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.