Holding the Space: Pastors as Christ’s Lieutenants

 

Pastoral ministry isn’t about taking charge.
It’s not about commanding a flock, projecting certainty, or occupying the centre.
At least, it shouldn’t be.

And yet, we’ve built churches around exactly these assumptions.
We appoint leaders to cast vision, drive growth, manage strategy, and protect the brand. We adopt the language of CEOs and influencers. We expect performance, charisma, confidence.
But somewhere along the way, we stopped asking whether this looks anything like Christ.

So I want to offer a different image.
It might sound odd at first, even inappropriate. But that’s part of the point. Sometimes it takes an unfamiliar metaphor to shake us free from the familiar ones that no longer serve us.

What if the pastor is best understood as a placeholder, not a temporary stand-in, but one who holds the space for Christ?
What if the pastor’s calling is not to lead from the front but to be present in the middle, holding open a space where Christ can be encountered, trusted, followed?

Surprisingly, this image is hidden in the roots of a word we might otherwise discard: lieutenant.
From the French lieu (place) and tenant (holding), a lieutenant is literally "one who holds the place."
Not the one in ultimate command, but one entrusted to be present on behalf of another.

Yes, the word carries military weight. Yes, the church has too often mirrored the power structures of empire.
But maybe the awkwardness of the metaphor is precisely what we need. If we strip the word back to its roots, we’re not left with a soldier barking orders. We’re left with someone entrusted to hold the place for someone else.
Not power, but presence. Not dominance, but attentiveness.

This is not the model of leadership found in church growth seminars or leadership podcasts. But it may be closer to the leadership of Jesus.

To be a pastor in this light is not to perform, impress, or manage outcomes.
It is to hold the space Christ has opened in the world.
To hold it with reverence, with tenderness, with courage.
To remain there, long enough and quietly enough, that Christ’s presence can be recognised.

As Paul writes to the Corinthians:

“We do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake. But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us.”
(2 Cor. 4:5–7)

This is a vision of ministry rooted not in strength but in weakness, not in status but in service.
We are not the source of grace, but the ones who hold the space in which grace is made visible.
We are not the light, but those who keep the lampstand trimmed and ready.

And make no mistake, this kind of ministry is deeply countercultural.
In a world addicted to noise, speed, and control, pastors are called to a different way.
We are not empire-builders. We are space-holders.
We are not empire-defenders. We are witnesses to a kingdom not built by human hands.

It is the daily, often unseen work of pastoral ministry:
– The stillness we refuse to fill with platitudes
– The pain we choose to stay present with
– The conversations we hold open with patient love
– The worship we prepare not to impress, but to welcome the holy
– The tensions we bear without demanding resolution

To hold the space well means resisting two powerful temptations.

The first is to fill the space with ourselves, our charisma, our certainty, our urgency.
We are told this is leadership. But when we centre ourselves, we risk eclipsing Christ.

The second is to vacate the space altogether, through burnout, cynicism, or a false humility that whispers, “You’re not enough.” But this too is a distortion. The call is not to disappear, but to remain, present, faithful, even when uncertain. Especially when uncertain.

To be a pastor, then, is to hold the space for Christ.
Not to dominate it. Not to disappear from it.
But to inhabit it attentively, sacrificially, and with fierce gentleness.

This is not glamorous work.
It won’t make you famous. It won’t go viral. It won’t always look like “leadership.”
But it is holy work.

It is the sacred act of creating room, for Christ to be seen, for grace to be trusted, for the Spirit to move.

This kind of ministry is not a stepping stone to real influence. It is real influence, precisely because it refuses to manipulate or control.
It is the quiet subversion of a culture obsessed with power.
It is the patient insistence that God is already at work, even if we aren’t in charge.

We are placeholders of grace.
Clay jars, holding treasure.
Stewards of a presence we cannot manufacture.
Pastors, yes, but perhaps, too, Christ’s lieutenants.

Not generals. Not strategists. Not commanders.
But those who hold the place.

So hold it well.
Hold it with trust.
Hold it with reverence.
And Christ will be known.

 

A Vision of Glory in the Face of Violence

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
4^th May 2025


By Rembrandt - Œuvre appartenant au musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon Public Domain, 
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15686766
 

Acts 6.7–15; 7.1–2a, 51–60

The story of Stephen is one of the most powerful, and most disturbing, moments in the early chapters of the Book of Acts.

 

It is a moment of radiant faith and horrifying violence.

 

It is a vision of glory that emerges in the midst of injustice.

 

And it is, I believe, a story that continues to speak into the life of the church in every age—especially in times when bearing witness to truth comes at a cost.

 

Stephen, described as full of grace and power, is one of the first deacons chosen by the early church—a group of seven appointed to serve the needs of the community, especially to ensure the fair distribution of food among the widows.

 

But Stephen is more than a functionary or administrator. He becomes a prophetic voice, a preacher of the gospel, and, ultimately, the church’s first martyr.

 

His words are bold, his vision is clear, and his death is chilling.

 

This morning, I want us to linger with Stephen—on the edge of his stoning—not simply to remember a moment of persecution from the distant past, but to allow his witness to search us, challenge us, and invite us into a deeper faithfulness.

 

Because Stephen’s story is not just about what happened to him. It is also about the God who was revealed in his life and death.

 

And it is about the kind of church we are called to be, in the face of powers that resist the liberating truth of the gospel.

 

Accusation and Identity

Our reading begins with accusations.

 

Stephen is dragged before the council, accused of speaking against the temple and the law.

 

The charges sound familiar—they echo the charges brought against Jesus himself: blasphemy, disrespect for tradition, a threat to the religious and social order.

 

And like Jesus, Stephen faces a system that has already made up its mind.

 

It is important to note that Stephen is not guilty of these charges in the way his accusers claim.

 

He has not blasphemed; he has not denied the law; he has not desecrated the temple.

 

But he has spoken a difficult truth—that God is not confined to sacred buildings or to legal systems that serve the powerful.

 

He has pointed to Jesus as the righteous one, rejected and killed, but vindicated by God. And for this, he is deemed dangerous.

 

In every age, those who bear witness to inconvenient truths are often accused of being threats to the status quo.

 

Whether it is prophets denouncing injustice, or whistleblowers revealing corruption, or disciples proclaiming a gospel that challenges systems of oppression—there is always resistance.

 

Stephen stands in a long line of witnesses, from Amos to Jesus, who have been told to keep quiet, to stop rocking the boat, to stay within acceptable bounds.

 

But Stephen does not stay silent.

 

And this is where we begin to glimpse the shape of his faith—a faith that is not merely intellectual assent, not simply religious affiliation, but a living, dangerous allegiance to the God who liberates and transforms.

 

A Confronting Word

In the dramatic speech Stephen gives, which we only hear a portion of in this morning’s reading, he rehearses the story of Israel, reminding his hearers of their own history

 

—the call of Abraham, the leadership of Moses, the wilderness journey, the building of the temple.

 

It is a sweeping narrative, and for a while it seems fairly safe. But then comes the turn.

 

“You stiff-necked people,” he says. “You are forever opposing the Holy Spirit, just as your ancestors used to do.”

 

This is not a polite sermon. It is not a measured reflection. It is a prophetic indictment. And it gets him killed.

 

Stephen is holding up a mirror, and what he reflects back is not flattering.

 

He is saying, in effect, “You have always resisted the voice of God—when God spoke through Moses, through the prophets, and now through Jesus. And in doing so, you have aligned yourselves with those who persecuted the righteous.”

 

This is dangerous speech. Not because it is hateful, but because it is truthful.

 

It names the pattern of religious power turning away from divine justice. It names the way institutions can become idols.

 

It names the refusal to recognise God in the face of the other, especially when that other is poor, or marginalised, or crucified.

 

The church today must hear this word too. We are not immune.

 

We too are capable of becoming stiff-necked. We too can close our ears to the Spirit, especially when the Spirit speaks through voices we would rather not hear—through those who challenge our comfort, our privilege, our self-understanding.

 

Stephen’s words come to us as a call to repentance, and a call to humility.

 

A Glimpse of Glory

And then, in the midst of this fury, something extraordinary happens.

 

As the council rushes upon him in rage, Stephen looks up and sees a vision. “I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.”

 

It is the only place in the New Testament where Jesus is described as standing at the right hand of God; elsewhere, he is always seated. It is as if Jesus is rising to welcome Stephen, to honour his witness, to be present with him in his suffering.

 

This vision is Stephen’s strength. It is his comfort. It is, in a profound sense, his vindication. Though he is condemned on earth, he is affirmed in heaven. Though the council sees only blasphemy, Stephen sees glory.

 

And this, perhaps, is the heart of his witness. Not just that he speaks truth to power, not just that he dies with courage—but that he sees something greater than the violence around him.

 

He sees Christ. He sees the kingdom. He sees the presence of God breaking into a courtroom of hatred with a vision of mercy.

 

In moments of crisis, what we see matters. Do we only see the threats, the enemies, the dangers?

 

Or do we see Christ, standing with us, standing for us, welcoming us into the company of the faithful?

 

Stephen’s vision invites us to lift our eyes—to see beyond the rage of the mob, to the mercy of the risen Christ.

 

The Echo of Forgiveness

As the stones begin to fall, Stephen echoes the words of Jesus from the cross. “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,” he prays. And then, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

 

It is breathtaking.

 

Stephen dies as he lived: full of grace. His last words are words of forgiveness.

 

And in that moment, the power of death is broken. Not because the stones stop falling—they don’t. But because violence does not get the final word. Love does.

 

This, too, is part of the gospel. Not only that Christ is risen, but that those who follow Christ are transformed into his likeness.

 

Stephen becomes Christ-like—not only in his suffering, but in his compassion. He does not curse his killers. He prays for them.

 

What kind of church would we be, if we too could learn to forgive like this?

 

What kind of witness might we offer, if our response to hostility was not fear or retaliation, but grace and prayer?

 

This is not easy. It is not sentimental. It is the hard, costly work of love in the face of hatred. But it is the way of Christ.

 

The Seed of the Church

There is one more detail that the narrator gives us, almost in passing, but it changes everything.

 

As Stephen is stoned, we are told, “the witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul.”

 

We know what Saul becomes. We know that the one who approved of Stephen’s death becomes the apostle to the Gentiles, the tireless preacher of grace. But in this moment, he is still part of the system of violence.

 

And yet, something is planted. A seed. A memory. A vision.

 

The early church would often say that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.

 

Stephen’s death is not the end of the story. It becomes the beginning of something new.

 

His witness does not fall silent. It reverberates through the life of Paul, through the spread of the gospel, through the ongoing courage of disciples in every age who have dared to follow Christ even to the point of death.

 

And so we return to our own time. We are not facing a council with stones in their hands. But there are still forces that resist the truth.

 

There are still powers that suppress the Spirit. There are still prices to pay for standing with the marginalised, for proclaiming justice, for naming sin.

 

And yet there is still a vision. There is still Christ, standing at the right hand of God.

 

There is still the call to bear witness—with our words, with our lives, even with our deaths if it comes to that.

 

And there is still grace—grace to forgive, grace to endure, grace to love.

 

Faithful Witness in a Time of Untruth

If Stephen’s story was only about a holy man dying well, it might move us—but it would not transform us.

 

What makes Stephen’s witness so compelling is that it takes place in a deeply political and theological context.

 

He is not killed in a vacuum. He is executed by a religious system colluding with empire, terrified of losing control, unwilling to be disrupted by the inconvenient truth of the gospel.

 

In this way, Stephen's death exposes not only the violence of empire, but the complicity of religion in perpetuating that violence.

 

We are, I believe, living in a moment with disturbing echoes.

 

Around the world, we are witnessing a resurgence of authoritarian ideologies cloaked in religious language.

 

In the United States, the rise of Trumpism has not only destabilised democratic institutions, it has corrupted large swathes of the Christian church, drawing it into an unholy alliance with power, wealth, and white nationalism.

 

And this is not an isolated phenomenon. Across the globe, from Brazil to Russia, from Israel to India, we are seeing religious rhetoric used to justify oppression, marginalisation, and the silencing of dissent.

 

What does it mean to be a church of Stephen in such a world?

 

It means, first, that we must learn again the courage of confrontation.

 

Stephen does not shrink from naming the truth, even when it costs him everything.

 

And the truth today is that many churches have become more concerned with preserving their influence than proclaiming the gospel.

 

The truth is that nationalism, racism, and misogyny are not just political problems—they are spiritual deformations.

 

And the truth is that when the church fails to stand with the vulnerable, it ceases to be the church.

 

Like Stephen, we must call these things what they are. Not because we enjoy conflict, but because silence is not an option.

 

We are followers of Jesus, who was crucified by empire and betrayed by religion. We are heirs of Stephen, whose face shone like an angel even as the stones fell.

 

Our witness must not be timid. It must be truthful.

 

But the second thing it means is that we must resist the temptation to fight empire on its own terms.

 

Stephen does not meet violence with violence. He does not become bitter or cynical.

 

He bears witness through love, through forgiveness, through a vision of glory that cannot be extinguished by hatred.

 

In a world where outrage is cheap and cruelty is viral, Stephen shows us a different way—a way of resistance rooted in mercy, a way of protest grounded in prayer.

 

This is not weakness. It is power. The kind of power that cannot be legislated against.

 

The kind of power that topples empires, not through force, but through faithfulness.

 

It is the power that sustained Martin Luther King as he faced bombs and bullets with nonviolence.

 

It is the power that animated Oscar Romero as he stood with the poor against the death squads. It is the power of the Lamb who was slain—and yet lives.

 

So let us be a Stephen church.

A church that names injustice and refuses to be silent.

A church that speaks truth even when the world closes its ears.

A church that sees heaven opened and Christ standing beside the oppressed.

A church that forgives even in the face of betrayal.

A church that lives not for safety or success, but for the glory of God revealed in a crucified and risen Christ.

 

This is not the easy way. But it is the faithful way.

And if we choose it, if we take up this calling, then we too might shine like angels.

And the world might just see, even for a moment, the glory of God breaking through the darkness.

Hearts Burning, Bread Broken

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

27 April 2025 

Luke 24.13-35
Genesis 18.1–8

Well, congratulations to those of you who made it to church today.
 
Whether you ran, walked, re-routed, dodged road closures,
            or heroically crossed the marathon barricades
            like modern-day Israelites through the Red Sea—
You’ve made it here.
 
It feels rather appropriate, actually,
            That we find ourselves gathering on Marathon Sunday,
Because our Gospel story today
            is also about a long walk through a crowded city,
A journey undertaken in confusion,
            With heavy feet and heavier hearts.
 
The road from Jerusalem to Emmaus isn’t as long as 26.2 miles—
            But for the two disciples walking it,
            It must have felt like a marathon of the soul.
 
And it’s in that slow, uncertain journey
            That the risen Christ meets them.
 
Not at the finish line,
            But in the walking.
Not with fanfare,
            But with questions.
 
And ultimately, not in spectacle,
            But in the simple breaking of bread.
 
So as London runs its race outside,
            We turn now to a different kind of road—
            The road to Emmaus.
 
And to the One who still meets us there.
 
And, I don’t know about you,
            But one of the things I treasure most in life
Is the simple act of sitting down and sharing a meal with others.
 
I love cooking.
            I love welcoming friends and family to our table.
I love going out for a meal
            —nothing too fancy, just good food and good company.
 
There is something about eating together that connects us.
            It grounds us.
            It brings us into each other’s lives.
 
There is something sacred that happens when we break bread.
            And it’s no accident that one of the most powerful
            resurrection stories in the Gospels
Happens not in the temple,
            Not in the synagogue,
            Not in the upper room—
But at an ordinary table,
            At the end of a dusty road.

And we'll re-join them at their table in a minute, but first the journey...
 
The story of the walk to Emmaus
            is one of the most profound in all of Scripture.
 
Two disciples walking.
            Talking.
            Processing grief.
Trying to make sense of their broken dreams.
 
One of them we know by name—Cleopas.
 
The other goes unnamed,
            Perhaps to leave space for us in the story.
Perhaps it was a spouse,
            Or a friend,
            Or a fellow traveller on life’s long journey.
 
They are heading away from the bustle and hustle of Jerusalem.
            Away from the place of trauma.
            Away from the site of crucifixion.
 
They are retreating—perhaps going home.
            Trying to piece together what’s happened.
 
And then Jesus comes alongside them.
            But they fail to recognise him.
 
This, already, is a sermon in itself.
            How often does Christ walk beside us,
            And we do not see?
 
But keeping with the story,
            We are told that “their eyes were kept from recognising him.”
 
Grief does that.
            Disappointment does that.
            Fear does that.
 
Their hopes had been crucified.
            Their faith shaken.
            Their vision clouded.
 
And Jesus, rather than immediately revealing himself,
            Asks a question:
“What are you discussing as you walk along the road?”
 
It is a question born not of ignorance,
            But of invitation.
He listens.
            He lets them speak.
            He lets them tell their story.
 
And in that storytelling,
            In that vulnerable naming of dashed hopes—
Something begins to shift.
 
David Lose says this is “a story of movement,
            of journey, of transformation.”
 
Jesus doesn’t just tell them the truth
            —he walks it with them.
 
At Bloomsbury, we are a community of many journeys.
            We know what it is to walk through uncertainty.
                        Through grief.
                        Through questions.
 
Our congregation brings together people from different nations,
            different traditions,
            different wounds and longings.
 
We know what it is to walk the road away from certainty.
 
We know what it is to talk along the way,
            Trying to make sense of faith
            when the world has turned upside down.
 
And it is here,
            On the road,
            In motion,
That Christ draws near.
 
Not always in glory,
            But in mystery.
Not in spectacle,
            But in conversation.
 
This is why the road matters.
            This is why the journey matters.
And it’s why our travelling companions matter too.
 
And so here at Bloomsbury we walk with others,
            with people of different faith traditions and none,
with friends from other Christian traditions,
            with Muslim and Jewish people,
            with all people of good faith.
 
And we journey with others not to deliver answers from on high,
            But to be present with people in their real lives.
 
Whether we are advocating for fair housing,
            Just wages,
            Or dignity for refugees—
We are learning to recognise Christ
            In the face of the other.
 
In our partnerships through London Citizens,
            we meet Christ not just in the sanctuary,
            but in the street, if only we have the eyes to see him.
 
And in that walking, that listening, that storytelling,
            We prepare ourselves for the moment of revelation.
 
But back to the story…
            before they get there, Jesus speaks again.
He says, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe.”
 
It’s not an insult.
            It’s a diagnosis.
 
Their eyes are closed because their hearts are slow.
            Their understanding is stuck.
They are trapped in a particular expectation
            of what redemption would look like.
And they can’t see the resurrection happening before their very eyes,
            because it hasn’t met their criteria for hope.
 
Joy J. Moore points out that their spiritual eyes were clouded.
            They had imagined a victorious Messiah.
                        Not a suffering one.
            A conqueror, not a crucified one.
 
But Jesus begins to interpret.
            To reframe.
To read Scripture afresh.
 
To help them understand that glory comes through suffering,
            Life through death,
            Hope through despair.
 
This is true discipleship.
            Not just believing,
            But learning how to read the world differently.
 
Rolf Jacobson calls this “a story about interpretation.”
            It’s not just about seeing Jesus.
            It’s about learning how to see everything in light of Jesus.
 
And friends, this is the work we are called to.
            To learn to read our lives,
            Our politics, our griefs, our communities—
Through the lens of the crucified and risen Christ.
 
Too often the church reads the world through the lens of fear.
            Of decline. Of anxiety. Of control.
 
But the Emmaus story teaches us to read through hope.
            To interpret through presence.
To look for Christ not in certainty,
            But in companionship.
 
And then comes the pivotal moment.
            They reach the village.
 
Jesus walks ahead as if to go on.
            But they urge him: “Stay with us.”
And he does.
 
And around the table, he takes the bread,
            Blesses it, breaks it, and gives it.
And their eyes are opened.
 
He was made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
 
And maybe this scene at Emmaus,
            With its freshly baked bread and its sudden epiphany,
Brings to mind another moment,
            far earlier in the story of God’s people.
 
The day when Abraham,
            sitting under the oaks of Mamre in the heat of the day,
Saw three strangers approaching.
 
He didn’t know who they were.
            There were no trumpets, no visions, no heavenly voice.
            Just the appearance of three weary travellers.
 
But Abraham ran to meet them.
            He welcomed them in.
He insisted they stay.
            He offered water, rest, and bread.
            He invited them to a feast.
And in doing so—he met God.
 
The pattern is clear, and it stretches from Genesis to Luke:
            God comes as guest.
God arrives in the unexpected visitor.
            God shows up in the shared meal.
 
Abraham, like Cleopas, did not recognise at first who stood before him.
            But something in him responded anyway.
Something in him recognised that this moment mattered.
 
And because he opened his tent,
            Because he set the table,
Because he shared what he had—
            A promise was born.
 
A child would come.
            A future would be named.
            A covenant renewed.
 
And so the road to Emmaus
            isn’t just about two disciples and one strange evening.
 
It is a continuation of God’s long-standing habit
            Of showing up in the company of strangers,
            And turning tables into altars.
 
It is a reminder that our daily acts of hospitality
            May open us to the holy.
 
That the welcome we extend
            may become the means by which we ourselves are transformed.
 
At Bloomsbury, this means something very real.
 
When we welcome here those who are excluded elsewhere,
            When we practise hospitality across difference,
When we share meals with those our world disregards—
            We are not just being kind.
 
We are preparing for revelation.
            We are entertaining angels unaware.
            We are breaking bread with Christ.
 
This is the moment of sacrament.
            The moment of mystery.
 
And it happens in the simplest of settings.
            Not at an altar,
            But at a kitchen table.
Not in front of a congregation,
            But in the intimacy of shared space.
 
Karoline Lewis notes that this is not just about recognition,
            But participation.
 
They don't merely see Jesus—they share life with him.
            They welcome him.
            They feed him.
 
And in that shared act,
            He is revealed.
 
At Bloomsbury, we know this well.
            Each week, we gather as a diverse community—
with our different cultures, different stories, and different identities.
 
Some of us come confident in our faith.
            Some come fragile.
Some come wounded by religion.
            Some come with questions too deep for words.
 
But still we come.
            And we share bread—real or metaphorical.
 
We break open Scripture.
            We offer welcome.
 
We extend grace.
            And in that space,
            Christ is present.
 
And this is why hospitality matters.
            Why inclusion matters.
            Why the theology we preach matters.
 
Because what we say about God
            Shapes what we do with our tables.
 
If we proclaim a God who excludes,
            We will become a people who exclude.
 
If we preach a God of control,
            We will build communities of fear.
 
But if we proclaim a Christ who walks roads,
            Listens to stories,
            and breaks bread with those he calls friends—
Then we will become a people who do the same.
 
In a world of fragmentation,
            We become signs of unity.
 
In a society of suspicion,
            We offer trust.
 
In a culture of commodification,
            We offer presence.
 
The world is full of people walking roads of despair.
            Of asylum seekers turned away.
            Of children growing up in poverty.
            Of political systems that reward cruelty.
 
But if we learn to walk the Emmaus road,
            If we learn to recognise Christ in the stranger,
Then we can begin to tell another story.
            A story of resurrection.
            A story of hope.
 
And perhaps this is the invitation before us at Bloomsbury—
            To become more deeply an Emmaus-shaped church.
 
A community shaped not by certainty,
            But by companionship.
 
Not driven by programmes or prestige,
            But by presence.
 
Not gathered around status or uniformity,
            But around shared bread and sacred story.
 
So much of what we are becoming at Bloomsbury
            Reflects the movement of this text.
 
We are a church that walks together.
            We are unafraid to ask difficult questions.
We honour doubt as much as we celebrate faith.
 
We know that Jesus meets us not always in triumph,
            But often in our moments of confusion, grief, and change.
 
We are learning to speak our stories honestly—
            To say, like Cleopas, “We had hoped...”
 
And we are learning to listen, like Christ,
            with compassion and patience.
 
We are a community that opens our table wide—
            To people of every background,
 
To LGBTQ+ siblings who have been wounded elsewhere,
            To refugees and migrants navigating unjust systems,
To those curious, uncertain,
            returning, or deconstructing.
 
And in doing so,
            We trust that Christ is made known to us
            In the breaking of the bread,
            and in the fellowship we share.
 
Our challenge is to keep recognising him.
            To keep attending to the ways
            resurrection is already moving in our midst—
 
In our worship, yes,
            But also in our organising,
In our weekday conversations,
            In our quiet pastoral care,
In the arts, in activism, in prayer,
            In moments of holy surprise.
 
Emmaus was not a one-time event.
            It is a pattern.
 
And if we are attentive,
            If we keep walking together,
If we keep breaking bread—
            Then we will find our hearts burning,
Our eyes opened,
            And our faith renewed.
 
Not in spectacle,
            But in presence.
Not in power,
            But in love.
Not in dominance,
            But in divine hospitality.
 
And so we get to the end of the story,
            and we discover that the final act
            of the Emmaus story is movement again.
 
“They got up that very hour and returned to Jerusalem.”
 
They go back.
            Back to the place of trauma.
            Back to the place of community.
 
But they are changed.
            They return not in grief,
                        But in joy.
            Not in defeat,
                        But in witness.
 
And so must we.
 
Our encounter with Christ is never for us alone.
            It leads us outward.
 
It sends us to speak,
            To serve,
To proclaim that life has the final word.
 
So, friends:
            Let us walk the road.
Let us listen for grace.
            Let us break bread faithfully.
Let us interpret our lives through the story of Christ.
 
Let us resist the lies of power and fear.
            Let us build tables of welcome.
 
And let us tell the world—
            That Christ is risen,
            That Christ is present,
 
And that our hearts still burn
            When we meet him
In the mystery of the everyday.

Amen.
 

He is not here, but has risen

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

20th April 2025 - Easter Sunday

Luke 24.1-12
Isaiah 25.6–9

At early dawn,
            on the first day of the week,
            some women went to a tomb.
 
They were carrying spices -
            carefully prepared,
lovingly chosen,
            perhaps with tears -
and they were expecting to find a dead body.
 
A still form,
            wrapped in linen,
lying in the cold darkness
            of a rock-cut tomb.
 
But what they found instead
            was absence.
 
The stone had been rolled away,
            the body was gone,
            and the tomb stood empty.
 
And this, my friends,
            is where the resurrection begins -
not with singing,
            not with celebration,
not with joy -
            but with confusion.
 
Perplexity.
            Grief intensified by uncertainty.
And, crucially,
            with absence.
 
Luke’s Gospel doesn’t give us
            a resurrection appearance on Easter morning.
 
There’s no Jesus waiting in the garden,
            no scars being shown,
            no voice calling gently by name.
There is only emptiness.
 
And a question:
            “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”
And perhaps
            that is where many of us find ourselves
            this Easter morning.
 
Because this story is not merely about something that happened then.
            It is also about what is happening now.
 
It is about us -
            here, today -
trying to make sense
            of a world full of suffering and hope,
of death and life,
            of endings and beginnings.
 
It is about what it means to be faithful
            when God seems absent.
 
It is about how we live
            as resurrection people
            in a Good Friday world.
 
And, crucially,
            it is about what - and whom -
            we choose to remember.

On Friday at our Good Friday service

we explored what it means for us to be eternally remembered by God;

as we reflected on the words of the criminal crucified alongside Jesus,

as he asked Jesus to ‘remember him’.

And today I want us to stay wit this theme of remembering,

and how our remembering of Jesus,

and his remembering of us,

contribute to our experience of resurrection.

 

The angels in the tomb
            do not reveal a new truth to the women.
They do not share a secret
            or deliver a new message.
 
They say: “Remember.”
            “Remember how he told you,
                        while he was still in Galilee,
            that the Son of Man must be handed over…
                        and on the third day rise again.”
 
The resurrection, you see, in Luke’s telling,
            is not something the women are seeing for the first time.
 
It is something they are being called to recall.
            To re-member.
 
And so Luke makes this profoundly theological move:
            memory becomes the first act of resurrection faith.
 
Before seeing,
            before believing,
            before proclaiming -
there is remembering.
 
The preacher Karoline Lewis reminds us
            that remembering is not passive.
It is not merely recalling past events.
 
Rather, it is a form of faith
            that reconstitutes meaning.
 
It makes the past alive in the present.
            It shapes who we are
            and what we do.
 
To remember Jesus’ words
            is to reconnect with the pattern of his life:
his commitment to those on the margins,
            his courage in the face of empire,
his refusal to compromise the gospel
            of God’s reign of justice and peace.
 
To remember Jesus
            is not to recall a lost teacher
but to re-align ourselves
            with the radical call to discipleship he embodied.
 
And so the women remember.
            And that remembering transforms them.
 
They leave the tomb,
            and they become the first apostles.
 
This matters.
 
Because Luke is careful - deliberate, even - to name them:
            Mary Magdalene,
                        Joanna,
            Mary the mother of James,
                        and the other women with them.
 
It is no accident
            that these women are the first to proclaim resurrection.
 
They had followed Jesus in Galilee.
            They had provided for him out of their resources.
They had stood at the cross when others fled.
            They had watched where he was laid.
 
And now they are the first
            to see the signs of resurrection
and the first to tell the story.
 
These women are not incidental to the gospel.
            They are essential to it.
 
But the apostles - when they hear this story - dismiss it.
 
“An idle tale,” is what Luke says they think they are hearing.
            The Greek word is lēros -
            nonsense, delirium, madness.
 
In today’s language we might say “hysteria.”
            A word long used by men
            to discredit the speech of women.
 
And so even here,
            at the dawn of resurrection,
            patriarchal patterns persist.
 
The voices of women are ignored.
            Their witness is not believed.
 
But there is something more
            we need to say this morning.
 
Something that perhaps
            we don’t always say loudly enough on Easter Sunday.
 
And it is this:
            Resurrection is not only a promise to be remembered.
            It is also a protest.
 
Not only consolation -
            but confrontation.
 
Not just comfort for the grieving -
            but resistance to every system
            that deals in death.
 
We sometimes speak of resurrection
            as if it is only about life after we die.
 
As if it is only about going to heaven.
            As if it is a personal reward for private belief.
 
But in Luke’s Gospel,
            resurrection is not just the conclusion of a story.
 
It is an act of divine reversal.
            It is God saying: No -
                        No to the cross,
                        No to the violence,
                        No to the empire that crucified love.
 
And it is God saying: Yes -
            Yes to Jesus’ way of peace,
            Yes to his solidarity with the poor,
            Yes to his challenge to the powers.
 
As Rolf Jacobson puts it,
            the resurrection is the moment
when “the whole story of Scripture
            turns toward hope.”
 
Not escapist hope.
            But grounded, embodied, public hope.
 
Hope that says:
            God is not neutral
                        in the struggle between life and death,
                        between empire and the poor,
                        between domination and dignity.
 
Hope that says:
            the crucified one
            has been raised.
 
And this means something
            for how we live now.
 
The resurrection
            is not the end of Good Friday.
It is God’s response to it.
 
As Joy J. Moore reminds us,
            this isn’t just about a new day.
            It’s about a new way.
 
A way of life that remembers Jesus’ ministry
            as the template for Christian resistance:
 
•          resistance to the silencing of women’s voices
•          resistance to state-sanctioned execution
•          resistance to the abandonment of the vulnerable
•          resistance to every tomb we have sealed to keep the world as it is.
 
The women at the tomb
            are not just first witnesses -
            they are the first resisters.
 
They resist despair
            with memory.
 
They resist fear
            with proclamation.
 
They resist patriarchy
            with persistence.
 
And that resistance is resurrection-shaped.
 
Karoline Lewis calls this
            a “theology of holy disruption.”
 
She reminds us that Luke’s Gospel
            begins with women
proclaiming hope that kings will fall
            and the lowly will be lifted.
 
And it ends with women
            announcing that death itself
            has been overthrown.
 
These are not separate stories.
            They are one story.
 
They speak to the story of a God
            who resists every form of domination
            with the power of love.
 
So when we say, “Christ is risen,”
            we are not making a doctrinal claim alone.
 
We are making:
            a political claim,
                        a prophetic claim,
            a pastoral claim,
                        a communal claim.
 
We are declaring
            that the powers of death
            do not have the last word.
 
Not in Gaza.
            Not in the City of London.
            Not in halls of Westminster.
Not in the prisons.
            Not in our streets.
Not in our own hearts.
 
Resurrection declares that the powers of death
            do not have the last word.
 
And if we need a vision to carry us forward -
            a glimpse of what resurrection hope looks like beyond the tomb -
then let us turn, as Jesus so often did, to the prophets.
 
Isaiah speaks of a day
            when God will prepare a feast for all peoples.
 
A feast of rich food and well-aged wine.
            No one excluded.
            No one forgotten.
 
A table of abundance,
            where there is enough for all.
 
And on that mountain, says Isaiah,
            God will destroy the shroud that is cast over all peoples,
            the sheet of death that covers all nations.
 
God will swallow up death forever.
 
So can you hear it?
            Can we hear it?
 
The death that crucified Jesus is undone.
            The mourning that weighed down the women is lifted.
The disgrace of empire is rolled away like the stone from the tomb.
 
This is not a private afterlife.
            This is a cosmic reversal.
 
It is a divine protest
            against the domination of death.
 
A table prepared
            in the presence of all nations.
 
Tears wiped away.
            Justice made flesh.
            Grief given over to joy.
 
And when that day comes - says Isaiah - it will be said:
            "This is our God; we have waited for them."
            "Let us be glad and rejoice in their salvation."
 
This is the promise that carries us.
            This is the mountain we are climbing.
 
This is the vision
            that breaks open our tombs
and sends us back into the world
            with trembling hope.
 
To live as Easter people
            is to become people
            of holy resistance.
 
To name what kills
            and to work for what gives life.
 
To remember Jesus’ words -
            and then repeat them with our lives.
 
To carry spices to tombs
            and leave bearing gospel.
 
To be witnesses,
            whether we are believed or not.
 
To say - again and again - with trembling faith and rising courage:
            He is not here.
            He is risen.
 
And perhaps this too
            is part of the resurrection story.
 
Because resurrection is not only about Jesus.
 
It is about what Jesus’ resurrection
            makes possible for us.
 
It is about how resurrection
            creates a new world
            in the shell of the old.
 
A world in which the voiceless speak,
            the lowly are lifted,
            and the dead live.
 
So I wonder, as we gather on Easter Sunday,
            what does resurrection mean for you?
 
It’s tempting
            to reduce Easter to comfort.
 
A soft affirmation
            that everything will be all right in the end.
That death is not the end.
            That there’s life after life.
 
And of course,
            that’s part of the promise.
 
The hope of resurrection
            is that death does not get the final word -
not for Jesus, and not for us.
 
But in Luke,
            resurrection is not simply consolation.
 
It is disruption.
 
It disrupts the finality of death.
            It disrupts the expectations of power.
It disrupts the logic of empire.
            It sends women preaching.
It sends disciples running.
            It sends fearful followers into the streets
            with courage they didn’t know they had.
 
And this is where we come in.
 
Because if resurrection is only a doctrine to believe,
            then it makes little difference to the world.
 
But if resurrection is a story we live,
            a memory we embody,
            a hope we enact -
then it changes everything.
 
It changes how we face death.
            It changes how we challenge injustice.
It changes how we see one another.
            It changes what we dare to hope for.
 
So this morning,
            in the light of resurrection,
let me offer this invitation:
            Do not look for the living
            among the dead.
 
Do not look for Christ
            only in the rituals of religion
            or the certainty of doctrine.
 
Look instead for Christ
            in the struggle for justice,
                        in the sharing of bread,
            in the work of healing and reconciliation.
 
Do not be surprised
            if those who speak most clearly of resurrection
are not always the ones
            with titles, or robes, or platforms.
 
Rather, those who speak of new life
            may be the ones whose voices have been marginalised,
but whose lives testify to grace and courage.
 
And do not be afraid if resurrection begins
            not in joy, but in confusion.
 
If you find yourself
            at an empty tomb,
unsure what to make of it all -
            remember.
 
Remember the words of Jesus.
            Remember the way he lived.
Remember the people he loved.
            Remember the justice he proclaimed.
 
And then - go and live
            as if it is all true.
 
Because it is.
 
Christ is risen.
            He is not here,
            but he is everywhere.
 
In the breaking of bread.
            In the telling of stories.
In the remembering of truth.
            In the work of the Spirit.
In the community of faith.
 
And this is good news.
 
Hallelujah.
Amen.

Jesus, remember me

A Sermon for Good Friday, 18 April 2025 

Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Luke 23.42-43

Then the criminal who was dying on the cross alongside Jesus
            uttered his last words:
            "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
 
As famous last words go, they’re pretty good.
            After all, not everyone gets their final words recorded in the Bible.
 
As a slight digression,
            I spent a few minutes looking up other famous last words,
            and I wonder if you can guess who said these:
 
·      “Friends applaud, the comedy is finished.” - Beethoven
·      “Tomorrow I shall no longer be here.” - Nostradamus
·      "I’m bored with it all.” - Winston Churchill
·      “I should have never switched from Scotch to Martinis.” - Humphrey Bogart
 
·      "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." - ???
 
Well, we don’t know his name, or his crime,
            merely that he died alongside Jesus,
            and that he had a moment of profound insight
                        as he faced the hour of his death.
 
I don’t know if you’ve given much thought to what happens when you die?
            It’s one of those things that personally, on the whole,
                        I try not to think about too often.
 
            I mean, I am aware that one day I shall, as Shakespeare put it
                        in Hamlet’s great soliloquy on death,
                        ‘shuffle off this mortal coil’…
            But what then…?
                        What next…?
 
Some say that we go straight to heaven, and they might be right;
            some say that we go to Limbo or to Hell,
                        and I’m less sure that they’re right.
 
But I’m still none the wiser as to what it all really means,
            because I’m not sure I really know what heaven is anyway.
 
As Jesus replied to the Pharisees,
            when they asked him their trick question
about what would happen to the one bride for seven brothers,
            ‘It’s not like that’…. (Luke 20.27-40)
            (And here, you understand, I am paraphrasing slightly).
 
It seems to me that a healthy agnosticism about the nature of the afterlife
            is both biblical and Christ-like.
 
Sometimes, not being quite sure
            is infinitely preferable to being very sure,
and some of the most terrifying Christians I’ve met over the years,
            are those who have certainly
            about where people are going, or not going, when they die.
 
Better, surely, to trust to God’s love and mercy,
            and then live in the light of that.
 
As Jesus did say,
            ‘God is God not of the dead, but of the living;
            for to him all of them are alive.’ (Luke 20.38)
 
And so we come to the last words
            of the criminal on the cross, and to Jesus’ reply.
 
"Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
            "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."
 
And I’ve been wondering this week, as I’ve been preparing this sermon,
            what it might mean for us to be remembered by Jesus.
 
What does it mean for us to exist, eternally, in the memory of God,
            who enters into our humanity,
                        dies our death,
                        and never forgets any of it.
 
There is a way of thinking about death
            that sees our souls fluttering away from our bodies,
                        like caged birds set free,
            flying up to heaven to be with Jesus on a cloud.
 
But the problem with this is that this owes far more
            to the ancient philosophy known as dualism
            than it does to the Jewish-Christian tradition.
 
Dualism suggests that there is a fundamental separation
            between our souls and our bodies,
that our bodies are merely temporary homes
            for the eternal spark that is our souls.
 
And whilst this is a very ancient way of looking at things,
            coming from Greek philosophy and the teachings of Plato,
it isn’t something we find clearly in the Christian scriptures.
            You kind of have to read it in,
                        if you’re going to see it there.
 
The Jewish tradition, from which Christianity emerged,
            has a far more unified view of the human person.
 
We are not a mortal body containing an immortal soul,
            but rather each of us is a person, body and soul in unity,
            created and loved entirely and eternally by God.
 
So when we die, it is the entirety of our being that enters into God’s eternity.
 
In his first letter to the Corinthians,
            Paul speaks of the resurrection body being like a plant
            that grows from a seed that is sown into the ground.
 
The physical body, the body we have in this life,
            is like the seed,
and the physical death we must all face,
            is the action of being cast into the ground,
and the resurrection we share with Christ,
            is both as continuous and yet different
            as the beautiful flower that grows from a tiny seed.
 
As Paul says,

‘It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body.
If there is a physical body, there is also a spiritual body.’ (1 Cor 15.44)
 
This is not some dualistic discontinuity;
            rather, who we are in eternity
            is in direct continuity with who we are temporally.
 
Our eternal existence, our spiritual body,
            is as unrecognisably different as the plant is from the seed,
            but it is still the same being.
 
We do not cast off our earthly bodies,
            to get new ones in heaven.
 
Rather, who we are eternally
            arises directly from who we are today.
 
And so we are back to the criminal’s last words from the cross:
 
"Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
"Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."
 
John Polkinghorne, the brilliant physicist and Anglican clergyman,
            who has offered some profound insights
            in the unity of spirituality and quantum physics
once said:
 
‘I believe it is a perfectly coherent hope, that the pattern that is me
            will be remembered by God
and its instantiation will be recreated by God
            when God reconstitutes me
            in a new environment of God’s choosing.’
 
In other words, who we are is remembered by God,
            and held fast eternally by God
            as part of God’s creative, dynamic being.
God remembers us,
            and everyone who has ever lived has a place in God’s mind.
 
In his second letter to the Corinthians,
            Paul speaks of those who follow Christ as being ‘in Christ’,
and he says,

‘If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation:
everything old has passed away;
see, everything has become new!’ (2 Cor 5.17)
 
We are in God through Christ,
            we are remembered by God at the hour of our death,
            as Jesus remembered the criminal dying on the cross alongside him.
 
Nothing is lost, everything is redeemed,
            all sins are forgiven,
            and eternity is ours.
 
As we remember the death of Jesus
            through broken bread and shared wine,
so he remembers us in our hour of weakness.
 
"Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
"Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."