Love That Lingers

Pr. Jaz Bowen-Waring

April 6, 2025

One of my favorite poets once shared a post on Instagram for Valentine’s Day—a tribute to a friend. It read: “Friendship is the most sacred form of love. Home is less a physical location, more a good conversation with a friend. Take me there: the opposite of small talk. Romantic love is fickle and prone to spontaneous combustion. Friendship, it sticks. Keeps my feet on this earth. My head held high. Reminds me why I’m here.” I’ve been blessed with many friends who have carried me through the peaks and valleys of life—and I’ve had the honor of doing the same for them. Through school drama, graduations, heartbreaks, marriages, births, and even death, friendship has been a transforming force. I wonder who those people are for you? Today’s Gospel reading from the Book of John lifts up a special relationship in Jesus’ life that often gets overshadowed. Some folks focus on the cost of the perfume, or Judas’ response, or the awkwardness of someone pouring nard on feet and wiping it with their hair. But what strikes me this time is the deep, abiding friendship between Mary of Bethany and Jesus—a relationship that models a mutual, grounded kind of love. A love that carried both of them through the unimaginable. As Mary wiped the perfume from his feet with her hair, I wonder if Jesus remembered the meals they shared with Martha and Lazarus. I wonder if he thought back to when Mary confronted him—grief-stricken and angry—because he had arrived too late to save her brother. People may have looked on and felt awkward, even scandalized by this intimate act. But Jesus received her love, openly. And then—moved by that act of love—Jesus turned around and did something similar. He knelt before his disciples, washing their feet, and commanded them to love others as he had loved them. Judas was there. He witnessed Mary’s gesture. He felt Jesus’ hands on his own feet. And yet… he rejected Christ’s love. Judas’ betrayal wasn’t just about handing Jesus over to Roman soldiers. He betrayed Jesus by refusing to receive his love. It’s often easier to give love than to receive it. Many of us are more comfortable offering compassion than accepting it. So I ask you: How willing are you to receive love? Judas knew Jesus. He could say the “right” things. But for him, love was just a theory —a belief in his head, never embodied in his actions. The love of God was not incarnate in his life. This story reminds us of the temporary nature of the incarnation. Jesus told his disciples, “You will not always have me.” Yes, there will always be people in need—and that doesn't let us off the hook. But Jesus’ time on earth was limited. And that made it all the more powerful. The urgency of Jesus’ three-year ministry came from knowing his time was short. And so is ours. Mary Oliver once wrote: “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Are you willing to love, even if it doesn’t unfold the way you hoped? Even if it's only for a brief moment? Mary’s love was poured out extravagantly—onto Jesus’ feet, into the air, and into the memory of that moment. The fragrance filled the home she shared with her brother Lazarus. I wonder if, in the days leading up to and after Jesus' death, the scent still lingered in the rugs, in the cracks of the table, in her hair. I wonder if that same scent clung to Jesus' clothes as he rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. If he caught a trace of it while washing his disciples’ feet. If it followed him into the garden as he prayed. If it stayed with him even as he hung from the cross. The feet Mary anointed with love were the same feet that were later nailed to the wood. Christ’s ultimate act of love—his death—was not a waste. It was a defiant outpouring of solidarity with the oppressed, the broken, and the rejected. To many, it looked like failure. But Love is never wasted. Love is the most abundant resource in the universe. It never runs dry. Even when you think you’ve run out—when heartbreak makes it feel like there’s nothing left to give—there is more love within you than you can imagine. Even when you feel alone, misunderstood, or forgotten—God’s love is still being poured out, abundantly and extravagantly. Even though our lives are brief, fragile, and finite, God’s love is not wasted on us. So what about you? Are you willing to pour out your love, even if it might be rejected? Are you willing to love, even knowing life is fleeting and uncertain? I pray that you experience a friendship like Mary and Jesus shared. May you pour your love out on others without fear of it running out. May you be open to receive love—even when you feel unworthy of it. May that love carry you through the unimaginable, like the lingering scent of perfume. Amen.

Sermon on 2 Corinthians 5:16-21

Pastor Jennifer Garcia

Sometimes we experience things that divide our lives into “before” and “after.” They’re not always bad—sometimes it’s because of a birth or a graduation or winning the lottery (wouldn’t that be nice?). And they can also be some of the hardest things about being human: a diagnosis, a death, a divorce, an injury, a painful career change or move, a pandemic.

There are befores and afters in our readings today, too. The younger son in our Gospel reading had before he asked for his inheritance and after he hit rock bottom. Or perhaps the after was when he was welcomed home and was reconciled with his father. The elder son, too, had before when his life was routine and peaceful and after his brother returned, causing his resentment to erupt into an argument with his father.

The Israelites had the before time of enslavement in Egypt and the after of arriving in the Promised Land. In our reading from Joshua, God marked the after of no longer wandering in the wilderness with their ability to cultivate their own food instead of eating the manna God provided. The very food they ate was a sign of the fulfillment of God’s promises to them—their after.

And in our reading from 2 Corinthians, Paul reminds the recipients of his letter that they have the before and after of becoming Jesus followers and joining the Beloved Community—the ultimate after of being reconciled to God through Christ.

The Corinthians were at odds with Paul. We only get half of the correspondence, so we don’t know exactly what problems they were dealing with, but chances are they were dealing with a lot of what churches today deal with—arguments, hurt pride, disagreements about money and other resources, differing visions of what their mission was, and the list goes on—because the early Church was made up of humans, just as the Church today is. I find that comforting (mostly).

Paul was trying to restore health to that community by encouraging them to view the world differently.

They didn’t need to fall back on old, unhealthy patterns and habits.They were a new creation! Their new life in Christ should help them see other people as beloved children of God, recipients ofthe mercy of Christ.

We talked last week about repentance being about a change of heart, not self-flagellation spurred by people with ominous signs on the street corner or fire and brimstone spewed from the pulpit.

Paul talks about the “after” of that change of heart. It’s about new life, a new perspective, and a new relationship with others. He reminds them of their new mission in the world: a “ministry of reconciliation.” Just as Jesus reconciled us with God through his death and resurrection, the Corinthians were to be “ambassadors,” representatives of God to those around them.

That’s not to say they should be fake and pretend things are okay even if they’re not or pretend like they’re perfect and sinless. Far from it—followers of Jesus are still human and should be open about struggles and questions and doubts.Following Jesus doesn’t prevent the hard befores and afters of being human, and pretending it does is untruthful and misleading, setting ourselves and others up for disappointment and disillusionment.

New creations in Christ aren’t robots—they (we) strive to be genuine humans who show love to the beautiful images of God all around us.

After all, Jesus went through his own before and after for love of us.

This whole season of Lent is the before that leads to Jesus’ after.

We’re about halfway through this season of accompanying Jesus on his journey to the cross, contemplating what it must have been like not knowing what was on the other side.

Jesus accompanies us through our befores and afters, when we don’t know what’s on the other side.

Nothing we go through scares him away, because he’s been there. We can bring him all the hard things about being human.

It doesn’t make the things we go through okay. It might not even make them any easier.

But of the hardest times in our lives, Rabbi Steve Leder says, “If you’re going through hell, don’t come out empty handed.”

What we get out of the events that have befores and afters might not justify the pain we’ve gone through, but we still don’t have to come out empty-handed.

It might not happen right away. If you’re going through a hard thing or many hard things right now and all you’ve done today is survive—that’s enough.

And perhaps in the long run, we can come out of the hard things with more empathy, with more compassion, with more wisdom.

It doesn’t usually make it worth it, but at least we’re not coming out empty-handed.

And thankfully, Jesus didn’t come out of his hard time empty-handed—through it he holds us, always and forever.

Through him, we’re not alone.

Through him, we see every part of the world as God’s beloved creation.

Through him, we see every person, including ourselves, as the image of God.

Beloved child of God, receive this “Blessing for the Life You Didn’t Choose” from Kate Bowler:

Blessed are you

when the shock subsides,

when vaguely, you see a line appear

that divides before and after.

You didn’t draw it,

and can barely even make it out.

But as surely as minutes add up to

hours and days,

here you are,

forced into a story you never would have written.

Blessed are you in the tender place

of awe and dread,

wondering how to be whole

when dreams have disappeared

and part of you with them,

where mastery, control,

determination, bootstrapping,

and grit

are consigned to the realm

of Before

(where most of the world lives),

in the fever dream that promises

infinite choices,

unlimited progress, best life now.

Blessed are we in the After zone,

loudly shouting:

Is there anybody here?

We hear the echo,

the shuffle of feet,

the murmur of others

asking the same question,

together in knowledge

that we are far beyond

what we know.

God, show us a

glimmer of possibility

in this new constraint,

that small truths will be given

back to us.

We are held.

We are safe.

We are loved.

We are loved.

We are loved.

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Sermon on Isaiah 55:1-9

Pastor Jennifer Garcia

We’re in a solemn season. Our readings talk about returning to God,

testing and not falling, repenting and perishing, and cutting down trees

that aren’t bearing fruit.

During Lent, we talk about repentance and sacrifice and discipline in our

readings, our liturgy, and our music.

Lent invites us to repent, but what does that actually mean?

The word “repent” can evoke images of people with megaphones and

judgmental signs shouting, “Repent or else!” or red-faced preachers

spouting warnings about fire and brimstone.

What it actually means in Greek is to change your mind. The mind was

where people in the ancient Near East located our essence, so for us, it

might be better phrased as a change of heart. It’s not just an intellectual

shift, but a spirit shift, a shift of our whole being.

Lent gives us permission to slow down enough to pay attention to what

our lives are oriented toward. As Stephen Covey said, “It doesn’t really

matter how fast you’re going if you’re heading in the wrong direction.”

Lent helps us ask ourselves if we’re focusing on what the world tells us

success looks like even though it’s making us miserable.

Or if we’re trying to buy the next thing that will make us happy.

Or if we’re burning ourselves out trying to be what everyone around us

wants us to be instead of listening to God’s still, small voice within us

that says, “You’re enough.”

Or if we’re buying into the binaries that say you’re either this or that,

good or bad, pure or dirty, whole or broken, instead of allowing

ourselves to be complex human beings who are both/and—both saints

and sinners, both generous and selfish, both broken and beloved.

Lent invites us to turn the ship of our lives around, however slowly, and

orient ourselves toward what really satisfies.

Lent invites us to imagine with God what the Beloved Community looks

like and what our part is in creating it here and now.

That’s what our reading from Isaiah is about.

God’s people were in exile in Babylon—they had been for decades. It

seemed like God had broken God’s promises to them or that they must

have behaved so wickedly that this was God’s judgment on them. Our

human minds make all kinds of meaning out of tragedy, disaster, and

hardship. But what our minds tell us isn’t always true.

In this part of Isaiah, God doesn’t scold them for wrong-doing, but

instead reminds them of God’s promises. This part of Isaiah is about

God preparing them to return from exile. God was inviting them to

change their minds, change their hearts. They could turn away from

what their minds were telling them and turn toward the truths God was

telling them. God was inviting them to imagine the good things the

future could hold for them.

Yes, they were in exile, and God reminded them of the promises made to

David—an “everlasting covenant”—one that exile would not break.

God’s love for David and for God’s people does not end—ever.

So, through the prophet Isaiah, God invited them to orient themselves

toward God, to stop spending their energy pursuing things that don’t

satisfy.

God would provide abundantly for them as they prepared to return home

from exile: bread, wine, milk, refreshing waters, rich food. It was a new

exodus—God liberating God’s people from a foreign, dominating

power.

Our Gospel reading from a few weeks ago told the story of the

Transfiguration, where Jesus was talking to Moses and Elijah about his

upcoming exodus—his death and resurrection that would liberate us all

from sin and death.

That’s what Lent is leading us toward. We’re invited to experience a

change of heart as we journey with Jesus into this new exodus. It’s a

reiteration of the liberation we find in God.

God liberated God’s people from enslavement in Egypt.

God liberated God’s people from exile in Babylon.

God liberated the world from sin and death in the cross and resurrection.

God is inviting us all to a change of heart that creates the Beloved

Community here and now.

Every time a hungry person is fed, every time a lonely person is

embraced, every time an unjust law is undone, every time a home is

opened to someone who needs shelter, the Beloved Community gets

bigger and more real.

Our hearts stretch. Our imaginations open. We see things differently.

Our lives change. Our world changes.

Lent isn’t about punishing ourselves or earning spiritual brownie points

or putting on a show of being as miserable as possible.

Lent is about repentance, and repentance is about having a change of

heart, making sure our hearts are oriented toward God and our

neighbors.

That’s where the Beloved Community takes root. That’s where we

recognize God’s liberation and abundance and can enjoy it along with all

of God’s beloved children.

Imagine that.

And receive this “Blessing for Stretching Your Heart” from Kate

Bowler:

God, my life has too many things

Awful. Lovely. Full.

Shockingly incomplete.

Will you help me learn to live

with a greater capacity for this?

Living in the tension between a

life that has worked out…

and one that has gone to hell in

every hand basket.

Let today be a divine exercise of

yes…and.

Yes, I have so much

to be thankful for,

and this hasn’t turned out

like I thought it would.

Yes, I feel moments of joy,

and I have lost more than

could live without.

Yes, I want to

make the most of today,

and my body keeps breaking.

Yes, I am hopeful,

and this is daunting.

Yes, I am trying to be brave,

and I feel so afraid.

So bless me,

trying to live in between those

two words:

yes…and.

May I understand this is where

the real work of life is found.

Where it takes courage to live.

Where grief can strip me

to the studs

and love can remake me

once again.

Where my heart

can be both broken

and keep on beating.

Never sorry to have broken at all.

Yes…and.

Make me capable of great joy,

great love,

great risk,

even fear,

as you expand my heart

with this yes…and today.