The Sermon She Didn't Know She Needed

She sat at the back.

Near the radiator.

That’s where she always sat—

if she came at all.

Scarf wrapped tight around her wrist

where last week’s wounds hadn’t quite healed,

eyes flickering, scanning, wary.

Not of the people exactly,

but of being seen.

Truly seen.

Her name was Sarah.

Forty-something, but looked older.

Weathered by the winds of addiction,

by the slow erosion of trust and touch and time.

Today the preacher didn’t wear robes.

Just jeans and a jumper.

No pulpit, just a music stand,

and a voice—gentle, cracked at the edges.

He didn’t read from Paul

or preach three points with an application.

He just looked out, eyes soft,

and said,

“This is what love looks like.”

Then he spoke—no, not spoke—breathed

something that was sermon and poetry and prayer

all at once.

‘In the twilight of a fractured world,

love looks like something—

a shaft of light plunging deep

into the caverns of our weary souls...'

Something shifted.

Not in the room, exactly.

But in her.

Her back straightened.

She forgot to hide.

When he said:

'Love whispers in forgotten corners,

shouts in lonely places,

dances in the dark,'

it felt like he was reading her diary.

Or her soul.

By the time he got to:

'Love is raw—wild with compassion,

ripping through fences,

crossing lines drawn in fear,

healing those who thought all was lost,'

she felt something warm rise in her chest.

Not shame.

Not fear.

But something older.

Something deeper.

She didn't know it,

but her hand had risen to her heart.

Like her body remembered something

her mind had forgotten.

When the preacher said:

'Jesus—Love with skin on—

calms the storm,

heals the broken,

feeds the hungry,

raises the dead’,

she closed her eyes.

She pictured her son.

Hoped he was eating today.

She thought about the storm in her mind

and the silence that followed a needle.

But here, now,

the words wrapped around her.

Not as rules.

Not as condemnation.

But as arms.

'Love may bleed.

It may ache.

But it remains.

It never fails.'

She didn’t cry.

Not then.

Not in the moment.

But something thawed.

And when he finished with:

'So let us love as He loved—

with every breath,

every thought,

every act,

every day,

Love Wins.

Transforms.

It is dawn—

the breaking of the night,'

she whispered aloud,

just barely:

“Amen.”

It wasn’t magic.

She still needed a lift to the hostel that night.

Still had cravings.

Still wore a scarf around her wrist.

But something had shifted.

Not just in her,

but for her.

A seed had been sown—

by a sermon she didn’t expect,

in a place she didn’t trust,

from a God she wasn’t sure existed.

But maybe,

just maybe,

Love was real.

And maybe,

just maybe,

Love looked like something.

Like someone.

- Rev'd Jon Swales, 2025