Author: Rosemary Lovelace

14th Sunday after Pentecost – Proper 19C – Mark Winward

“The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost.” – 1 Timothy 1:15

Where were you 24 years ago this last Thursday morning? I remember exactly where I was. I was flying a small, rented plane on a perfect, sky-blue morning, heading to a diocesan clergy conference near Bar Harbor, Maine. Little did I know, as I was pre-flighting the aircraft at Portland International Jetport, that two radicalized Islamic extremists were departing from that same airport on a connector flight bound for Boston.

At that time, I was the Rector of Trinity, Saco—a small parish just south of Portland, Maine—and also a Naval Reserve Chaplain. Flying VFR under Boston Air Traffic Control, I was in touch with ATC when the announcements began. First, they reported a suspected hijacking somewhere in New England. Then came word of a ground stop on all aircraft in the region. For me, flying a rented Cessna in Maine, it seemed a minor inconvenience—until my passenger’s cell phone, ringing constantly, was answered. His wife told him an airliner had crashed into one of the World Trade towers. We could not imagine that there was a connection.

Then came the order: all aircraft, wherever they were, were to land at the nearest airport and stay there. Thankfully, the nearest field was the little grass strip where I had already planned to land near our clergy conference. When we arrived, like the rest of the world, we were stunned to learn of the second crash, and then the collapse of the towers.

That day became deeply personal. Many parishioners at Trinity had friends or relatives who died on those flights, in the towers, or at the Pentagon. In one of those rare flashes of clarity, I knew that the course of my life was about to change. My Navy Reserve command was then Bethesda Naval Hospital. I called them to ask if I was needed. Their response was immediate: “Boy, do we need you—get down here as soon as you can!”

Since my aircraft was grounded, I rode back with fellow clergy to Saco, three hours away. That evening, we held a memorial service at Trinity. The nave was filled beyond standing-room only—larger than any Christmas or Easter crowd. The next morning, I drove south on I-95, past the still-smoking scar on the New York skyline, and down to Bethesda.

At Bethesda, with so few wounded at the Pentagon, our efforts were focused on the recovery of the dead. Outside, fences overflowed with flowers, notes, and memorials. In that extraordinary moment, across this land, people weren’t Democrats or Republicans, black or white, gay or straight, one religion or another. We were first and foremost Americans. Like so many others, I volunteered to return to active duty, knowing it would be a messy affair—and my life would never be the same since.

What a different time we live in now. Instead of defining ourselves by what we hold in common, the prevailing mood is to define ourselves by what separates us. Social media has only intensified this. If you have a particular interest, the algorithms give you more of it, probing the edges of your views until the content becomes subtly, gradually more extreme. Like the proverbial frog in the pot, we hardly notice the temperature rising.

Spread across millions, this has created polarization greater than anything I’ve seen in my lifetime—something that would have been unrecognizable 24 years ago. It has become increasingly common to see those who disagree with us—not just as mistaken or misguided—but as threats, even evil at their core.

But this is not new. Human beings are tribal by nature, prone to view outsiders as “the other.” And when we objectify others, nothing good follows. It leads to oppression, violence, and war.

In today’s Gospel, the Pharisees and scribes attack Jesus for associating with tax collectors and sinners—and with good reason, from their perspective. Tax collectors were Jews who worked for the Romans, extorting money from their own people and lining their pockets in the process. Sinners, too, flaunted God’s sacred law. To the Pharisees, both groups were “the other”—a threat to faith, culture, and God’s chosen people. They were not only unclean; they were evil.

But Jesus told parables revealing a God who seeks all people. The Pharisees, however, saw themselves as set apart. They were the good ones, the law-keepers, certainly not like “those others.”

Paul, once a Pharisee himself, would beg to differ. In his first letter to Timothy, he writes: “The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost.” These are the words of a man who had once opposed the Gospel with zeal, a man complicit in persecution, but who then became its greatest missionary. Paul spread the message of Jesus throughout the Roman Empire, shaped Christian understanding of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection, and ultimately gave his life for the Gospel.

Yet Paul never stopped seeing himself as no different from the “others”—the sinners and tax collectors. He knew that, no matter how good we imagine ourselves to be, all of us share the same condition. Every human being who has ever lived—whatever their political, social, or religious views—belongs to the same tribe: sinners in need of redemption.

That changes everything. Christ died for you, and you, and you—and for me. Christ died for those who wouldn’t agree with your choice of dog catcher, for those who oppose your most cherished social convictions, even for those who reject the way you frame your faith. Yes, Christ even died for those extremists who changed all our lives 24 years ago Thursday morning. He died for the oppressors and the oppressed, the just and unjust, the kind and unkind. All of us—like you and me—sinners in need of God’s redeeming love.

Jesus wasn’t asking the Pharisees and scribes to approve of sin or overlook injustice. He was urging them not to see those who were different as “others,” but instead to recognize the unfathomable love of God for every person.

And if we, in the 21st century, could grasp even a fraction of that love—in our politics, in our social causes, and in our faith—then perhaps we would become a bit more humble in our opinions, a bit less polarized in our culture, and a bit more grateful for the love of God that embraces all people.

13th Sunday after Pentecost – Proper 18C – Mark Winward

“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” – Luke 14:25

Jesus’ words here aren’t exactly what we might call consoling. At first hearing, they sound harsh. He demands total allegiance, even above family, possessions, and life itself. And He drives the point home with vivid images—like the builder who first counts the cost of completing a tower, and the king who weighs his chances before going to war. But his message couldn’t be more clear: discipleship isn’t an add-on to life. It’s not a hobby. It’s not a spiritual side project. It is a whole-life calling. No wonder the crowds who followed Him would have been rattled—and that was exactly His intent.

Large crowds always come with mixed motives. Some may have gathered because they had seen Jesus feed thousands and were waiting to be fed. Others probably came because they had heard of His power to heal and hoped for their own miracle. Still others undoubtedly followed out of curiosity or excitement. But only a few were truly committed to this unconventional but inspiring wandering preacher.

If we think about it, we see that Jesus no more taught hating our families than He taught us to hate anyone. Just four chapters earlier in Luke, Jesus gives us the greatest commandment: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” Preachers, of course, are often taught to begin with something striking or even shocking to capture attention. Like a skilled essay writer, Jesus knew how to draw His listeners in and earn the right to be heard.

Once His audience got past their shock, they might have realized He wasn’t saying anything entirely new. They would have remembered the story in Genesis 22—Abraham called to sacrifice his son, Isaac, on Mount Moriah. At the last moment, the angel of the Lord stopped him. Contrary to some modern interpreters, that story isn’t about child abuse. It is about faithfulness. Abraham demonstrated that he was willing to surrender even he valued most in his life. But God never intended Isaac’s death, just as Jesus never intended us literally to hate our families. Instead, both stories point to the same truth: God tests our priorities. And because of Abraham’s faith, God gave one of Scripture’s most famous promises:

Because you have done this, and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will indeed bless you, and I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven and as the sand that is on the seashore.

This story was treasured by Jesus’ Jewish audience. They would have understood that He was teaching the same principle—that God demands nothing less than to be the central priority in our lives. That same message comes through in our Old Testament reading from Deuteronomy: “If you obey the commandments of the LORD your God … by loving the LORD your God, walking in his ways, and observing his commandments … then you shall live and become numerous, and the LORD your God will bless you.” But the warning follows just as strongly: “If your heart turns away … I declare to you today that you shall perish.”

Many people today say it doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you’re sincere. But it’s quite possible to be very sincere and still be sincerely wrong. If faith is anything more than a comforting delusion, then it must be either true or false. Scripture insists that God revealed Himself first through Israel and then directly in Jesus Christ. At the end of the day, either this is the greatest truth one could ever know—or it is a mistake. If Christ is who He claims to be, the very incarnation of Truth, then that revelation demands nothing less our whole lives. But Jesus warns us to count the cost.

We see this same costly faith echoed in Paul’s letter to Philemon (the only time, by the way, this short letter appears in our three-year cycle of readings). It is one of the briefest writings in the New Testament, yet one of the most radical. Paul writes to Philemon concerning Onesimus, a runaway slave who had become a Christian under Paul’s care. Paul hints he could have commanded Philemon to free him, but instead he appeals to him in love: “I appeal to you for my child, Onesimus … no longer as a slave, but more than a slave, a beloved brother.”

Paul is asking Philemon to reorder his life. He pleads with him to stop seeing Onesimus as property, a loss, or a problem—and instead to see him as family in Christ. That was costly. In the Roman world it would have been scandalous. To welcome a runaway slave not with punishment but with brotherhood turned the whole social order upside down. (Church tradition holds that Philemon indeed freed Onesimus who later went on to become Bishop of Ephesus and was martyred under Emperor Trajan.)

So while Jesus tells us, “Count the cost of following me,” Paul provides living example in his letter to Philemon. What does costly discipleship look like in our lives? Sometimes it means forgiving when the world says we are entitled to anger. Sometimes it means giving generously when it would be easier to hold back. Sometimes it means putting our faith commitments ahead of social convenience, even when it makes us stick out or lose standing. And sometimes it means reordering our closest relationships, choosing Christ’s way of love even when it isn’t popular or easy at home, at work, or in our communities. Like Philemon, Jesus invites us to see people differently—not by the world’s categories of usefulness, status, or wealth, but as beloved children of God, equally in need of His grace. And such love is what Jesus calls us to if we are to follow him as his disciples. Amen.

12th Sunday after Pentecost – Proper 17C – Mark Winward

“But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed…” – Luke 13:13-14a

I didn’t appreciate what a big deal Jeep Fest is around here until this weekend! My family and I have been amazed to see the whole town practically shut down for this annual event. Now, it’s not the largest Jeep gathering—Jeep Beach in Daytona draws over 200,000 people each year while Jeep Fest brings in about 20,000—but the Sheriff’s JeepFest sets itself apart with mud runs, trails, and concerts, all to raise money for children’s charities. Of course, to fully participate, you really need a Jeep—and we do. But, just as a “dude ranch” isn’t a real ranch, our Jeep Grand Cherokee might best be described as a “dude Jeep.” It’s got the Trail-Ready package, but at over 200,000 miles, it won’t be doing much mudding anytime soon!

JeepFest draws crowds not only because of the events but also because of the camaraderie among Jeep owners. The best example of that is the little rubber ducks you often see on dashboards. The tradition began in 2020 in Ontario, when a Jeep owner named Allison Parliament left a small rubber duck on someone’s Jeep with a cheerful note to spread kindness during a difficult time. She called it “ducking.” Others loved the idea, and soon it went viral under the name Duck Duck Jeep. The way it works is simple: Jeep owners carry small rubber ducks with them, and when they see another Jeep they admire—or when they just want to brighten someone’s day—they leave a duck on the handle, hood, or windshield, often with a tag that says, “You’ve been ducked!” Sadly, with our plain white Jeep Grand Cherokee, my wife and I have never been ducked.

Jeep drivers have always shared a strong sense of camaraderie—there’s even such a thing as the “Jeep wave”—and ducking became a way to make connections. It’s a bit like a secret handshake, but a secret club with rubber ducks. This insider’s club comes out in the JeepFest FAQs. One of the questions asks “Can I bring my Toyota to JeepFest?” The official response is, “Sure, if you want to park and be a spectator. JeepFest is a Jeep-only event.” In other words: bring your Toyota Land Cruiser if you want—but leave it in the parking lot!

That makes me think about how churches can sometimes feel like JeepFest. They may not outright ban outsiders, but they don’t always embrace them either. The message is often: you can watch, but don’t expect to fully participate unless you’re one of us. Yet hospitality is central to Christian identity and practice. It is what distinguishes a true Christian community from just a community of Christians. At its best, the Church has always been known for welcoming the needy and offering transformation through Christ.

Today’s Gospel reading touches on that vision of hospitality. Jesus tells us that if we want to be truly hospitable, we shouldn’t just invite our usual friends and neighbors to dinner. Instead, we should invite those who could never repay us—the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. In other words, everyone is worthy of hospitality. On the surface, this sounds like a simple lesson in kindness. But beneath it lies a deeper truth: we are called to extend genuine hospitality to those different from us because, in the end, we are all in the same boat. God’s hospitality through Christ reaches each of us—broken as we are, equally in need of grace.

There’s an important distinction here between entertaining and hospitality. Entertaining says, “Come to my place, admire my possessions, see how perfect everything looks.” And entertaining is stressful because it pushes us to present an image of perfection. Hospitality, on the other hand, says, “Come as you are. Relax. Be at home with us.” The very word “hospitality” shares its root with “hospice,” meaning shelter, and “hospital,” a place of healing. That raises a challenge for me personally: Do my words and actions provide shelter for others? Do they promote healing in those around me?

When we look at people in our community, we need to remember many are struggling. Some feel broken inside. Some are desperate to feel connected, to be affirmed, or to experience a spiritual touch. These people need the “hospice care” of Christian hospitality. There’s an old preacher’s saying: the Church isn’t meant to be a hotel for saints but a hospital for sinners. God calls us here not to impress one another but to minister to each other in our weakness and our shared need for grace. That’s what Jesus was pointing out when he said: “Don’t invite your friends or your rich neighbors. Invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind.”

When we experience generous hospitality in Christian community, we are naturally drawn deeper into a relationship with Christ. And the deeper we go into God’s grace, the more we realize how much we need it. True faith builds humility, and humility puts us on equal ground with others.

That matters because we live in a bitterly divided time, retreating into cultural, political, and religious silos. But when we come before God with the common need for grace, our identity shifts. We begin to see ourselves not as tribes or factions but as fellow sinners redeemed by Christ. Christian community becomes one of the few places left where we can gather, despite what the world says divides us, and celebrate our shared gratitude to God.

And so the difference is this: while a mere community of Christians might leave outsiders watching from the parking lot, a true Christian community welcomes everyone inside—whether you drive a tricked-out Jeep Wrangler, a Toyota Land Cruiser, or a beat-up Grand Cherokee. And once we embrace that transformed identity in Christ, we will be equipped to transform our wider community and serve a wounded world so deeply in need of God’s love and grace.

11th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 16, Year C – Mark Winward

When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, “Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.” Then he put his hands on her, and immediately she straightened up and praised God. – Luke 13:12–13 (NRSV)

Last week I said that if a Lectionary selection is confusing, difficult to understand, or hard to believe, that’s exactly what the preacher should be focusing on. This is one of those Sundays. And because today’s Gospel account is particularly difficult for us to swallow as 21^st century Christians, I think it can get in the way of the real message behind the story. This morning, I want to suggest that there are three different levels we can view this Gospel account of Jesus healing the disabled woman.

First, this story addresses the reality of spiritual burdens. Particularly in the West, we tend not to consider the possibility that some conditions are not just physical but also carry a spiritual dimension. We treat sickness as merely sickness, and violence in people as merely violence. Yet I think most of us can recall individuals who are so weighed down spiritually—perhaps because of abuse or poor self-image—that their physical demeanor reflects that heaviness. The daily burdens we carry can snowball over the years into spiritual outcomes that sometimes express themselves physically.

Still, to focus only on spiritual burdens sidesteps most troublesome aspect of this passage. Given the rest of Luke’s Gospel, the “spirit” that crippled the woman struggled with might more plainly be interpreted as a demonic spirit. For many Westerners, the very idea of demons conjures up cheesy movie images of heads spinning around and victims speaking in strange voices. C. S. Lewis addressed this in The Screwtape Letters: “There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe and feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them.” Christians often fall into this very trap—either an absolute denial of evil, or a paranoid tendency to see a demon under every bush.

For those of you veterans who have experienced combat, I hardly need to remind you of the reality of Evil (with a capital E). Before I went to Iraq, another chaplain warned me that you couldn’t only see but also feel the spiritual oppression in that war-torn land. I didn’t believe him—until I witnessed things I prefer not to describe, sights that I can only describe as demonic. Now, I realize this kind of talk makes people squirm, but it always amazes me how easily American Christians dismiss the demonic. Consider this: most Americans believe in angels, usually influenced by biblical descriptions. Strangely enough, there are even people who deny the existence of God but still believe in angels! So I ask: “If angels exist, do you believe they are at least as intelligent as we are?” Most people would have to respond “yes.” If so, do they have free will—the ability to make independent choices? Again, most would agree. And if angels can make independent choices, is it possible that some might have chosen to turn against God? Hmm…. Scripture tells us that Satan and his demons began as angels who rebelled against God, and for a limited time have sought to corrupt and destroy God’s creation.

Of course, rather than denying the existence of the demonic, we also have to avoid the opposite extreme. Contrary to many pop-preachers, the Bible doesn’t teach demons are lurking behind every misfortune. It speaks of them in terms of “legions” or “thousands,” not billions. Still, a few powerful beings can certainly raise a lot of hell (pardon the pun)! More importantly, the Prince of Darkness is unlikely to make a cameo appearance in your life—unless you are of extreme strategic importance (which most of us are not). Only one being in this universe is capable of being in more than one place at one time, and that is God. The cartoon image of an angel on one shoulder and the Devil on the other is simply not a Christian concept. Sure, the Bible talks about being attacked by the Devil – but in the same way we might say an army is attacked by Hitler or Putin, even though they themselves are not physically present on the battlefield.

The truth is: the darkness of our own souls is more than enough to bring about most of the trials and temptations we face. When we give in to that darkness, we contribute to Satan’s ultimate objective: to corrupt and destroy God’s creation. Yet the end has already been determined. The good news is that Satan can never triumph over God; and, according to today’s story, he need not triumph in your life either. Whether we interpret the woman as weighed down by years of a spiritual burden or as the victim of demonic activity, the point remains the same: Jesus set her free. And the implication is that he can do the same spiritually for you and for me!

But this story isn’t only about spiritual healing; it’s also about physical healing – and that’s equally difficult for us to accept today. Yet most religions—and even modern science—acknowledge there’s more to this world than meets the eye. For Christians, the central affirmation of faith we affirm every Sunday is this: Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again. If I’ve chosen to believe in a universe where dead men don’t necessarily stay dead, it’s hardly much of a leap of faith to believe a spinal misalignment might be miraculously corrected. If you spend as much time in hospital ministry as I have, it’s difficult to dismiss the possibility that God does heal. Sometimes he uses medicine; other times, the healing has no apparent explanation. Why some are healed and others are not is a mystery we’ll not solve this side of heaven. That’s why I continue to pray for people’s physical healing—not as some magical incantation but as an act of aligning our will with God’s will, placing ourselves and others in the loving hands of God.

That attitude of trust and openness is, I believe, at the very heart of this story. The dramatic exorcism or miraculous healing may be the most spectacular or unbelievable part of this story, but I don’t think it’s Luke’s point. Rather, he uses the woman’s healing as a foil to highlight the attitudes of those around her. The woman came to synagogue with her burden, approached Jesus with her need, and left praising God. The senior rabbi, however, responded not with praise but with criticism—rebuking Jesus for healing on the Sabbath. In modern terms, that’s as petty as someone stopping to save the life of a roadside accident victim, only to be given a ticket for double parking! Anyone making such a charge would be missing the point entirely – and so was this local rabbi.

God was working right there in their midst, but Jesus’ opponents were so determined to tear him down that they missed the point. God had given this extraordinary individual, Jesus of Nazareth, the power to heal in mind, body, and spirit – and the implications of this were beyond their imaginations. Rather than marveling at God’s power at work, they got hung up on ritual. Now that can be a danger even today – particularly for liturgical traditions like ours. Of course, we should take our worship seriously, offering God our very best. But when form overshadows substance, like the Pharisees we miss the point. This story serves as a warning for us to practice modicum of humility, to remember that the point is to celebrate God’s grace, not our ritual.

And that, I think, is Luke’s point. We can get so easily distracted in the details that we miss what God is really doing. First, like the woman who might not have sought Jesus out, we can become so focused on our problems that we fail to turn to God at all. Second, we can get so caught up in the demonic elements of the story that we miss what God is doing. Finally, we can become so rigid in our rules that we fail to recognize God’s work when it comes in an unexpected form.

Ultimately, this story isn’t about suffering, or evil, or ritual. It’s about God’s work in the world. And when you live your life not by looking for a demon under every bush, but by looking for God’s hand at work in your life, it’s nothing short of transformative! And instead of looking down burdened by despair, you begin to look up in hope—and life takes on a whole new perspective! Amen.

10th Sunday after Pentecost – Proper 15 Year C – Mark Winward

Jesus said, Do you think I came to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you, but division… [families] will be divided, father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law” – Luke 12:51, 53 NRSV

Today’s Gospel presents some of Jesus’ harshest words—verses that might not be most preachers’ first choice. It has always frustrated me that when a reading contains something difficult to hear, hard to believe, or seemingly incomprehensible—and the preacher dodges it. But that’s exactly what the preacher should be addressing. So it is in that place we find ourselves with today’s Gospel reading.

If we were to list ten of the hardest sayings in the Gospels, today’s passage would undoubtedly make the list. Jesus’ declaration that He came to bring fire, a distressing baptism, and division—even within families—are hardly comforting words. Quite frankly, we’d rather imagine Jesus as a peacemaker than as a home breaker. And it hardly helps to dismiss these sayings as “not authentic to Jesus.” They remain in the Bible—Scripture that the Church, through the ages, felt led to include in the canon.

My hermeneutic—that is, my approach to interpreting Scripture—is to ask: What does the text say? What did it mean? And what does it mean to me? It’s been said that “a text without a context is a pretext.” Be wary of any preacher who quotes multiple verses without considering their surrounding context. Try reading an entire book of the New Testament in one sitting—just as the early Church intended—and you’ll discover a very different perspective.

The second step is to ask what the text meant to its first hearers—real communities, in specific cultural contexts, immersed in a world far removed from ours. Only after allowing the text to speak in its own voice are we ready to ask, What does it mean to me? If we start with that last question, we risk shaping faith into our own image rather than letting it shape us.

In America, we often take religious freedom for granted. Many of us rarely think about it. Yet even today—in our world—choosing to follow Jesus can divide families. Ask a Jewish believer in Jesus, and you may hear a painful story. Messianic Jewish ministries report that many new believers are cut off completely, treated as though they never existed. In parts of the Muslim world, Christianity is tolerated… up to a point. But conversion from Islam? In many countries, it remains a capital crime. And in parts of Asia, families may reject converts entirely, treating them as if they were already dead.

I saw this firsthand while deployed with the Marines to Helmand Province in 2011. The Marines had initiated a program called Voices of Religious Tolerance, meant to demonstrate to Afghans we were not there to destroy their faith or culture. We invited mullahs from across the region to the provincial capital—nearly 500 men sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor of a space no larger than our parish hall. While most Americans there had no interpreters, I was one of the few present with my own translator.

Our first speaker, a Muslim U.S. Navy chaplain, spoke in Arabic and closely followed our talking points. Many mullahs—some unable to read Arabic—were astonished to hear an American who could not only read the language of The Book but fluently speak it. Then the senior chaplain of the Jordanian military, a coalition partner, took the podium. Speaking in Arabic, he told the mullahs that the Taliban were “bad guys”—because they kill Muslims. Then, representing Voices of Religious Tolerance, he said: “According to the Holy Koran, there are only three reasons a Muslim can kill another: if a Muslim kills another Muslim, you can kill him; if a Muslim is homosexual, you can kill him; if a Muslim converts to another religion, you can kill him. But those are the only reasons you can kill a fellow Muslim.” At that, he was enthusiastically applauded by the gathering. So much for Religious Tolerance…

Even today, in many Muslim-majority countries, Jews and Christians are tolerated as People of the Book—but conversion from Islam is still punishable by death. As of 2025, the death penalty for apostasy remains on the books in Afghanistan, Brunei, Iran, Mauritania, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Somalia, Sudan, the United Arab Emirates, and Yemen. While not all enforce the law, harassment, imprisonment, and civil penalties remain common.

In our churches, we often downplay the cost of discipleship. Yet in much of the world, Christianity is still scandalous. It always has been. In the early Church, Christians weren’t executed simply for worshiping Jesus—they were condemned because they worshiped only Him, rejecting Rome’s gods. Rome could have added Jesus to its pantheon of foreign deities. But the Gospel’s central claim—that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life, and that no one comes to the Father except through Him—was offensive then and remains so now.

Our culture often reshapes Jesus into a figure easier to accept: the ultimate peacemaker, avoiding confrontation, never speaking of judgment, only preaching love and tolerance. We hear of “Jesus the sage,” “Jesus the religious genius,” “Jesus the social revolutionary.” Indeed, He was wise, deeply spiritual, and in many ways revolutionary. But none of those portraits explain why He was crucified, why He drew such opposition, or why His movement still transforms the world.

A witty teacher would not have been executed during Passover. A gentle spiritual genius would not have been nailed to a cross. And a purely political revolutionary might have been killed, but would not have birthed a global Church centered on Himself rather than politics. These “safe” portraits fail to match the Jesus of the Gospels.

Luke’s passage challenges us to see the real Jesus—the one who brings division, who forces choices not just about how we live but about who He is and what He means in God’s plan. He is the way into relationship with the Father. That truth unsettled people then, and it unsettles people now. Jesus’ call is not “peace at any price.” It is a summons that cuts to the heart, dividing those who will follow from those who will turn away. It is not about merely knowing about God—it is about knowing Him personally, walking in His ways, and letting His truth redefine every part of our lives. That truth is not always welcome. In our culture, it may cost you relationships, status, or comfort. But the call remains: build your life on the unshakable reality that ultimate truth is found not in shifting political trends or cultural fashions, but in Christ alone. He is our Redeemer, our hope, and our foundation. And when we stand on Him, we may not find the world’s applause—but we will find life that cannot be taken away.

9th Sunday after Pentecost – Mark Winward

Audacious Faith

At first glance, today’s readings may seem unrelated. But look closer, and a thread begins to emerge—one that ties Isaiah, Hebrews, and Luke together. Woven through each passage is an audacious faith: a bold, risk-taking trust in God we are called to live out.

In Isaiah (1:1, 10–20), the young prophet is blunt with God’s people. Their outward good works, he says, are meaningless without an inner change of heart. Offerings without repentance are empty. Prayers without transformation go unheard. Instead, Isaiah calls them to something deeper: “Learn to do good; seek justice; rescue the oppressed” (v.17). True worship is not just ritual—it’s the transformation of both heart and action.

Hebrews (11:1–3, 8–16) picks up this theme, focusing on Abraham’s faithfulness. This chapter is sometimes called the “roll call of the heroes of the faith.” But as my old professor Reggie Fuller would say, “The Bible knows no heroes… heroes are witnesses to their own achievements; whereas in Hebrews 11 the great figures of salvation history are brought forth, not for their heroism, but for their faith.” He defined faith as “taking a risk to trust God at God’s word when God makes promises about the future.”

The challenge is that Hebrews 11:1 is often misunderstood. The NRSV says, “Faith is the assurance (hypostasis) of things hoped for, the conviction (elegchos) of things not seen.” Yet those Greek words are never used that way anywhere else in the New Testament. A better rendering—one that matches their usual meaning—might be: “Faith is the reality (hypostasis) of things hoped for, the proof (elegchos) of things not seen.”

That small shift changes everything. Faith is not just an inner feeling. It is hope made real in action. It is lived, embodied, risk-taking trust. Hope is something we feel. Faith is something we do—and the risks we take for God become the shape of our lives.

Luke 12:32–40 brings this into sharp focus. Jesus calls his disciples to live with that kind of readiness and courage. A good sermon, it’s said, “comforts the afflicted and afflicts the comfortable.” These words of Jesus do both—they reassure the fearful and unsettle the complacent.

Jesus warns us to be ready for his coming. Now many churches dwell on the Second Coming “like a thief in the night.” But truth be told, it makes little difference whether Jesus comes in clouds of glory or comes for me because of a wrong move on GA-515 this afternoon. Either way, he’s coming—and I need to be ready. In the meantime, Jesus calls us to choose: trust over fear, anticipation over dread, the Kingdom of God over the distractions of this world.

This choice is grounded in our baptismal covenant (BCP 302):

• Do you renounce all sinful desires that draw you from the love of God?
• Do you turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as your Savior?
• Do you put your whole trust in his grace and love?
• Do you promise to follow and obey him as your Lord?

(So if anyone ever asks you—as an Episcopalian—whether you know Jesus as your Savior and Lord, the answer should be a confident “Yes”!)

Then we promise to live that faith (BCP 304): to continue in the apostles’ teaching, to resist evil, to proclaim the Gospel in word and deed, to serve Christ in all persons, and to strive for justice, peace, and the dignity of every human being.

This covenant is not a checklist of good works. Without inner transformation, the list means little. But when we turn from sin, trust in Christ’s grace, and vow to live for him, our outward actions naturally flow from an inward faith.

Christian discipleship is not for the faint-hearted. It calls for an audacious faith—a faith that risks, a faith that acts, a faith that shapes how we live today because we trust God’s promises for all our tomorrows.

Faithfully yours,