The Scent of SCANDAL

The Scent of SCANDAL

Love that Breaks Jars, Faith that Breaks Rules, Worship that Offends

Before the cross. Before the trial. Before the garden. There was a dinner party.

Jesus is reclining at the table in Bethany, surrounded by his closest friends. Lazarus—the one Jesus raised from the dead—is sitting next to him. Martha is serving (of course). And Mary, the quieter sister, slips into the room carrying something expensive. Not a casserole. Not a Passover gift. A jar of pure nard.

She kneels. Breaks it open. And pours it all out onto Jesus’ feet.

In an instant, the house is full of fragrance—sweet, earthy, overwhelming. It clings to everything. And just like that, the mood shifts.

Judas objects. Others are probably uncomfortable too—after all, the best way to complain is about church finances. It's too much. Wasteful. Impractical. Indecent.

But Jesus sees it for what it is: love.

Extravagance That Offends

Mary’s act is more than emotional; it’s theological. In a world that keeps love safe, measured, and appropriate, Mary’s love is wildly improper. She touches a rabbi. She pours out a year's wages. She wipes his feet with her hair. She ignores social norms, financial logic, and religious protocol.

And Judas can’t take it. He masks his discomfort in righteousness—“That money could have gone to the poor!”—but Jesus sees through it.

Let’s be honest: it wasn’t just Judas. The whole room probably flinched. A little too intimate. A little too physical. And once Mary left the room?
Cue the rumormongering. Because nothing travels faster through a faith community than unapproved devotion.

Rumormongering (n.):

The spiritual gift no one wants to admit they have. The sacred art of whispering judgment disguised as concern. Often practiced by those who claim they’d never waste perfume... but love to spill tea…

Preparing for Burial

Mary is the first to anoint Jesus—not a priest, not a prophet, not Peter.
She prepares him for burial before anyone admits that death is coming. Before the men are ready to see it.

She recognizes what the others deny: that love will cost Jesus everything. And she responds not with theology or strategy or lament, but with devotion. Silent, scented devotion.

When Was the Last Time You Loved Like That?

When was the last time your faith made people whisper?

We live in a world that praises moderation. But the Gospel calls us to pour it out.
To give away forgiveness, time, attention, affection, and yes, even money, in ways that might look reckless from the outside.

What might it look like for you to anoint Christ this Passiontide?

  • Maybe it means forgiving someone who hasn’t apologized.

  • Maybe it means loving your queer child without theological disclaimers.

  • Maybe it means letting grief be loud, public, unfiltered.

  • Maybe it means giving to a cause without demanding proof it’s "worth it."

The Fragrance Remains

Mary doesn’t say a word. But for days, everyone in that house would smell like her offering. The scent would linger on Jesus’ skin—even as he carried the cross.

That’s what love does. It leaves a mark. It disrupts the air.

And when it’s done in Christ, it prepares the world for resurrection.

Written by: Fr. Rian Adams

 When Lent Blushes: The Lost Joy of Rose Sunday

When Lent Blushes: The Lost Joy of Rose Sunday

BY: The Rev. Dr. Rian Adams

There’s a Sunday in Lent when the church lightens up—literally. The vestments shift from deep violet to rose. The readings crack open a window to joy. And if you’re paying attention, the liturgy softens like a whispered promise: “Easter is coming.”

But if you’ve never heard of Rose Sunday, you’re not alone. Many Episcopalians haven’t. And that’s exactly the problem—and the opportunity.

So… why haven’t we heard of it?

Blame it on the Reformation, the 1979 Prayer Book, or our polite Protestant discomfort with anything that feels too… fancy. The truth is, Rose Sunday—also known as Laetare Sunday—is one of those deeply Anglican traditions that often gets filtered out in more “low church” settings.

The color rose? Optional. The tone shift? Subtle. The theological depth? Easily missed if no one’s explaining it. And so, in many parishes, this ancient tradition quietly faded like a flower in the desert.

But make no mistake—Rose Sunday is ours. It’s Anglican. It’s ancient. And it’s absolutely worth reclaiming.

What is Rose Sunday?

The fourth Sunday in Lent is called Laetare Sunday, from the Latin laetare, which means “rejoice.” It takes its name from the opening words of the traditional introit: “Laetare Jerusalem: Rejoice, O Jerusalem.” It’s meant to be a reprieve, a breath, a turning point.

Historically, this was the day when Lenten fasts were eased. Flowers returned to the altar. Music brightened. Priests wore rose—a liturgical color used only twice a year, here and on Gaudete Sunday in Advent (which also means “rejoice”).

In medieval England, Laetare was also called “Mothering Sunday.” It was the one day during Lent when people returned to their home church—their “mother church”—and often their actual mothers. It became a festival of homecoming, warmth, and refreshment.

That’s what this Sunday is: a sacred pause in the wilderness.

Is it “High Church”?

In a way, yes. Rose Sunday shows up most clearly in parishes that lean “High Church”—those that embrace vestments, seasonal color shifts, incense, candles, and the full beauty of the liturgical year. But it’s not exclusively High Church. It belongs to all of us.

In fact, part of our Anglican richness is this blending of the poetic and the pastoral, the visual and the theological. Rose Sunday is a perfect example. It’s a theological truth told through color and rhythm: Joy isn’t canceled during Lent. It’s just waiting to bloom.

What if we actually celebrated it?

Let’s bring it back. Let’s make it visible. Let’s embody the hope it offers.

This Sunday, wear pink. Wear it boldly. Wear it playfully. It doesn’t have to match the exact liturgical rose (good luck finding that), but it should say, “I see the joy peeking through.”

Parents, let your kids come to church in hot pink. Gentlemen, dig out that flamingo tie. Teens, rock those pastel sneakers. Let’s be a people who know how to rejoice even in Lent.

Because here’s the deep truth:

God meets us in the wilderness. But He also meets us in the flowers that bloom there.

Rose Sunday is that bloom. Not the full garden of Easter—just the first blush. But it’s enough to remind us that resurrection is coming. That even now, there’s joy.

So come this Sunday expecting something a little different, a little lighter, a little more radiant because Lent isn’t just about what we give up. It’s about what’s being born in us.

And joy? That’s part of it too.