Dorcus was dead to begin with. There was no doubt about that. Her body was washed and placed in an upstairs room.

Dorcus was also known as Tabitha. She was always helping the poor. My impression is that she worked herself to death. I’ve met a few folks like this. They worry and worry and worry. They are a buzz of activity. They aren’t wrong—there’s so much work to do. So much need in the world. People are hungry, children need clothes, the sick need visitors.

Those with big hearts can often burn out. When you see only what is left to do, and not what has been accomplished, it’s like a Tetris mindset: the good things you did disappear, while your mistakes pile up.

Maybe that’s what killed Tabitha. It happens to the best of us. To unlock this scripture, here is a modern parable.

Once upon a time, there was a doctor. She was well regarded at the hospital. Her dad had died of a heart attack when she was young, and she dedicated her life to preventing that for someone else. She applied herself. Graduated at the top of her class as a cardiologist. Gave seminars on healthy eating. Worked in the ER, bringing people back from the edge. This was a noble calling.

Yet over time, her attention shifted. She stopped seeing the person in the bed and only saw the problem on the screen. Her bedside manner crumbled. She was about the mechanics of the heart, not the matters of the heart. She was working 60 hours a week; sacrificing sleep, relationships, hobbies, and general well-being in the process. In her human need to do good, she dehumanized herself and her calling.

A chaplain called her out on it. At first, she resisted. Then she complained. Then she realized the chaplain was right. And more than that—she realized she didn’t know her own family. Her husband and kids had been living lives she wasn’t a part of. It hit her one day when she realized she could recount her last three heart surgeries, but not her kids’ favorite colors.

She took a sabbatical. She reconnected. She came back to work, still committed to her mission—but how she did it changed completely. The change spread. Everyone wanted to work for her. She was sought after. She never worked so hard again that she became a stranger to her family.

She often thinks of that chaplain. She credits the chaplain for bringing her back from the dead.

Do you need raised, church?
Do you have a Tetris mindset?
Are you only about the mechanics of the heart and not matters of the heart?
Are you grinding so hard that you’re burning out and your mental health caved?

Joy is a form of resistance. With the headlines, the general ick of our era, the constant anxiety… here is a reminder of joy. Joy is not fake happiness. Theologian Rob Bell defines joy as happiness that has gone through something and come out the other side.[1] Joy is happiness that is load-bearing.

When I speak with people feeling burnt out, I ask the same question that was once asked of me. This time last year, I was burnt. Crispy. Done. My therapist asked, “What do you do that brings you joy? What recharges you?”

Whatever the answer is, the next question is, “And when was the last time you did that?” Often, the response is as mine was: “I can’t remember.” Or “It’s been too long.”

You can feed others, but if you’re not eating yourself, hunger still remains.

Someone on the internet wrote, “The devil never takes a day off!”
And the response was: “Yet God does. Who exactly are you following?”

What gives you life? When was the last time you did that thing? It’s time. It might be past time.

And more so— Is there someone you love to talk to, but haven’t in a while? It’s time to call them.

Maybe Tabitha worked herself to death. Thought it was all on her. Took no joy in anything or anyone. And died. Maybe you have, too.

Maybe you’re burnt out. Maybe you’re chasing a great and noble calling, but haven’t rested in a while. Maybe you’re feeling crispy. Or lost. Or alone. Maybe it’s an addiction you’re failing to hide. Maybe it’s a new diagnosis you’re trying to cope with. Maybe no one seems to understand what exactly you’re going through.

All this death needs a counterweight. Maybe someone born again.

Tabitha’s friends sent for Peter. Peter—who was first to speak, often too soon. Peter—who said he’d never leave Jesus but denied him three times. Peter—who knew mental anguish and grief. When Mary came and said the tomb was empty, Peter ran. He saw it. And he believed. But what did he believe? Not the resurrection. He believed the body was gone. That Jesus was dead—and now not even his body was left.

His grief drove him to hide in the upper room. Maybe he was thinking dark thoughts. Maybe he felt like a failure. Maybe even to the point of being suicidal. Scripture doesn’t say—but many of us have been there. Maybe Peter was, too.

Yet Peter is the one Christ restores three times. Peter experiences Pentecost. Peter preaches a sermon that shakes the world. Peter is the one Tabitha’s friends call for.

He enters that room where Tabitha lies. And he doesn’t know what to do. He ushers the crowd out. He prays. When is the last time you prayed? I don’t ask that to guilt you. I ask because prayer changes you. It creates a pause. A breath. A moment of sabbath. A chance to take stock, ask for guidance, and see again for the first time.

Peter prays. Then he says, “Tabitha, get up.” And she does. Yet she’s not mentioned again. The story follows Peter.

What happened to Tabitha, also called Dorcas? She was remembered early on as a saint. Some Christian traditions celebrate her feast day on October 25.

In the 19th century, many Protestant churches founded Dorcas Societies—women’s groups dedicated to sewing clothes and caring for the poor, directly inspired by her story. These groups were among the earliest organized Christian charities in many communities.

In Christian art, Dorcas is often shown holding a needle or giving clothing to widows—emphasizing her mercy. If you ever see a stained-glass window with a woman holding a needle, you now know who she is.

In my mind, Dorcas went right back to work.
But this time, she paced herself.

She remembered how God rested on the seventh day and gave us the command of Sabbath. God delighted in God’s work. Called it good. Called us very good. She took after God and took days off—since the devil never takes a day off, but God does.

She began to notice her own impact. She heard the stories of others. She realized that while she was helping them—they were also helping her. They were grateful. No one had asked her to work herself to death. No one was defining her by what she didn’t do. She had just forgotten how to see herself.

All this to say:

If you’re feeling down…
If the weight of the world is too much…
If you’re giving it your all, but something in you knows it’s also draining your life…

If all you can see is what’s left undone and the miles you’ve already walked—

Well… church: Get up.
Get up from expectation.
Get up from the cycle of burnout.
Get up from the guilt and shame—it only leads to an early grave.

You can’t do it all. You’re not called to do it all.

You are called to love God, and love your neighbor as yourself. There is so much room for joy and delight in that formula. Get up, church! The world needs your witness of joy, of delight, of resurrection and community.

A community where you don’t have to hide the dead parts of yourself. Your diagnosis. Your crispiness. Bring it all here. You can stand here. We can bear your weight. Together.

For Jesus came to heal the sick and raise the dead.
And the good news?
The only prerequisite is to be sick. Or dead. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Works Cited

[1] Rob Bell, An Introduction to Joy: https://youtu.be/sA7LmEn3xyc?si=sXxni5EXI4hyZFC9