The sandals on my feet weren’t mine. Too small, too Roman, and definitely not made for running. But here I was, Cornelius’s errand boy, sprinting up sloped roads in Joppa and wondering why a Roman centurion’s messenger would ever be invited into the home of a Jewish fisherman.
The answer? I didn’t have one. Only a strange story and three days of pounding nerves.
Cornelius, my master, was an officer—well-respected, brutal when needed, but kinder than most Romans I’d met. And—strangely devout. He prayed to the Jewish God, refused to bow before idols, and gave more money to the poor than most Jewish leaders I knew.
Then last week, Cornelius asked me to drop what I was doing and come to him immediately. His skin was pale, his hands trembling.
“I saw an angel,” he whispered, eyes red. “He said, ‘Send men to Joppa. Ask for Simon Peter. He’s staying by the sea.’”
I thought he’d lost his mind.
But you don’t argue with a centurion—not even a trembling one.
So now here I was, standing outside Peter’s door, heart hammering harder than on any battlefield. Jews didn’t enter Roman homes. Romans didn’t kneel to Jewish teachers. Whatever was happening, it was bigger than rules.
A man opened the wooden door.
He was older than I expected. Bearded, weather-worn, and barefoot—his eyes looked as if they’d seen storms no sea could explain.
“You’re the one looking for me,” he said gently. “God told me you’d come.”
Wait—what?
He invited me—and the two soldiers who’d come with me—inside. That alone broke every custom I knew. And when we explained our mission, he didn’t hesitate. The next morning, we walked straight back to Caesarea.
When we entered Cornelius’s house, my commander did what I’d never seen before.
He bowed.
Flat on the ground. In front of a Jewish fisherman.
“Get up,” Peter said urgently, pulling him up by the shoulders. “I’m just a man like you.”
I almost laughed. Who was this Peter?
But that was only the beginning.
The house was packed—neighbors, relatives, servants all waiting as if something massive was about to happen. Peter looked startled, as if all this was more than he’d expected.
“You know it’s against our law for me to even be here,” Peter began, brushing dust from his hem. “But God showed me something—something I didn’t understand until now. I saw a vision—unclean animals on a sheet from heaven. And a voice told me to eat. I said no. But the voice said, ‘Do not call unclean what God has made clean.’”
He looked up, his voice quieter. “I think that vision wasn’t about animals. I think it was about all of you.”
No one moved. Not even me.
Then Peter told us the story of Jesus. His healings. His mercy. How He was put to death—nailed to a Roman cross—and how, just days later, God raised Him from the dead. My skin chilled.
“Everyone who believes in Him,” Peter continued, “receives forgiveness. Everyone. Jew or Gentile.”
Then something I’ll never forget happened.
Even before Peter finished, it felt like a hush dropped across the room—and then, like a heavy sky cracking open, joy exploded.
Cornelius gasped, tears streaming. My throat tightened. Everywhere, people began praying, praising. Not in Latin. Not in Hebrew. In other languages—like fire had entered the room, and swept across every heart.
It was like Pentecost, Peter said later. Except this time... it happened to us.
Gentiles.
Outsiders.
Me.
Peter baptized every one of us that day.
And as the water poured over me, I could feel it—the world shifting, turning, tilting into something new.
I started this journey delivering sandals that didn’t fit. I ended it walking in steps I never thought God would offer to someone like me.
I thought I was a servant. That day, I became family.
The miracle wasn’t just the Spirit falling on Gentiles—it was God lifting the old walls—and making one people from two. His people.
And once you’ve seen that, you never go back.
You can’t.
The sandals on my feet weren’t mine. Too small, too Roman, and definitely not made for running. But here I was, Cornelius’s errand boy, sprinting up sloped roads in Joppa and wondering why a Roman centurion’s messenger would ever be invited into the home of a Jewish fisherman.
The answer? I didn’t have one. Only a strange story and three days of pounding nerves.
Cornelius, my master, was an officer—well-respected, brutal when needed, but kinder than most Romans I’d met. And—strangely devout. He prayed to the Jewish God, refused to bow before idols, and gave more money to the poor than most Jewish leaders I knew.
Then last week, Cornelius asked me to drop what I was doing and come to him immediately. His skin was pale, his hands trembling.
“I saw an angel,” he whispered, eyes red. “He said, ‘Send men to Joppa. Ask for Simon Peter. He’s staying by the sea.’”
I thought he’d lost his mind.
But you don’t argue with a centurion—not even a trembling one.
So now here I was, standing outside Peter’s door, heart hammering harder than on any battlefield. Jews didn’t enter Roman homes. Romans didn’t kneel to Jewish teachers. Whatever was happening, it was bigger than rules.
A man opened the wooden door.
He was older than I expected. Bearded, weather-worn, and barefoot—his eyes looked as if they’d seen storms no sea could explain.
“You’re the one looking for me,” he said gently. “God told me you’d come.”
Wait—what?
He invited me—and the two soldiers who’d come with me—inside. That alone broke every custom I knew. And when we explained our mission, he didn’t hesitate. The next morning, we walked straight back to Caesarea.
When we entered Cornelius’s house, my commander did what I’d never seen before.
He bowed.
Flat on the ground. In front of a Jewish fisherman.
“Get up,” Peter said urgently, pulling him up by the shoulders. “I’m just a man like you.”
I almost laughed. Who was this Peter?
But that was only the beginning.
The house was packed—neighbors, relatives, servants all waiting as if something massive was about to happen. Peter looked startled, as if all this was more than he’d expected.
“You know it’s against our law for me to even be here,” Peter began, brushing dust from his hem. “But God showed me something—something I didn’t understand until now. I saw a vision—unclean animals on a sheet from heaven. And a voice told me to eat. I said no. But the voice said, ‘Do not call unclean what God has made clean.’”
He looked up, his voice quieter. “I think that vision wasn’t about animals. I think it was about all of you.”
No one moved. Not even me.
Then Peter told us the story of Jesus. His healings. His mercy. How He was put to death—nailed to a Roman cross—and how, just days later, God raised Him from the dead. My skin chilled.
“Everyone who believes in Him,” Peter continued, “receives forgiveness. Everyone. Jew or Gentile.”
Then something I’ll never forget happened.
Even before Peter finished, it felt like a hush dropped across the room—and then, like a heavy sky cracking open, joy exploded.
Cornelius gasped, tears streaming. My throat tightened. Everywhere, people began praying, praising. Not in Latin. Not in Hebrew. In other languages—like fire had entered the room, and swept across every heart.
It was like Pentecost, Peter said later. Except this time... it happened to us.
Gentiles.
Outsiders.
Me.
Peter baptized every one of us that day.
And as the water poured over me, I could feel it—the world shifting, turning, tilting into something new.
I started this journey delivering sandals that didn’t fit. I ended it walking in steps I never thought God would offer to someone like me.
I thought I was a servant. That day, I became family.
The miracle wasn’t just the Spirit falling on Gentiles—it was God lifting the old walls—and making one people from two. His people.
And once you’ve seen that, you never go back.
You can’t.
