Reading from the Book of Acts of the Apostles

Acts 10, 34

³⁴Then Peter opened his mouth and spoke thus: «Truly I acknowledge that God is impartial,

Acts 10:37–43

³⁷You know what happened throughout Judea, beginning with Galilee, after the baptism that John preached: ³⁸how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power, and he went around doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, because God was with him. ³⁹For us, we are witnesses of everything he did in the countryside of Judea and in Jerusalem. Then they put him to death by hanging him on a tree. ⁴⁰But God raised him from the dead on the third day and enabled him to be seen, ⁴¹not to all the people, but to the witnesses chosen before hand by God, to us who ate and drank with him after his resurrection from the dead. ⁴²And he commanded us to preach to the people and to testify that this is the one whom God has appointed as judge of the living and the dead. ⁴³All the prophets testify about him that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name.»

In those days, when Peter arrived in Caesarea at the home of a centurion of the Roman army, he spoke up and said: «You know what has happened throughout the land of the Jews, beginning in Galilee after the baptism that John preached. God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power. He went around doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, because God was with him. And we are witnesses of everything he did in the land of the Jews and in Jerusalem. God raised him from the dead on the third day, whom they crucified and killed, and allowed him to appear, not to all the people, but to us, who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead—to be witnesses God had chosen beforehand. God has appointed him to preach to the people and to testify that he is the one who is appointed judge of the living and the dead.» All the prophets testify to Jesus that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name.»

Witnesses to the Resurrection: Eating and Drinking with the Risen One

Peter's speech at Caesarea, or how a shared table becomes the heart of the Easter faith

There are words that change everything. When Peter, standing before a Roman centurion, declares without hesitation, «We ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead,» he is not simply uttering a convivial anecdote: he is expressing the very heartbeat of the Christian faith. This phrase, taken from the Book of Acts, speaks to all those who seek an embodied faith, rooted in history, and not merely in ideas. It speaks to the concrete individual, to the one who doubts, to the one who longs to encounter not a symbol, but a living presence.

We will begin by situating this discourse within its historical and literary context—Corneille's house, a revolutionary scene for the early Church. We will then analyze the paradoxical dynamic of apostolic witness: how ordinary men become guardians of an extraordinary event. We will explore the three main themes of the text—the universality of salvation, the logic of the witness, and the table as the preeminent theological space. We will draw upon the great patristic and medieval tradition to enrich our reading, before proposing concrete avenues for meditation and spiritual application.

A speech at the crossroads of worlds

To grasp the full explosive power of Peter's speech in Acts 10, one must first allow oneself to be surprised by the setting. We are in Caesarea Maritima, a port city built by Herod the Great in homage to Caesar Augustus—a decidedly Roman, cosmopolitan city, teeming with soldiers, merchants, and foreign cults. This is not Jerusalem. This is not the Temple. This is the world of the nations.

The man who receives Peter is named Cornelius. He is a centurion, that is, an officer in the occupying army. He is described as God-fearing, alms-giver, and a man of regular prayer—a man of goodwill on the threshold of mystery. Luke, the author of Acts, devoted the entire tenth chapter to setting up this encounter: Cornelius's vision of being ordered to send for Peter, Peter's vision on the roof of Joppa where a sheet descending from heaven overturns the categories of pure and impure. Two men whom everything separates—race, religion, status—will find themselves in the same room, united by the same message.

This is not a minor anecdote in the Book of Acts. It is a pivotal moment. For the first time, the Gospel officially crosses the border of the Jewish world to reach the Gentiles. Peter himself, despite his initial resistance, recognizes the novelty of the situation: «Truly I understand that God does not show favoritism.» The scene is imbued with immense theological significance.

The speech: a kerygma in miniature

The passage chosen for the liturgy (Acts 10:34a, 37-43) constitutes what exegetes call a kerygmatic discourse — from the Greek kerygma, which means proclamation, announcement. Peter does not develop a speculative theology; he summarizes the essence of what happened, in a remarkable chronological and logical order.

The discourse follows a precise five-part structure: the anointing of Jesus by the Holy Spirit at John's baptism; his itinerant ministry of healing and liberation; his death on the cross; his resurrection on the third day; and finally, the missionary mandate entrusted to the witnesses. It is not an abstract dissertation: it is a narrative. Peter recounts what he experienced, what he saw, and what he participated in.

The culminating phrase—"we ate and drank with him after his resurrection"—is perhaps the most striking in the discourse. It might have seemed trivial, almost clumsy in its very materiality. But it is precisely its concrete and corporeal nature that gives it its theological force. It says that the resurrection is not a metaphor, not a symbol, not a subjective inner experience. It is an event that left its mark on the flesh, on sensory memory, at the table.

The paradox of the chosen witness

At the heart of this discourse lies a paradox that Peter states without embellishment: God raised Jesus from the dead, «and allowed him to appear, not to all the people, but to witnesses whom God had chosen beforehand.» This apparent restriction—the resurrection was not visible to everyone—has puzzled generations of commentators. Why did God not reveal himself publicly, universally, and indisputably?

The answer the text outlines is remarkably consistent with the entirety of divine pedagogy revealed in Scripture. God does not compel. He calls, he sends, he entrusts. The resurrection did not impose itself as a spectacle from which one emerges convinced against one's will. It was communicated as a personal, progressive, gradual encounter—to Mary Magdalene in the garden, to the disciples on the road to Emmaus, to the Eleven in the Upper Room, to Peter on the shores of the lake. And now, before Cornelius, Peter bears witness to this accumulated experience.

This divine choice of witnesses is not elitism. It is an economy of communication. Faith is not transmitted through coercive demonstration but through living testimony. There is someone who has seen, who has touched, who has eaten—and who can say, «It’s true.» It is on this fragile and magnificent human chain that the Church is built.

The table as proof and as sacrament

The phrase "we ate and drank with him" did not appear out of thin air in the New Testament. It is part of a dense network of meals shared with Jesus, which constitutes one of the most distinctive features of his ministry. Jesus ate with sinners and tax collectors. He multiplied the loaves. He allowed himself to be invited to the home of Simon the Pharisee and Zacchaeus the tax collector. He instituted the Eucharist at a Passover meal. And after the resurrection, he ate with the disciples on the road to Emmaus, he shared grilled fish on the beach at Tiberias, and he broke bread in the Upper Room.

In biblical culture, the table is never neutral. It is the quintessential place of communion, reconciliation, and belonging. To be invited to someone's table means being recognized as an equal, as a brother, as worthy. To be excluded from the table is to be marginalized, rejected, and set aside.

When Peter says "we ate and drank with him after his resurrection", he says several things at once: the resurrection is real and bodily (one does not eat with a ghost); communion with the Risen One comes through ordinary human gestures (eating, drinking, sharing); and this communion at the table is the foundation of the mission (it is from there that one is sent to bear witness).

The paradox is striking: the highest proof of the resurrection—that which transcends all human history—is a meal. Not a cosmic marvel. Not a demonstration of power. A meal. As if God wanted to say: I came to dwell so deeply within your humanity that even after death, I return to the table with you.

The Judge of the Living and the Dead

One of the most powerful Christological titles in the discourse is this: God «has appointed him Judge of the living and the dead.» This formula, which we find again in the Apostles’ Creed, is not a threat. In the context of Peter’s discourse, it is an announcement of good news.

Why? Because the Judge of the living and the dead is the one who was himself unjustly condemned, hung on the cross, put to death without having committed any wrongdoing. He is the one who knew humiliation, betrayal, and abandonment. When this man is appointed judge, we understand that divine judgment will not be exercised from a cold and distant height, but from the depths of the most painful human experience.

Peter here articulates a logic of reversal that could be called the Paschal logic: the one condemned by men is established as judge by God. The one who seemed defeated is the only victor. The one whose body was laid in the tomb is the only one who lives. This reversal is not revenge—it is a revelation of the true nature of God, who does not judge as the powerful of this world judge.

The universality of salvation: "God shows no partiality"«

The opening line of Peter's speech is perhaps the most revolutionary in the entire passage, even though it is often relegated to the background: "Truly, I understand that God shows no partiality." This statement, coming from the mouth of a first-century Palestinian Jew, speaking before a representative of the occupying power, is astonishingly audacious.

The Hebrew and Greek expression that is translated as "acceptance of persons" — prosôpolêmpsia — literally means looking at someone's face—that is, their outward appearance, rank, birth, nationality—to decide how to treat them. God, says Peter, does not proceed in this way. He does not look at the social face. He looks at something else.

This assertion is based on a vision of humanity that runs throughout the Hebrew Bible. From Genesis onward, every human being is created in the image of God — tselem Elohim — without distinction of origin or condition. The prophets of Israel regularly denounced discriminatory practices in the name of this fundamental equality before God. Amos thunders against the rich who sell the poor for a pair of sandals. Micah proclaims that God asks only that we «do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.».

But in Peter's words, spoken before Cornelius, this truth takes on a new dimension. It is no longer merely an ethical imperative—treating people fairly. It becomes a foundational theological principle of the movement born of Jesus: the salvation proclaimed by Jesus Christ is not reserved for a particular people, a specific religious tradition, or a particular social class. "Everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name"—the word "everyone" is a vast expanse of meaning.

This does not mean that all religious traditions are equivalent or that differences do not exist. It means that the door of grace is not guarded by any human gatekeeper. Cornelius, the Roman centurion, who is not Jewish and has not received the Torah, can receive the Holy Spirit—and he does, to the great astonishment of Peter's Jewish companions. This is such a novelty that Luke recounts it twice in the Acts of the Apostles (chapters 10 and 11) and it will be the subject of debate at the Council of Jerusalem (chapter 15).

What Peter learns in Caesarea is that his mental categories were too small for God. The Spirit blows where it wills. Grace overflows the boundaries that men draw, even those drawn in the name of religion. It is a lesson that each generation must relearn—and that ours, with its new forms of tribalism, cannot afford to forget.

The logic of the witness: between fragility and certainty

The concept of a witness — Martys The Greek word for martyr is the pivotal element structuring Peter's entire discourse. Peter doesn't say, "We know that Jesus has risen." He says, "We are witnesses." The distinction is crucial.

In ancient law as in biblical tradition, a witness is someone who has seen, heard, and lived—and who can attest to it before others. They are not simply a neutral informant: they make a personal commitment, putting their name and credibility on the line. To testify is to say, "I vouch for this with my life.".

And that is precisely what Peter does. He who had denied God three times in the courtyard of the high priest, he who had fled from the Garden of Gethsemane, he who had shut himself in fear behind locked doors—this man now stands before strangers and says: I am a witness. The change is so radical that it is itself proof of the resurrection. There is no other way to explain Peter's metamorphosis.

But the logic of the witness contains an element of structural humility. Peter doesn't claim to possess the absolute truth about God. He says he saw certain things, that he was with Jesus, that he ate with him after his death. This is limited, it's specific to a particular time, it's rooted in concrete experience. And it is precisely this limitation that makes the testimony credible: the witness doesn't stand above the event; he is involved in it.

This logic has profound implications for the Christian faith today. It reminds us that the transmission of faith is not primarily a matter of intellectual arguments or irrefutable proofs, but a chain of living testimonies. Someone has encountered Christ—in prayer, in a trial endured, in charity received or given—and bears witness to it. Another person receives this testimony, enters into their own experience, and in turn becomes a witness.

The weakness of this method of transmission is evident: it relies on fallible individuals, imperfect communities, and sinful institutions. But it is the method chosen by God. The Resurrection could have been announced by an angel in every public square of the Roman Empire. Instead, it was entrusted to fishermen in Galilee, to women whom Jewish law did not accept as valid witnesses, and to a converted persecutor named Paul. The fragility of the channel does not diminish the power of the message; it reveals its origin.

The Eucharistic Table: Memory, Presence, and Mission

Let us return to this central phrase: «we ate and drank with him after his resurrection.» In the Christian liturgical tradition, this formula immediately resonated with the Eucharist. And this connection is not accidental.

Luke, in his Gospel as in the Acts of the Apostles, pays particular attention to meals. It is during a meal that Jesus institutes the Eucharist. It is in the breaking of bread that the disciples on the road to Emmaus recognize the Risen Lord. It is around a table that the first Christian communities gather to "break bread." The table is the place of the Risen Lord's presence in the Church.

What Peter said to the people in Cornelius's house—"we ate and drank with him"—is in a sense what the Church says at every Eucharist. Not that we were eyewitnesses like Peter, but that we share the same meal, the same table, the same presence. The Eucharist is the sacramental continuation of the meals the Risen Christ shared with his disciples.

This perspective opens up an important reflection on what it means to "believe in the resurrection" in daily life. It is not simply adhering to a dogma. It is approaching the table—the Eucharistic table, but also the fraternal table, the table of the poor, the family table—with the awareness that one encounters a presence there. It is living in the conviction that the Risen One continues to share the bread with us, to be recognizable in the breaking of the bread, to bring together people whom everything separates around a common meal.

There is a prophetic and social dimension here that cannot be ignored. If the table of the Risen Christ unites Jews and Romans, slaves and free men, men and women, then the Christian table cannot be a space of exclusion or segregation. Peter's words at Caesarea have immediate practical consequences: one cannot say "we ate with the Risen Christ" and refuse to share one's table with someone who is different, poorer, or of lower social standing.

The table thus becomes at once a memorial (it recalls the historical meals with Jesus), a presence (it actualizes communion with the Risen One), and a mission (it sends us out into the world with a testimony to give).

Tradition in the face of Peter's discourse: patristic and medieval echoes

The Church Fathers and the Flesh of the Risen One

From the earliest centuries, the Church Fathers saw in the formula "we ate and drank with him" a decisive theological weapon against the Gnostic currents which tended to excessively spiritualize the resurrection — or even to deny that Christ had a real body.

Ignatius of Antioch, at the beginning of the second century, forcefully insisted on the bodily reality of the resurrection. For him, whoever denies the flesh of the Risen Christ denies the entire economy of salvation, for it is in his flesh that Christ suffered, died, and rose again. The shared meal after Easter is precisely the proof that the risen body is not an appearance or a symbol: it is real, it can eat, it can be touched, it can be recognized.

Irenaeus of Lyons, at the end of the 2nd century, developed this theme in his struggle against Gnosticism. His theology of recapitulation The idea that Christ recapitulates and restores all of humanity within himself rests entirely on the reality of the Incarnation and bodily resurrection. The fact that the Risen One ate and drank with his disciples signifies that matter, the body, human flesh are not obstacles to divinity but the very places of its manifestation.

Augustine of Hippo, at the beginning of the 5th century, meditated at length on the mystery of the resurrection in his Sermons and in The City of God. For him, the resurrected body of Christ is both identical to the historical body of Jesus (it bears the wounds of the nails) and radically transformed (it can pass through closed doors, it disappears and appears at will). This tension between continuity and transformation is at the heart of the Easter faith.

Medieval tradition: the table and the Eucharist

In the Middle Ages, Eucharistic theology naturally echoed the discourse of Peter. Thomas Aquinas, in his Summa Theologica, He carefully distinguishes between the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist and the appearances of the Risen One to the disciples. But he sees in the two a profound continuity: it is the same Christ, the same glorified body, who gives himself to his disciples — first in historical meals, now under the Eucharistic species.

In his homilies, Bernard of Clairvaux emphasizes the emotional dimension of the encounter with the Risen Christ. For him, Easter faith is not primarily a matter of intellectual orthodoxy but of spiritual experience. Like Mary Magdalene at the tomb who recognizes Jesus when he calls her name, the medieval believer is invited to a personal, inner encounter with the Living One.

The Byzantine liturgy, for its part, developed an extraordinarily rich Paschal theology. The Easter troparion—"Christ is risen from the dead, by his death he has conquered death, and to those in the tombs he has given life"—summarizes what Peter says narratively in his discourse: death, resurrection, victory over death, gift of life. And this proclamation is still sung during the Divine Liturgy, that is, during the Eucharistic meal—the meal of the Risen One.

Lectio divina

Allowing oneself to be transformed by the text

Towards an incarnate and missionary faith

This discourse of Peter is not a page of ancient history. It is an invitation to enter into the same dynamic—that of the witness who has encountered the Risen Christ and is sent to bear witness. Here are some concrete suggestions for allowing this text to work within us.

First approach: reread one's own history as a history of witnesses. Peter can say, «We ate and drank with him,» because he remembers. Let us take the time to revisit our own spiritual history: in what moments have I experienced a presence that transcended me? An unexpected grace? An encounter that changed something within me? These moments are our «we ate with him.» They deserve to be acknowledged, named, and cherished.

Second approach: to approach the Eucharistic table with a renewed perspective. If the Eucharist is the continuation of the Easter meal, then each participation in Mass is an opportunity to rediscover what the disciples experienced on Easter morning. Not a routine, but an encounter. Taking the time, before each Eucharist, to remember that it is a meal with the Risen Lord.

Third approach: practice hospitality as a pastime gesture. The scene in Caesarea is first and foremost a scene of openness—Corneille opens his home to Peter, Peter enters the home of an uncircumcised man. What is my relationship to those who are different from me? Do I welcome them to my table, literally or figuratively? Christian hospitality is not worldly: it is Paschal.

Fourth approach: overcome one's religious and cultural prejudices. Peter had well-established categories about what was pure and impure, about who could receive grace and who could not. God challenged him with a vision. What are my own reductive categories? What boundaries have I drawn around divine grace that God has not drawn?

Fifth approach: to adopt the perspective of a witness, not an activist. There's a difference between bearing witness—sharing what one has experienced—and campaigning—convincing at all costs. Pierre isn't trying to win an argument against Corneille. He's sharing what he's seen. This requires an attitude of openness, gentleness, and authenticity in the way one speaks about one's faith.

Sixth suggestion: meditate on the phrase "God does not show favoritism". Take it as a personal self-examination: in my community, in my family, in my work, do I allow myself to accept people in certain ways — to favor some and neglect others based on their appearance, their status, their origin?

Seventh path: to let resurrection touch death in my own life. Peter's message is that death does not have the final word. What is the "death" I am experiencing right now—a bereavement, a failure, a broken relationship, a dashed hope? Easter faith does not erase these realities, but it does say that they are not the final word.

The table that changed the world

Peter's speech at Caesarea is a text that deserves far more than a quick reading during Sunday mass. It is a condensed synthesis of the Christian faith, formulated in a concrete context — an open house, two very different men, a world to be evangelized — and with a boldness that has lost none of its freshness.

What Peter announces to Cornelius is that history has taken a dramatic turn. That a man from Nazareth, anointed with the Holy Spirit, put to death on a cross, is alive—and that this life is offered to all who believe in him. That the proof is simple and disconcerting: we ate with him. The highest truth of the universe allowed itself to be approached at the table.

This faith is not reserved for a spiritual or intellectual elite. It is passed on by ordinary people who have been touched by something extraordinary. It is lived out in everyday gestures—sharing a meal, welcoming a stranger, opening one's home—because the Risen One himself chose these gestures to reveal himself.

The call this text makes to us is threefold: remember what you have received, live as witnesses of the Resurrection, and open your table to all—for God shows no partiality. It is a gentle yet radical revolution, which always begins at the table.

Practices

• Read Acts 10 slowly and in its entirety. each morning for a week, noting what touches or surprises you.
• Before each Eucharist, take a minute to remember that we are approaching the same meal as the disciples on Easter morning.
• Inviting someone "different"« to share a meal at your home in the coming month, experiencing this as an Easter gesture.
• Write in a few lines a moment in your life when you experienced a presence that transcended you — your own «we ate with him».
• Meditate once a week The phrase "God shows no partiality" as a reminder to examine your conscience regarding your relationships and concrete attitudes.
• Read the story of the Disciples of Emmaus (Lk 24, 13-35) in parallel with Acts 10, looking for the common themes of the meal, recognition and sending forth.
• Get into the habit to end each family meal with a short moment of gratitude, consciously linking the daily table to the Easter table.

References

1. Acts of the Apostles, chapter 10, French liturgical translation — foundational text of the article.
2. Luke 24:13-35 — Disciples of Emmaus: a structuring parallel on the passover meal and the recognition of the Risen Christ.
3. Ignatius of Antioch, Letters (To the Smyrnaeans, II-III) — on the bodily reality of the resurrection.
4. Irenaeus of Lyon, Against heresies (Adversus Haeres) — theology of recapitulation and refutation of Gnosticism.
5. Augustine of Hippo, Sermons on Eastertide — meditations on the resurrected body and the presence of the Risen One.
6. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, IIIa, q. 54-56 — treatise on the resurrection of Christ and its manifestations.
7. Bernard of Clairvaux, Sermons on the Song of Songs — spirituality of the encounter with the Risen One.
8. Joseph Ratzinger (Benedict XVI), Jesus of Nazareth, Volume II — Christological and Paschal analysis of the primitive kerygma.

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