Author: Rosemary Lovelace

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

4th Sunday after Epiphany – Mark S. Winward

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” Matthew 5:3–5

Let’s get this straight. Is Jesus really saying that if you want to be a Christian you have to be poor, mourn, and be meek? That doesn’t sound particularly attractive. And in our time, any talk about suffering, humility, or making peace at personal cost is not exactly a recipe for popularity or applause. What Jesus proposes here seems to stand in direct opposition to much of what our culture celebrates. While we value confidence, competence, and self-reliance, Jesus calls us to be poor in spirit. While we are told to toughen up and move on, Jesus says, “Blessed are those who mourn.” While we admire the powerful, the influential, and the assertive, Jesus lifts up the meek. While employers often expect us to be relentlessly practical, emotionally contained, and uncomplaining, Jesus calls us to hunger and thirst for righteousness. While justice is often framed as getting even or winning the argument, Jesus commands mercy. While we prefer to keep our private lives morally compartmentalized, Jesus calls us to purity of heart. While our culture rewards competitiveness and aggression, Jesus names peacemakers as God’s children. And while we often want to blend in and avoid standing out, Jesus tells us plainly that faithfulness to righteousness may bring resistance and even persecution. After all, we like to think we are masters of our own destiny, free to live as we please while we can. But Jesus offers a radically different vision. In what we call the Beatitudes, Jesus does not merely turn our cultural values upside down; he exposes how upside down they already are when measured against the reality of God’s kingdom.

The word “beatitude” comes from the Latin word for “blessed.” To be blessed, however, has little to do with how we feel. It is not an emotion or an achievement. Blessing is a state of being in relation to God. Whether we feel strong or weak, content or grieving, energized or numb, nothing can take away the blessedness of those who live within God’s grace. To be blessed is to live inside God’s unearned favor. The Beatitudes, then, describe the characteristics of people who are shaped by that grace. We do not live this way in order to earn God’s love, forgiveness, or acceptance. We live this way because we are already loved, forgiven, and accepted. Grace comes first, and a transformed life follows. The Beatitudes are not a checklist for becoming a Christian; they are a portrait of what a Christian life looks like when grace takes hold.

Jesus begins, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” Being poor in spirit is not limited to material poverty, though it certainly includes it. It also names those who are spiritually worn down, emotionally exhausted, disillusioned, or deeply aware of their dependence on God. The self-sufficient rarely imagine they need much from God. It is only when we recognize the limits of our own resources that we become open to God’s power. Those who know they cannot save themselves are precisely the ones who discover that the kingdom of heaven is already theirs.

“Blessed are those who mourn.” Our culture often treats grief as something to be managed quickly or hidden politely. Yet those who refuse to acknowledge loss, who push pain down and pretend it isn’t there, often carry the deepest wounds. When we allow ourselves to grieve honestly before God, we open the door to healing. Mourning is not a lack of faith; it is an act of trust that brings our brokenness into God’s presence, where comfort and restoration are possible.

“Blessed are the meek.” Meekness is often mistaken for weakness, but it is better understood as humility. True humility is not self-contempt; it is the courageous redirection of power away from self-interest and toward the good of others. Jesus himself is the ultimate model. Though he possessed all authority, he chose obedience, service, and ultimately the cross for the sake of the world. Genuine humility is strong enough to endure hardship in order to bring about God’s purposes in the lives of others.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.” Hunger and thirst describe urgent, life-sustaining need. This righteousness is both personal and communal. It is a longing to live rightly before God and a yearning for justice on behalf of those who cannot protect themselves. The religious leaders of Jesus’ day excelled at outward righteousness but lacked any true hunger for inner transformation. External conformity alone does not change the heart. Only a heart touched by grace develops a deep desire to live in gratitude and faithfulness to God.

“Blessed are the merciful.” If God dealt with us strictly according to what we deserve, none of us would stand. Instead, God meets us with mercy born of love. Those who are merciful extend compassion to the guilty and care to the wounded. When we pray, “forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us,” we are not bargaining with God. Showing mercy does not earn salvation; it reveals a heart open to receiving the mercy Christ has already secured through the cross.

“Blessed are the pure in heart.” Meticulous rule-following does not produce purity. That was the tragic failure of the religious establishment Jesus confronted. True purity begins with a heart surrendered to God. As the psalmist prays, “Create in me a clean heart, O God.” Purity of heart is unyielding loyalty to God, a desire for integrity that flows from within rather than from external pressure.

“Blessed are the peacemakers.” Biblical peace is far richer than the absence of conflict. When Scripture speaks of peace, it speaks of wholeness, healing, and restored relationship with God, neighbor, and self. To pursue peace is to work toward reconciliation in a fractured world. Wherever stability, healing, and reconciliation are fostered, God’s work is being done.

Finally, “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness.” Faithful living does not guarantee approval. Commitment to God’s ways may unsettle others, especially in a world uncomfortable with moral clarity and self-sacrifice. But history’s true heroes are those who stand for what is right regardless of cost. Evil cannot comprehend integrity and is often threatened by it. Yet Jesus promises that even in hardship, the kingdom of heaven belongs to those who remain faithful.

Many people assume that a good Christian is simply someone who behaves well. Reducing Christianity to moral effort, however, repeats the error of the religious establishment Jesus challenged. The Beatitudes do not define how to become a disciple; they describe the values of the kingdom already taking shape in the lives of disciples. In a culture that glorifies self-assertion, personal ambition, and institutional power, poverty of spirit, meekness, mercy, purity of heart, and perseverance under pressure seem unrealistic or even undesirable. Worse still, many have seen Christians and Christian institutions fall painfully short of these ideals. Following Christ does not mean we have arrived. It requires courage, persistence, and an uncompromising commitment to Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord. As we are shaped more fully by the reality of the kingdom to which we belong, we develop an integrity that runs deep, a courage that does not collapse under pressure, and a standard of life that refuses anything less than faithfulness. Such a transformed heart can endure hardship, withstand trial, and even face death with hope.

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.