If you heard the speech Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s gave in Portland on May 4, you might have heard him deliver this line:  “God is not a Christian.” In saying this, Tutu made room for God-lovers of all flavors in the Kingdom of God.  He was, in fact, reflecting Jesus’ statement in John 10 in which he says, “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold.”  The way Tutu said “God is not a Christian,” I could readily forget my childhood’s teachings about what got you into heaven.  I grew up in a faith tradition that believed you’d never get there if you didn’t adhere to the code of behavior set out by my denomination.  No drinking, no smoking, no swearing, no dancing, no going to movies, no chewing gum, no hanging out with people who do.  These are the marks of a Christian.  As kids, we were worried sick about our beloved Aunt Carol (one of the kindest, most God-fearing women on the face of the earth), because she dyed her hair and wore lipstick—true beginning of the slippery slope to hell.  And then we hear a person of Desmond Tutu’s stature and holiness say, “God is not a Christian.”
            It may be a paradigm shift, but such shifts have been around since the beginning.  In today’s passage from Acts, you can hear the Jewish Christians—the only kind of Christian up to this point—you can just hear them exclaim in astonishment at Cornelius’ conversion, “God is not a Jew!”  Reformed Christians have been saddled with 500 years of bad press about (and convoluted understanding of) certain elements of our Reformed theology.   We’ve hung our theological hats on being God’s “elect,” deciding that being “elect” must mean there are those who are not, and then we proceed to decide whom, based mostly on whether or not they agree with our beliefs and customs.  If we must go back to “sola scriptura”—only by scripture—to understand who’s in and who’s out, then we’ve got to take into account the story of the conversion of Gentiles. 
           If we wanted to put a nice frame around the Cornelius story, we’d say it’s “God’s surprising diversity.”  But it’s actually pretty scandalous.  Peter is supernaturally sent to Cornelius the Gentile, he preaches, they listen and are then they are anointed with the Holy Spirit.  This totally breaks the precedent Jewish believers had come to expect:  Jesus followers are Jews; if they don’t start that way, the protocol is to convert to Judaism, and then declare as a Jesus follower.  Cornelius’ conversion, with its confirmation through anointing by the Spirit, is scandalously outside the bounds of protocol. An uncircumcised Gentile (inconceivable!), a military commander of Rome (despicable!), and yet, his prayers and acts of charity are expressions of a piety that draws God’s attention.  God acts to offer Cornelius conversion.
           The religion of our popular culture has led us to believe that conversion is an instantaneous, one-shot deal.  If we are to take Cornelius’ story seriously (and we probably should, because it gets told and retold three times in the book of Acts), if we are to take his story seriously, conversion is more similar to adoption. It’s not the destination.  It’s only the beginning of a lifetime of changed identity.  In the book of Acts, conversion is only the beginning.  It’s always about vocation, not individual possession (“me and my Jesus”).  It is always God’s gift, and it changes the community.
           What do we do with this, then, we who consider ourselves the “elect” of God?  If you are like me, you grew up, not with the words of Archbishop Tutu, but with lines drawn.  The lines are important so we know who’s in and who’s out, because the Christian vocation is to win souls to the Lord.  But if we take Desmond Tutu’s words (and those of the writer of Acts) to their logical extreme, it seems that God gets to be in charge of deciding who’s in and who’s out.  This changes our so-called vocation to living as if we are “elect.” 
What do I mean by that?  I mean all that convoluted logic talk in 1 John about love, which hinges on what it means to “obey.”  Obey literally means “to listen.”  The writer of 1 John says “the love of God is this, that we obey his commandments.”  Are we back to no drinking, no smoking, no dancing, no swearing?  Not those commandments.  Commandments are positive, they are “for life,” which is related to “believe,” which means “by life.”  When we believe in Jesus, it’s not agreeing to an idea.  We believe with our life, by how we act and inter-act. 
           The Reformers had a handle on this commandments thing, which they called “the uses of the Law.”  Calvin didn’t see the Law as the spiritual equivalent of a set of concrete overshoes we slip on in order to be thrown into the river of life.  Rather, the three uses of the Law are as a curb (to keep us on track), as a mirror (to show us law-breakers where we need salvation), and as a delight (to teach us how to live and believe).  There’s another use of the Law, according to 1 John, and that is to form community.  By obeying the commandments, we see what a faithful community looks like, a community in which love is always on the move—between God and humans, between humans and humans.  Rather than defining obedience to the commandments individualistically, in terms of protecting oneself from infringement on personal rights, obedience becomes an act of love, almost as an intimate act between lovers.
           This changes everything, even judgment.  This means, when we hear in scripture (for instance, Psalm 98) that God is the One who comes in judgment, that judgment is the opening for what has not before been possible.  It’s as if God's judgment is really God’s arms wrapped tightly around us until we turn into the one we were created to be.  That changes everything.  That means Cornelius’ story invites us to let go of what we think and what we ought, to instead be on constant look-out for the anointing of God’s Spirit.  Even when it means being scandalously inclusive. 
           A couple of weeks ago, there was a story in the Mission Yearbook.  This is the publication put out by our denomination with daily scripture readings, prayer requests, and mission stories.  This was the day we were praying for our mission co-workers in Taiwan.  The story concerns John McCall, an American pastor who teaches at Taipei seminary.  He was eating in a restaurant with one of his students, seated around a large, public table, when they got to talking with three strangers.  In the course of their talk, the strangers asked John why he was in their country, and he replied that he taught at the seminary.  As the strangers left, the man next to John said that he had already paid for his bill, and then disappeared.  The student asked if this happened to him often, and John said that, yes, when strangers learn that he is a Christian pastor, they are almost always positive.  But, he said, “Their response has very little to do with me and much to do with those who have gone before me.”  He continued by saying that Christians before him have shared God’s love and shown the kindness of Christ to the people of Taiwan, who have responded to this kindness is by sharing it with him and others.  John McCall concludes by saying, “This is how the love of God is made real.”
           Is it any wonder that I say conversion is only the beginning of the Christian journey?  A lifetime of showing the kindness of Christ, receiving it from others, and passing it on—this is conversion.  This is obedience to the commandments, what gives credibility to our witness, in a world that knows “God is not a Christian.”  But we are.