Author: Rosemary Lovelace

3rd Sunday after the Epiphany – Mark S. Winward

“And Jesus said, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.’”

Once upon a time, there was a group of people who called themselves fishermen. They lived in an area where there were many fish—waters all around them. In fact, the whole area was surrounded by streams and lakes and rivers just filled with fish. And the fish were hungry.

Week after week, month after month, year after year, these people who called themselves fishermen held meetings and talked about their call to be fishermen, the abundance of fish, and they passed along all the latest innovations in fishing. Year after year, they carefully defined what fishing was all about, defended fishing as a noble occupation, and declared that fishing is always the primary task of fishermen.

They constantly searched for new and better methods of fishing, and for new and better definitions of fishing. They loved such slogans as “Fishing is the task of every fisherman.” They sponsored special meetings known as “Fisherman’s Campaigns.” They went on nationwide and even worldwide tours to discuss fishing and promote fishing and hear about all the new developments and technological advances in fishing and new ways of presenting the bait to the fish that made it more attractive and alluring.

They built large, beautiful buildings called “Fishing Headquarters,” and selected some of their best fishermen to staff it. They appealed to everyone to become fishermen. There was only one thing they did not do. They didn’t fish. Ever.

In addition to organizing and holding regularly scheduled meetings, they organized a board to send out fishermen to other parts of the world where the fish were plentiful. The board appointed various committees and held many meetings to talk about fishing, defend fishing, and develop new strategies for fishing. But the committee members never went fishing.

Large, expensive training centers were built for the purpose of teaching fishermen how to fish. They offered courses on the needs of fish, the nature of fish, dealing with the different generations of fish, the psychological makeup of fish, and how to approach and feed fish. The professors all had degrees in fishology, but none of them ever went fishing. They only taught fishing. After completing the course of study, graduates were given their fishing license and sent out to do full-time fishing, some to distant waters that were filled with fish.

Many who felt the call to be fishermen responded. They were commissioned and sent to fish. But like the fishermen back home, they could talk for hours about the need for fishing, and they knew all the current developments in fishing, but they didn’t fish. They were too busy doing other things. Some said they really wanted to fish, but since they just didn’t have time, they would just furnish fishing equipment for others. Others felt that their job was to establish a good relationship with the fish so that the fish would be more receptive to the fishermen.

After one stirring meeting on “The Necessity for Fishing,” one young fellow left the meeting and actually went fishing. He reported the next day that he caught two outstanding fish. He was honored for his excellent catch, and immediately a nationwide tour was scheduled so that he could visit all the big meetings and tell how he did it. So he quit fishing at once in order to have time to tell others about the experience. He was also placed on the Fishermen’s General Board, which consumed quite a bit of his time, so much so that he had no time at all for fishing.

Now it’s true that many of the fishermen made personal sacrifices and put up with all kinds of difficulties. Some lived near the water and had to bear the smell of dead and decaying fish every day. They were ridiculed by some who made fun of their fishermen’s clubs and for the fact that, though they claimed to be fishermen, they never fished. They wondered about those people who felt that attending weekly meetings to talk about fishing was a waste of time. After all, were they not following the Master, who said, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men”?

Imagine how hurt they were when one day someone suggested that those who don’t catch fish were not really fishermen, no matter how much they claimed to be. But they understood the criticism. After all, can people who never catch any fish really claim to be fishermen? (Adapted by Johnny Dean from Darrell W. Robinson, People Sharing Jesus, Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 1995, pp. 21–23.)

Today’s readings, of course, aren’t about fishing at all. Rather, they are about the calling of disciples. And radical discipleship lies at the heart of our faith.

Matthew’s Gospel describes Jesus walking beside the Sea of Galilee when he sees two brothers, Simon Peter and Andrew, casting a net into the sea. He does not invite them to a meeting. He does not ask them to study the theory of fishing for people. He simply says, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” And Matthew tells us simply that immediately they left their nets and followed him. A little farther along, the same thing happens with James and John. They leave their boat, their father, and their livelihood, and they follow.

Matthew emphasizes not what the disciples felt, but what they did. Unlike Luke’s account, there is no recorded confession of sin here, no protest of unworthiness, no hesitation. What matters is the authority of Jesus’ call and the obedience of those who hear it. Discipleship, in Matthew’s telling, begins not with introspection but with response.

This does not mean that humility or self-awareness aren’t important unimportant. Rather, Matthew assumes them. To leave one’s nets, one’s boat, and one’s family is to acknowledge—without words—that one’s life no longer belongs to oneself. It is a tacit confession that Jesus has the right to redirect one’s priorities, redefine one’s purpose, and reframe one’s future.

A disciple of Christ, then, is first and foremost one who responds to the call. The call is not vague or abstract. “Follow me,” Jesus says. Not to admire me. Not to analyze me. Not simply believe correct things about me. Follow me. Discipleship is movement. It is action. It is a willingness to go where Jesus goes and to do what Jesus does.

Second, a disciple trusts that God will provide. Matthew underscores the cost of discipleship by how little explanation he offers. The disciples do not negotiate. They do not secure backup plans. They leave their nets and boats behind—symbols of stability, identity, and security. The immediacy of their response highlights the risk involved. To follow Jesus is to trust that obedience is safer than control, that God’s provision is more reliable than familiar routines. True discipleship accepts uncertainty because it trusts the One who calls.

Finally, a disciple embraces the mission. Jesus does not merely say, “Follow me.” He adds, “I will make you fish for people.” The disciples are not only called away from something; they are called toward something. Following Jesus always leads outward. Discipleship is never an end in itself. It is participation in God’s work of drawing others into life, healing, and restoration.

This brings us back to the fishermen in our first story. The tragedy is not that they lacked knowledge or organization or passion. It is that they substituted talk for action. Matthew’s Gospel allows no such substitution. The call of Jesus demands a response, and the response defines the disciple.

The people Jesus calls in Matthew are not extraordinary. They are working fishermen, ordinary people doing ordinary labor on an ordinary day. What makes them remarkable is not who they are, but what they do when Jesus calls. Christian discipleship does not require special qualifications—only availability and obedience.

The heart of Christianity is not comfort. It is calling. It is not endless preparation. It is faithful response. Real Christianity is demanding because it is active. It requires leaving nets behind, trusting God’s provision, and committing ourselves to the mission Jesus sets before us – sharing our faith in both word and deed. To follow Christ is to move—from spectators to participants, from talkers to doers, from fishermen in name only to those who actually cast their nets at his command.

2nd Sunday after the Epiphany – Mark S. Winward

Have you ever wondered what it really means to be “Church”? Not in the abstract, but in a way that gives weight to why we have gathered here this morning—why prayer, Scripture, sacrament, and fellowship matter at all. If the Church is merely a human institution, then what we do risks becoming little more than habit or sentiment. But if the Church is something God brings into being—something alive in Christ—then our gathering has eternal significance.

This morning’s Gospel from John takes us back to the very beginnings of the Church, before buildings, hierarchies, or denominational divisions. We see simple encounters: testimony, invitation, recognition, and response. John the Baptist points to Jesus. Andrew follows. Andrew brings Simon. And Jesus gives Simon a new name: Cephas—Peter, the rock.

That naming has echoed through Christian history. Peter’s new name signals stability, responsibility, and vocation. It points forward to the Church taking shape, stone by stone, through human lives called and transformed by Christ. Yet from this moment has also flowed deep disagreement about what the Church is meant to be and how it is to be held together.

Christians have long differed over whether Jesus intended, in naming Peter, to establish a concrete and enduring structure of authority in the world, or whether he was pointing more fundamentally to a spiritual reality that transcends any one institution. Roman Catholic theology sees in Peter’s naming the seed of a visible, unified Church, safeguarded through apostolic succession and pastoral authority. Reformed traditions have insisted that no earthly structure can fully contain or guarantee the Church’s faithfulness, which belongs ultimately to Christ alone. Anglicans have historically tried to hold these truths together: affirming the importance of visible order and continuity, while resisting the idea that any single office or institution can claim absolute authority over Christ’s Body.

These differences matter. They shape how Christians understand authority, Scripture, sacraments, and unity. But they can also distract us if we allow them to eclipse the deeper question: what does it mean to live as the Church here and now, under the lordship of Jesus Christ?

The New Testament itself reminds us that being “Church” has never been synonymous with institutional perfection. Peter, the rock, was also the disciple who misunderstood Jesus, denied him, and had to be confronted by Paul when he failed to live in step with the Gospel. Paul, writing to the church in Corinth, does not address an ideal organization but a conflicted, divided community—and yet he still calls them “those sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints.” The Church has always been holy and broken at the same time.

Jesus himself repeatedly warns that it is possible to preserve the outward forms of religion while missing its heart. Institutions can endure even when faith grows thin. Throughout history, the Church has had to repent, reform, and rediscover what it means to belong to Christ rather than to its own habits or power. That struggle is not a failure of the Gospel; it is the ongoing work of grace among imperfect people.

Against that background, today’s Gospel shows us what the Church looks like when it is faithful to its calling.

First, the Church is a community that unashamedly confesses who Jesus is. John the Baptist does not point to himself, his movement, or his authority. He points to Jesus and names him plainly: the Lamb of God, the Son of God. Faith, in John’s Gospel, is never merely private or internal. It speaks. It bears witness. A Church that forgets how to name Jesus loses its reason for being.

Second, the Church proclaims not only who Jesus is, but what he does. John announces Jesus as the one who takes away the sin of the world—not just individual guilt, but the power that binds, isolates, and deforms human life. Where Christ is known, people are drawn into healing, forgiveness, and restored relationship. The Church exists not to manage sin, but to announce that sin’s dominion has been broken.

Third, the Church is a community that sends people into lives of discipleship. John’s testimony does not end with admiration or assent; it leads others to follow Jesus. Andrew does not keep his encounter to himself—he brings his brother. Genuine faith always moves outward. To follow Christ is to be drawn into fellowship with him, and from that fellowship to be sent into the world for the sake of others.

This is why we are here. Not because the Church has already arrived at perfection, but because Christ continues to call, heal, and send his people. We gather as those still being formed, still being named anew by the Lord who knows us better than we know ourselves.

We fall short. We argue. We disappoint one another. The earthly Church still awaits its full redemption. And yet, even now, Christ is present among his people—speaking, forgiving, feeding, and sending. To be the Church is not to claim purity or supremacy, but to remain faithful to that call: to confess Christ, to proclaim his transforming grace, and to follow him together into the world he came to redeem.

1st Sunday after the Epiphany – Mark S. Winward

Today is the First Sunday after Epiphany, the season of the Church Year that celebrates the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry. Appropriately, that ministry begins not with a sermon or a miracle, but with Jesus standing in the Jordan River, submitting to baptism by John. Yet for many people, today’s Gospel reading can be confusing. On the one hand, the surrounding verses in Matthew chapter 3, as well as the witness of the other Gospels, make it clear that John’s baptism was a baptism of repentance, intended for the cleansing of sins. On the other hand, Scripture also clearly affirms that Jesus was without sin. As Paul writes, “For our sake God made Christ to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21, RSV). So what is going on here? Was Jesus submitting to something that did not apply to him? Were the Gospel writers—or Paul—simply confused? I want to suggest that three things are happening in Jesus’ baptism that help us understand not only his baptism, but our own.

First, Jesus’ baptism is proleptic. In Scripture, there are moments when one event foreshadows another. Scholars describe such passages as proleptic. Jesus’ baptism is a clear example of this. The Gospels tell the story of his baptism in a way that points beyond the Jordan River to his death at the end of the Gospel narrative. In fact, Mark records Jesus explicitly referring to his death as his baptism: “Are you able to be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized?” (Mark 10:38). By submitting to baptism, Jesus models for us the connection between his baptism and his death. This theme is echoed powerfully in Romans 6, where Paul writes, “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:3–4, RSV). Paul continues by explaining that if we have been united with Christ in a death like his, we will also be united with him in a resurrection like his. In adult baptism, after declaring their intention to turn from sin, a person visibly enacts this connection with Christ’s death through the waters of baptism. And in dying with Christ, the baptized person also shares in Christ’s resurrection to everlasting life. As Paul says elsewhere, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has passed away, behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17, RSV). Baptism marks a profound transformation—nothing less than a new order of being.

Second, Jesus’ baptism is introductory. In this moment, God publicly declares exactly who Jesus is. Matthew records the voice from heaven saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased” (Matthew 3:17, NRSV). Living in the South, one cannot help but notice the abundance of spiritual messages on highway billboards. Over the years, people have lightheartedly attributed a number of these messages to God:

“Let’s meet at my house before the game.” 

“What part of ‘Thou shalt not’ didn’t you understand?” 

“Loved the wedding—invite me to the marriage.” 

Or even, “Keep using my name in vain and I’ll make the rush hour longer.” 

God did not launch an advertising campaign or carve a new set of rules into stone at Jesus’ baptism. Instead, God simply introduces his Son to the world, saying, in effect, “I want you to meet someone special. This is my Son, whom I love.” Baptism remains introductory in this same sense. When someone is baptized, they publicly affirm Jesus as God’s Son, and at the same time they introduce themselves anew to Jesus. They declare, before God and the community of faith, their intention to enter into a personal, daily relationship with Jesus Christ as their Lord.

Finally, Jesus’ baptism is inaugural. Matthew tells us that when Jesus came up from the water, the heavens were opened and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. It is worth noting that the Spirit came upon him like a dove, not as a dove. The Holy Spirit is not a bird, but the image conveys the Spirit’s gentleness and character. In any case, the coming of the Spirit marks the inauguration of Jesus’ ministry. From this moment forward, Jesus is empowered to confront sin, evil, and suffering head-on. In the same way, all Christians—lay and ordained alike—are empowered for ministry through baptism and the gift of the Holy Spirit. Jesus tells his disciples in Acts, “John baptized with water, but before many days you shall be baptized with the Holy Spirit” (Acts 1:5, RSV), and shortly afterward he adds, “You shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you shall be my witnesses” (Acts 1:8, RSV). Through the mystery of baptism, the Spirit empowers believers who dare to yield their will to God’s power to share Christ’s message of hope and salvation with a wounded world.

The English missionary Jackie Pullinger once said that many Christians have “hard hearts and soft feet,” when God desires “soft hearts and hard feet.” We resist anything that might disrupt our routines or demand courage. Perhaps we might appreciate the need for toughness in mission, but a heart turned to stone is no longer useful. God does not call us to be brittle or unfeeling. God calls us to be open to transformation and willing to go where love requires us to go. Even the toughest among us, touched by grace, can be given soft hearts and hard feet.

In Jesus’ baptism, we see the pattern of our own: dying to sin, being named and claimed by God, and being empowered by the Spirit for mission. The question before us is not whether baptism matters, but whether we will allow its promise to shape our lives. Do we have the courage to let God transform the ordinary into something extraordinary? That transformation can begin today, with hearts softened, lives yielded to God’s grace, and hardened feet prepared to share God’s love.

Feast of the Epiphany – Mark S. Winward

There are a lot of popular misconceptions surrounding the wise men we celebrate this evening in the Christmas story. One of the most persistent is the assumption that they were kings. The biblical text, unlike our lovely opening hymn, never calls them kings. Matthew refers to them as magoi, or magi. While magi is often translated as “wise men,” there is no linguistic or historical basis for believing they were royalty. Rather, the magi were a caste of shamanic or priestly sages from Persia. Because they were experts in astrology and the interpretation of dreams, they were frequently sought out as advisors to pagan kings, but that does not make them kings themselves.

Another widespread assumption concerns the number of wise men. Scripture makes no reference at all to how many people were in their traveling entourage. The gospel tells us only that three gifts were presented to the Christ child. Over time, the church assumed that each visitor would have brought a gift, and since three gifts are listed, there must have been three wise men. In fact, the Eastern Church traditionally held that as many as nine wise men visited Jesus. The reality is that no one knows how many magi made the journey.

A third misconception is that the wise men visited Jesus in the manger on the night of his birth. Matthew’s account tells us that the star “went before them, till it came to rest over the place where the child was,” and then continues, “and going into the house they saw the child with Mary his mother.” Most scholars believe this visit occurred some time after Jesus was born, possibly as much as two years later. Matthew later tells us that Herod ordered the killing of all male children in Bethlehem who were two years old and under. If Jesus had still been a newborn infant, there would have been no reason to include toddlers in that decree. It is also reasonable to conclude that a journey from Persia to Bethlehem would have taken considerable time.

We all come to God with many preconceived ideas. Yet God’s Word speaks most clearly to our hearts when we truly listen to the text itself, rather than relying on assumptions or traditions we have absorbed over time. When we do that, it can feel as though we are hearing the story for the very first time.

What distinguishes the wise men in this story is their sincere and persistent search for the child born “King of the Jews.” They sought after the Christ child with all their might. Their path to the truth may have involved a mixture of astrology, interpretation, and careful investigation, but God honored their seeking hearts. Even when our understanding is imperfect and our methods incomplete, God cherishes a heart that genuinely seeks him.

The wise men also worshiped the Christ child with all their hearts. Matthew tells us that when they found him, “they fell down and worshiped him.” It is striking that the first people to worship Jesus in the Gospel narrative are not members of the Jewish religious establishment—those who should have known what to look for—but outsiders. They are Gentiles. From the very beginning, it is clear that this King of the Jews has come for all the peoples of the earth. No matter who we are or where we come from, God longs for us to recognize his rightful place and to worship him wholeheartedly.

Finally, the wise men offered the Christ child the best they had. Though they were not kings, they gave what amounted to a king’s ransom. For priests and sages, these gifts were not merely offerings but sacrifices. They did not give what was left over or what was convenient; they gave from their most precious resources. And beyond the gold, frankincense, and myrrh, they offered something even more important: they offered themselves. God calls us, too, to set aside our presuppositions and to seek him earnestly with all our hearts. God desires our worship—not halfhearted or distracted, but with heart and mind fully engaged. And God, who gave even his own Son for us, calls us to respond in the same spirit: offering ourselves and living lives marked by joyful sacrifice toward God and toward one another.

Christmas 2A – Mark S. Winward

Happy New Year! I wonder how many of you were at some sort of New Year’s festivity this year? Well, whether or not you attended a party, unless you went to sleep before midnight you probably heard the famous ballad “Auld Lang Syne.” And if you’re like me, you’ve probably sung it dozens of times without really knowing what it means. The song was a popular Scottish bar song recorded by the poet Robert Burns in 1788. The words go like this:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne? (old long ago)

Chorus:

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,

For auld lang syne!

In essence, “Auld Lang Syne” is meant to be a toast that says, “Here’s to old times.” The advent of a new year is a time when many people reassess their lives. It is a natural season for looking both backward to the past and forward to the future. That linking of the old and the new is precisely what today’s Gospel is about.

Scholars tell us that Matthew was writing primarily to Jews in the first century. To reach them, Matthew took great care to link Moses—the deliverer of Israel—with Jesus—the deliverer of all humanity. Jesus’ lowly birth, the slaughter of the innocents, and today’s account of the flight into Egypt all echo the Exodus story. In essence, the Gospel itself is our Exodus story—our escape from bondage. Matthew wants to show that Jesus is not breaking with the past but renewing it. Jesus is depicted as the vital link between the old and the new.

In establishing Jesus’ connection to Moses, Matthew looks backward. Jesus is clearly and deeply connected to the old Jewish covenant—God’s promise to Israel that they would be his people and he would be their God. Through that connection, Jesus is linked to the Law. Yet Matthew’s account of Jesus’ birth also looks forward. The whole Christmas story points toward a new covenant, fulfilled in Jesus’ death and glorious resurrection. In linking Jesus to this new covenant, Matthew shows that Jesus is deeply connected with God’s grace. Law and grace meet here. The Christ child bridges the gap between the old and the new, between law and grace, and in doing so offers each of us hope.

New Year’s is a hopeful time, a season of anticipation. People often feel they are being given a fresh start, which may be why New Year’s resolutions are so common. Yet, if you are like me, although you may make resolutions with the best of intentions, you often find them difficult to keep. If most people actually carried them through, New Year’s would be known as a genuinely life-changing event. But if we are honest, we must admit that truly life-changing choices are rarely made on January 1.

Perhaps people fail in their New Year’s resolutions because New Year’s comes only once a year. When a resolution is broken, it can feel as though everything is ruined. We tell ourselves we have blown it, so it no longer matters. Then, in utter disgust, we chalk it up to yet another failed New Year’s resolution.

But the point of today’s Gospel is that Christ has freed us from the bondage of the Law and ushered us into the freedom of God’s grace. That familiar image of the year portrayed as an old man giving way to a newborn baby is a helpful symbol. Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 5:17, “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” In God’s eyes, we are like the old year and the new—the old has passed away, and something new has been born. Jesus Christ offers each of us a genuine fresh start.

And the best news of all is that New Year’s Day can be every day. People do not become Christians and suddenly “arrive.” God is actively and daily at work in those who choose to walk with him. Each day, for those who walk with Christ, is a new day. If you blow it, then you have blown it—but there is still another day. The old has passed away, and everything is made new. Instead of holding your breath until you inevitably fail, every day becomes a new opportunity.

The good news is that we are no longer enslaved to an impossible ideal. Christ frees us to walk daily with him, step by step, along a path. As we walk that path, we gradually find ourselves strengthened and reshaped into the image of a faithful walker.

Frances R. Havergal captures this hope beautifully:

Another year is dawning,

Dear Father, let it be,

In working or in waiting,

Another year with thee.

May this new year—and every day within it—be lived in the freedom and grace of Christ our Lord. Amen.

1st Sunday after Christmas – Baptismal Service – Mark Winward

During this Christmas season, we continue to celebrate the new life of Christ, born to us in a manger. But today we are also celebrating new life in Christ in the baptism of Matthew Dabrowski. Christmas is not only about remembering something that happened long ago. It is about what God is still doing—bringing light out of darkness, life out of death, and hope into a broken world.

For some of you, this service may feel unfamiliar – and you may not know exactly what to expect. That has been true for centuries. There is a legendary story from the fifth century about King Aengus, who was baptized by St. Patrick. During the service, Patrick accidentally stabbed the king’s foot with his shepherd’s staff. Remarkably, the king said nothing. Afterward, Patrick begged for forgiveness and asked why the king had suffered in silence. The king replied, “I thought it was part of the ritual!”

Thankfully, baptism no longer involves that kind of pain—though I can’t promise the sermon will be entirely painless. But the story reminds us of something important: baptism has always been a significant moment in the life of the church, profoundly mysterious, and deeply meaningful.

Except in emergencies, baptism is celebrated in the presence of the gathered Church because we recognize baptism is not a private act. It is incorporation into the community of believers. And that’s not into a particular denomination, but into the one Body of Christ. As Paul writes, “There is one body and one Spirit… one Lord, one faith, one baptism.” Before we are Episcopalians or anything else, we are Christians—claimed by Christ, joined to him, and joined to one another.

That truth is proclaimed with particular force in today’s Gospel. In December of 1968, as the world reeled from war, protest, and fear, the crew of Apollo 8 orbited the moon. On Christmas Eve, they turned their camera back toward Earth, and humanity gasped as for the first time we watched our planet rise over the lunar horizon—small, fragile, and beautiful. As millions watched, just for a moment the world saw itself as one, and astronaut William Anders read: “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.”

John’s Gospel begins by delving in the mystery of the Creator and our common humanity. 

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Before time, before matter, before history, there was the Word—Logos—eternal, personal, divine. And then John tells us the heart of the Christian faith: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

God did not remain distant. The Creator entered creation. The light that called the universe into being stepped into the darkness—not to condemn it, but to save it. This is why Christmas matters. And this is why baptism matters. Because God took on our humanity, becoming one of us and forever elevating humankind.

John is honest, though, about the world as it is. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness could not overcome it. As world failed to recognize its Creator, our alienation from God became a chronic condition of humanity. But John does not leave it there. He writes, “To all who received him… he gave power to become children of God.” Not by effort. Not by achievement. But by grace.

Grace is at the heart of baptism. God claims us by name and says, “You are my child.” Baptism then becomes a lifelong calling to live as one who belongs to Christ. And as that identity of belonging deepens in our hearts, we seek to live a life pleasing to God and loving our neighbor as ourselves – striving for justice and peace and respecting the dignity of all.

In a few moments, Matthew will profess his faith in Christ, and all of us will be reminded of our own baptismal promises: to renounce evil, to turn from sin, to trust in Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord, and to live that trust through prayer, service, justice, and love. Matthew will be baptized into the one, holy, catholic Church—the Body of Christ across all times and places—and, in due time, invited to affirm that faith within our Anglican tradition.

From this day forward, the Church recognizes that Matthew belongs at this table, is nourished by this bread and this cup, and shares fully in the life of Christ’s Body. For all who are baptized—regardless of denomination—the table is open. And for those who are not baptized, you are invited into worship, into prayer, into community, and come to embrace the grace God longs to give you.

So today, whether baptized or not, Episcopalian or not, I ask you to stand with Matthew. Renew your own baptismal promises. Receive again the good news that the Word became flesh, that light has overcome the darkness, and that God is still redeeming lives—calling us not only to believe, but to live into being children of the light.

Christmas Eve – Mark Winward

But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see – I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” (Luke 2:10–11, NRSV)

For just a moment this evening, I invite you to pause and consider the immensity of what we are celebrating. The claim at the heart of Christmas goes far beyond our sentimental memories of this story depicted in Christmas pageants. The central claim of Christmas is truly staggering – and if we dare to consider it, nothing will ever be the same. Think about it: the God of all creation became one of us.

When we begin to grasp even a bit of the grandeur of the universe, that claim becomes almost overwhelming: The Creator became one of us. Science describes a cosmos so vast that our minds struggle to hold it. Douglas Adams captured that sense of scale in his whimsical science fiction, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, when he wrote, “Space is big. Really big. You just won’t believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is.” Yet for all that sense of wonder, Adams couldn’t imagine that such immensity might point beyond itself to Something greater than us. Astronauts, however, often speak of something called the “overview effect.” Seeing the Earth from space, suspended in darkness, many experience a deep sense of awe – sometimes even a spiritual awakening. Others feel disoriented or shaken, confronted by both the fragile beauty of our world and the cold vastness beyond it. And the more we explore the universe, the more immense it seems to become.

To put that scale simply: if you could drive to the sun at highway speed, it would take nearly two centuries to arrive. That distance is just one astronomical unit. A light-year is over 63,000 times the distance from the earth to the sun – and the observable universe stretches across an estimated 93 billion of light-years. If scientist have correctly estimated the age of the universe to be 13.8 billion years, it would take 82 million times the age of the universe for you to drive across it. Now if your eyes glaze over with all those numbers, it’s because such sheer magnitude defies our ability to grasp it. And yet, in a small corner of that vast universe lies our rather unremarkable galaxy. Within it, an unremarkable star. Orbiting that star, a small, life-bearing planet. On that planet, God created human beings in his image – capable of memory and reason, creativity and love – intentionally designed from the beginning for community with one another and with God.

And we turned away. Again and again, God called us back, longing for relationship with us, but we ignored that call. That alienation from God isn’t merely an abstract theological problem; it shows up in very real ways – in our loneliness, our fear, our pride, our broken relationships, our sense that something isn’t as it should be. We try to fix it ourselves, to live life on our own terms, but the distance remains.

Then God did the unimaginable.

The Creator of that planet, that star, that galaxy, that incomprehensibly vast cosmos didn’t abandon us to our rejection of him. Out of love – pure, costly love – the great “I Am,” the beginning and the end, became one of us. God broke into human history. God embraced our human limitations. God became flesh. In that moment, humanity was forever changed. In a forgotten corner of the Roman Empire, in a small shepherding town, in a stable no one would have noticed, the universe shifted. For a brief moment, that stable became the center of all creation, because the ruler of the universe had come to find us.

If we really take this claim seriously – that God became human – then every other miracle in Scripture seems almost secondary by comparison. Burning bushes, walking on water, even the empty tomb all flow from this astonishing truth. Christmas is the foundation upon which everything else stands.

How you interpret the meaning of this night will inescapably lead to your answer to the question Jesus himself posed: “Who do you say that I am?” That question confronts each of us tonight. Not “What do you think of Jesus’ teachings?” Not “Do you admire his example?” But who is he for you? Is he merely a distant historical figure, a wise teacher from long ago? Or is he the living God who stepped into human history and comes even now to meet you?

The extraordinary claim of the Gospel is that all of us – rich or poor, powerful or powerless, confident or uncertain – stand on the same ground. We are estranged from God in ways we can’t repair on our own. Scripture calls that reality sin: our persistent tendency to turn inward, to insist on our own way, to live as though we do not need God. The result is a separation we can’t bridge by effort or good intentions. That is why the baby in the manger matters. That is why the angels erupt in song. John’s gospel captures the meaning of this night in words many of us know by heart: “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

We hear those words so often that we risk missing their impact. God so loved the world. Not humanity at its best, not the world cleaned up and put together, but the world as it is – fractured, fearful, and lost. God’s response to that world wasn’t condemnation, but self-giving love.

The good news the angels proclaimed is that this child – wrapped in cloths and laid in a feeding trough – came to bring life. Life for anyone and everyone. Not just survival, not just moral improvement, but abundant life rooted in a restored relationship with God.

This child grew into a man who gave himself completely, even to the point of death, so that our alienation would not have the final word. And death itself couldn’t hold him. The one we remember in the manger lives still. Some know his presence as comfort. Some know his strength in moments of weakness. Some know a joy that carries them even through sorrow – a joy we freshly glimpse at Christmas.

So what does this mean for us? It means that God’s priorities are remarkable different than that of this world. Where our politics divide and categorize, God draws near and unites. God isn’t impressed by status or power or whatever your identity may be. God came so that no one would be beyond his reach. God sent his Son so that you might know him, and in knowing him, learn to love as you are loved. Imagine for a moment that the King of all Creation is, quite simply, is in love with you. But he came not only to be loved in return, but so that his love might flow through you into a world still aching for hope and reconciliation. My prayer for us this Christmas is that we might welcome him anew, walk with him in the year ahead, and discover more deeply his strength, his joy, and his life – given for you, and for this wounded world. Amen.

4th Week of Advent – Year A – Mark Winward

Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet: “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel,” which means, “God is with us.” When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus. – Matthew 1:18-25, NRS

We all know quite well the story of the Annunciation. An angel appears to the Mary, who is engaged to Joseph, and said, 

 “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.”

Luke goes on to tell of Mary visiting Elizabeth, where we’re introduced to the magnificent Song of Mary: “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior…” Then he tells the familiar story of the manger, the angelic host, and the shepherds that we will hear more about this Wednesday, Christmas Eve.

But going back to the Annunciation, what about Joseph? Put yourself in his shoes. How do you think he felt? How would it have been for him to believe Mary’s explanation for her pregnancy? Today’s selection from Matthew attempts to answer that.

Matthew doesn’t begin his gospel with a miracle of spectacle; he begins with a crisis. Mary is engaged—betrothed—to Joseph, yet she’s now pregnant with someone else’s child. In their time and culture, betrothal was legally binding: breaking it required divorce, and unfaithfulness during betrothal counted as adultery—which would most likely end in the stoning. Personal honor and public shame loomed as probable realities, and Joseph now faces a decision that at the least could ruin both Mary’s life and his own reputation. And Jospeh doesn’t have very much to go on. But one thing is certain: he’s not the father.

But Matthew calls Joseph “righteous,” meaning he takes God seriously and intends to live in obedience to God’s law. He can’t simply ignore what he believes to be sin. And yet, Matthew also tells us that Joseph doesn’t want to expose Mary to public disgrace. So he looks for the most merciful path available to him: a quiet divorce.

While tormented by these thoughts, Joseph falls asleep. And in the tradition of the Hebrew patriarchs and prophets, a stunning appearance of the angel of the Lord breaks into his dream. Invoking Joseph’s royal lineage, this messenger from God announces: “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”

This redefines Joseph’s whole reality. If this is indeed true, God is acting in a profound way here – and in Joseph’s very own life – unexpectedly and extraordinarily breaking into human history!

Upon awaking, Joseph’s response—like Mary’s in Luke—is obedience. He chooses to take Mary as his wife, abstain from relations with her, and name the child “Jesus”—literally “God saves”—in fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy that the Messiah will be named Emmanuel, “God with us.”

Although from different perspectives, the gospels of Matthew and Luke agree Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit and his mother was a virgin. Matthew’s account doesn’t attempt to embellish the story or convince us; he assumes it’s true. The implication is that the miracle of Jesus’ birth was so well known in the Christian community that he has only to state it.

Now, I appreciate that for many people, the idea of the virgin birth is a bit of a stretch. When we hear this Gospel, we often get stuck on questions of biology rather than theology—on whether such a thing could actually happen, rather than on what the story means in telling us how God chose to act in human history. 

Let me clearly say up front that I personally affirm the biblical witness to the virgin birth. And I feel I can do so without embarrassment – because the heart of faith has always been the conviction that reality is far bigger than our daily experience. We worship a God who creates out of nothing and who raises the dead. In that light, the miracle of Jesus’ conception isn’t a sentimental tale, but part of a larger pattern: God acting decisively and graciously, breaking into a world that is incapable of saving itself.

The virgin birth isn’t just about a miracle of birth: it’s about a miracle of grace. My old theology professor, Reginald Fuller, put it well: 

“Jesus is not the product of human evolution or the highest achievement of the human race. He is the result of the intervention of a transcendent God into human history. Simply put, Jesus comes from God. He is God’s Son. The emphasis isn’t on human merit, but on divine initiative – on the creative, life-giving power of God acting where human possibility runs out.”

Matthew makes it very clear why this matters. The angel tells Jospeh the child is to be named Jesus, “for he will save his people from their sins.” Scripture is uncompromising about the human condition. As Paul writes, “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,” and “the wages of sin is death.” But he doesn’t stop there: “The gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.” The miracle of Christmas isn’t condemnation, but restoration. When humanity was lost, God didn’t abandon us. God came to us.

Now I appreciate words like “sin” and “death” can sound harsh or outdated to modern ears. We may hear them but miss the good news entirely. At its heart, sin isn’t merely moral failure; it’s estrangement – from God, from one another, and from our own deepest calling. But the good news is that God refuses to abandon us despite our abandonment of him. Like the prodigal son, we were lost—and now are found. Still, to be found, we have to first be honest with ourselves about being lost.

Throughout Scripture, God’s saving work begins not with the self-sufficient, but with those who recognize their need. Moses pleaded with God about being unworthy before the burning bush. The Psalmist proclaims, the sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit. The prophet Isaiah cries, “Woe is me! I am a man of unclean lips.” And the Apostle Paul ashamedly confesses that he persecuted the very church he would later serve.

My point is: grace – that is, God’s unmerited favor – begins where the illusion of self-sufficiency ends and dependency on God begins.

So what does Matthew have to say to us at the opening chapter of his Gospel?

First, our faith begins with God’s action, not ours. God has broken into human history in the person of Jesus Christ. Before anyone understands, before anyone obeys, before anyone gets it right, God is already at work to save. The Gospel isn’t calling us to “try harder.” Its Good News is that “God saves” and “God with us.”

Second, “God with us,” is not some abstract doctrine. Matthew begins his gospel naming Jesus, Emmanuel, “God with us,” and ends with Jesus’ final words, “And remember, I am with you always to the end of the age.” Matthew reminds us in Jospeh’s example that God’s presence is a lived reality, meeting us precisely where obedience feels costly and faith feels risky. Emmanuel doesn’t remove the cost of discipleship; Emmanuel means we don’t bear that cost alone.

So what does this mean to you? As we step closer to the threshold of the manger this week, let me suggest one concrete step for you personally to take that’s simple, demanding, and inspired by Joseph’s obedience: Identify one relationship or one act of obedience you have been postponing because it feels risky: an apology you owe, a truth you need to speak, a forgiveness you have been resisting, a boundary you need to set, or a commitment you have been avoiding. Then do the next faithful thing—quietly, without defending yourself, without worry about managing your reputation—and entrust the outcome to God.  Because the Gospel does not promise that obedience will be easy. It promises that God will be with you to the end.

The Third Week of Advent – Year A -Mark Winward

Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, now and for ever. Amen. – BCP 212

Advent as a Season of Holy Disruption
One of the most striking prayers in the Anglican tradition begins with a simple but dangerous request: “Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us…” It sounds harmless enough. But when you stop to think about it, that’s a bold thing to say to God. When we ask God to stir us up, we’re asking God to disturb what’s grown comfortable, to disrupt what’s settled into routine, and to wake us up to what God’s doing—whether we’re ready for it or not.

Advent is precisely the season when the Church dares to pray like that. Advent isn’t meant to lull us into sentimentality. It’s meant to prepare us—to unsettle us just enough to make room for God. The trouble is: human beings are creatures of habit. We fall into patterns of living and thinking that feel natural simply because they’re familiar. Over time, those patterns can become ruts—paths we walk without thinking because they’re already worn deep.

The Persistence of Long-Established Patterns
There’s a well-known story—whether historical or not—about how modern transportation systems still bear the imprint of very old choices. The legend goes that the standard U.S. railroad gauge—4 feet, 8½ inches—was inherited from England, where many early locomotives were built. British railroads, in turn, used that gauge because it matched earlier tramways, which themselves followed the width of existing wagons. Those wagons were built to fit the ruts already worn into roads—roads that, according to the story, dated back to Roman times. The ruts were supposedly set by Roman war chariots, sized to accommodate the rear ends of two horses. And so, well into the 21st century, much of our overland transportation is said to be constrained by the width of two Roman war horses’ hindquarters—at least if the story’s to be believed! But the point isn’t really the history. It’s that once a practice becomes firmly established, people tend to keep doing it. When something settles into being “the way things are,” we often stop questioning it.

That’s true for spiritually as well. We develop assumptions about God, about ourselves, about how faith’s supposed to work, and we rarely stop to examine them. Advent exists to interrupt that momentum. Advent is a season of examination, but it isn’t the same as Lent. Lent prepares us for a death. Advent prepares us for a birth. Both involve self-reflection, but Advent does so with joy and expectancy rather than sorrow alone. It’s, in a sense, a season of holy disruption—an invitation to look honestly at the paths we’ve been walking and ask whether they’re still leading us toward God.

John the Baptist and Faithful Questioning
That spirit of questioning brings us squarely into today’s Gospel. When we meet John the Baptist in this reading, he’s no longer standing by the Jordan preaching repentance. He’s in prison—waiting, isolated, with nothing but time and questions. This is the same John who proclaimed the coming kingdom of God, who baptized Jesus, and who saw the Spirit descend from heaven. And yet from prison he still sends messengers to Jesus with a startling question: “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

It’s tempting to see this as a failure of faith. But John’s question sounds profoundly human. John had expected God to act in a certain way. Many people did. Under Roman occupation, they imagined the Messiah would overthrow oppressors and restore order through unmistakable power. Jesus, instead, was healing the sick, restoring the outcast, and proclaiming a kingdom that didn’t look like what anyone expected. When circumstances failed to match expectations, as often happens to us, doubt crept in.

What’s striking is how Jesus responds. He doesn’t scold John. He doesn’t rebuke him for wavering. Instead, he points to what’s happening: the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear good news. Jesus quotes Isaiah, not to condemn John, but to remind him that God is indeed at work—just not ccording to familiar patterns.

And then Jesus does something remarkable: he praises John as the greatest of the prophets. Doubt, it seems, wasn’t a disqualifier. Faithful questioning didn’t place John outside of God’s purposes. That matters, because it reshapes how we understand our own faith. When circumstances unfold differently than we expected, we often assume something’s gone wrong— either with God or with us. But Scripture suggests another possibility: perhaps God’s doing something new, something beyond our worn assumptions. That insight shapes how we think about salvation and holiness.

Holiness as Gift, Not Achievement
We live in a culture that often imagines life as a points system—good behavior earns rewards, failure earns penalties. It’s a terrifying way to live, because no one finishes with a perfect score. Scripture offers a far better gospel. Our standing with God doesn’t depend on accumulating spiritual points—it depends on God’s reaching out to us. Holiness, in Scripture, doesn’t mean being perfect – it means being set apart for God’s purposes. When God says, “You shall be holy, for I am holy,” it isn’t merely a demand—it’s a declaration of a relationship. In Christ, holiness isn’t something we achieve, it’s something we receive. We’re holy because we belong to the Holy One and are literally his Holy Family.

That truth also changes how we think about our feelings. Our culture places enormous importance on how we feel. Scripture, however, never suggests that our acceptance by God depends on our emotional state. We’re not called to feel holy; we’re called to be holy. Not called to feel joyful; called to be joyful. Feelings matter, but they aren’t our foundation.

The Advent Hope
Advent reminds us that God’s work in us doesn’t depend on our readiness, our certainty, or our emotional confidence. God stirs us up anyway. And that’s the good news of this season. God doesn’t leave us stuck in old ruts. God comes to wake us up—not to shame us, but to prepare us. To call us beyond what we’ve always been into what we’re becoming in Christ. So once again,

we dare pray that dangerous prayer:
Stir us up, O Lord.
Wake us up.
Prepare us.
Make us ready for the new life you are bringing into the world!
Amen.

2nd Weerk of Advent Year A – Mark Winward

Advent’s Central Question: Have We Prepared Him Room?

More than just a countdown to Christmas, Advent is a season for holy housecleaning that invites us to take stock of our lives and ask how ready we are to welcome the Lord. As the beloved Christmas carol Joy to the World proclaims, “let every heart prepare Him room,” Advent prompts us to anticipate Christ’s coming while examining the condition of our hearts. It asks the most profound question of our faith, “Have we prepared room for Christ?”

John the Baptist: A Life Shaped for Readiness

In today’s Gospel we meet John the Baptist, a character people found impossible to ignore. Some believe John may have been influenced by the Essenes, a community known for repentance, cleansing, and expectation of the Messiah. Whether or not that’s true, everything about John pointed to readiness. To us, John would have looked a bit unhinged—camel hair clothes, a leather belt, living on locusts and honey, his skin weathered by the desert sun—but none of this was accidental. John intentionally modeled himself after Elijah, because Scripture had taught the people to look for Elijah’s return before the Lord’s coming. His very appearance pointed to his message: “Prepare the way. Something is about to happen.”

And that message carried both warning and promise. John confronted the Pharisees and Sadducees for confusing ritualwith righteousness. He shook the complacent awake, yet he lifted up the humble. Proclaiming the words of Isaiah, John spoke of comfort, forgiveness, and the leveling of obstacles—yet woven into that good news was an urgent call: the Lord is near, and the time to prepare is now. His preaching, his lifestyle, his urgency pointed to one reality: All is us need to be ready to meet the Lord.

Three Movements of Preparation: Repent, Live Now, Expect God to Act

That same call echoes to this day. John invites us to a housecleaning of the heart. Just as we would tidy our homes before an honored guest arrives, we are called to prepare ourselves for the coming of Christ.

• First, he calls us to repentance—to turn from old patterns that diminish our lives and to orient ourselves again toward God.
• Second, he calls us to live fully in the now, because “the kingdom of God is at hand,” and there is no time to delay.
• And third, he urges us to expect God to act. The Messiah comes not only with water but with the Holy Spirit and with fire—to transform us from the inside out.

A Living Witness: The Daughters of the King

This morning we will see such preparation and transformation lived out as we commission new Daughters of the King. When a woman becomes a Daughter of the King, she seeks to deepen the promises she made at her baptism and confirmation. She receives the Silver Cross of the Order not as an ornament, but as a daily reminder of the promises she makes before God. At its center are the words Magnanimiter Crucem Sustine—“With heart, mind, and spirit, uphold and bear the cross”—and the letters FHS, “For His Sake.” Just as John pointed beyond himself to the coming Christ, the Daughters take on a rule of life that points beyond themselves—to Christ and His kingdom.

Their rule of prayer commits them to daily intercession, for the spread of the kingdom of God, the unity of the Church, and support of their parish. Flowing from prayer comes the rule of service, through which every Daughter seeks to embody the love of Christ. Prayer and service together support the primary work of the Order: evangelism—proclaiming the love of Jesus to a hurting world through word and deed. The faith of a Daughter isn’t hidden, but lived, shared, and offered so that others might come to know the saving grace of Christ.

And each Daughter doesn’t walk alone. She is supported by a worldwide Christian sisterhood, a community devoted to encouragement, accountability, and spiritual growth. Their pledge beautifully echoes John’s call to readiness:

I am but one, but I am one.

I cannot do everything, but I can do something.

What I can do, I ought to do.

What I ought to do, by the grace of God I will do.

Lord, what will you have me do?

This is the posture of Advent. This is the spirit of preparation.

Christ Is Near: The Invitation Before Us

So in this special season, we’re reminded Christ is near. The time to prepare is now. John urges us to clear the clutter of our hearts, and today the Daughters of the King publicly embrace that call—for His sake. As they take their vows and receive their crosses, they demonstrate what it looks like to live expectantly, courageously, and faithfully—turning from the past, rooted in the present, and ready to do the transforming work of God. Have all of us, likewise, prepared Him room?