1.
And let’s get this right: Peter’s not just mildly tolerant, he’s not just civil and appropriately respectful. He goes to them – to the unclean, the uncircumcised, the unacceptable – he seeks them out and eats with them. There’s an enthusiasm in Peter’s ministry, an extravagance in his heart that can’t sit still. So he seeks them out – where they live, where they work, where they struggle – and he eats with them. No judgment. No condescension. Just loaves of bread, bottles of wine, sharing into the night. Peter’s appetite for communion is radical, patient, intense. And he’s breaking bread all over the place.
And the elders back home in Jerusalem, the pillars of the new church, they don’t get it. They meet him at the door that day and pull him aside: “How can you risk everything for a few Gentiles?” they ask. “What good could possibly come from all this mixing?” they ask. Now if you’ve been around churches for any length of time, you know the tone; you’ve seen the look in their eyes. And I want to go gently at these elders: they are undoubtedly committed and probably well-meaning. But does it strike you as odd that they can’t connect the dots here? Does it strike you as odd that they don’t see a little bit of Jesus in Peter’s enthusiasm? I mean Jesus was always in trouble for eating with the wrong kinds of folks. That reputation followed him everywhere. Probably got him killed.
So. So let’s not take this weekly reenactment of communion, our own weekly practice at the table, for granted. Jesus risked everything dipping his bread in the bowl with scoundrels and tax collectors. And Peter broke some rules hanging out with the uncircumcised and unclean. If we’re doing it right, our weekly practice is as patient, and as intense, and as radical as theirs. And that’s the reason we do it almost every week when we worship.
Because here’s the thing: Among Christians, communion holds what I guess I’ll call ‘a privileged place’ in spiritual practice. Not an exclusive place, but ‘a privileged place.’ We believe, after all, that we meet Jesus in this breaking of bread, in this act of hospitality, in this celebration of sacrifice. Is this the only place we meet him? Of course not. But something essential happens around this table. Something we can’t live without.
When we celebrate, against all odds, abundance and forgiveness and grace, something essential happens. We meet the God of the galaxies. We look into the eyes of Mystery and Eternity. Jesus is embodied, fleshed out, incarnate in this very simple, very ordinary moment of eating, drinking and sharing. And that’s what I mean when I say that communion holds a privileged place in spiritual practice. We meet God here. Face to face.
So it makes all kinds of sense that Peter chooses to eat with the folks he meets along the way. It makes all kinds of sense that he breaks bread, eagerly, with them. Without judgment. Without condescension. He wants dearly to share with them his faith, his enthusiasm, his big hearted love and invitation. And communion is the language of that invitation. It’s the vocabulary of his ministry. And it’s getting him into all kinds of hot water.
2.
Now I guess you could say that Peter’s speech, delivered to that skeptical audience in the home office, was the very first “I Have a Dream” speech. It’s a bit of a stretch perhaps, but not farfetched. Like King in 1963, Peter’s been walking the streets, working the fields, building an unlikely movement of believers, dreamers and mystics. And like King in 1963, Peter’s risking his life; every time he opens his mouth, he’s risking his life.
And in Jerusalem, the folks in the pews are anxious. They’ve heard rumors that Gentiles are joining the fledgling Christian movement; they’ve even heard rumors that Peter’s been seeking those Gentiles out and eating with them. What possible good could all this mixing do? Were not God’s laws clear and irrefutable? It’s almost as if Peter thinks he can rewrite the script, carve out new commandments, start from scratch. Can he do that?
Now homiletically, rhetorically, Peter’s got choices to make. And he could go a couple of different ways here. You know what I mean? He could play the “Jesus washed my feet; how about yours?” card. Or the “I was there when Jesus healed the crowds!” card. He could sort of pull rank and go with his rather significant authority. Or he could dig into his big bag of sermon illustrations and build a compelling argument, rational, even legal, for inclusion and diversity in the church. He could go a couple of different ways.
Instead, Peter tells them about a dream, his dream. He lays out this strange and slightly unsettling vision of a large sheet lowered from heaven, holding within four-footed animals, beasts of prey, reptiles and birds of the air. “Get up, Peter,” says the voice. “Get up, Peter; kill and eat.” OK, so it’s not the soaring rhetoric of Martin Luther King, Jr. on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. It’s not “[hewing] out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.” But it’s Peter’s dream right here. Peter’s dream just the same. And he goes with it. He trusts it. With all those skeptical, critical, restless elders listening, watching, even waiting to pounce. Peter trusts his dream.
So before we get into the dream itself, Peter’s strange dream, let’s just acknowledge that. You’ve got to trust your dream. Your vision. Experience is important. Reason and intellect are, too. But in your spiritual lives, in your discipleship, in your walk with Jesus, you’ve got to trust your dream. Whatever else God is, God is most certainly a dream weaver. And your dream - however odd, however inscrutable – is most certainly a gift.
And let’s not define this dreaming too narrowly. Trust the dream that comes in the dim hours just before dawn. And the one the wakes you up, straight up, sweating buckets in the middle of the night. Trust the dream that comes in the broad light of day, during a conversation with an old friend or sifting through a book of poetry. Trust that dream: that vision of the work you just have to do, that vision of the book you just have to write, that vision of the risk you just have to take. These dreams come from the imagination of God, from the heart of God. Peter trusts his. You can trust yours. It offers a strangely credible roadmap: this dream that keeps you awake.
3.
So then, what is it about Peter’s dream? You’ve got this wild sheet coming down from heaven. You’ve got four-footed animals, beasts of prey, birds of the air, and, for good measure, some reptiles in the mix. Eat, Peter, eat. Now I don’t know if any of you watch “Iron Chef America” on cable. But isn’t Peter’s dream a little like the opening voiceover: “The time has come to once again answer life’s most savory question – Whose cuisine reigns supreme?” Da…da…da…da! “Get up, Peter,” says the voice in his dream. “Get up, Peter, and start cooking.” Think about it. “Iron Chef Early Church.”
But Peter says to the voice: “I can’t eat this stuff. All these animals, all these birds, all these reptiles.” I’m a circumcised man, a man of rules and laws and clear lines. My church has to follow those rules, keep honest with those laws, play within those clear lines. That’s what church is all about. Don’t mess with me this way.
But the voice, the voice is not intimidated. “What God has made clean,” it answers, “you must not call profane.” This happens once, twice, three times. And wouldn’t you know it, at that very moment, Peter’s roused from his reverie by three Gentiles, arriving from Caesarea and knocking on the door. You see, up until this point in the story, Peter’s world has fallen pretty cleanly into just a couple of categories. There are Jews over here – eating, worshipping, dreaming together. And there are Gentiles over here – eating, worshipping, dreaming together. Given his concern with circumcision, who is and who’s not, I have to believe he has the men over here and the women over here. Categories. But this vision, wild and unprecedented and confirmed suddenly by Gentiles at his door, changes everything. It changes Peter. “The Spirit told me to go with them,” he says, “to go with them and not to make a distinction between them and us.”
So here’s the thing about communion. There’s something going on here that we can’t live without. Something essential. And I want to go out on a limb here – because I enjoy limbs – and cite something I found in a respected Episcopalian journal. You know, Episcopalians tend toward a more sacramental theology, a deeper appreciation of ritual. And theirs is most often dignified, considered theology. And sometimes just that little shift in perspective allows for some kind of insight.
Now I’ll give you that it’s risky comparing communion to sex. Heck, in the church, it’s risky mentioning sex at all. But what Susan Pitchford’s saying, I think, is profoundly true. In this ordinary ritual, this commonplace practice, breaking up some bread and passing it around, our bodies encounter the body and blood of Jesus. This is where the mystical union happens. It seems unlikely, even unreasonable. But that’s our faith. When we defy convention and culture – as Jesus did, as Peter did – to share a common cup with the so-called clean and the so-called unclean, with the so-called reputable and the so-called disreputable; when we risk it all and touch one another at this table, our bodies encounter the body and blood of Jesus. Soul and spirit meet in a lovely, embodied dance. This is where the mystic, sweet communion happens. And if we miss all that, if we take it for granted, if we go through the motions, communion loses its power, its meaning, its mystery. Like sex divorced from love.
4.
So what does all this mean for First Congregational Church? Peter’s dream? Susan Pitchford’s provocation? What does all this mean for us on this Consecration Sunday? My God, I have a hunch that it means a whole heck of a lot. It means that God, our God, the God of tiny California poppies and huge far-flung galaxies, is stirring in these cups and in these loaves. It means that Jesus, our Jesus, is passionate about our learning to feed one another and touch one another and serve one another. And it means that our breaking bread together, our loving one another is God’s greatest joy. God’s greatest joy. Not just an amusement. But God’s greatest joy.
So look in the eyes of the disciple who serves you this morning. Watch the hands of the friend who holds that bread, that cup for you. This is where the mystic, sweet communion happens. This is where the old rules are broken. And this is where God’s dream comes to life.
