Peter knew, knew, knew, deep, deep, deep in his heart that it was wrong, wrong, wrong. "It can’t be," he thought, he said, he taught. "It can’t be that Gentiles can accept the word of God without changing themselves, without following the rules."

Peter knew about Gentiles; he didn’t remember being taught; he had always known. There was a line, and Gentiles were on the other side. Gentiles were not of God’s chosen people. Gentiles did not obey the rules God had given. If Gentiles wanted to accept the word of God, they must first become Jews. Jews, like Jesus was a Jew. Besides, to a good practicing Jew like Peter, Gentiles were repulsive. He had a visceral, gut reaction against them; they were disgusting. They were, he had been taught from childhood, unclean. "It can’t be," he thought, he said, he taught. "It can’t be that Gentiles can come into the community, even assume leadership roles, without changing who they are. That crosses the line. That crosses the line."

For a fleeting moment, he had a memory, a vision really, of Jesus telling them, "Love one another as I have loved you." In his vision, the commandment was an arrow, a dangerous arrow, a piercing arrow. It was disturbing: "Love one another as I have loved you" flying through the air with a sharp, dangerous point. "No," he thought, flicking it out of his mind.

I want to tell you a story from Nora Gallagher’s memoir Practicing Resurrection. It’s about a controversial service at her Episcopal church. The story begins with a conversation between Mark, the rector, and Martha, the Altar Guild member preparing for the service.

Mark came into the sacristy as Martha was ironing linens on an ironing board that flipped down from the wall. As her hands smoothed the linens, ironed, and folded, she said, "I’ll come, but . . ."

"But what?" Mark asked, one hand on the ironing board.

"But I won’t take communion."

"Why?" he asked gently.

"Because I don’t believe in this, she said softly, tilting the iron back to rest on its heel and smoothing the fair linen, and then soothing it again.

"That’s okay," Mark said, putting a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Thank you for telling me. Just promise me one thing."

Martha nodded.

"Promise me you will come."

"I will," she said, and took the iron back into her hand.

The preacher at the service was a woman. "We stand on new ground," she began. "It is a new day. We have never been here before, and it’s a little scary." Then she told a story of her family’s visit to the ancient shrine of St. Cuthbert in Durham, England. "As we walked in the nave," she said, "I looked down and saw a long, wide, black marble line inlaid in the stone floor. It stretched across the entire width of the nave, across the back end, the west end. And then I looked up and saw a framed sign posted on the column, explaining the line. The sign said the marble was laid in the 1100’s, when the cathedral was built, to keep the women back, to keep the women away from the main part of the church. It was a protective barrier to keep the altar and St. Cuthbert’s holy shrine pure and free from the corrupting power of women. . . .

"It hurt to see that line. It hurts to remember it even now . . . that barrier established in the name of purity. That day, as I stood there, surrounded by the power and might of the Church, I thought of the men who had laid that marble and all the women who had stayed behind the line. . . . We all know about lines . . . .

"That line on the floor of Durham Cathedral serves no purpose anymore," she continued. "It is a relic from the past. I believe that the day that marble was laid, God wept. And I believe that every time we cross a line like that, God dances.

"Today, we cross that line. Today," she said, "old barriers lose their power, old wounds can lose their sting. Today, . . . healing is possible because we gather to celebrate something larger than ourselves — the love of God that invites us all to cross the line, to stay back no longer, to step into healing, and into hope and joy. Today, God is dancing."

She sat down. The service proceeded until it was time to administer Holy Communion. To his surprise, Mark saw that Martha was coming down the ailse, solemn, quiet, measured. When she reached him, she crossed herself and reached up her hands with a smooth, practiced, elegant gesture and opened her palms like a crane coming to rest in water.

"The body of Christ," Mark said, placing the bread in her palm. "Amen," she replied.

Afterward, she was cleaning chalices and putting dirty linens in a laundry bag hanging on a hook by the door. Mark came in from the church. She looked up at him.

"It may be none of my business, Martha," he said, "but why did you come to communion?"

"Because . . . I’ve drawn too many lines in my life, " she replied and held his gaze for a second or two. And then she reached down and picked up another chalice to wash.

The service this story comes from could have been one in which a line of race was crossed. For many years, a wedding between races, or even a service in which different races were welcome, would have evoked line-drawing.

Or it could have been a service in which a line of gender was crossed. Services ordaining women, or even allowing women to function as acolytes, readers, or Lay Eucharistic Ministers (much less priests), would have evoked line-drawing.

Or the story could have come from a service which crossed a line relating to remarriage. Until 1973, remarriage in the Episcopal Church was prohibited, no matter how dysfunctional or even dangerous the prior marriage was, no matter how loving and life-giving the new marriage was.

Or the story could have come from a service that crossed lines of ethnicity or economic status. In many parishes, a service welcoming the "wrong" ethnic group, nationality, or social class would have evoked line-drawing.

The story actually came from a parishes’ first blessing of a same-sex union, but my point is that we’ve had lots of lines in our churches. We have often caused God to weep. And thanks be to God, we have managed to cross the lines and give God cause to dance. But never without controversy, never without sacrifice.

Peter knew, knew, knew, deep, deep, deep in his heart that it was wrong, wrong, wrong. "It can’t be," he thought, he said, he taught. "It can’t be. That crosses the line. That crosses the line."

But that arrow, that dangerous, sharp arrow, that "Love one another as I have loved you" arrow, would not be so easily dismissed. It came to him in his sleep; it pierced his lines. It made him see a vision, a dream that how God made people is not to be disrespected, a revelation that pierced the lines he had known, known, known since childhood were God’s will.

And, he changed. No doubt to the chagrin, and probably outrage, of many who accused him of throwing away the traditional faith, he changed. Gentiles were welcome into the full life of the Church.

And, because he changed, God danced. And because he changed, we, we who are almost all descendents of Gentiles, are here.

If we are brutally, painfully, searchingly honest with ourselves, there is probably not one of us here who does not draw some line somewhere in this church, somewhere in our hearts. But, take heart. We have a God who shoots arrows that can pierce our lines, pierce our hearts. It’s not comfortable. It is not comfortable. But it is worth it— to know that we have given our God cause to dance.