John Langdon Parsons––

the second minister of this Church––

was, by all accounts, a gifted preacher…

and the church grew significantly under his ministry…

which was a driving factor in this particular building being built.

After he had been the minister for about seven years…

he resigned.

Some reports suggest that was prompted by ongoing health problems.

But at least one historian has argued it was prompted by a crisis of faith…

resulting from his reading of Charles Darwin.

He then entered state politics…

and was eventually appointed the ‘Government Resident’ for the Northern Territory…

at a time when it was under South Australian control.

He oversaw day-to-day operations there.

A number of historians note that…

in that position…

he developed “strong views” on Aboriginal land rights, advocating for their enactment.

As such, he is regarded as ahead of his time.

But, what may come as a shock to many of you…

Parsons regarded them as a people for whom “virtue…is a fiction”.

And…

following the murder of four white miners…

he authorised four private vigilante groups…

who slaughtered about one hundred and fifty Aboriginal people in retaliation.

That part is missing from a number of the accounts of his life.

And I’m sure it’s not something that we want to be associated with this church’s legacy. 

 

In telling a story, we choose which parts to include and which to ignore…

because…

how we tell a story reflects our ideologies and agendas; our biases, our values, and our sense of identity.

And, if someone offers a conflicting account…

our hackles often go up.

Subconsciously…

it’s like they’re questioning our beliefs and values.

And when deeply held beliefs, traditions, and values 

are called into question––

or our sense of identity––

then we often respond with fear and anger, dressed up in righteous indignation.

 

And, in many respects, that’s what’s going on in our story this morning from the Book of Acts:

Peter has just returned to the nascent church in Jerusalem…

where news of his recent activity, up in Caesarea…

has caused all sorts of consternation…

because Peter had gone to the home of a Gentile––

a non-Israelite.

He had spent time with him…

he had eaten with him…

he had stayed with him.

All of which had sent the conservative members of the church into mouth-frothing apoplexy––

because Peter’s behaviour went against everything that they held dear…

and everything that they believed in.

It undermined the way that they understood the Scriptures.

It trampled all over their values, attitudes, customs, and culture…

indeed, their whole way of life.

As Israelites, they had been brought up to be separate…

not to associate with foreigners…

whom they considered ritually unclean and defiling…

because they weren’t circumcised…

and they didn’t worship the God of the Israelites––

certainly not in the way that the Israelites did;

and they didn’t follow the Israelite food customs and practices.

They were totally different…

foreign…

‘other’.

But they were also considered inherently immoral––

their sexual attitudes and practices were considered questionable, indeed, offensive to Israelites.

To associate with such people willingly was wrong;

it threatened their very sense of identity;

and it was an affront to God––

as God had always been understood.

That the people in question were Romans…

and, worse still, members of the Roman military––

men who were responsible for any number of sacrilegious acts… 

and guilty of all sorts of ruthless atrocities––

only made it much worse.

 

The author’s clever construction of this story draws as stark a contrast as is imaginable.

In the context of the first century, there could not have been anyone who was more ‘other’…

more different…

more abhorrent…

or more despised.

And in the story, Peter makes it clear that going to the Roman centurion, Cornelius––

and eating with him, and staying with him––

wasn’t something that came easily for him.

Indeed, it so went against the grain that it took a powerful vision sent from God––

an image… 

an experience… 

that he couldn’t ignore––

to force him out of his comfort zone.

His tradition, his upbringing, all that he had been taught…

screamed out that doing so was wrong.

But he’d had an experience that told him otherwise.

And, without a single verse of Scriptural support…

and without theological justification according to contemporary orthodoxy… 

he followed where he perceived that God was leading him.

But, even then, you could imagine someone like Peter toddling off to Caesarea thinking:

‘Okay…

perhaps God wants me to preach to these people…

to convict them of their sins…

to call upon them to repent…

to renounce allegiance to their other gods and their abhorrent lifestyle…

to adopt our customs and our way of thinking and acting…

and, hence, prove themselves fit to be included’.

But it didn’t work out like that.

As the author constructs the scenario, he claims that it was when Peter began to speak––

in effect, the Greek suggests that it was even before he had begun to get the words out––

that God acted decisively…

and God acted unilaterally.

God demonstrated that these people were acceptable and welcome just as they were.

The point that the author is trying to make here… 

is that God doesn’t recognise the distinctions that we make…

or the distinctions that we presume that God makes;

God doesn’t care about our ideas of what is clean or unclean…

acceptable or unacceptable.

Indeed, by omitting any reference to Cornelius’ status—

as someone who had worshipped Israel’s God the best that he knew how––

and by omitting any reference to his piety…

the author is suggesting that, effectively, all people are acceptable to God…

regardless of who they are…

what they believe…

how they worship…

or how they live.

And it’s not contingent, in any way, upon them changing their attitudes…

their beliefs…

or their way of life.

After all…

as a Roman centurion, Cornelius would still have had to worship the Roman gods publicly;

he would have had to make offerings to them…

and conduct services on behalf of his troops.

In having God unequivocally and unilaterally embrace Cornelius…

the author proclaims, about as blatantly as he can, that God doesn’t see as we see…

that God doesn’t think as we think…

that God doesn’t care about the sorts of distinctions that we make.

God doesn’t love us because of our nationality, race, culture, or religion…

the orthodoxy of our beliefs or our worship practices…

or the apparent piety of our way of life.

God doesn’t care where we fall on the sexuality spectrum.

God doesn’t care if we’re black or white.

God doesn’t care if we’re Christian, Jew, Buddhist, or Muslim.

God doesn’t care if we were born here or came in a boat.

God is radically inclusive, and expects the same from us.

But, like the Hebrew Christians in this story…

so often we fail to understand that.

We––

the church…

and those who claim to speak in God’s name–– 

continue to impose our prejudices onto God.

So often, we just don’t get it.

God is impartial.

God doesn’t make distinctions.

God simply loves, accepts, and welcomes with open arms.

And God’s just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.