Waiting with Mary

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

22^nd December 2024

 

Luke 1.26-38, 46-55
1 Samuel 2.1-10
 
In case you hadn’t noticed, Christmas is nearly upon us!
 
Even in the most tardy of festive households,
          the tree has been decorated by now;
Our carol services are over,
          and the final Christmas countdown has well and truly begun.
 
For many of us, particularly for the younger members of our families,
          the anticipation is almost too much to bear.
 
We can’t wait for Christmas Day, for the celebrations,
          the family gatherings, and the joy of marking Christ’s birth.
 
And yet, the church calendar tells us something else.
          We are still in Advent—still in the season of waiting.
 
Advent is a time that resists the rush to the celebrations of Christmas.
          It asks us to pause, to reflect, and to sit with the tension of waiting.
 
It reminds us that the story of salvation didn’t arrive
          fully formed in a single moment,
          but rather unfolded in God’s time.
 
But waiting isn’t easy,
          especially when our culture urges us to move faster and faster.
 
Yet Advent invites us to embrace the waiting as holy time
          —a time to prepare our hearts, to listen for God’s call,
          and to watch for signs of God’s work in the world.
 
As we look to Mary and Hannah today,
          we find two women who knew what it meant to wait.
 
And their stories remind us that waiting is not passive,
          but active and hopeful.
 
It is a time to trust in God’s promises,
          to prepare for the new things God is doing,
          and to live in the light of the hope that Christ brings.
 
So, even as the world rushes towards Christmas,
          let us take a moment today
                   to pause and wait with Mary and Hannah,
          allowing their faith to guide us in this season of expectation.
 
Hannah’s prayer from the pages of the Hebrew Bible
          is clearly echoed in the themes of Mary’s Magnificat.
 
And through the words of their songs, their poetry, their prayerful utternaces,
          we encounter two women, two ordinary individuals
          whose lives were dramatically shaped by God’s intervention.
 
Hannah’s longing for a child and her joyous thanksgiving
          resonate with Mary’s story of unexpected motherhood.
 
Together, they invite us to reflect on the challenges and hopes
          that accompany a life shaped by faith.
 
But Mary and Hannah’s stories are not fairy tales of easy triumph.
          They are accounts of real human struggle, resilience, and trust in God.
 
Mary’s Magnificat and Hannah’s prayer sing of a world turned upside down
          —a vision of justice and liberation
that begins not in the halls of power
          but in the lives of the humble and the vulnerable.
 
And their faith inspires us to wait with hope,
          even in times of uncertainty.
 
From religious icons to school nativity plays,
          the image of Mary is universally familiar.
She is revered in Christianity and Islam
          and often portrayed as serene and holy.
 
Yet Luke’s Gospel invites us to meet Mary as she truly was
          —a young, poor, Jewish girl
          whose life was upended by God’s extraordinary call.
 
Likewise, Hannah’s prayer of exaltation
          comes after years of sorrow and struggle,
showing us that God’s transformative work
          often begins in the most unexpected places.
 
Mary lived under the shadow of Roman occupation,
          an era marked by oppression and uncertainty.
 
Like millions of young women today
          —from Palestinian refugees awaiting justice
          to teenagers in conflict zones like Sudan—
Mary’s story begins in a context of instability and vulnerability.
 
She was an ordinary girl facing extraordinary circumstances.
          And yet, God chose her to bear the Messiah,
          showing that divine action often arises in the least expected places.
 
Hannah’s context was similarly challenging.
          As a childless woman in ancient Israel,
                   she faced societal shame and personal anguish.
 
Her prayer in the temple reflects her deep pain and longing.
          Yet, when God answered her prayer,
she responded not with possessiveness
          but with gratitude and dedication,
offering her son Samuel back to God.
 
Both women’s stories remind us
          that God’s promises often emerge
          from human vulnerability and struggle.
 
As we gather on the cusp of 2025,
          the cry of the Magnificat still resounds
          in the protests against injustice and inequality in our time.
 
From the cost-of-living crisis in the UK
          to the global outcry for climate justice,
the themes of Mary’s song feel as urgent as ever.
 
“He has brought down the powerful… and lifted up the lowly.”
          This is not just an ancient hope; it is a call to action.
 
Similarly, Hannah’s prayer proclaims God’s justice
          in lifting the needy from the ash heap
          and breaking the bows of the mighty.
 
Their songs challenge us to look at our world and ask:
          where do we see the hungry being filled,
          and where do we see the proud being brought low?
 
Both women’s contexts also speak
          to our shared human experience of waiting.
 
Hannah waited through years of heartbreak
          before God’s promise was fulfilled in her life,
while Mary faced the long, uncertain journey
          of raising the Messiah.
 
Waiting on God’s promises is a thread that connects us to their stories
          and invites us to trust in God’s faithfulness
          even when the path ahead seems unclear.
 
But when the angel greeted Mary,
          her response was not instant jubilation.
She was “perplexed” and deeply troubled.
 
Her fears were real—pregnancy out of wedlock in her culture
          carried severe risks.
She faced the prospect of rejection by Joseph,
          condemnation by her community,
          and the practical difficulties of raising a child in poverty.
 
Yet Mary’s response,
          “Let it be with me according to your word,”
          demonstrates her openness to radical trust in God.
 
Hannah’s story similarly reflects this dynamic of fear and faith.
 
For years she endured the pain of childlessness,
          a condition that brought her exclusion and shame.
Yet her heartfelt prayer at the temple
          demonstrates her unwavering trust in God.
 
When her prayer was answered,
          she responded not with possessiveness but with gratitude,
          dedicating her son Samuel to God’s service.
 
Both women show us that courage is not the absence of fear
          but the willingness to trust in God’s faithfulness.
 
Their stories invite us to reflect on our own fears and uncertainties.
          Have we ever faced a moment when God’s call seemed overwhelming?
          Have we struggled to trust in God’s plans for our lives?
 
Like Mary and Hannah, we are invited to respond with faith,
          even when the path ahead is unclear.
 
Their story reminds us that God often calls us to step into the unknown,
          trusting that we are part of something far greater than ourselves.
 
And Advent reminds us that such faith often involves waiting.
 
Mary’s journey was not a quick triumph.
          She waited for her child to grow, watched him face rejection,
          and stood by the cross as he was crucified.
 
Her life teaches us that God’s promises
          are fulfilled in God’s time, not ours.
 
Hannah also knew the pain of waiting.
          Her years of longing for a child seemed endless,
          and yet she continued to trust in God.
 
When her prayer was answered,
          it was not just a personal victory
but a moment that contributed to the larger story of God’s work in Israel.
 
Today, we wait for justice:
          for an end to the war in Ukraine,
                   for meaningful climate action,
          for systemic change to address wealth inequality.
 
And can we, like Mary and Hannah, learn to wait in hope,
          trusting that the God who began a good work
          will bring it to completion?
 
Such waiting is not passive, of course.
 
Like Mary, we prepare our hearts and our communities for God’s action.
 
This may involve advocacy, prayer, or acts of service,
          but it also involves a deep trust
          that God is at work in ways we cannot understand.
 
How might we, in our waiting,
          cultivate the kind of faith that sustains us through uncertainty
          and allows us to hold on to hope?
 
How might we see our periods of waiting
          as opportunities to grow in trust,
rather than simply as obstacles to be endured?
 
The story of Mary’s miraculous pregnancy
          reminds us that salvation, however it comes to us,
          is always God’s initiative.
 
In our culture of achievement, where value is so often tied to productivity,
          Mary’s story subverts this narrative.
 
It is not our efforts that bring God’s kingdom to birth in the world,
          but God’s gracious action.
 
Similarly, Hannah’s story also highlights God’s initiative.
 
Despite her deep longing for a child,
          it was ultimately God who acted in God’s time,
          transforming her sorrow into joy.
 
This does not mean passivity, for Mary, Hannah, or us...
          Instead, it calls us to align ourselves with God’s purposes.
 
Like Mary and Hannah, we say, “Here am I,”
          ready to participate in the unfolding of God’s justice and peace.
 
Our part is to trust and to act in response to God’s initiative.
 
Think of the ways in which these stories
          remind us of our dependence on God
          —not as a crutch but as a source of strength.
 
How might we reframe our own efforts,
          seeing them not as attempts to earn God’s favour
          but as responses to God’s call?
 
When we trust that God is the one who initiates and sustains,
          we can find freedom from the pressures
          of perfectionism and self-reliance.
 
The songs of Mary and Hannah resonate across the millennia,
          not merely as words on a page
but as melodies that echo
          through the lives of those who hear them.
 
Music has a unique power to embed truths within us.
          When set to rhythm and melody, words become more than speech
                    —they sing their way into our souls,
          shaping the way we think, act, and believe.
 
Hannah’s prayer and Mary’s Magnificat
          are not just declarations of faith;
they are acts of creation,
          singing the reality of God’s justice into being.
 
Through their music, these women gave voice
          to the transformative work of God,
a work that continues to resonate in the lives of the faithful today.
 
Their songs are not static relics of the past.
          They are living, breathing invitations for us to join in their melody
                    —to allow their faith to write itself into our lives,
          so that our actions, words, and hopes
                   begin to echo their trust in God.
 
When we sing their songs,
          we are reminded that faith is not confined to moments of worship.
 
It carries into every part of our lives,
          giving shape to the prayers we pray, the actions we take,
          and the hopes we nurture.
 
Their music lingers in time,
          reminding us that the rhythm of God’s justice
                   is one that calls us to dance, to act,
                   and to sing in harmony with God’s purposes.
 
The hymns and songs we sing in church
          do more than lift our spirits;
rather they root us in a tradition
          that proclaims hope, justice, and love.
 
They challenge us to live lives
          that embody the truths we sing.
 
As Mary’s Magnificat and Hannah’s prayer
          have sung themselves into being through centuries of faithful living,
so too are we invited to continue the song
          —to let its melody inspire the way we speak, serve, and hope.
 
How might we allow the songs of faith to echo in our lives?
          How might the melodies of Hannah and Mary inspire us
          to create harmonies of justice and hope in the world today?
 
Through their voices, may we find courage to sing our own songs of faith,
          carrying their truths forward into the world.
 
So, as we wait with Mary and Hannah this Advent,
          let us embrace their faith and courage.
 
Like Hannah, who trusted God through years of longing,
          and like Mary, who responded to God’s call
          with a resounding “Yes,”
we too are invited to trust in God’s promises.
 
Their stories remind us that God’s work
          often begins in moments of human vulnerability
          and grows into something transformative.
 
As Mary sang:
          My soul magnifies the Lord,
          and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour.
 
So may we be bearers of God’s justice, peace, and love,
          trusting that the God who called Mary and Hannah calls us too,
to be part of the salvation of the world.
 
Amen.
 

Rebuilding with Vision

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

15 December 2024

Isaiah 9.6-7; 61.1-11
Luke 4:16-21
 
This week, as we draw to a close
            our journey through the prophetic literature of the Old Testament,
we come to Isaiah 61,
            a passage bursting with hope and renewal.
 
It feels particularly poignant to read these words in this Advent season,
            as we reflect on what it means to wait in expectation
            and prepare for the coming of Christ.
 
But Advent is also a time for recognising
            that we are a people in need of restoration
—a people called to participate in the rebuilding of God’s world.
 
Isaiah 61 is set in the post-exilic period,
            after the Israelites returned from Babylon.
 
The return was supposed to be the fulfilment of their hopes,
            the moment when everything was made right.
 
But the reality was far from what they had dreamed.
            The city was in ruins, the temple destroyed, and the community fractured.
It wasn’t just the physical rebuilding that was daunting;
            it was the task of reimagining what their life together could be.
 
And Isaiah’s vision speaks directly to this moment of despair.
 
He proclaims good news to the oppressed, the binding up the broken-hearted,
            and he declares liberty for the captives.
 
He acknowledges the pain and loss
            but also casts a vision for a renewed society
            where God’s justice and righteousness flourish.
 
This context resonates deeply with our own.
 
The year 2024 finds us living in a world grappling with political turmoil,
            economic inequality, and the ongoing consequences of climate change.
 
In recent months, we've witnessed the resurgence of populism and nationalism,
            with divisions growing both within and between nations.
 
Economic uncertainties have left many feeling vulnerable,
            while the cost-of-living crisis continues to weigh heavily on families.
 
In such a world, the call to rebuild can feel overwhelming.
            Like the Israelites, we may find ourselves wondering where to begin.
 
But Isaiah reminds us that rebuilding begins with a vision
            —a vision that centres the vulnerable,
                        recognises the brokenness of the world,
            and proclaims God’s promise of restoration.
 
Isaiah’s vision also offers a profound blueprint for such rebuilding.
 
First, it centres the marginalised.
He begins by speaking directly to the oppressed,
            the broken-hearted, and the captives.
 
In doing so, he reminds us that any vision of renewal
            must start with those on the margins of society.
 
This is a consistent theme throughout Scripture:
            God’s work of restoration always begins with the least, the lost, and the last.
 
Second, Isaiah’s vision is one of transformation.
He speaks of exchanging ashes for a garland,
            mourning for the oil of gladness,
                        and a faint spirit for a mantle of praise.
 
This is not about superficial fixes or returning to the status quo.
            It is about deep, systemic change
            —a reordering of society that reflects God’s justice and righteousness.
 
And third, Isaiah’s vision is grounded in hope.
Even as he acknowledges the pain and loss of the present,
            he dares to look forward to a future
            where righteousness springs up like a garden in full bloom.
 
This hope is not naïve or wishful thinking;
            it is a bold proclamation that God is at work, even in the midst of despair.
 
As we reflect on this vision,
            we can draw inspiration from our own history as a church.
 
Bloomsbury has faced its share of challenges over the years,
            yet time and again, it has risen to the task of renewal.
 
During the Second World War, when attendance dropped to just a handful,
            the church became a sanctuary for service personnel passing through London.
 
After the war, faced with the stark reality
            that the old way of being a church could not continue,
the congregation embraced the challenge of starting afresh.
 
That resilience is a reminder to us today
            that the people of God are no strangers to the work of rebuilding.
 
Whether it is the literal rebuilding of a city after exile
            or the metaphorical rebuilding of a community after trauma,
the call remains the same:
            to participate in God’s work of restoration with courage and faith.
 
So what does this look like for us as we look now to 2025?
            How do we embody Isaiah’s vision in our own time and context?
 
One area where this vision feels particularly urgent is housing.
 
The housing crisis in the UK has reached critical levels,
            with thousands of people unable to afford a place to call home.
 
Through our work with Citizens UK,
            we have seen how communities can come together
                        to advocate for affordable housing
            and challenge policies that perpetuate inequality.
 
This is Isaiah’s vision in action
            —a society where the vulnerable are not forgotten
            but are placed at the centre of our rebuilding efforts.
 
Another pressing issue is the environment.
 
The climate crisis is not just a future threat;
            it is a present reality that demands urgent action.
 
Isaiah’s image of righteousness springing up like a garden
            is a powerful reminder that our relationship with the earth
            is part of God’s vision for restoration.
 
As a church, we are called to be stewards of creation,
            advocating for policies that protect the planet
            and living in ways that reflect our commitment to sustainability.
 
And then there is the task of rebuilding community.
 
In a world increasingly defined by division and isolation,
            the church has a unique role to play as a place of welcome and belonging.
 
This is not just about what happens within our walls;
            it is about how we engage with our neighbours,
                        build bridges across differences,
            and work together for the common good.
 
As we reflect on Isaiah’s vision
            for a world transformed by justice and healing,
we see its fullest expression in the life and ministry of Jesus.
 
In Luke 4:16-21, at the very beginning of his public ministry,
            Jesus stands in the synagogue, takes the scroll of Isaiah, and reads:
 
"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.”
 
Then, he declares, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”
 
This moment is profound.
            Jesus does not merely announce Isaiah’s vision; he embodies it.
 
In his ministry, we see what it means to bring good news to the poor,
            to bind up the broken-hearted, and to set captives free.
 
Jesus heals the sick, welcomes the outcast,
            feeds the hungry, and challenges systems of oppression.
 
Through him, Isaiah’s proclamation becomes tangible, practical, and immediate.
 
But note what else Jesus does:
            he locates the fulfilment of Isaiah’s vision in the present.
“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”
            Not tomorrow, not in some distant future, but today.
 
Jesus calls us to see that God’s work of justice and restoration
            is not something we wait passively for;
it is something we participate in actively, here and now.
 
In our context, this call is just as urgent.
 
Isaiah’s vision, as fulfilled in Christ, challenges us
            to confront the injustices of our world with the same boldness.
 
Who are the poor and broken-hearted in our society today?
            Who are the captives yearning for liberation?
Whether it is families trapped in cycles of poverty due to rising living costs,
            refugees seeking safety and belonging,
or communities facing the devastating impacts of climate change,
            Isaiah’s—and Jesus’—words compel us to respond.
 
This response must go beyond charity
            to embrace systemic change.
 
Jesus’ proclamation invites us to imagine and build a world
            where the oppressed are truly free
            and the structures of injustice are dismantled.
 
It calls us to ask hard questions
            about how our churches, communities, and nations
            reflect—or fail to reflect—God’s justice.
 
As followers of Christ, we are not only recipients of this good news;
            we are also its bearers.
 
The Spirit of the Lord is upon us, too,
            anointing us to continue Jesus’ mission of liberation, healing, and restoration.
 
This mission requires courage, creativity,
            and a deep commitment to the values of the kingdom of God.
 
At the heart of all this is the need for a clear vision.
 
Just as Isaiah’s words gave the Israelites a framework
            for imagining a renewed society,
so we too need a vision to guide us.
 
At Bloomsbury, we have already articulated this vision
            in our values, mission, and vision statements.
These are not just words on a website; they are a call to action,
            a reminder of who we are and what we are called to do.
 
As we look to the future, let us keep this vision before us.
            Let us commit ourselves to the work of justice, compassion, and hope.
Let us dare to believe that God is not finished with us
            —that the Spirit of the Lord is upon us,
anointing us to proclaim good news,
            to bind up the broken-hearted, and to rebuild the ancient ruins.
 
So as we gather this Advent,
            we hold together the tension of what is and what will be.
 
We acknowledge the darkness of the world,
            but we also proclaim the light of Christ.
 
We lament the brokenness of our communities,
            but we also commit ourselves to the work of restoration.
 
Isaiah’s vision calls us to live in hope
            —not a passive hope that waits for God to act,
            but an active hope that participates in God’s work of renewal.
 
It is a hope that dares to believe that the future can be different,
            that the present does not define what is possible,
and that God’s promises are as true today
            as they were thousands of years ago.
 
And as we consider the hope that Advent invites us to,
            it is vital to recognise the role of prayer in nurturing this hope
            and equipping us for the work of justice and restoration.
 
Prayer is not merely a private act of devotion;
            it is a generative practice that opens us to the presence of God,
                        deepens our attentiveness to others,
            and cultivates the courage and compassion needed to act in the world.
 
Such prayer begins with attentiveness.
 
In prayer, we turn our gaze toward God,
            seeking not only to speak but to listen.
 
This attentiveness to the divine
            reshapes our understanding of ourselves and the world.
 
It reminds us that we are part of something larger than ourselves
            —a story of redemption and renewal in which God invites us to participate.
 
But prayer also calls us to be attentive to others.
 
Isaiah’s vision centres the poor, the broken-hearted, and the oppressed,
            reminding us that God’s work of restoration is deeply relational.
 
In prayer, we bring before God the needs of our neighbours,
            our communities, and the wider world.
 
This practice cultivates empathy and compassion,
            expanding our capacity to see and respond to the suffering of others.
 
Such devotional spirituality is not a withdrawal from the world
            but a source of strength for engaging with it.
 
As we sit in the presence of God,
            we are reminded of the power of the Spirit to transform and renew.
 
This encounter with divine grace
            gives us the courage to face the challenges of our time
—to stand against injustice, to advocate for the vulnerable,
            and to work for the flourishing of all creation.
 
We see this in the example of Jesus,
            who often withdrew to pray, even in the midst of his ministry.
 
Those moments of solitude and communion with God
            sustained him for the demanding task of healing, teaching,
            and confronting systems of oppression.
 
In the same way, our prayer life can become the wellspring
            from which we draw the strength and clarity to act.
 
In our interconnected world, prayer also broadens our perspective,
            reminding us of our shared humanity.
 
As we pray for the global community,
            we become more aware of the injustices that cross borders
            —climate change, economic inequality, and the plight of refugees.
 
This awareness challenges us to move beyond parochial concerns
            and to embrace a vision of justice and peace that is truly global.
 
Advent therefore invites us into a posture of waiting and watchfulness,
            and prayer is the practice that sustains this posture.
 
As we wait for the light of Christ to break into the darkness,
            prayer keeps us grounded in hope.
 
It shapes us into people who not only long for a better world
            but are ready to work for it,
            confident in the knowledge that God’s Spirit is with us.
 
So may this Advent be a time of renewed devotion,
            as we open our hearts to God and to one another.
 
May our prayers lead us to act with courage, compassion,
            and unwavering hope in the promises of God.
 
May we, like the exiles of old,
            embrace this vision with courage and faith.
 
May we commit ourselves to the work of rebuilding,
            trusting that God’s Spirit is with us every step of the way.
 
And may we, in this Advent season, proclaim the good news
            that Christ comes to bring light to the darkness,
            hope to the despairing, and life to the world.
 
Amen.
 

Knitivity: "A Holy Yarn of Love"

Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

8th December 2024

Human Cast:
·       Narrator 1
·       Narrator 2
·       Reader/Prayer
 
Knitted Cast:
·       Mary
·       Joseph
·       Baby Jesus in the manger
·       Two Shepherds
·       Two Sheep
·       Three Wise Men

Narrator 1:
Welcome, everyone, to our Knitivity!
This morning, we’ll unravel the story of Christmas stitch by stitch.
 
You’ll help bring it to life as we meet our delightful cast of knitted characters.
As we follow the threads of the story, we’ll hear the words of Scripture and watch as this woolly wonder comes together. Let’s start with the Gospel of Luke, which introduces two key figures: Mary and Joseph.

Reading: Luke 1:26–35, 38
(The Annunciation: Gabriel appears to Mary)
The Birth of Jesus Foretold
²⁶ In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, ²⁷ to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. ²⁸ And he came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” ²⁹ But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. ³⁰ The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. ³¹ And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. ³² He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. ³³ He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.” ³⁴ Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” ³⁵ The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born^[c] will be holy; he will be called Son of God.
³⁸ Then Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Then the angel departed from her.

Narrator 2:
Here we have Mary, a young woman chosen by God to carry an extraordinary gift.
(Encourage the person with Mary to bring her to the front.)
 
Narrator 1:
And Joseph, a carpenter from Nazareth, was soon to be her husband. When he heard the news, he felt a little… tied up in knots. But an angel appeared to him too, and he knew he had to stay by Mary’s side.
(Encourage the person with Joseph to bring him to join Mary.)
 
Narrator 2:
Together, they travelled to Bethlehem, threading their way through the crowds, weaving their way towards an inn where the innkeeper let them snuggle down with the animals in the table. The city was bursting at the seams! And when they arrived, they discovered…

Reading: Luke 2:6–7
(Mary gives birth to Jesus and lays him in a manger.)
While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. ⁷ And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth and laid him in a manger, because there was no place in the guest room.

Narrator 1:
And here he is—Baby Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.
(Invite the Baby Jesus figure and the manger to be placed at the front.)
 
Narrator 2:
This humble manger reminds us that sometimes, the greatest treasures come in the simplest of packages.
And so, the scene begins to take shape: Mary, Joseph, and Jesus—the first stitches of the Christmas story.
(Pause briefly to allow reflection.)

 
Reading: Luke 2:8–14
(The shepherds hear the angels proclaiming the good news.)
The Shepherds and the Angels
⁸ Now in that same region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. ⁹ Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. ¹⁰ But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid, for see, I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: ¹¹ to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. ¹² This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” ¹³ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,
¹⁴ “Glory to God in the highest heaven,
    and on earth peace among those whom he favours!”

Narrator 1:
Now, let’s add some shepherds to our Knitivity.
(Invite the two shepherds to brought forward.)
 
Narrator 2:
They were out in the fields, minding their own sheepy business, when suddenly, the sky lit up! Angels appeared, singing a song that was woolly wonderful: "Glory to God in the highest!"
(Encourage the congregation to imagine the scene, perhaps with a soft "baa" or two from the audience.)
 
Narrator 1:
The shepherds quickly rounded up their flocks, including these two lovely sheep.
(The sheep figures are brought forward to join the shepherds.)
 
Narrator 2:
And off they went, faster than you can say “woolly jumpers,” to see this miraculous child.
 
Reading: Matthew 2:1–2, 9–11
(The wise men follow the star and offer gifts.)
The Visit of the Magi
2 In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, magi from the east came to Jerusalem, ² asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star in the east^[ and have come to pay him homage.”
⁹ When they had heard the king, they set out, and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen in the east,^[a] until it stopped over the place where the child was. ¹⁰ When they saw that the star had stopped,^[b] they were overwhelmed with joy. ¹¹ On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Narrator 1:
Meanwhile, far to the east, three wise men—or perhaps we should call them knit-wits—had seen a bright star in the sky.
(Encourage the three wise men to be brought forward.)
 
Narrator 2:
They followed the star, traveling for miles and miles. Surely they must have felt a bit unravelled along the way! But they pressed on, bringing gifts to honour the newborn King: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
 
Narrator 1:
And so, they arrived at the stable, completing our nativity scene. Let’s take a moment to admire the tapestry of this story, carefully woven together by God’s love.
(Pause to let the entire scene come together: Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus in the manger, the shepherds, the sheep, and the wise men.)
 
Narrator 2:
This Knitivity reminds us that the Christmas story is one of humble beginnings, of ordinary people called into extraordinary roles, and of God’s love knit into the fabric of our lives.
 
Narrator 1:
Just as each stitch in our knitted figures was crafted with care, so too are we made by God, each of us part of a beautiful pattern of love and hope.
Just like knitting, God’s love takes patience, care, and a willingness to bring together all the strands of life.
 
Narrator 2:
May this story stay with us, a thread that ties us to each other and to the miracle of Christmas; and may your Christmas be as warm and cozy as a hand-knitted blanket.
Let us close in prayer.

Closing Prayer:
Loving God,
We thank you for the gift of this day,
for the story of Christmas,
and for your Son, Jesus,
who came into our world,
wrapped in love like a blanket of wool.
 
Help us to remember that,
just as each stitch in our knitted figures was made with care,
so too are we made by your hands,
each of us a part of your perfect design.
 
May we carry the warmth of your love with us,
weaving peace, joy, and kindness into every day,
as we follow the light of Christ,
our Savior, and Shepherd.
 
In Jesus’ name we pray,
Amen.

 
Hymn
Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head;
the stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay,
the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.
 
Be near us, Lord Jesus, in a world full of pain,
Where hatred and sorrow so often remain.
Teach us to bring kindness, to care for the least,
And knit us together in love’s holy feast.
 
The earth groans in sorrow, yet your light still shines,
Through humble beginnings, your justice aligns.
Empower your people to bring hope anew,
And weave us as threads in the work you will do.         
                v.1 John T McFarland (1851-1913) #157
 

 
Reflection: Holy Love in a Troubled World
As we look at our completed Knitivity, it’s tempting to imagine that the Christmas story is a soft and sentimental tale, full of warm stables, twinkling stars, and joyful shepherds.
 
But the world into which Jesus was born was anything but peaceful or idyllic. It was a world of violence, oppression, and uncertainty.
 
Mary and Joseph lived under Roman rule, where the wealthy and powerful exploited the poor and vulnerable.
 
The trip to Bethlehem wasn’t a romantic journey—it was a forced migration, imposed by an occupying empire for the purposes of taxation.
 
Jesus was born in a stable not because of its charm, but because there was no place for him elsewhere.
 
From his very first moments, his life reflected the marginalisation and vulnerability of so many in our world today.
 
And yet, into that world—so broken, so divided—God came.
 
Not in power or privilege, but as a fragile baby, vulnerable to hunger, cold, and violence.
 
God came into the mess of human existence not to escape it, but to redeem it from within.
 
Facing Our World Today
Today, we still live in a world marked by violence, selfishness, and environmental crisis.
 
Wars displace families, just as they displaced Mary and Joseph.
 
Greed drives inequality, hoarding resources while others go without.
 
Our planet groans under the weight of our misuse, with ecosystems unravelling like a threadbare garment.
 
And yet, the story of Christmas reminds us that hope is not absent, even here.
 
Just as Jesus was born into a world of chaos and pain, so too can new hope and new life emerge in our time.
 
But hope doesn’t come passively. Mary and Joseph responded to God’s call with courage.
 
The shepherds left their flocks to witness the good news.
 
The wise men travelled far, offering gifts in humility.
 
Christmas is not just about receiving the gift of God’s love; it’s about participating in it—becoming agents of hope, justice, and change in the world.
 
What Does This Mean for Us?
As we face the challenges of our time, the Knitivity offers us some powerful themes to hold onto:
 
1.     Vulnerability is Strength: 

Just as God chose to come into the world in the vulnerability of a child, we are called to embrace the strength found in humility and compassion.
 
Real change begins when we are willing to confront the pain and brokenness around us.
 
2.     Community is Essential: 

The Christmas story isn’t just about individuals—it’s about people coming together.
 
Mary and Joseph, shepherds and wise men, all gathered around Jesus.
 
In a world of division, we must weave stronger communities, caring for one another and working together for justice.
 
3.     Creation Matters: 

Jesus was laid in a manger—a feeding trough for animals—and his first visitors were shepherds.
 
This story reminds us that God’s care extends to all creation.
 
As we face a climate crisis, we are called to protect and nurture the earth, honouring it as God’s gift.
 
4.     There is Always Hope: 

The star the wise men followed still shines, calling us to believe that even in the darkest times, light will break through.
 
But like the wise men, we must act.
 
Hope is not passive—it calls us to live differently, to challenge systems of greed and violence, and to bring God’s peace to a world that desperately needs it.

 
Conclusion
The Christmas story is not escapism—it’s resistance.
 
It’s a declaration that even in a world of darkness, God’s light cannot be extinguished.
 
It’s an invitation to join God’s work of restoration, to be threads of hope woven into the fabric of a broken world.
 
So as we leave our service this morning, let’s carry the lessons of the Knitivity with us.
 
Let’s remember the vulnerability of Jesus, the courage of Mary and Joseph,
            the faith of the shepherds, and the persistence of the wise men.
 
And let’s commit ourselves to be people of hope
            —living, loving, and working for a world
where peace, justice, and joy reign,
            just as they did that holy night in Bethlehem.
 
Amen.
 

Resistance is never futile

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

1 December 2024

Advent 1

Daniel 6.6-27

Revelation 13.1-10

Introduction: A World Demanding Our Allegiance

As we gather at the beginning of this Advent season,

            we do so at a time when the world feels more polarized than ever.

 

Across nations, we are witnessing the rise of leaders and ideologies

            that thrive on division, fear, and the consolidation of power.

 

From Trump’s re-election in the United States

            to the growth of far-right movements in Europe and beyond,

a dangerous narrative is emerging:

            one that demands unquestioning loyalty, silences dissent,

            and marginalizes those who do not fit the mould

            of what is deemed acceptable or worthy.

 

These forces often cloak themselves in promises of security,

            prosperity, or national greatness,

but their underlying goal is to claim for themselves

            allegiance that rightly belongs to God alone.

 

They seek to define our values, control our priorities,

            and shape our sense of identity and community.

 

Like King Darius in the story of Daniel,

            or the beast described in Revelation 13,

these powers demand worship

            —whether that worship takes the form of blind nationalism,

                        unregulated consumerism,

            or the idolisation of strength and dominance.

 

This is not a new story.

 

Throughout history, empires and leaders have sought to dominate

            through fear and coercion,

from the time of the Babylonian exile,

            to the Roman Empire of the first century,

            to modern authoritarian regimes.

 

Such empires have always tried to persuade people

            to trade their faith and integrity

            for promises of comfort or survival.

 

And yet, in every age, faithful people have stood up to say, “No.”

 

Daniel, thrown into the lion’s den

            for refusing to bow to earthly power,

            is one such example.

 

The faithful described in Revelation 13,

            who refused to worship the beast

            despite the risk of persecution, are another.

 

These stories remind us that the call to resist oppressive forces

            is not only ancient—but it is also deeply relevant today.

 

As Christians in the 21^st century, we face this same challenge.

 

The pressures we encounter to conform

            may not always look like a decree from a king, or the mark of a beast,

            but they are no less real.

 

We are constantly confronted by ideologies that tempt us to compromise:

            the relentless push for economic gain at the expense of others,

            the demonisation of the vulnerable,

            the glorification of violence and dominance.

 

In this context, the season of Advent calls us

            to examine where our true allegiance lies.

It reminds us that we belong to a kingdom

            that stands apart from the powers of this world

            —a kingdom of peace, justice, and love.

 

So the question before us today is this:

            will we remain faithful to that kingdom,

            resisting the forces that seek to draw us away?

Or will we give in to the temptation to conform,

            to follow the crowd, to prioritize comfort over conviction?

 

This is not an easy question, because resistance is costly.

            It requires courage, sacrifice, and a willingness to stand firm

            even when the world seems to be moving in the opposite direction.

 

But as we see in both Daniel’s story and the vision of Revelation,

            resistance is also a profound act of hope.

It proclaims that no matter how powerful earthly empires may seem,

            their rule is temporary.

 

Whereas God’s kingdom is eternal.

 

So this Advent, as we prepare to celebrate the coming of Christ,

            we are reminded that his birth was itself an act of resistance

            —a challenge to the powers and principalities of the world.

 

And Christ’s coming invites us to participate in that resistance,

            living as people of hope and faith

            in a world demanding our allegiance to anything but God.

 

The Beast and the Lion’s Den: Parallels of Oppression

So let’s turn now to our texts for this morning,

            where first we meet this powerful image

            of a beast rising from the sea in Revelation 13:1–10

 

It is as terrifying as it is symbolic.

 

This beast, with its ten horns and seven heads,

            represents the overwhelming power of empire,

            wielding authority over the nations and demanding worship.

 

Its might is such that the people cry out,

            “Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it?”

 

This question reflects the deeply ingrained fear

            that haunts all those who might consider taking a stand of resistance

            against powerful forces or ideologies:

the fear that resistance is futile,

            that no power can stand against such overwhelming force.

 

In Daniel’s story, we encounter a different but related kind of empire.

 

King Darius, though portrayed as a somewhat sympathetic ruler,

            becomes complicit in an oppressive system

when he allows his advisors to manipulate him

            into passing a decree that turns him into a god-like figure.

 

This decree—demanding exclusive worship of the king under threat of death—

            reveals the essence of empire, in every age including our own:

the desire to control not just people’s actions,

            but their very allegiance and faith.

 

At first glance, these two narratives may seem far removed from our own time.

            After all, no one today is demanding we worship a literal king or beast.

And yet, as we dig deeper, we see all too easily

            that the dynamics of oppression, coercion, and domination

            are alive and well in our world.

 

Consider the powers and systems that demand our allegiance today.

 

They may not always carry the outward symbols of empire,

            but their mechanisms are just as insidious.

 

Nationalistic leaders demand loyalty to their vision of “greatness,”

            often at the expense of truth, justice, and compassion.

 

Consumerist ideologies insist that our worth is tied to what we buy or achieve,

            rather than who we are as beloved children of God.

 

Militaristic narratives glorify strength and violence as the path to security,

            overshadowing the Gospel’s call to peace.

 

The parallels to Daniel and Revelation are striking.

 

Last week Liz and I went to Lord Mayor’s show,

            something I always enjoy, but always with a sense of unease.

The parade showcases the latest in military hardware

            with soldiers in uniform high-fiving children,

along with the great wealth of London’s ancient livery companies,

            all shot through with stirring nationalistic marching music

            and more union jacks than you can shake a flag at!

 

And like Darius’s decree, today’s ideologies often seek to suppress dissent,

            whether through legal systems, economic pressures, or cultural norms.

 

They punish those who refuse to conform,

            whether that punishment comes as public ridicule, exclusion,

            or more severe consequences.

 

Similarly, the beast of Revelation

            —with its blasphemous claims and demand for worship—

reflects the way modern systems of power

            elevate themselves to god-like status.

 

Governments, corporations, and cultural narratives

            often position themselves as ultimate authorities,

promising salvation through their policies, products, or philosophies.

 

They ask us to place our trust in them,

            to bow before their vision of the world,

            even when that vision contradicts the values of God’s kingdom.

 

Yet in both Daniel and Revelation,

            we find a powerful message of hope and resistance.

 

When Daniel is faced with the choice of obeying Darius’s decree

            or remaining faithful to God, he chooses faithfulness,

            even though it means facing the lion’s den.

 

His quiet act of defiance—continuing to pray as he always had—

            becomes a profound statement of resistance

            against a system that sought to control his allegiance.

 

In Revelation, the faithful are described as those who refuse to worship the beast,

            even though this choice leads to suffering.

 

They endure, not because they are unaware of the cost,

            but because they know that ultimate power belongs to God.

The beast’s authority, while immense, is temporary,

            and its defeat is certain.

 

These stories remind us that the powers of oppression,

            though overwhelming at times, are not invincible.

 

They may roar like lions or trample like beasts,

            but their reign is limited.

God’s kingdom, by contrast, is eternal and unshakeable.

 

For us today, the question is clear:

            where will we place our allegiance?

 

Will we bow to the pressures of the world,

            allowing fear, greed, or apathy to dictate our actions?

 

Or will we stand firm, like Daniel and the faithful in Revelation,

            proclaiming through our lives that we belong to a different kingdom

            —a kingdom of justice, mercy, and peace?

 

This is no easy task.

 

The beast of Revelation and the empire of Darius

            are not defeated by sheer human effort.

 

Their defeat comes through the enduring faithfulness

            of those who trust in God.

 

And so our resistance must be rooted in faith

            —a faith that trusts in God’s power to overcome,

            even when the odds seem insurmountable.

 

As we reflect on the parallels between the beast and the lion’s den,

            and how they speak to our experience of power in our world,

let us remember that resistance is not primarily about grand gestures

            or dramatic confrontations.

 

Sometimes, it is as simple as continuing to pray, to speak truth, to act justly,

            when the world demands otherwise of us.

 

It is in these acts of quiet faithfulness that we proclaim the ultimate victory

            of God’s kingdom over every oppressive power.

 

Faithful Resistance: A Call to Trust in God

So what might it mean for us to resist faithfully?

 

Daniel’s story and the vision of Revelation 13

            paint a vivid picture of what it looks like to stand firm in allegiance to God

            when faced with immense pressure to conform.

 

But faithful resistance is not about stubborn defiance for its own sake.

            Rather, it is a deep commitment to God’s vision for the world

                        —a vision of justice, compassion, and peace—

            a commitment that refuses to bow to the demands of oppressive powers.

 

In Revelation 13, we encounter a stark image of empire at its most brutal.

            The beast wields authority over nations and peoples,

                        and its power seems overwhelming.

            It blasphemes, it intimidates, and it demands worship.

 

It is, of course, an image for the emperor of Rome,

            but it’s also an image that can be applied

            to other ‘emperors’ down the centuries.

 

I wonder how this Beast might fare in a presidential election?

            What do you think?

 

The text acknowledges the reality of suffering for those who resist:

            “If anyone is to be taken captive, to captivity they go;

            if anyone is to be killed with the sword, with the sword they will be killed”

            (Revelation 13:10).

 

This is no naïve call to resistance. The stakes are high, and the cost is real.

            As Martin Luther King knew when he called people to nonviolent resistance

                        in the American Civil Rights struggle,

            people were going to die.

 

Yet the passage nonetheless calls for “the endurance and faith of the saints”.

            And the endurance envisaged here is not passive.

 

It is an active, courageous decision, to trust in God’s ultimate sovereignty,

            even when the odds seem insurmountable.

 

And this is the kind of trust we see in Daniel,

            who continues to pray to God despite knowing the consequences.

 

His resistance is quiet but unwavering.

            He does not try to fight or flee; he simply remains faithful.

 

This type of nonviolent faithful resistance challenges the logic of the world,

            which so often equates power with domination, and survival with submission.

 

Instead, it embraces the paradox of the Gospel:

            that true strength is found in vulnerability,

            and true victory in surrendering to God’s purposes.

 

Faithful resistance also requires discernment.

 

Daniel’s decision to continue praying,

            even when it meant defying the king’s decree,

            was not a reckless act of rebellion.

 

It was a deliberate choice rooted in his relationship with God.

 

Similarly, the saints in Revelation 13

            do not resist the beast out of pride or personal gain,

but out of a profound conviction

            that their ultimate allegiance belongs to the Lamb who was slain.

 

For us today, this kind of resistance invites us to examine our own lives

            and ask: where is our allegiance?

 

Are we placing our trust in the powers of this world

            —be it political and military systems, economic stability, or cultural acceptance?

 

Or are we grounding our trust in God,

            who calls us to live as citizens

            of a kingdom that transcends all earthly powers?

 

Faithful resistance also means recognizing

            the subtle ways in which oppressive systems infiltrate our lives.

 

It’s not always as obvious as a decree demanding worship of a king or a beast.

            It can be the small compromises we make to fit in,

            the ways we stay silent in the face of injustice,

            or the times we choose comfort over conviction.

 

Resistance begins when we notice these patterns and choose a different path.

 

This resistance is not without cost.

            Like Daniel, we may face ridicule, exclusion, disadvantage or even danger

                        for standing firm in our faith.

 

But the promise of both Daniel and Revelation

            is that God is with us in the struggle.

 

Daniel was not alone in the lion’s den;

            God sent an angel to shut the lions’ mouths.

The saints in Revelation endure not because of their own strength,

            but because they know their names are written in the book of life.

 

Faithful resistance, you see, is also an act of hope.

            It proclaims that the powers of this world, no matter how mighty they seem,

            are ultimately subject to God’s authority.

 

And when we resist, we declare that God’s kingdom

            —a kingdom of justice, peace, and love—

is more real and more lasting than any empire or ideology.

 

In practical terms,

            faithful resistance might look like standing up for those

            who are marginalized or oppressed.

 

It might mean challenging systems

            that exploit the vulnerable or perpetuate inequality.

 

It might involve acts of solidarity, advocacy,

            or even simple kindness that defy the logic of self-interest.

 

But faithful resistance is not just about what we do;

            it is also about who we are.

 

It calls us to be people of integrity,

            whose lives bear witness to the values of God’s kingdom.

 

It is about aligning our actions, words, and decisions

            with the justice and mercy of God,

            even when it is costly or countercultural.

 

Ultimately, faithful resistance is a call to trust in God.

 

It is a call to believe that God’s kingdom is breaking into the world,

            even when the evidence seems to suggest otherwise.

 

It is a call to live in the hope that no beast, no empire,

            no power of this world can separate us from the love of God.

 

As we see in both Daniel’s story and the vision of Revelation,

            faithful resistance is never futile.

 

It is a proclamation of hope, a testimony to the enduring power of God,

            and a hopeful participation in the coming of God’s kingdom.

 

The Hope of Advent: A Kingdom That Will Never End

And so we find ourselves here in Advent, the season of hope

            —a time when we look beyond the brokenness of our world

            and lift our eyes to the promises of God.

 

It is a season that calls us to remember that,

            though the powers of this world may seem strong,

            their reign is temporary.

 

Daniel’s story and the vision in Revelation 13 remind us that oppressive powers

            —whether symbolized by a lion’s den or a monstrous beast—

            do not have the final word.

 

The hope of Advent is that God’s kingdom,

            unlike the empires of this world, will never end.

 

The Advent season is rooted in waiting,

            but it is not a passive or resigned waiting.

It is an active anticipation of what is to come.

 

As followers of Christ who comes as light to a dark world,

            we do not wait as those who despair

            but as those who live in hope,

knowing that the coming of Christ signals the breaking in of God’s kingdom

            where justice, peace, and love reign forever.

 

Signs of Hope in a Broken World

The hope of Advent is not naïve

            or detached from the pain of the world.

It is a hope that comes

            precisely because we know how broken things are.

 

Daniel’s hope in the lion’s den was not a denial of his predicament;

            it was a trust in God’s power to deliver him, even in the face of death.

The saints in Revelation endure not because they are blind to the beast’s power,

            but because they trust in the Lamb’s ultimate victory.

 

Today, we are called to look for signs of hope,

            even amidst the darkness.

 

And we find that hope in the courage of those who stand up for what is right,

            in the acts of compassion that restore dignity,

and in the resilience of communities

            that refuse to be defined by their suffering.

 

Every time we see love triumph over hate,

            justice over oppression, and truth over lies,

we catch a glimpse of God’s kingdom breaking into our world.

 

Proclaiming the Kingdom Through Our Lives

Advent invites us not just to hope for the kingdom

            but to participate in it.

As followers of Christ,

            we are called to be witnesses to God’s coming reign.

 

This means living in ways that reflect the values of the kingdom

            —loving our neighbours, standing up for the vulnerable,

            and working for peace and justice.

 

When we resist the forces of oppression and dehumanization,

            when we choose to forgive rather than retaliate,

            when we extend hospitality to the stranger,

we are proclaiming that God’s kingdom is real and present.

 

We become signs of hope for others,

            demonstrating that another way is possible.

 

The Promise of God’s Eternal Kingdom

And so Advent is ultimately a season of promise.

            It is a reminder that the story of the world is not one

                        of endless cycles of power and decay

            but of redemption and renewal.

 

The birth of Jesus signals that God has not abandoned creation

            but is actively working to restore it.

 

This is the hope of Advent: that God’s kingdom will never end,

            and all things will be made new.

 

So, as we wait and watch a dark world this Advent,

            let us do so with hope.

 

Let us resist the powers

            that seek to draw us away from God’s purposes,

and let us live as citizens of a kingdom that is eternal.

 

For the hope of Advent is not just that Christ has come,

            but that Christ comes again, to each of us,

being born anew in our lives

            as we open ourselves to the hope and mystery of God.

 

May this hope sustain us, guide us, and inspire us

            to live as people of hope and resistance,

proclaiming the good news of a kingdom that will never end.