Author: Rosemary Lovelace

The Sunday of Passion: Palm Sunday – Mark S. Winward

The Paradox of the Palms

As we reflect on Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem and his ultimate death on the cross this Palm Sunday, I want to suggest that the palms we blessed this morning are more than just greenery; they are tangible symbols of our faith, our sin, and our redemption. Even in the midst of betrayal, pain, and tragedy, God’s grace will not be thwarted. It stands out in the darkness as a beacon of hope.

Today, we recall that triumphal entry of Jesus on a donkey, processing up the road to Jerusalem strewn with palms while the crowd proclaimed: “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David! Hosanna in the highest!” Yet, the contrast is jarring. Just a few days later, those same people will be shouting, “Crucify him!” In less than a week, raised hands of praise transform into shaking fists of condemnation. Each year, many Christians throughout the world act out this drama on the only Sunday that rightly bears two titles: Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday. As we hold these palms, we find a tangible connection with that crowd—a connection that both glorifies and condemns Jesus. These palms represent the mystery of our own salvation and our own blame. The same crowd that glorifies him also betrays him, and you and I might just as well be standing among them.

Misunderstanding the Messiah

The ancient Judeans had already decided what kind of “messiah” God was going to send them. They believed the true messiah could only come to free Israel from the yoke of tyranny. They had undoubtedly seen many self-proclaimed messiahs come and go, but there was something different about this man. There were the wild stories of him healing the blind, making the lame walk, and even raising the dead, but it was his disarming words and powerful presence that truly captivated the people. Although his parables were often cryptic, there was something about them that made the heart burn with truth. His humility clothed a strength of character befitting royalty, and when he preached that “the kingdom of God is at hand,” the people were certain: this had to be the King of Israel, David’s royal Son, the Blessed One who comes in the name of the Lord.

A Kingdom not of This World

God had far greater intentions for “David’s Son” than the people, priests, or prophets could have ever imagined. Jesus entered Jerusalem as a King intent on freeing not just Israel, but all people. The crowds were right to recognize him as a King coming to claim his crown and throne; they simply did not realize that his crown would be made of thorns and his throne would be an executioner’s cross. Like the people on that first Palm Sunday, we remember the proclamation of Jesus as our King, but Palm Sunday cannot be separated from Passion Sunday—for it is in Christ’s Passion that his kingship shines the brightest.

The Fickleness of Faith

Like the ancient Judeans, we too have a tendency to decide what kind of a king God has sent us. We are often prepared to accept the coming of God’s kingdom only on our own terms, rather than allowing God to shape our character and our lives. Ironically, although the people of ancient Jerusalem proclaimed Jesus as their king, they inevitably rejected both him and his message. We can imagine them questioning how a Nazarene carpenter could possibly be the messiah, or how he dared to disrupt the temple and speak of a “kingdom not of this world.” In the span of a few days, public opinion catastrophically turned. Those very same people who proclaimed Jesus their king later shouted at his trial, “Let him be crucified!” Even Peter, Jesus’ closest friend and confidant, denied any association with him. In a dramatic reversal, the man welcomed only a few days earlier in a magnificent victory parade was left betrayed and friendless.

Standing Among the Crowd

Could any of us really have been among those people who condemned Jesus? We often dismiss that murderous crowd as a group of worked-up, ignorant first-century peasants, but a quick look at modern history dispels such misconceptions. In fact, we have all become all too used to the violence, injustice, and oppression we see on the news. In accepting this as our “normal,” we passively reject the message of Jesus and his kingdom. It was more than just the corporate sin of the world that led Jesus to the cross; it was also our personal and individual sin. Every time we turn aside from God’s way of love to follow our own selfish paths, we reject Jesus. The sting of sin is that it ultimately separates us from our true selves, our neighbors, and our communion with God. Yet, despite our choice to go our own way, Jesus chose the path of the Cross for the very people who rejected him. In doing so, he bridged the gap between a lost humanity and a holy, righteous God.

Redemption in Suffering

Centuries before Jesus stepped foot on this earth, the prophet Isaiah proclaimed: 

He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem. Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed. We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to our own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all. (Isaiah 53:3-6).

Through the incarnate Son, God experiences the suffering and pain we inflict on each other. Through the Son, God suffers the penalty of death in our place and demonstrates His infinite love for us. 

In a sense, the people’s expectations of the Messiah were right—Jesus certainly came to free us from the yoke of tyranny, but it was the tyranny of sin. Those palms we hold become both a confession of faith and an admission of the sin that ultimately brings Jesus to the cross. Without the rest of the story regarding Jesus’ loving sacrifice, Palm Sunday is hollow. Each time we hear that story, we know the triumphal entry will end in betrayal and death; yet in that death lies the way of redemption. In acknowledging his sacrifice in our hearts, we can genuinely exalt him as King of Kings and Lord of Lords. As you reflect today, remember that these palms are symbols of our faith, our sin, and our redemption. In the words of Isaiah, “All we like sheep have gone astray.” Indeed, we are that Jerusalem crowd!

Amen.

The Fifteh Sunday in Lent – Mark S. Winward

Lazarus and the Lord of Life

In the Gospel of John, the story of Lazarus—the brother of Mary and Martha—serves as a turning point in Jesus’ ministry. When Jesus arrives in Bethany, Lazarus has already been dead for four days – and that’s far from accidental. In first-century Jewish thought, it was believed that the soul lingered near the body for three days, hoping to re-enter it. However, once the body began to decompose on the fourth day, the soul was said to depart for good. By waiting until the fourth day, John ensures readers understand Lazarus wasn’t merely unconscious or resuscitated; he was definitively, irreversibly, dead.

The Anatomy of the Tomb

To understand the scene, we have to appreciate how burials took place in first century Palestine. Lazarus would have been buried in a rock-cut tomb, typical of those found throughout the Judean hills. These tombs functioned as family property. The body of the deceased was prepared, wrapped, and laid upon a burial bench within a stone-hewn tunnel to decompose. Around a year later, family members would return to gather the bones and place them in an ossuary—a stone burial box—which was then stored on shelves alongside other ancestors. The entrance to these tombs was often sealed with a massive, wheel-shaped “rolling stone” fitted into a stone channel. This is also the exact type of tomb we see later in the Easter story.

“I AM” and the Authority of Life

Despite her deep faith, Martha struggles to grasp the power of Jesus. She complains that if Jesus had been there, her brother wouldn’t have died – yet she clearly doesn’t expect a miracle so extra-ordinary. Jesus responds with one of the most profound “I AM” statements in the Gospels: “I AM the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

For a first-century Jew, this was a staggering claim. The phrase “I AM” echoed the sacred name of God—Yahweh—revealed to Moses at the burning bush. Jesus isn’t simply claiming to be a middleman who grants life; he is claiming to be life itself. Jesus makes it very clear eternal life isn’t just a “benefit” we receive from God; it is the natural byproduct of being in a relationship with him. When he calls Lazarus forth, he doesn’t offer a quiet prayer or pleas with the heavens. He issues a command of raw, sovereign authority over the grave: “Lazarus, come out!”

Symbols vs. Reality

John tells this story to prevent us from watering down Jesus’ resurrection into mere metaphor. For the author of this Gospel, Jesus isn’t a metaphorical figure. He is the Light of the World who brings actual sight to the blind; he is the Resurrection who brings a literal dead man out of a literal grave.

Despite this extraordinary miracle, this story isn’t really about Lazarus’ resurrection but who Jesus is. It unveils a vision of Jesus exercising lordship over death, shattering our preconceptions about how the world works. Like the shock Mary and Martha must have felt, we are confronted with a power that refuses to play by the rules – that the dead stay dead.

The Modern Denial of Death

In contrast to the ancient world, our society does its best to sanitize and deny the reality of death. Most Americans have never witnessed a death firsthand. Unlike the ancient Jews who physically handled the bones of their loved ones, we bury our dead in plush, car-like coffins and maintain cemeteries that look like manicured botanical gardens. I often wonder if this denial makes the experience of traumatic death even harder for us to process. While grief is a natural response to loss, our cultural habit of pretending death isn’t there – especially for the young and “invincible” – leaves us ill-equipped when the reality of death finally arrives.

A New Creation

Even within the church, we often lapse into a watered-down version of our faith’s hope. N.T. Wright famously challenged the popular “clouds and harps” view of heaven, calling it a “distortion and serious diminution of Christian hope.” Wright argues that the biblical truth is much more grounded: resurrection is a real moment in history where the deceased are remade—a “life after life after death.” It isn’t about escaping the world to sit on a cloud; it is about the “new creation” described by Paul and the author of Revelation.

The raising of Lazarus is the great foreshadowing of this Christian blessed hope. It grounds our faith in the concrete. As Paul writes in Romans 6, “If we have been united with [Christ] like this in his death, we will certainly be united with him in his resurrection.”

Conclusion: More Than a Metaphor

The story of Lazarus is recorded to give each of us the strength to face the reality of the grave. It tells us that Jesus’ power isn’t sentimental symbolism; it is a reality we can lean on both in the hope of the world to come and in our relationship with Him today. Now I appreciate the concept of resurrection is a “hard pill to swallow” for many people. But if this story is a mere myth, then our hope for anything beyond this life is founded on nothing but myth. Paul is blunt about this in 1 Corinthians 15: “…if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile… we are of all people most to be pitied.”

But if you believe in a life beyond this world, you have already acknowledged that there is much more to reality than meets the eye. If death isn’t the final word, then a universe of miraculous possibilities opens up. As Philip Yancey suggests, we have two ways to look at history. We can see it as a long string of wars, squalor, and tragedy, where Easter is just a “fairy-tale exception.” Or, we can take Easter as the starting point—the one incontrovertible fact of how God treats those He loves. If Easter is the “preview of ultimate reality,” then hope flows like lava beneath the thin crust of our daily lives.

The Feast of the Annunciation – Mark S. Winward

The Scandal of the Ordinary

If you were planning a global revolution—the kind that would alter the fabric of time, reset the calendar to “Year Zero,” and bridge the gap between the Infinite and the finite—you probably wouldn’t start in Nazareth.

In the first century, Nazareth was the definition of “nowhere.” It was a tiny, farming, backwater village in Galilee. It didn’t have the prestige of Jerusalem or the intellectual weight of Athens. It was the kind of place people came from, not a place anyone of importance went to. And yet, as we see in Luke 1, when God decides to step into His own creation, He bypasses the marble halls of the Temple and the golden thrones of the capital. Instead, He sends the Archangel Gabriel to a girl in a village that most “serious” people couldn’t find on a map.

There is a profound, holy wisdom in God’s geography. He loves to work in the margins.

The Disruption of Grace

The text tells us that Mary was “greatly troubled” by Gabriel’s greeting. Now, let’s be honest: if a celestial being appeared in your living room and shouted, “Greetings, highly favored one!” you’d be troubled, too. You’d probably be looking for the exit or checking to see if you’d accidentally eaten a questionable mushroom.

But Mary’s trouble wasn’t just about the supernatural pyrotechnics. It was about the word “favored.” In the Greek, this is charitoō—it’s rooted in charis, or grace. Gabriel wasn’t saying, “Mary, you’ve won the spiritual lottery because you’re the most perfect person on earth.” He was saying, “Mary, you are the object of God’s sovereign, unearned grace.”

This is the first thing we learn from the Annunciation: Favor is not a reward for a resume; it is an invitation to a journey. God didn’t look for a woman with the right social credentials, the most followers, or a PhD in Theology. He looked for a heart that was open. As our commentary points out, Mary brought nothing to the table but her availability. And in the economy of Heaven, availability is the only currency that matters.

The Difference Between Doubt and Wonder

We often compare Mary to Zechariah, the priest who received a similar announcement about John the Baptist just a few months earlier. Zechariah, the professional religious man, asked, “How can I be sure of this?” He wanted a guarantee. 

Mary, on the other hand, asks, “How will this be?” It sounds similar, but the heart behind it is worlds apart. Zechariah asked out of doubt; Mary asked out of wonder. She wasn’t asking for proof; she was asking for instructions. She knew she was a virgin. She knew the biological “math” didn’t add up. She wasn’t denying the reality of her situation—she was simply acknowledging that if God was going to do the impossible, she’d like to know the logistics.

Gabriel’s response is the ultimate mic-drop of the New Testament: “For nothing is impossible with God.” This wasn’t just a pep talk. It was a reminder that the same God who spoke light into existence and parted the Red Sea was now “overshadowing” a teenage girl in Galilee. The Virgin Birth isn’t just a biological curiosity; it is a declaration of God’s creative sovereignty. He can make something out of nothing. He can bring life where there is no path for it.

The “Yes” that Changed Everything

Then we reach the climax of the story, when Mary says, “I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me as you have said.” We often paint this scene in soft, glowing colors—a peaceful girl in a blue robe surrounded by soft light. But let’s get real for a moment. Mary’s “Yes” was a death warrant for her reputation. She was betrothed to Joseph. In a small town like Nazareth, an unexplained pregnancy wasn’t just a “scandal”; it was a legal and social catastrophe.

When Mary said “Yes,” she was saying:

“Yes” to the whispers at the village well.

“Yes” to the look of confusion and hurt on Joseph’s face.

“Yes” to a life that would eventually lead to a cross.

She didn’t have the whole map. She only had the next step. She trusted that the God who was “with her” in the greeting would be “with her” in the fallout.

Our Nazareth Moment

So, what does this mean for us, sitting here centuries later?

Many, if not most, people feel like they live in “Nazareth.” We feel ordinary, unqualified, or perhaps disqualified by our past or our limitations. We wait for God to use the “great” people—the ones with the platforms and the perfect lives. But the Feast of the Annunciation reminds us that God is an unpretentious God. He doesn’t need your credentials; He wants your “Yes.”

If God can bring the Savior of the world through a humble, farm maiden in a “nothing” town, what can He do through you if you begin making yourself available?

Maybe you’re facing a situation right now that feels like a biological or circumstantial impossibility. Maybe you feel “barren” in your spirit or stuck in a life that seems too small for God to notice. Hear the words of the angel again: “Nothing is impossible with God.”

Conclusion

Mary’s greatness didn’t lie in her ability to do big things for God. It lay in her willingness to let God do big things through her. Today, as we celebrate her “Yes,” may we find the courage to offer our own. We don’t need to understand the “how.” or to see the end of the road. We only need to be like the little girl from Nazareth—standing in the middle of an ordinary life, looking at the Infinite, and saying: “I am your servant. Let it be.”

Because when a human “Yes” meets God, “impossible is where miracles are born. Amen.

The Fourth Sunday of Lent – Byron Tindall

Welcome to the Fourth Sunday in Lent. Notice the preposition “in.” In is used rather than “of.” If you look carefully at a calendar and do a little counting, Sundays are not included in the 40 days. At any rate, this fourth Sunday in Lent has also gone by another name for centuries.

How many of you have heard and know the meaning of “Mothering Sunday”? Those of you who know about Mothering Sunday have my permission to take a short power nap if you desire to do so.

The Church of England website is full of information about the Fourth Sunday in Lent.

“Here are some of the traditions that have shaped Mothering Sunday into the celebration recognized today:

“The Journey to the Mother Church

“In the 16th century, Mothering Sunday was less about mothers and more about church. Back then, people were given time off and would make a journey to their ‘mother’ church once a year. This might have been their home church, their nearest cathedral or a major parish church in a bigger town. The service which took place at the ‘mother’ church symbolized the coming together of families. This would have represented a significant journey for many.

“A day off to visit Mother

“Another tradition was to allow those working in the fields on wealthy farms and estates in England to have the day off on the fourth Sunday of Lent to visit their mothers and possibly go to church too. This was a variation on the theme of visiting the ‘mother’ church and was a move toward a more family focused occasion. Before the days of cars and roads, family get-togethers were far more rare, (and Facetime was still a long way off). In some ways this tradition is still alive today as grown children often visit their parents on mothering Sunday.

“Simnel Cake

“Simnel cake has a strong affiliation with Mothering Sunday as it is usually associated with spring and Easter. It resembles a Christmas fruit cake but should be slightly lighter in texture. The other difference is the two layers of marzipan. Simnel cake should have a layer of marzipan running through the middle like a Victoria sponge and then another layer of marzipan on the top. Traditionally, you should also roll some marzipan into eleven eggs and place these on the top. The eggs are supposed to symbolize the disciples who followed Jesus – note that Judas is excluded. Mothering Sunday falls in the middle of Lent and it was traditional for people to relax their fasting on this day – hence making the cake.

“Traditions today

“This Sunday, churches around England will be sharing their own traditions, celebrating and giving thanks to the huge impact mothers have on each of our lives. The main service on Mothering Sunday in churches across England is central to the life of the church.

“The church recognizes that the day may be difficult for some people and so it is common place for services to include prayers for those who don’t find the day particularly easy.

“Families across England will be preparing little presents and cards and in some churches flowers are blessed and handed out during the main service.

“Families come together to have lunch, or children make breakfast in bed for their mothers, leaving all the mess to be cleared up later! It’s all about showing appreciation and many make a huge effort to make their mother feel special.”

This explanation of traditions today in England reminds me of some of the activities of Mothers’ Day in the U.S.

OK. Enough of the history lesson. It’s time to wake up anyone taking a power nap.

The disciples asked Jesus, “‘Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?’”

“Jesus answered, ‘Neither this man nor his parents sinned…’”

The disciples were thinking of retributive justice, as it has become to be called. “Did this man’s parents do something so bad that their son was born blind as a punishment for their action?” “What did this man do even before he was born to deserve to be born blind?”

An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth is purely retributive justice.

In our western society, we say justice has been served when the so-called bad guys have been caught, convicted of their crimes and locked up. Again, retributive justice.

Jesus was the victim of retributive justice. After what I call a kangaroo trial, he was convicted of being an insurrectionist and sentenced to death on a cross by the Roman occupation forces. His public execution was supposed to show the rest of the population what would happen to anyone who defied the Romans.

Both the Old and New Testaments talk about a different kind of justice, restorative justice instead of retribution.

The prophet Amos wrote in in the Eighth Century BCE. His basic message was that God was about to punish the Israelites for their sins. However, in Chapter 9, verse 14 he wrote, “I mean to restore the fortunes of my people Israel. They will rebuild their ruined cities and live in them, plant vineyards and drink their wine, dig gardens and eat their produce.” That’s restorative justice.

Isaiah 55:8-9 sums it up nicely. “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

 Jesus practiced restorative justice.

In the eighth chapter of the Gospel of John, we read, “The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, and, making her stand before all of them, they said to him, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. Now in the law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” … When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, ‘Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.’ … Jesus straightened up and said to her, ‘Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?’ She said, ‘No one, sir.’ And Jesus said, ‘Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.’”

Restorative justice at its finest. The woman’s life was given back to her. She was admonished to change her ways, but she was allowed to live.

The Rev. Richard Rohr wrote in his daily meditation for March 2, 2026, “What history has needed is a positive and inspiring universal vision for the earth and the people of God. Harping about individual sin and convicting wrongdoers might shame a few individuals into halfhearted obedience, but in terms of societal change it has been a notorious Christian failure. Retributive justice has backfired because it is not founded in a positive love and appreciation of the good, the true, and the beautiful in the world or in creation. Negative energy feeds on itself, but positive energy evokes a positive vision.”

The Third Sunday of Lent – Mark S. Winward

This coming Saturday will mark the twenty-eighth anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood – but the beginning of that journey goes back to a call to ministry when I was but 15 years old. Looking back over these fifty years, I find myself asking what I’ve learned. Today’s Gospel, the story of the woman at the well, gives me one answer. And it says something important about who Jesus is and about how we are meant to live as his followers.

Usually, when we hear this passage, we focus on the woman from a distance. But it may help to picture the moment as she experienced it. Imagine it is noon near Sychar. She has come to draw water in the middle of the day, alone. It is hard work, and she is by herself for a reason. Her life has left her isolated, even within her own community the Jews viewed as outcasts. Then Jesus speaks to her and asks for a drink. That may not sound unusual to us, but it would have been unusual to her. Jews and Samaritans did not relate to each other easily, and men did not normally start public conversations with women this way – let alone a Samaritan woman. Jesus ignores those boundaries. He speaks to her directly and treats her as someone worthy of attention and respect.

That matters because it reflects something basic in our life of faith. The Bible repeatedly calls God’s people to care for the stranger, the foreigner, the immigrant, and the vulnerable. This is hardly a minor theme in Scripture – it appears again and again. Our Baptismal Covenant expresses the same calling when it says that we are to seek and serve Christ in all persons, love our neighbor as ourselves, and respect the dignity of every human being. So concern for vulnerable people isn’t separate from the Gospel – it’s part of what faithfulness looks like.

But then Jesus moves the conversation deeper. He offers the woman living water, shifting the focus away from the old dispute about the proper place of worship. Instead, he points instead to worship in Spirit and in truth.

That part of the passage speaks very directly to me. Over the years, I have increasingly come to believe that liturgy matters, theology matters, and the outward practices of faith matter – but none of them is enough by itself. As important as they are, they aren’t the core of our faith. That center is a living relationship with God that calls us, sustains us, and changes us. If that’s lost, everything else becomes a hollow shell. And that relationship is most often brought sharply into focus when we meet Christ in people who are afraid, vulnerable, or pushed to the edges.

That’s why this Gospel feels so relevant at this moment in our history. We’ve all seen reports of immigration enforcement in other cities, and many people in church communities like ours are worried about what may happen next. Families, especially those from Hispanic backgrounds and other immigrant communities, live in fear, uncertainty, and real distress. Some are worried about separation. Some are living with ongoing instability. Some are simply trying to make it through each day without knowing what comes next. When that’s true, the Church cannot ignore it. Prayer is necessary, but so are compassion and practical support.

I agree with our bishop that a country can maintain secure borders, remove dangerous criminals, and expect law enforcement to do its work faithfully and with integrity, while also providing a haven to those who are fleeing danger and a path to stability and citizenship for those who live and work among us. I hardly think those commitments cancel each other out. What I believe is that a more compassionate immigration policy is possible, and I believe it can be pursued without losing sight of anyone’s dignity.

Later in the story, Jesus reveals his identity in striking way. He doesn’t begin with the powerful or the respected. He reveals himself to this woman, someone on the margins of her community. And this outcast Samaritan woman, rejected by Jesus’ own people, becomes the first proclaiming to her community what she has seen. That is one of the things ministry has taught me over and over again: God often works through people we might overlook. Insight, faith, and grace don’t always reveal themselves in ways we might expect. But regardless of the nature of the encounter with God, it always changes us. It changed the woman at the well, and it affected the people who listened to her. The same should be true for us. If we open our hearts to hear Christ’s voice, then we should expect that something in us will need to change.

Please know that I deeply appreciate the diversity of perspectives on this crisis in this nation and in our own parish. My hope is that the Holy Spirit may strengthen what needs strengthening among us, soften what needs softening, and draw us more deeply into devotion to God in Christ for the sake of all God’s beloved children. So I invite you to join in continued prayer and faithful action: for adults and children in detention, for families living in fear, for a more just and merciful immigration policy, and for our own deeper obedience to the commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves. That tension between justice and compassion isn’t simple, and it’s not always comfortable. But rest assured, God’s grace is present in it – and present more fully than we might know this side of heaven. Amen.

The Second Sunday of Lent – Mark S. Winward

“Jesus answered [Nicodemus], Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” – John 3:3, NRSV

Reclaiming a Term

The theme of John chapter 3 is the “new birth.” In recent years, a great deal has been made of this passage. It was fifty years ago that a massive stir was caused when a presidential candidate named Jimmy Carter stated publicly that he was “born again.” (Yes, half a century!) Since then—and especially after Chuck Colson, one of the most notorious figures of the Watergate scandal, wrote of his dramatic prison conversion in his bestseller Born Again—the term has firmly entered our popular consciousness.

However, following the rise of the Moral Majority, the term became heavily associated with Southern fundamentalism and specific political positions. I know many people—even clergy, no less—who refuse to identify themselves as “born again” simply because of those political connotations. And I recognize that may resonate with some in our congregation.

But whether or not you are “born again” has nothing to do with politics or religious factionalism. In this passage, Jesus tells us that being born again is a description of a spiritual state of being—one that determines your relationship with God. Quite simply, understanding what it means to be born again is the most important question you could ever ask in your life.

The Midnight Seeker

Let’s take a moment to look at what the text says. At the beginning of John 3, we meet Nicodemus, a Pharisee and leader of the most respectable and ruling Jewish religious sects. The Pharisees prided themselves on their rich heritage and their scrupulous adherence to Jewish Law. To put it in modern terms, Nicodemus held a social status similar to a leading bishop or the senior pastor of a big-city mega-church.

And yet, verse 2 tells us that Nicodemus “secretly slipped out into the night” to question Jesus. Clearly, he intentionally sought out this troublesome but compelling carpenter from Nazareth who was causing such a stir in Jerusalem. Imagine a high-ranking bishop sneaking through the night to seek guidance from a visiting camp-meeting preacher!

We can gather that Nicodemus was a true seeker because he was willing to entertain that Jesus was sent by God. We might amplify his greeting in verse 2 as: “Rabbi, I call you this because we know you are a teacher come from God.” This was a massive, dangerous step for a man in his position, especially since many of his peers believed Jesus was from the devil.

The Great Disruption

Jesus doesn’t beat around the bush. He answers this righteous, respected man in a totally unexpected way. Jesus makes it clear in verse 3 that simply believing he is a “great teacher” isn’t enough to get to heaven. His answer would change Nicodemus’ life—and the world—forever: “…unless one is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.”

This statement must have knocked Nicodemus off his feet. By any worldly or religious standard, Nicodemus was a “good man.” Did all his years of study, his strict obedience to the Law, and his ritual service to God mean nothing? The answer was a jarring: “No, you must be born again.”

Nicodemus, confused, asks the logical question: “How can anyone possibly be born all over again? Surely he can’t go back into his mother’s womb!” Jesus responds, in essence, that regardless of how respectable or righteous you appear to others, unless you are born of “water and the Spirit,” you will not enter heaven. While interpreters differ on the exact meaning of “water,” given that this Gospel opens with John the Baptist in the Jordan, it is reasonable to assume Jesus refers to baptism. But the second half of his statement is crystal clear: salvation is dependent on a spiritual rebirth—a new way of thinking and a total change of heart.

From Dry Bones to New Breath

To explain this to Nicodemus, Jesus reaches back into the Hebrew Scriptures that Nicodemus knew so well. He says in verse 8, 

“The wind blows where it wills, and you hear the sound of it but you do not know from whence it comes…”

Most scholars agree Jesus is referencing the famous prophecy of the dry bones in Ezekiel 37. You remember the scene: a valley full of very dry, very dead bones. God asks, “Can these bones live?” and then commands the prophet to speak to the wind—to the Spirit. As he prophesies, breath enters the dead, and they stand up as a vast army. The imagery is unmistakable: it is a picture of people who were spiritually dead becoming spiritually alive.

The Symbol of Healing

Jesus then provides a second image from the wilderness: “And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of man be lifted up…” He is referring to Numbers 21, when the Israelites turned against God and were bitten by venomous snakes. When the people repented, God told Moses to make a bronze serpent and set it on a pole. Anyone who had been bitten, if they simply looked at that bronze serpent, would live. The imagery is of a people wounded by their own sin. God provided a symbol for them to look to in order to be healed. Likewise, Jesus is telling Nicodemus that all who look to Him will be healed of their sin and disobedience.

The Lifeline

Having provided these two biblical anchors, Jesus explains the “new birth” directly. It is so important that he says it twice:

“…that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.”

“Whoever believes in Him.” This is hard stuff, and the text doesn’t leave much room to “soft-pedal” this to make it politically correct. Jesus doesn’t say “whoever thinks I’m a great teacher,” or “whoever is a good person,” or “whoever goes to church every Sunday.” He doesn’t even say “whoever is baptized.” He says, simply: “Whoever believes.”

If that makes your head swirl, imagine being Nicodemus, the “Great Teacher of the Law.” The text is making an inescapable claim: belief in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and the Savior of your soul is the decisive factor for eternal life.

Jesus isn’t being harsh; He is sharing the truth in love. He explains that He didn’t come to condemn the world, but to save it. His point isn’t that God wants to send people to hell, but rather that all of us are drowning already. He has come to offer a lifeline. That lifeline isn’t reached by working harder or relying on our own “goodness”—it comes by putting our hope in Jesus Christ.

The Stalemate of “No-Man’s Land”

People often ask why God doesn’t just show Himself clearly rather than requiring faith. Think back to World War I. Some of the fiercest battles in history were fought in the fields of France and Belgium. After the initial movements, the war ground to a deadly stalemate. Allied and German troops faced one another from trenches, and the space between them was called “No-Man’s Land.”

God created us for “friendly territory”—to be in a relationship with Him and in harmony with one another. But something went terribly wrong. Humanity, and each of us individually, chose to turn against God’s standards. We broke the relationship. The world became a kind of “No-Man’s Land”—territory claimed by both the forces of good and evil. That is why we see both breathtaking displays of God’s glory and horrifying reminders of evil in the same world.

In WWI, a soldier would occasionally venture into No-Man’s Land—usually sacrificing his life—to break the stalemate. God did the same. He broke the stalemate by sending His Son into this world.

Belief is vital because God doesn’t want to enslave us; He wants children. He wants to restore a damaged relationship, and a relationship cannot be forced. It has to happen through the choice to love. Faith is nothing less than God’s invitation for us to enter into a loving relationship with Him.

Conclusion: The Gift of Freedom

Still, I personally hold out hope for those who have never known Christ, or have become estranged from him, or practice another faith. What I know, though, is that all of us are in the hands of a loving and just God. And I trust that God is not a tyrant who wants to see humanity suffer, but a loving Father who yearns for each of us to be restored. That is why He sent His Son at the cost of His life.

One day, God will draw all hostilities to an end. “No-Man’s Land” and enemy territory will be utterly defeated. But until that day, God allows each of us the gift of freedom: the freedom to reject Him or follow Him; the freedom to believe; and the freedom for Him to be our Father, and us His children, forever.

Last Sunday after the Epiphany – Mark S. Winward

Today, Christians throughout the world observe the Last Sunday after the Epiphany. The word epiphany comes from Greek, meaning a manifestation or appearance. In classical Greek it was used for the appearance of dawn, of an enemy in war, but especially for a manifestation of a deity to a worshiper – a theophany. In the New Testament, the word is used in 2 Timothy 1:10 to refer either to the birth of Christ or to his appearance after the resurrection, and five times to refer to his Second Coming. As the Church year unfolds the life of Christ, the Revised Common Lectionary – the cycle of readings observed in many churches – reveals in the Gospels the mystery of who Jesus really is. The Gospels record the confusion among the people as to whether Jesus was a prophet, a madman, or the Messiah – or perhaps something even more. Consequently, on the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, we focus on the clearest revelation of Jesus’ identity in the Gospels outside of the resurrection, which we’ll celebrate on Easter. That event is what Christians remember as “the Transfiguration.”

The other Synoptic Gospels – namely Matthew and Luke – recount this same story but tell us that while this was happening, the disciples had fallen asleep, only to wake up at the end. So, the disciples were apparently unaware of the extraordinary transformation taking place right in front of them, and they almost missed witnessing a miraculous movement of God that would touch their lives forever. But we really don’t have the right to cast much blame on the disciples. Often, we’re so personally enclosed within our own little world that we lose sight of the bigger picture. How many times are we preoccupied with our own issues to the exclusion of everything else? We become prisoners of our own world of trivialities rather than opening our eyes to God’s movement in our midst.

I wonder what would’ve happened to the disciples had they opened their eyes earlier to what was occurring around them. But you see, it was much easier for them to sleep through these momentous events rather than be transformed in a profound way. Still, they were clearly touched by these events, and their own transformation had begun – because for the first time the blinders had been removed and they clearly witnessed Jesus’ glory. There could be no doubt in their minds that they had encountered God. Their hearts and lives could never be the same. But let’s face it – the prospect of transformation can be frightening to us, primarily because it involves something to which we have a basic aversion: change.

We can draw several important conclusions both from the disciples’ account of the Transfiguration and from Moses on Mount Sinai. First and foremost, it’s impossible for us to have a genuine encounter with God and not somehow be changed. Remember when Moses came down from Mount Sinai? After standing in the presence of God, he was changed. Like the glowing of a hot poker exposed to a raging flame, the Book of Exodus recounts how, after his encounter with God on Mount Sinai, Moses’ face shone. God’s glory on that mountain was so profound that even its mere reflection on Moses’ face was enough to terrify the people. Moses’ life, like that of the disciples on the Mount of Transfiguration, could never be the same after beholding the glory of the Lord. Likewise, when we truly open our hearts to God’s glory, we can never be the same.

Second, such an encounter is usually a fearful thing. Like Moses on Mount Sinai before the glory of the Lord, today’s Gospel tells us the disciples were terrified when the shadow of the Lord surrounded them. The writer of Proverbs tells us, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” I would propose to you that this verse is the key to understanding the Old Testament. The fear of God isn’t merely fright, but the contemplation of our insignificance in the presence of the Creator – and our significance in that He might be mindful of us. Perhaps this is because when we stand before the presence of the Lord, we stand powerless before something over which we’ve absolutely no control. We don’t encounter God in order to change God; God reveals Himself to us in order to change us. And in conforming to His will – like Moses and the disciples – we become somehow more than we could ever be on our own.

Finally, God always reveals Himself to us for a special purpose. Keep in mind, nowhere in the text does it imply that the miraculous glorification of Jesus was consoling for the disciples – any more than it was for the people of Israel when Moses came down from the mountain. I challenge you to find an account of any direct encounter with the glory of the Lord in Scripture where the purpose was to console. Rather, any genuine encounter with Almighty God was unsettling and disruptive to the witnesses’ lives. That is because, in every case where God reveals Himself in the Bible, He prompts those He has called to bear witness to His truth – regardless of the personal cost.

So, any real encounter with God means change. God reveals Himself to transform us into something greater than ourselves. God reveals Himself to call us to His special purposes. Encountering God’s transforming power isn’t just the stuff of saints and prophets. Rather, God has a plan for each one of us that can transform our day-to-day existence beyond mere survival into abundant life – if we’ll only wake up and pay attention.

As Epiphany draws to a close today, this week we begin the Church’s penitential season of Lent on Ash Wednesday. Just as Epiphany is a time when we contemplate the revelation of Christ among us, Lent is a time of sober introspection about our sins as we prepare to walk the way of the cross, grasp the immensity of its meaning in our lives, and celebrate the hope found in Jesus’ resurrection. As a reminder of the weight of our sin and our personal need for Christ’s forgiveness, this Wednesday many Christians will accept the imposition of ashes on their foreheads – an act of repentance deeply rooted in the Old Testament. Then, throughout the next forty-six days of Lent, Christians historically and intentionally pay particular attention to God in their daily lives. I appreciate that for many people – as it once did for me – Lent conjures up memories of little Catholic kids giving up chocolate. But Lent is much more.

Lent is a time — sometimes of fasting, intentional prayer, and always repentance — when we reflect on how we’ve fallen short and listen for how God would like to work in our lives and use us for His purposes. Sometimes, as I said, that involves fasting — but not necessarily just from chocolate. For example, one year my family and I chose to curtail eating out, reduce our consumption to a subsistence diet, and donate the money we saved to feed those who are hungry. Today (after the 10:30 service), we will host representatives from the myriad community services Holy Family supports — through time, talent, or financial resources. Perhaps these are known to you only as names we pray for every Sunday. But this Lent is a special opportunity for you to engage them personally and perhaps share your own resources according to your physical and financial ability. But whatever you do, do it not to gain extra points with God, but as an act of worship — to better empathize with those less fortunate than ourselves and, in the process, make a small difference for those in need. However you choose to express your devotion to God during this season, it begins by seeking a change of heart.

One writer put it eloquently this way:

Fast from judging others; feast on Christ dwelling in them.

Fast from fear of illness; feast on the healing power of God.

Fast from words that pollute; feast on speech that purifies.

Fast from anger; feast on patience.

Fast from pessimism; feast on optimism.

Fast from negatives; feast on alternatives.

Fast from bitterness; feast on forgiveness.

Fast from self-concern; feast on compassion.

Fast from suspicion; feast on truth.

Fast from gossip; feast on purposeful silence.

Fast from problems that overwhelm; feast on prayer that sustains.

Fast from worry; feast on faith. May we, this Lent, open ourselves to a genuine encounter with God and find ourselves transformed – equipped to fulfill the special calling He has for each of us to manifest the Kingdom of God here and now. Amen.

5th Sunday after the Epiphany – Byron Tindall

All three of the lessons appointed to be read on this Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany either directly or indirectly discuss, among other things, the duties of God’s messengers. 

Generally speaking, the prophets were sent to the house of Israel with the directions to point out the short comings of the Jews and their political and religious leaders.

Isaiah isn’t at all subtle when he wrote what he heard, “Shout out, do not hold back! Lift up your voice like a trumpet! Announce to my people their rebellion, to the house of Jacob their sins.” Remember, the prophets were not always welcomed with open arms due to their messages.

In his first letter to the church at Corinth, St. Paul said he brought his message to the Corinthians in simple words and terms they could easily understand rather than “lofty words or wisdom.” Don’t forget that Saul of Tarsus was a well-educated Jew and could have brought Greek philosophers into his conversations with the various congregations.

Most Biblical scholars are in agreement that the Gospel of Matthew was written primarily for a Jewish audience. Jesus used well-known, everyday items and situations to get his message across to those who were listening to him.

Today’s reading from Matthew is no exception. Let’s look at the examples a little closer.

Cities, even back in Jesus’ day, were built on a hill for defensive purposes. It was, and still is, easier to hold the high ground against an aggressor.

Obviously, Georgia Power or Amicalola EMC were not available so every house had to have some way to illuminate it after sundown or before sunup, hence the reference to the lampstand.

And then there is salt mentioned in today’s gospel lesson.

Salt was an important commodity in ancient Palestine. It was used as a preservative. It added flavor to foods. Salt even had some medicinal applications.

Now it’s been a very long time, somewhere between half and three-quarters of a century, since I had a chemistry class. I do remember that sodium chloride, also known as salt, is a very stable compound. It takes a lot to break the bond between the sodium and the chloride atoms. So how does salt loose it’s taste? It doesn’t happen very often.

This is, for me, the first clue that Jesus is talking about his followers, rather than actual commodities, household items or building practices. It becomes more obvious when Jesus said, after mentioning the lampstand, “In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”

Jesus goes on to tell his listeners, and us too, that he didn’t come to abolish Judaism. “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.” In my way of thinking, it was not his intention to start a new religion. Rather, Jesus the Christ wanted to reform what was already there and make it universal for all people, even those hated gentiles.

Today, we honor The Rev. Dr. Charles D. Hackett, Jr. and his wife, Debbie Freudenthal, as they prepare to leave us.

We will certainly miss Debbie’s culinary skills any time we have a reception or meal.

I’ve heard countless preachers throughout my 84 plus years. I can’t hazard a guess as to how many sermons I’ve heard or given. It doesn’t matter. Without question, the best preacher I’ve ever heard is Ted, as he is affectionately known.

Ted told me he gave his first sermon in 1963, before some of you were even born. He continued to preach until a short time ago when his health began to fail.

His ability to take a complicated theological concept and explain it in terms understandable to everyone is truly a gift very few preachers have.

To me, Ted exemplifies exactly what Jesus was talking about in this morning’s gospel lesson. He has not lost “his saltiness” or his subtle sense of humor for that matter. His love of God and Christ have affected countless seminary students, and his knowledge of history has benefited all who have heard him preach while he was a parish priest and a priest associate.

It has truly been and honor and privilege to worship beside and with him. The only regret I have is that I never had him as a seminary professor.

Back to the scripture lessons for today.

I dare say the vast majority of us here today consider ourselves to be a follower of Jesus in some way, shape or form. Otherwise, why would we be here?

If we believe what Jesus said as reported in Matthew’s Gospel, we need to make sure that the light of Christ reflects off of us in our daily lives. And just like Isaiah, we too are called to proclaim God’s message.

We must stand up to injustice, hatred, violence whenever and wherever we encounter it. We must respect the dignity of every human being. With compassion, we are to feed the hungry, shelter and house the homeless, care for the orphan and widow. We are to follow Jesus when he leads us to the outcasts of society and compassionately care for the weak and sick. You don’t need me to stand up here and enumerate everything we’re supposed to do in our relationships with our fellow children of God. You know it in your heart and from what you read in your Bible.

In short, we must “…let our light shine before others,” rather than hiding it under a basket. Amen