Who am I to hinder God?

 By: The Rev. Christina Miller

“Who was I that I could hinder God?”

That question from Peter, from our reading from Acts, carries the weight of a spiritual turning point—not just for Peter, but for the whole early church. Peter had just returned to Jerusalem after witnessing something he never imagined possible: the Holy Spirit falling—freely, fully, without reservation—on an entire household of Gentiles. These were not people who followed the food laws. They weren’t circumcised. They hadn’t memorized the Torah. And yet, the Spirit came.

When the other apostles questioned him—“Why did you eat with those people? Why did you baptize them?”—Peter didn’t offer a theological explanation. Instead, he simply told the truth of what he saw and felt. He said, “The Holy Spirit fell upon them just as it had upon us at the beginning… Who was I that I could hinder God?”

Peter trusted his experience, even when it didn’t fit neatly within his worldview. Even when it challenged everything he thought he knew about what it meant to be faithful.

This was the tension the early church was wrestling with: how to remain faithful to the tradition they had inherited while also being open to the new thing God was doing. Being part of God’s covenant people had always meant upholding boundaries—related to ritual purity, food laws, and circumcision. And these weren’t just rules; they were identity markers. They were how the Jewish people remembered who they were and lived in right relationship with God and one another.

But now, through the Spirit, God was opening a way that no one expected. A way that wasn’t about purity or performance, or about believing all the right things. A way that would lead to wholeness. Because that’s what salvation means in the biblical Greek—not just being rescued, but being made whole.

Wholeness happens when what has been divided is brought together—when Jews and Gentiles become one people, when heaven and earth are no longer separate realms, when we begin to recognize the image of God in people who don’t speak our language or share our beliefs.

Our reading from Revelation gives us a glimpse of this wholeness: “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth... and I heard a voice from the throne saying, ‘See, the home of God is among mortals.’” It is a vision of union, of all things being reconciled. There will be no more tears, no more fear, no more dividing lines. It is not a vision of escape to another world, but a vision of God dwelling here, among us, in this world—transformed and renewed.

And how do we get there? Not through rules. Not through systems that regulate who belongs. But through love. That’s what Jesus gives his disciples in today’s Gospel: a new commandment. He says, “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” That is the measure. Not belief. Not doctrine. Not the right liturgical practice. Just love.

And that commandment is still new, because we are still learning how to live it. It asks us to trust love more than fear. It asks us to trust being in relationship more than rule-following. It asks us to live from the heart more than from habit. It also asks us to be open—to recognize that the Spirit moves outside our familiar categories. Over the years, I’ve encountered the Spirit in places that have challenged and broadened my worldview.

One of the most surprising places has been through Reiki energy healing, which I’ve shared about in a previous sermon and at one of our Second Sunday salons. I didn’t have a theological framework for what I was experiencing, but I unquestionably felt energy move through my body. Through this movement, I felt deeply loved and healed. I recognized it as the same peace I have been given in Christ, which I encounter in prayer and at the Eucharist and within community. I experienced it as the same love that Jesus speaks of in today’s Gospel. Who was I to hinder God?

I’ve also felt the Spirit through reading poetry across religions, especially the poetry of Hafiz and Rumi, the Sufi mystics. Their words don’t come from our tradition, but they speak to the same longing to be one with God and the same experiential knowing of God’s love.

And I’ve felt the Spirit while serving as a hospital chaplain in interfaith settings. I have felt the presence of Christ in my conversations and prayers with people from different faith traditions—or with people who had no faith at all. Belief and creed were not prerequisites for Christ to meet us in that space, and for God’s Spirit to be poured out.

At the same time, I love our Christian religion and Episcopal tradition. I love our liturgy and sacraments. I love the Eucharist—where we meet Christ not just in memory, but in real presence. I love the Book of Common Prayer—the way its words hold us when we don’t know what to pray. I love the shape of the Anglican life—its rhythm, its reverence, its deep imagination.

But even these holy things are not the whole of God. They are part of God’s movement—but they are not the boundary of it. And when we try to make them the limit, the only way, we risk getting in God’s way. Because the Spirit moves where it will.

So maybe we are being invited to move with more fluidity, too. Maybe we are invited to ask different questions, to open up what we are reading, to try a new practice, to talk to people who have different beliefs than us. We are invited to wonder: Where is the Spirit moving outside my tradition, my culture, my language?

Can we be curious rather than critical? Can we be excited about the new heaven and new earth that is emerging—even if we don’t know what it looks like yet, and even if it challenges our worldview?

There will always be a tension between what we’ve inherited and what is being born. But we don’t have to choose one over the other. We are invited into the both/and—to cherish our tradition, and to stay open to the Spirit. To live in wonder. To trust our experiences. To follow love. This is the path to wholeness.

And maybe the most faithful thing we can say is: Who am I to hinder God?

Amen.