The Scroll and the Fire

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

29 June 2025

 

Jeremiah 36.1–8, 21–23, 27–31
John 5:31–38
 
We begin today a new series exploring the words of the prophet Jeremiah,
            and we do so not because Jeremiah makes for comfortable reading,
but because in an age like ours,
            we need prophets who speak difficult truths.
 
The lectionary leads us today not to Jeremiah’s call or visions of judgement,
            but instead to a lesser-known episode
—a dramatic and disturbing tale
            of political power trying to silence a prophetic word.
 
It is, in many ways, a story as old as time:
            the uncomfortable word is spoken, the powerful are threatened,
            and someone tries to burn it all down.
 
But, as we shall see,
            the word of God is not so easily destroyed.
 
Let’s begin with the story.
 
Jeremiah is, by this point in his life,
            effectively banned from entering the temple precincts.
 
His message has become too much.
 
The powers that be have silenced him—at least in person.
            But it turns out that the word of God
            doesn’t require a pulpit to be preached.
 
And so Jeremiah turns to Baruch, his scribe and co-labourer,
            and dictates the whole of his prophetic message
            —years of proclamations, warnings, visions, and pleas—
                        onto a single scroll.
 
It is painstaking work. It is dangerous work.
            And it is deeply hopeful work.
 
“Perhaps,” says Jeremiah, “when the people hear of all the disasters
            that the Lord intends to bring upon them…
            perhaps then, they will all turn from their evil ways.” (v.3)
 
And we hear in this not the glee of a prophet enjoying judgment,
            but the plea of one who longs for repentance, for change, for mercy.
 
And so, in a dramatic moment of holy subversion,
            Baruch takes the scroll and goes to the temple to read it aloud.
 
It’s worth pausing here to name the risk:
            this is a scribe and a prophet, confronting the king and the court
            not with swords, but with words.
 
It is an act of hope, but also of defiance.
 
Eventually, word of this subversive public reading reaches King Jehoiakim.
            The scroll is retrieved, and brought into the king’s presence.
 
He’s sitting in his winter palace
            —warm, comfortable, and secure.
 
And thus the scene is set: the king reclines before a brazier,
            a fire gently crackling, as Jehudi begins to read.
 
But then the horror begins.
 
As the scroll is read, the king takes a penknife and slices off the columns
            —three or four at a time—and throws them into the fire.
 
This is no mere distraction.
            This is not a bored monarch playing with parchment.
 
This is a calculated rejection. This is theological violence.
 
What we witness here is the wilful destruction of a prophetic word.
            Jehoiakim does not argue with the scroll, nor debate it.
            He just burns it.
 
This is the ancient world’s version of censorship,
            of banning books, of silencing dissent.
 
It’s not just an act of political convenience;
            it is a spiritual rejection of the voice of God.
 
But here’s where the story refuses to end.
            Jehoiakim may burn the scroll, but he cannot silence the word.
 
God tells Jeremiah: write it again.
            Take another scroll. Dictate every word once more.
 
And add to it a new word of judgment
            against the king who dared to destroy the first one.
 
So what does this tell us?
 
Maybe we hear that the word of God is not fragile.
            It may be ignored, resisted, even burned—but it is never destroyed.
 
This is a theme that resonates throughout scripture:
The bush that burns but is not consumed.
The Word made flesh, crucified but raised.
The Spirit that speaks through silenced mouths.
 
And so, here in Jeremiah, the prophetic word is rewritten.
            The hope of repentance remains.
The judgment deepens. And the call continues.
 
Which brings us to our second reading, from John’s Gospel.
 
Here we find Jesus in dialogue with his critics
            —those who question his authority, his message, and his identity.
 
And once again, we see a pattern emerge:
            the word of God is spoken, and yet it is not believed.
 
Jesus speaks of testimony
            —the testimony of John the Baptist,
                        of the works he performs,
                        and of God the Father.
 
“You search the scriptures,” he says later in this chapter,
            “because you think that in them you have eternal life;
                        and it is they that testify on my behalf.
            Yet you refuse to come to me to have life.” (John 5:39–40)
 
These are haunting words.
            The people who know the scriptures best
            do not recognise the Word made flesh when he stands before them.
 
Like Jehoiakim, they hear but do not listen.
            Like the king, they would rather silence the Word than let it confront them.
 
When Jesus speaks of testimony in John 5,
            he is not simply listing credentials.
 
He is inviting his hearers to see the divine continuity
            between the prophets of old
            and his own witness in the present.
 
There is to be heard in Jesus’ words,
            a profound resonance with Jeremiah’s experience.
 
The people of his time, too, have heard the voice of God in their midst
            —but they do not receive it. They do not recognise it.
 
And so we see a troubling pattern:
Jeremiah's scroll is burned.
Jesus’ body, the living Word, will be crucified.
Later, the early church’s message will be driven underground,
scattered by persecution.
 
But again and again, the word re-emerges
            —resurrected, unquenchable, alive.
 
In John’s Gospel, Jesus describes his own works
            as signs of divine testimony.
 
Just as Baruch’s scroll carried Jeremiah’s oracles,
            so Christ’s actions and presence carry the very words and will of God.
 
But to recognise this—to truly hear it—
            requires something more than external validation.
 
As Jesus says, “his word does not abide in you,
            because you do not believe him whom he has sent.” (John 5:38)
 
This is not merely a failure of intellect,
            but a failure of imagination, of faith, of willingness.
 
The issue is not that the evidence is lacking
            —it’s that the heart is resistant.
 
Here is the deep spiritual challenge for us today:
            Are we open to hearing the Word
            when it comes to us from unexpected places?
 
Are we prepared to receive the testimony of Christ
            when it disturbs our comfort?
 
Jeremiah’s scroll, Jesus’ ministry,
            and the prophetic voice in our own generation
all carry the same invitation: not just to hear, but to turn
            —to repent, to change, to live differently.
 
So let’s return now to the fire in Jehoiakim’s chamber.
 
There are two kinds of fire in this story.
 
One is the fire of destruction
            —the fire of censorship, of silencing, of domination.
This is the fire in the king’s brazier.
 
But there is another fire, a different fire.
            The fire of God. The fire of prophecy.
            The fire of Pentecost.
 
Jeremiah speaks elsewhere of this fire:
            “Is not my word like fire, says the Lord,
            and like a hammer that breaks a rock in pieces?” (Jer. 23:29)
 
The fire of God’s word does not consume
            —it purifies. It refines. It ignites.
 
At Pentecost, it does not destroy the disciples
            —it empowers them.
 
And at Bloomsbury, this is the fire we seek
            —not the fire that burns scrolls, but the fire that burns in our hearts.
            The fire that warms, illuminates, and inspires.
 
There is something deeply significant
            about the physicality of the scroll in Jeremiah’s story.
It is not just symbolic—it’s tactile.
            It can be held. It can be cut. It can be burned.
 
But the Word of God is never confined to ink and parchment.
 
We who are heirs to the Reformation
            have sometimes reduced scripture to a static text
            —to be analysed, explained, and controlled.
 
And yet Jeremiah’s story reminds us
            that the word is not a dead letter. It is a living voice.
 
When King Jehoiakim burned the scroll,
            he thought he was silencing the message.
 
But God’s word had already taken root
            —in Baruch, in Jeremiah, in the hearers at the temple gate.
 
The scroll was not the Word
            —it was merely its vehicle.
 
We need this reminder today.
            Because the Bible can become a weapon when treated as lifeless text.
                        It can be misquoted to justify injustice.
                        It can be marshalled to oppress.
 
But when we treat scripture as living, breathing Word
            —always moving, always speaking,
                        always calling us deeper into love, justice, and mercy—
            we find ourselves drawn into transformation.
 
This is why Jesus can say in John’s Gospel
            that his critics “search the scriptures” but still miss the life it offers.
They knew the text, but not the voice.
 
And so the question returns to us:
Are we treating the Bible as a static artefact
            or as a living conversation with God?
Are we open to the Spirit’s fresh breath moving through the familiar words?
Do we encounter the fire of the Word as it kindles new life in us,
            or do we reach for the penknife?
 
If Jehoiakim saw the scroll only as a threat to his power,
            we are invited to see it as an invitation
                        to a deeper, more radical discipleship
            —a call to repentance, yes, but also to justice, peace, and hope.
 
And so this story asks hard questions of us.
 
Because we are not just Jeremiah or Baruch.
            Sometimes, we are Jehoiakim too.
 
We all have our penknives.
            We all have moments when the word of God comes too close,
                        too uncomfortably,
            and we are tempted to slice it away.
 
And in our world, prophetic voices are still being silenced:
Voices calling for racial justice are dismissed as divisive.
Calls for climate action are framed as extremist.
Pleas for Palestinian dignity are labelled dangerous or antisemitic.
The witness of LGBTQ+ Christians is often burned before it is ever heard.
 
Jehoiakim lives on wherever power fears truth.
            Wherever the prophetic word is deemed too threatening to tolerate.
 
But Baruch also lives on
            —wherever courageous scribes, preachers, and communities
            speak the truth again, and again, and again,
                        even when it is rejected.
 
So how, then, do we become people who listen rightly?
            Who welcome the word of God even when it arrives
                        uninvited, uncomfortable, or disruptive?
 
First, we must cultivate what the spiritual tradition calls holy listening.
 
Holy listening is not passive;
            it is active attentiveness to the voices that challenge us.
It is choosing to remain open to a word
            that we did not write, and may not like.
 
At Bloomsbury, we already know the importance of this:
In our commitment to interfaith conversation,
            we practise listening to the divine word
            spoken in the lives and experiences of others.
In our community organising, we listen for the cries of the poor,
            the marginalised, and the excluded.
In our inclusive theology,
            we have listened to those the church has too often silenced.
 
All of this is prophetic. All of this is faithful.
 
To listen well is to allow the Spirit to speak in unexpected ways,
            through unexpected voices.
 
Baruch was not a prophet—he was a scribe.
            And yet his reading of the scroll
            became a proclamation of divine judgment and hope.
 
Likewise, the voices we are tempted to overlook
            —those without official titles, credentials, or authority—
            may yet speak with the fire of God.
 
And so we must keep our ears open and our penknives sheathed.
            We must resist the temptation to excise, edit, or explain away
            the parts of scripture—or of testimony—that unsettle us.
 
Because it is in those very moments
            that the Spirit may be speaking most clearly.
 
So what kind of community are we called to be?
 
Here at Bloomsbury, we are not called to be a comfortable court
            gathered round a fire, editing the gospel for our own peace of mind.
 
We are called to be scribes of justice.
            Voices of compassion. Prophets of inconvenient truth.
 
We are called to take the scrolls others burn and write them again.
            To speak the truth that was silenced.
            To read aloud the words that power tried to hide.
 
We are called to let the word of God abide in us
            —not just in our minds, but in our actions, our politics, our relationships.
 
And we are called to let that word take flesh in us,
            as it did in Christ.
 
In a world of political spin and theological censorship,
            the story of Jeremiah 36 reminds us
            that the word of God is not so easily extinguished.
 
It may be torn up, cut down, thrown into fire
            —but it rises again, rewritten, re-spoken, re-lived.
 
The question for us is this:
 
Will we be the ones who feed the flames of censorship?
            Or will we be the ones who carry the fire of truth?
 
Will we slice away the parts of scripture that challenge us?
            Or will we let the whole word abide in us, even when it burns?
 
The scroll may burn, but the word of God endures.
            The prophet may be silenced, but the voice of God returns.
 
The Word became flesh—and the light shines in the darkness,
            and the darkness did not overcome it.
 
May that Word abide in us.
 
May we speak it, live it, and never be afraid to write it again.
 
Amen.

The Shield of Faith: Forming Communities of Resistance

 A Sermon for the Baptist Union of Wales Annual Conference

The Welsh Church, London

22^nd June 2025

 

By Jean-Pierre Dalbéra from Paris, France - La tenture de l'Apocalypse (Angers)
Uploaded by Markos90, CC BY 2.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20845125

Revelation 13.1–10

Introduction

Friends, it is a privilege to share this time of worship and reflection
            with you today at the Baptist Union of Wales Annual Conference,
            here in the heart of London.

We gather as Baptists from different contexts
            —rural and urban, Welsh and English-speaking,
            long-established and newly emerging.

But what we share is this: we are people of faith.

And more than that, we are people of resistant faith.

We gather today not just to celebrate our shared life
            but to renew our vision for what it means to be the church of Jesus Christ
            in a world increasingly shaped
                        by the forces of domination, division, and despair.

And the reading set before us—Revelation 13:1–10
            —confronts these forces head-on.

Here we meet the beast rising from the sea,
            a monstrous symbol of imperial violence and oppression.

And yet, nestled within this apocalyptic vision is a call:
            a call to endurance, and to faith.

It is to this call that I invite us now to respond afresh,
            as we ask what it might mean for us today to raise the shield of faith,
            and to become communities of resistance,
            communities of faith-full endurance.

Why Revelation Still Matters

Before we dive into the beasts and battles of Revelation 13,
            it’s worth asking: Why bother with Revelation at all?

Why preach from a book filled with such troubling images,
            when so many people associate it with fear,
            fanaticism, or end-times speculation?

I want to suggest that Revelation still matters, perhaps now more than ever
            —not as a prediction of future disasters,
            but as a profound critique of the present.

It speaks from the underside of history,
            giving voice to persecuted believers under empire.

And it gives us vision—not just of what is, but of what could be.

Revelation disrupts our illusions.
            It unmasks the systems we’re told to accept.

It reminds us that injustice is not inevitable,
            and that God's future is already breaking into the present.

And for congregations in Wales and London alike
            —faithful, weary, hopeful communities living in uncertain times—
                        it offers courage.

Not by denying reality,
            but by seeing it more clearly than ever, and still daring to hope.

So today, we approach Revelation not as a puzzle to decode,
            but as a call to faith.

A summons to see with different eyes.
            A challenge to resist what must be resisted,
            and to believe that the Lamb still reigns.

Naming the Beast

And so to chapter 13, where the imagery we meet is jarring, even grotesque:

“And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, having ten horns and seven heads…
            and on its heads were blasphemous names.” (v.1)

But this beast is not just a monstrous creature of nightmare;
            it is a political symbol.

Drawing on Daniel’s vision of four beasts representing successive empires,
            John’s vision combines them into one ultimate empire
            —a terrifying composite of lion, bear, and leopard.

The point is clear: this beast represents imperial power
            in its most destructive form.

It is the embodiment of empire.
            In John’s world, that meant Rome.

Rome with its military might.
            Rome with its cult of emperor-worship.

Rome with its violent suppression of any who dared resist.
            Rome, which crucified Jesus and exiled John to Patmos.

But John’s vision is not limited to one time and place.

The beast is not Rome alone.
            It is any system of domination that demands allegiance,
            enforces conformity, and punishes dissent.

The beast is empire, wherever and whenever it raises its head.

And so we must ask: where do we see the beast today?

• Do we see it in economic systems that profit from the exploitation of workers
              and the destruction of the planet.
• In political ideologies that promote xenophobia and nationalism
              while scapegoating the vulnerable.
• In media empires that distort truth, glorify violence,
              and commodify our attention.
• In religious institutions, even churches,
              that align with power instead of standing with the powerless.

The beast is all around us.
            But it is also insidious.

It doesn’t always come with horns and thunder.
            Sometimes it comes with slogans, algorithms, flags, and headlines.
            Sometimes it comes wrapped in prayers.

This is why Revelation matters
            —not as a map of the future, but as a mirror held up to the present.

It helps us unmask the forces at work in our world.
            It gives us language for resistance.

It reveals empire for what it is:
            a counterfeit kingdom, demanding our worship
            and declaring war on the saints.

Worship and Resistance

One of the most chilling lines in this passage is verse 4:

“They worshipped the dragon, for he had given his authority to the beast,
            and they worshipped the beast, saying,
            ‘Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it?’”

This is the crux of empire’s power:
            it demands not just obedience, but worship.

And it convinces the people that resistance is futile.
            “Who can fight against it?” they ask.

This is the temptation in every age
            —to believe the lies of inevitability.

That injustice is just how the world works.
            That politics is a game we can’t change.
            That the poor will always be with us, so why bother?

But Revelation says:
            Do not believe the beast.

It may appear invincible, but it is doomed.
            Its power is derivative, not divine.

And its end is certain.
            The beast rises, yes.
            But it does not reign forever.

In contrast to the beast’s worship,
            Revelation calls us to alternative allegiance
            —to the Lamb who was slain,
            to the God who brings down the mighty and lifts up the lowly.

Worship, in Revelation you see, is an act of resistance.

When we gather to proclaim Jesus as Lord,
            we are refusing to worship Caesar.

When we share bread and wine,
            we are defying a world that feeds the rich and starves the poor.

When we sing songs of peace,
            we confront a culture addicted to violence.

In this sense, worship is not escape from the world.
            It is our training ground for re-entering the world
            as agents of transformation.

Faith as Resistance: The Shield We Raise

And so we come to the heart of today’s reflection, in verse 10:
            “Here is a call for the endurance and faith of the saints.”

Endurance and faith.
            Not submission. Not despair. Not compromise.
            But faith that endures.

This is the shield of faith that Paul speaks of in Ephesians 6
            —a defensive but active posture against the arrows of evil.

And in the context of Revelation,
            it is the shield we raise when we stand against empire.

Faith is not naïve optimism.
            Faith is not “thoughts and prayers” offered as a substitute for justice.

Faith is resistance.

• It is the resistant faith of a church in Cardiff that joins a housing campaign,
  challenging landlords to treat tenants with dignity.
• It is the resistant faith of a church in East London
  that chooses to become a Sanctuary Church,
  offering hospitality to migrants facing deportation.
• It is the resistant faith of rural chapels that teach young people about climate justice,
  helping them organise to protect their future.
• It is the resistant faith of Christian communities in Palestine
  who, amidst unimaginable suffering, continue to pray,
  to protest, and to hope.

This is the kind of faith that Revelation is calling forth.

Not a private spirituality,
            but a public witness.

Not a retreat into the safety of religion,
            but a bold engagement with the world,
            fuelled by the gospel of peace.

Holding Faith on the Margins

But let’s be honest.

Holding the shield of faith is hard
            —especially when you’re tired.

Some of our congregations are ageing.
            Our buildings are demanding.
            Our numbers are shrinking.

Many churches, both in the valleys of Wales and the suburbs of London,
            are surrounded by neighbourhoods
            that no longer feel like they understand
                        —or even need—the church.

It can feel as though we are fading, forgotten, and marginalised.

The temptation is to see this as failure.

But I want to suggest that the margins
            are precisely where the Lamb is most powerfully at work.

In Revelation, it is not the empire’s temples or palaces
            that carry God’s presence.

It is the small, scattered, vulnerable communities
            that bear faithful witness.

The power of the Lamb is revealed not in strength,
            but in solidarity with the oppressed.

The endurance of the saints is not triumphant,
            but patient, persistent, and deeply rooted.

Could it be that the story of God in our time is not being written in the corridors of power,

·       but in the pews of chapels in Carmarthenshire,

·       in church basements in Tower Hamlets,

·       in small Sunday services attended by six faithful souls,

·       in these rhythms of prayer and protest
            carried out far from the spotlight?

We may sometimes be small.
            But we are never irrelevant.

We may be on the edge.
            But the edge is often where the Spirit breathes new life.

And so, to every congregation feeling fragile,
            overlooked, or anxious for the future:
hear this word from Revelation
            —not as condemnation, but as commissioning.

The shield of faith is not given only to the mighty, but to the weary.

And your faithfulness matters.

You are part of the story. You are part of the resistance.

Forming Communities of Resistance

But here’s the thing: we cannot do this alone.
            Resistance is not a solo sport.

The call is not just to individual endurance, but to communal faith.

·       The beast isolates; but the church gathers.

·       The empire fragments; but the church unites.

·       The world excludes; but the church embraces.

We are called to form communities of resistance
            —communities shaped not by fear, but by faith;
            not by domination, but by the radical inclusivity of the gospel.

These communities may look small. They may seem fragile.

·       But so did the early church.

·       So did the nonviolent marches in Alabama.

·       So do the candlelit vigils for ceasefire and peace.

These are the mustard seeds of God’s kingdom.

In London, in Wales, across these islands and beyond,
            God is forming such communities.

You are such communities.

• When you pray for peace and work for justice,
• when you welcome the refugee and listen to the marginalised,
• when you challenge economic injustice and embody environmental care,

You are resisting the beast.
            You are raising the shield of faith.

Resisting with Imagination: The Prophetic Role of the Church

If the beast thrives by limiting our vision
            —by convincing us that nothing can ever change—
then one of the most powerful tools of resistance the church holds
            is prophetic imagination.

The Book of Revelation itself is an act of radical imagination.
            It dares to see beyond the empire’s propaganda.

It paints alternative visions:
            of heavenly worship, of divine justice,
            of a new city descending from heaven in which every tear is wiped away.

These are not idle dreams.
            Rather they are declarations of what could be
            —and what, in God’s reality, already is.

And this is where the church comes in
            —not just as a place of sanctuary, but as a school of imagination.

Our calling is not merely to critique the powers that be,
            but to embody and imagine the world
            as it could be under the reign of the Lamb.

• When we gather and listen deeply to one another’s stories,
  we are imagining a world where all voices matter.
• When we shape our worship around justice and mercy,
  we are rehearsing the rhythms of the world to come.
• When we teach children to sing peace rather than power,
  we are planting seeds of transformation.
• When we organise with others—Muslim, Jewish, secular, or spiritual—
              towards shared goals for housing, wages, or safety,
  we are incarnating that vision in the here and now.

Such imagination is not escapism. It is resistance.
            Because if we cannot imagine a better world,
            we will never work for one.

So let the church be a place of dangerous dreaming.

·       Let our sermons, songs, and sacraments stir new hope.

·       Let our liturgies shape our loyalties.

·       Let our prayers stretch our politics.

And let us refuse to be confined by what empire tells us is possible.

Because the Lamb shows us a better way
            —and calls us to live it now as communities of resistance,
            faithful communities of endurance.

Conclusion: Daring to Hope

So where does this leave us, here today,
            gathered from the Baptist Union of Wales
            in the heart of the imperial capital?

I suggest it leaves us with a decision.
            A daily decision.

Will we align with the powers of domination,
            or will we bear witness to the power of the Lamb?

Revelation 13 is not the end of the story, you see.

The beast is not the final word.

The New Jerusalem is coming
            —not in some far-off future, but breaking in, even now,
            through faithful communities that dare to live differently.

Let us be such communities.
            Let us take up the shield of faith.

Let us proclaim with our words and with our lives that the beast is a lie,
            and the Lamb is Lord.

Let us say to our neighbours, our politicians, our churches, and ourselves:

·       Everyone is loved.

·       Everyone is welcome.

·       No-one is alone.

·       A better world is possible.

·       And we will work for it together.

For here is a call to the endurance and faith of the saints.
And by the grace of God, may we answer that call.

Amen.

Living the Alternative into Being

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

22^nd June 2025

Preached in honour of Elias D’eis, Executive Director of Holy Land Trust, Bethlehem

Leviticus 19.1–2, 9–18
Matthew 5.43–44

Before I begin the sermon, a brief word.

Today’s gospel reading “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you”—comes to us in a time of deep global conflict and pain, in Ukraine, in Sudan, in Palestine and Israel, and now also involving Iran.

Our guest preacher, Elias D’eis from Bethlehem, cannot be with us today because of the situation.

So I will be reflecting on the passages he chose, and on the work of those—like Elias—who seek creative, nonviolent paths to peace.

I know these themes stir strong emotions and differing perspectives.

My intention here is not to offer a political argument, but a gospel-shaped invitation: to see, as Jesus sees, the humanity of all people, and to imagine a future beyond vengeance and violence.

Let me say clearly at the outset: I condemn without hesitation the Hamas attacks of 7 October 2023, and I join with many across the world in calling for the immediate and unconditional release of all remaining hostages.

I invite you to listen with openness, prayerfulness, and compassion.

Blessèd are those who refuse the lie that one life is worth more than any other,
for theirs is the future of humanity.

Blessèd are those who have stared long into the abyss,
for theirs is honesty beyond grief.

Blessèd are those who resist retaliation,
for the earth will never be won by force.

Blessèd are those who would rather die for truth than live with compromise,
for the truth will outlive all lies.

Blessèd are those who forgive the unforgivable,
for they have seen the darkness of their own souls.

Blessèd are those who know themselves truly,
for they have seen themselves as God sees them.

Blessèd are those who are provocatively nonviolent,
for they are following the path of the son of God.

Blessèd are those who choose to receive violence but not to give it,
for the future is born out of such choices.

Blessèd are you when you stand up for truth
and hell itself decides to try and destroy you.
You're not the first and you won't be the last.

I'm telling you now, nothing makes any sense unless you learn see it differently,
and then choose to live that alternative into being.

There is a terrible irony in today’s service.

Elias D’eis, a Palestinian Christian living in Bethlehem, and the Executive Director of Holy Land Trust, was due to stand in this pulpit today, to speak to us of peace—peace grounded in justice, rooted in faith, and lived out in nonviolent resistance.

Holy Land Trust describe themselves as, ‘a non-profit Palestinian organization committed to fostering peace, justice and understanding in Palestine.’

They say, ‘We are deeply committed to exploring the root causes of violence and seeking to develop solutions to address them. We believe that true peace and justice is achieved through nonviolent activism, personal and spiritual transformation and empowering the resilience of the local communities.’

Elias’ presence in the UK this week,
    including an invitation to speak at the Glastonbury Festival
    was to have been a sign of hope and a provocation to courage.

And yet, as so often in his life, war has intervened.

Not this time the war between Israel and Gaza, though that continues.

But war with Iran. Another regional escalation, another set of borders closed, another voice of peace silenced.

And so today, we speak for him, even as we speak with him.

We listen for his voice among the prophets and among the peacemakers.

We take his absence not as a silence but as a summons—to the work of creative, nonviolent resistance in the face of violence and empire.

Leviticus and the Call to Holiness

Our first reading, from Leviticus, began with an invitation: “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.”

And it continued with a long list of what that holiness looks like.

It looks like refusing to hoard the abundance of your land.
It looks like honest dealings and fair wages.
It looks like justice in the courts, and care for your neighbour.
It looks like refusing to hate, refusing to take revenge, refusing to bear grudges.
It looks like love—radical, real, inconvenient love: “You shall love your neighbour as yourself.”

This is not a sentimental holiness. It is not the piety of the pure.

It is the fierce holiness of justice, of integrity, of loving the unlovable, of giving up what we think is ours so others may live.

This is the holiness to which the God of the Hebrew Scriptures calls the people of Israel—and calls us still.

Jesus, Enemy-Love, and the Radicalisation of Leviticus

Jesus knew his Torah.

He knew that the call to love one’s neighbour lay at the heart of the law.

But he also knew how quickly that love could be narrowed.

In the hands of frightened people, “love your neighbour” easily becomes “love your tribe”—and hate your enemy.

But Jesus does not let anyone off the hook.

“You have heard it said, ‘Love your neighbour and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

This is not naivety. It is the most courageous, the most costly, the most subversive teaching in all the gospel.

It is not passivity. It is a choice—a moral, spiritual, and political act: to refuse to return hatred for hatred, to refuse the logic of vengeance and retribution, to stand firm in love when the world calls for blood.

This is the path Elias walks.
And this is the path we are called to walk too.

Enemy-Love in the Landscape of Occupation

But what does it really mean to love an enemy when the enemy controls your land, your movement, your economy, and your sky?

It is easy—too easy—for those of us who live in relative security to quote Jesus and call for love.

But in the occupied West Bank, where Elias lives, this is not abstract theology. It is lived discipleship under duress.

Imagine hearing Jesus’ words not in Bloomsbury, but in Bethlehem.
Not from the pulpit of a free church, but from behind a military checkpoint.

Loving one’s enemy in such a context is not about feelings, but about refusing to mirror oppression.

It’s about resisting the colonisation of the heart. It means refusing to let one’s soul become as walled off as one’s city.

Holy Land Trust has worked to empower Palestinians to face their trauma—not by numbing it or escaping it, but by choosing a different response.

By training in trauma resilience and nonviolent communication, by learning to see the image of God in their adversary, they pursue transformation without hatred.

This is a hard calling. It doesn’t ask Palestinians to accept injustice. It invites them to struggle for justice without losing their humanity in the process.

And it invites us, as Christians in the UK, to ask difficult questions about what solidarity really means—especially when the state of Israel continues to be funded and armed by Western nations, including our own.

To love our enemies, in this case, may well mean challenging the policies of our friends.

The Witness of Elias D’eis and Holy Land Trust

Elias and the work of Holy Land Trust embody what Jesus teaches.

In the shadow of separation walls, military incursions, and intergenerational trauma, they choose to see the humanity of the other.

They choose to create spaces where enemy images can be dismantled.

They engage both Palestinians and Israelis in the hard, holy work of hearing one another’s stories.

They practise what we might call “moral imagination”—the capacity to imagine a future not yet born, and to begin living into it.

They teach nonviolence not as passivity, but as active, courageous resistance—the kind that seeks transformation rather than victory.

The Amos Trust, who were due to be bringing Elias to the UK this week, has supported this work, amplifying it here in the UK and building bridges between peacemakers across the world.

And we at Bloomsbury have not stood by. Our church has long been a place where such voices are welcomed, such visions are shared.

Church as Accompanier: Stories from the Borderlands

Our church has seen people from our congregation and wider community visit Palestine and Israel, with some participating in the Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme—ordinary disciples bearing extraordinary witness.

They have walked children to school past armed checkpoints. They have listened to olive farmers watching their groves be confiscated. They have stood in courts as false evidence was presented, and in silence as homes were demolished.

Their presence may not have stopped the bulldozers.

But it said to the people: you are not forgotten.
And to the powerful: someone is watching.

This is more than activism. It is theological accompaniment.

To accompany is to do what Jesus did on the road to Emmaus: to walk alongside the confused, the hurting, the angry, and the lost, and to help them find the story of resurrection even in the rubble.

The EAPPI volunteers come home changed.
And if we listen, their stories can change us too.

They invite us to see the Gospel in unexpected places—in refugee camps and checkpoints, in children’s laughter despite it all, and in tears shed not from weakness, but from knowing what costly love requires.

In a world that teaches us to pick a side, accompaniment reminds us that to stand with the vulnerable is not to be “against” anyone, but to be for the God who sees the oppressed and calls them beloved.

Beatitudes, Not Platitudes

Some years ago, I wrote a paraphrase of the Beatitudes. Not a softening, but a sharpening. Not platitudes, but calls to action. I read it at the beginning of the sermon. Let’s hear a few words of it again:

Blessèd are those who resist retaliation,
for the earth will never be won by force.

Blessèd are those who are provocatively nonviolent,
for they are following the path of the son of God.

Blessèd are those who choose to receive violence but not to give it,
for the future is born out of such choices.

These are not words for the faint of heart. But they are the words Elias lives by.

They echo the words of Jesus. And maybe they are the call of God to us today.

Peacemaking Beyond the Headlines

It is so easy to become numb.

We scroll headlines about Gaza, the West Bank, Jerusalem—death tolls rising, ceasefires collapsing, blame being cast like stones.

We form our opinions. We argue. We retreat into fatigue.

And slowly, the humanity drains out of the story.

But Jesus doesn’t call us to keep score. He calls us to make peace.

And the making of peace is a deeply human task. It cannot be done from a distance. It is not a policy paper or a hashtag.

It is the long, slow, painful work of building trust where there is fear, truth where there is propaganda, and love where there has been hatred.

Organisations like the Amos Trust help us do this.

They bring together peacebuilders like Elias and offer platforms for voices usually drowned out.

They connect communities here in the UK with partners in Palestine and Israel, so that the work of justice is not outsourced but shared.

When we support that work—not just financially, but relationally, spiritually, practically—we begin to live the beatitude that says:

Blessèd are those who choose to receive violence but not to give it,
for the future is born out of such choices.

That future is not inevitable. It must be imagined. It must be risked. It must be made.

That is the call before us.

Nonviolence as Prophetic Imagination”

Creative nonviolence is not merely a strategy.

It is a vision—a prophetic act of imagination in a world addicted to retaliation.

It’s what the Hebrew prophets embodied when they spoke truth to kings.

It’s what Jesus enacted when he turned the other cheek—not as submission, but as confrontation.

It’s what Gandhi and Martin Luther King and Oscar Romero
and Elias and the EAPPI volunteers
have all embodied in their refusal to let violence define the story.

Walter Brueggemann calls this “the prophetic imagination”—the ability to dream of a future that contradicts the present, and then to live as though that future were already coming true.

When an unarmed Palestinian youth chooses to plant olive trees in a bulldozed field, that is prophetic imagination.

When a church community here in London chooses to listen, to pray, to act for peace and justice in the Holy Land, that is prophetic imagination.

When we dare to believe that another world is possible, and then shape our lives accordingly, that is prophetic imagination.

And here’s the mystery at the heart of it all: when we choose to live that way, the Spirit breathes through our defiance.

We become, as Jesus said, “children of God.” Not in sentiment, but in substance.

The Cross and the Creative Path

Because at the heart of our faith stands a cross.

Not a sword. Not a flag. Not even a dove

But a cross—instrument of imperial execution, turned by God into the sign of salvation.

We must not sentimentalise it. The cross is where violence did its worst—and failed.

Jesus met domination not with retaliation, but with costly, creative love.

It’s tempting to think of nonviolence as weakness, but the cross says otherwise.

It is the power of God made perfect not in conquest but in vulnerability.

It is resistance that refuses to become what it hates.

It is the refusal to let Caesar, or any modern empire, define what is possible.

Elias knows this. That is why he walks the way of peace not as a political preference but as a theological necessity.

And we who claim to follow the crucified Christ cannot do otherwise.

The resurrection does not come in spite of the cross, but through it.

So we too must walk that path—not to glorify suffering, but to break its power.

This is what it means to live the alternative into being.

Conclusion

So, Elias D’eis could not be with us today. But his absence bears witness to the very forces his life resists.

Let us honour him not only with our prayers, but with our actions.

Let us honour his peacemaking by being peacemakers ourselves.

Let us choose the holiness of Leviticus, the enemy-love of Jesus, and the radical beatitudes that call us to live the alternative into being.

For only such choices will birth a future worth living for.

Amen.

<Silence>

Call to Action

The question, after a sermon like this—or indeed, after any sermon—is always:
What now?
What do I do next?

We’ve heard words that challenge and disturb, words that invite us into the costly work of peacemaking and enemy-love. But how do we turn reflection into faithful action?

As a church with a long-standing partnership with Christian Aid, I want to briefly highlight two simple but meaningful ways they are helping people like us engage with the realities facing Palestine and Israel.

You’ll find more details in Libby’s email next week, but let me offer you a preview.

The first is Christian Aid’s monthly online “Prayers for the Middle East”, held on the 24th of each month from 7 to 8pm. These are spaces for listening—to voices from the region, from Christian Aid’s partners and friends—and for praying together for a just peace in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territory.

https://www.christianaid.org.uk/get-involved/campaigns/prayers-for-peace

The second is a weekly act of embodied solidarity: the Fast for Gaza, where participants are invited to go without food for a day, or for part of a day, standing with the thousands of innocent civilians in Gaza who face the horror of starvation.

https://www.christianaid.org.uk/appeals/emergencies/dec-middle-east-humanitarian-appeal/fastforgaza

These may or may not be practices for you. But they raise the deeper question for all of us:
How do we respond—not just to a sermon, but to the woundedness of the world?

May we be people who not only hear the words of Jesus, but seek to live them.
And may our prayers, our fasting, our listening, and our action—however small—be signs of the alternative we long to see.

Amen.