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.

Sermon on Luke 4:1-13

Pastor Jennifer Garcia

The Executive Skills for Church Leaders conference I attended in January took place at Spirit in the Desert retreat center outside Phoenix, Arizona. One of our leaders, Desta Goehner, pointed out the minimalism of the desert landscape.

Granted, it was a highly curated desert landscape with a labyrinth and walking paths and sculptures, but we were still warned of the wildlife we could encounter, and I still wouldn’t want to get too up close and personal with the spines of those cacti.

The idea of the minimalism of the desert got me thinking about what we encounter when we strip away the excess.

What remains when we’re away from the distractions of various media, the responsibilities of daily life, the routine that keeps us moving forward without having to ponder what’s next?

There was a psychological study about ten years ago where participants were left alone for 15 minutes with a button they could shock themselves with if they chose. Even though all the participants had said they would pay money not to be shocked, over the course of the 15 minutes, 67% of men and 25% of women chose to shock themselves at least once.

It seems that we’re pretty uncomfortable sitting with our own thoughts to the point where physical pain is sometimes preferable (though in my own unqualified opinion, I wonder if human curiosity might be to blame for some of the shocks).

But we all have the anecdotal evidence of seeing many people, myself included, pulling out their phones in the grocery store line, listening to music or podcasts while running errands, and a lot of other methods to prevent silent down time with our thoughts.

The minimalism of the desert or the minimalism of a metaphorical wilderness can be uncomfortable, even painful.

We can experience a metaphorical wilderness when we’re alone with our thoughts, which may be why we try so hard to avoid that.

We can also be thrown into a metaphorical wilderness by life circumstances: a change in our health, the ending of a relationship, a shift in our work, finances, friendships, or living situation.

Suddenly what was normal is taken away and we have to reckon with difficult emotions like grief, anger, shame, or fear or a mixture of any number of them.

We all go through wilderness times in our lives—sometimes by circumstances beyond our control, sometimes on purpose because we want time and space to ponder apart from distractions.

Lent can be a season for intentional wilderness time. We can use Lenten disciplines to help us reflect—to give up distractions or take on a practice of contemplation.

Whether you’re in a wilderness time right now on purpose or by circumstance, Jesus has been there.

Before our story today, Jesus had just been baptized and was grounded in his identity as God’s Beloved.

But then he was led into the wilderness by the Holy Spirit’s prompting. Far from a conference at a manicured desert retreat center, his stay in the wilderness was one of deprivation and hunger.

We see examples of him going away to pray, sometimes with his disciples and sometimes alone. But this was the longest wilderness time.

After 40 days of no food, he was faced with the temptations that tend to cause us humans to compromise our values and allegiances. We tend to cave for our basic needs, for power, and for our reputation.

But Jesus turned control back over to God each time he quoted scripture to the tempter. He brought everything back to the Law, which asks God’s people to trust God above all else.

Jesus trusted God to provide for his needs. Jesus trusted God that he would be given the power he needed to accomplish his mission instead of seeking glory for himself. And Jesus trusted his identity as Beloved and didn’t need to prove it to himself or anyone else by testing God’s love for him.

He rejected self-sufficiency and worldly power in favor of depending on God and building an interdependent Beloved Community from the ground up.

He faced what we face. He endured his wilderness. He knows what it’s like to hunger and to want things and to want to fix things by one’s own power.

We won’t always make the right choices when it comes to these things. That’s why we need Jesus.

But when that happens, he doesn’t look at us with disappointment or condemnation. Instead, he pulls us in, lets us rest our head on his shoulder, and says, “I understand. I know it’s hard. I’ve been there. I love you anyway, just as you are. We’re going to get through this together.”

No matter what wilderness we journey through—whether the season of Lent, an intentional practice of reflection, or life circumstances we would rather trade in, thank you very much—Jesus is right next to you through all of it. He knows what you’re going through and will never leave you.

There was a pop song by Rachel Platten that came out a number of years ago called “Stand by You,” and even though it’s not a religious song, it always makes me think of Jesus staying with us in the worst circumstances of our lives and offering us strength. Here are a few of the lyrics:

“Hands put your empty hands in mine
And scars show me all the scars you hide
And hey, if your wings are broken
Please take mine 'til yours can open too
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you

'Cause I'm gonna stand by you
Even if we're breaking down
We can find a way to break through
Even if we can't find heaven
I'll walk through hell with you
Love, you're not alone
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you”

Jesus had literal and figurative wildernesses throughout his life. He knows what it’s like. He’s not scared away by anything we experience.

He’ll walk through hell with you, and we can stand with each other through every wilderness of this life.

Love, you’re not alone. We’re going to stand by you.