shared in the victory receives their due praise, while at the same time prisoners are set free in honor of the occasion; but once the occasion has passed, whoever did not receive this favor then can no longer obtain it. So it is here too: this is the time for celebrating a victory. For it says, “As often as you eat this bread, you proclaim the Lord's death.” So let us not approach carelessly or imagine that these things are done in some ordinary way. But we mention the martyrs in a different sense: to assure us that the Lord is not dead, and as a sign that death has received its deathblow, that death itself is dead. Knowing these things, let us find whatever comforts we can for the departed: instead of tears, instead of laments, instead of tombs, let us offer our alms, our prayers, our offerings, so that both they and we may receive the promised blessings, through the grace and loving-kindness of His only-begotten 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.