In his book That All Shall Be Saved, David Bentley Hart observes that “institutions all but inevitably evolve into those configurations—structural, ideological, ethical, emotional—that best fortify their power, influence, and stability.” It is perhaps a truth so self-evident we often fail to notice it in the world around us, but that doesn’t make it any less true. One dangerous corollary, though, is that very often that fortification will necessitate a diminishing of the power and influence of the God who creates, sustains, and loves all things. How can it not? If we're busy being God (or making one in our own image), who is left for God to be?

This capacity of such narratives of institution to distort can be illustrated by how we approach this text from Acts. Take this story, for example: in the church of Joppa, there was a very successful scheme in place for provision to the poor (v39); unfortunately, the manager to whom that scheme was entrusted (Tabitha) had died (v37); so the men in charge of the church send an enquiry up the hierarchy for advice (v38); an officer of the establishment arrives to tell them what to do (v39). That, though, isn’t what happens. Rather than making a sensible reappointment to replace Tabitha, or instituting a new scheme for dealing with the poor and needy, Peter does something entirely unexpected, and wildly disruptive—he tells a dead woman to get back up and get back to work. And she does. It’s not at all the ending we might expect from such classically ‘institutional’ story; and so it’s one that forces us to reassess the assumptions from which we began. But isn’t that the point? As Jesus points out in the gospel reading, it will not be within our rigidly held, institutionally fortifying belief structures (even religious ones) that we will be able to recognise the God of the resurrection. So let’s ignore the culturally encrusted assumptions that lead this story to be titled “Peter in Lydda and Joppa” (by my Bible’s editors at least), and start somewhere else—with the real star of the story, Tabitha (or Dorcas—she’s so good she gets named twice!). Tabitha, we discover, is amazing. She is unique, and will not conform to the expectations of the society around her. She will be a disciple. That doesn't sound particularly impressive in English, but in the Greek it sticks out like a sore thumb—the description of her in v36 is the only time the feminine form of the noun disciple appears anywhere in scripture. Her distinct discipleship leads to distinct action: acting as an equal to the men around her, she recognises a deep failure of the society she inhabits—the poor and widowed are being left hungry and unclothed—and she doesn't accept it, but challenges it through positive action, by providing freely and giving dignity and respect to those overlooked by others. Sadly, in the midst of her work she dies. Even then, though, she won't do what she's meant to! Her extraordinary witness in life leads Peter (himself always a rash action-taker, often with little regard to form or process) to pause in her presence, and pray. It then comes as no surprise when something even more unconventional happens—Peter, listening to God, calls Tabitha back from the grave, and she is seen alive. And this became known throughout Joppa, and many believed in the Lord. That, to me, is a far more coherent tale—it doesn't require a shift of gear at any point, but runs through with an honest and daring openness to the disquieting presence of a God who is always one step beyond our expectations. What’s interesting to me is the end point is, of course, the same – the ‘institution’ of the early church (if that is what we see here) – doesn’t stop the power or purpose of God, but it does, perhaps, need to get out of its own way in order to see them clearly. Maybe that’s our challenge too: to hold our certainties a little more lightly, so our hands are free once more to do the work of God; to stand ready, with Tabitha, to reflect into the world the transformative power of Easter, and refract it in ways that will not be bound by human expectations.