The first annual Diocesan Women’s Day Conference was attended by over 50 women from across the diocese. A Eucharist for the feast of Tabitha of Joppa began the day. It was followed by a screening of The Philadelphia Eleven with a discussion afterwards. A luncheon was held with women’s ministry highlights from Love, Period. and the Kondoa Women’s Empowerment Project along with Episcopal Church Women resources from the diocesan archives. The day concluded with a brief business meeting for the Episcopal Church Women of the Diocese of East Tennessee, which featured presentations on the Mollie Tucker Scholarship, the Church Periodical Club, and current reading and research in the archives.
Sermon by Andrea Stewart
Matthew 25:1-13, Acts 9:36-43
There’s something about light that draws us — maybe it’s a candle in a dark sanctuary, a porch light left on for someone coming home, or the first flicker of dawn after a long night.
Light means welcome. It means safety. It means hope.
All through Scripture, women are keepers of light — tending the fires of home, watching through the night, carrying lamps to mark the way. Today’s Gospel tells the story of a group of women who waited for a wedding in the dark. And the book of Acts introduces us to another woman whose quiet light of love burned so brightly that her whole community felt it.
So let’s begin where Jesus begins — with a wedding at night, ten women, and a handful of lamps. When Jesus tells the story of the ten bridesmaids (virgins in some translations), his listeners would have immediately pictured a very specific scene.
In a first-century Jewish wedding, the groom would travel—often at night—from his family’s home to the bride’s home to collect his bride. But here’s the catch: no one knew exactly when the groom would arrive. He might come right after sunset… or he might come hours later in the middle of the night. Regardless, the bridesmaids had one job: to wait along the road with lamps, ready to light the way for the groom and his procession when they arrived.
In Jesus’s parable, five of the bridesmaids had brought extra oil with them, knowing the night might be long and their lamps may need to burn longer than anticipated. The other five did not bring any extra oil. And when the cry came at midnight to wake them — “Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!” — the difference between wisdom and negligence was suddenly revealed.
All the bridesmaids had lamps. All of them fell asleep waiting. The only difference was who had enough oil to complete their job when the groom arrived.
This parable is about spiritual attentiveness — about the kind of wisdom that plans for the long night, that keeps faith even when the celebration seems slow in coming. The women who brought extra oil weren’t morally superior to those who didn’t, but they were aware of the potential need, and planned accordingly. They were ready.
And then in Acts, we meet a woman whose name we barely know. Tabitha — or Dorcas, as she was called in Greek — appears only once in Scripture, and just for these few verses. And we don’t know a lot about her.
We don’t know where she came from. We don’t know if she was married, widowed, or single. We don’t know how old she was, or if she had any children. We don’t know anything about her family.
But we know how she lived. Luke tells us that she was “a disciple, devoted to good works and acts of charity.” She lived in Joppa, which was a port city — a crossroads of culture and trade. And her life made such an impact that when she died, the entire community grieved.
The widows gathered around her body, holding up the clothing she had made for them. In a world where women’s labor was often unseen, Tabitha’s love was visible — sewn into fabric, worn on bodies, remembered in tears.
When Peter arrives, the room is full of stories told through the work of her hands. He kneels, prays, and then says simply, “Tabitha, arise.”
And she opens her eyes.
We know almost nothing about her— but what we do know is that her faithfulness was so real, so tangible, that resurrection itself became part of her story.
The bridesmaids and Tabitha offer two very different images of readiness.
The bridesmaids’ readiness is about waiting well: having the foresight to keep the lamp burning through uncertainty.
Tabitha’s readiness is about living well: filling the world with the steady light of service.
Both show us that readiness is about two things: it’s about faithfulness in the long night and love in the ordinary day.
This room is full of women from many generations, with stories and faith that reach across time. Some of us are just learning to tend and carry the lamp for ourselves. Some have been carrying it a long time, and the oil has been replenished again and again by prayer, by community, by grace.
None of us keeps the flame alive alone.
We inherit light from those who came before us — our mothers, grandmothers, teachers, mentors — women who passed on the flame with quiet faithfulness.
And we ourselves pass that light forward, sometimes without even realizing it — in words of encouragement, in acts of kindness, in steadfast presence when others falter.
In that sense, every generation of women in the church is also part of Tabitha’s story. We are the widows and the friends who hold up the garments, remembering what love has made. We are also the bridesmaids, waiting with lamps along the road, watching for the joy of God to break through.
But even the faithful grow weary. Even the wise, prepared bridesmaids fell asleep waiting for the groom. And even Tabitha, who shone so brightly in her community, came to a moment when her light went out. The miracle of her story is not that she never died — but that God’s Spirit still called her name. “Tabitha, get up.”
That same Spirit still moves among us when our own lamps grow dim. Sometimes resurrection looks like a miracle. Sometimes it looks like another woman’s faith carrying us through. Sometimes it sounds like a friend whispering, “You don’t have to be done yet. Get up.”
Like the wise bridesmaids, you have been entrusted with light to carry through the darkness.
Like Tabitha, you have been given hands to mend the world with love.
I don’t know every detail of your stories — but God does. And even in the longest nights, even in weariness or wonder, God is the one who fills your lamp again and again.
So keep your lamps trimmed and burning.
Keep tending the flame in your heart and in the hearts of those around you.
And when Christ, the Bridegroom, comes — in joy, in justice, in resurrection — may he find us all awake, ready, and shining bright. Amen.