When Love Breaks Rules: On Being the 'Wrong Kind' of Christian

Have you ever found yourself, perhaps without even realising it, thinking about God's perfect kingdom and ultimate future in a way that subtly diminishes the importance of our present reality? It's something I've been pondering quite a bit recently. There's a theological idea that speaks to this: unrealised eschatology, which often stems from a kind of Platonic dualism. Essentially, it's the notion that the ideal world we hope for exists 'beyond' us, and our current life is merely an imperfect, less significant reflection of it. When this way of thinking takes root, it can quietly lead us to separate heaven and earth, making our present struggles and calls to justice feel secondary to a glorious future still far off. And, if I'm honest, it can create a surprising passivity, where we're waiting for everything to be made right 'someday' instead of actively engaging with God's kingdom breaking in right here, right now.

This line of thought brings me to another crucial concept: interpretation. Stanley Fish famously said, "Interpretation is the only game in town." And indeed, in faith as in life, we are constantly engaged in making sense of our world, our scriptures, and our shared beliefs. But if we are going to play this "interpretation game," we must ask: Who gets to write the rules, and who are the umpires? My hope is that the umpires include our biblical scholars—those dedicated individuals who immerse themselves in ancient texts, languages, and contexts to help us understand the Bible on its own terms. 

I remain deeply wary of those who attempt to write the rules of interpretation in such a way as to predetermine the outcome. When the rules are fixed to confirm pre-existing biases, the game is no longer about genuine discovery or faithful wrestling; it's about enforcing a particular cultural orthodoxy.

The Rules of the Game: Orthodoxy vs. Costly Love

In sport, the rules define the game you’re playing—football, rugby, Formula 1. Similarly, in church life, different traditions—Anglican, Baptist, or various academic streams—operate by different rules, shaping their worship, community, and understanding of discipleship. But what happens when the "rules" seem to contradict the very heart of the Gospel?

There are days when, as a minister, I find myself wondering why I so often seem to be on the ‘wrong’ side of things, at least in the eyes of some of my Christian friends. My convictions lead me to positions that, for some, fall outside the perceived boundaries of Christian orthodoxy. I am LGBTQ+ inclusive. I affirm the dignity of trans people. I support the legal option of assisted dying where appropriate, believing in compassion at life’s end. I believe women should not be criminalised for having late-stage abortions, understanding the desperate circumstances that can lead to such decisions. And I stand in solidarity with the Palestinian people. I grieve the horrific violence of October 7th, and I equally grieve the catastrophic violence that has followed. I firmly believe that justice for Palestinians is not opposed to peace for Israelis; rather, true and lasting peace will never come without justice. I name the systems of occupation and apartheid not because I hate Israel, but because I love humanity and believe in the inherent dignity of all people.

These positions, taken together, frequently place me at odds with parts of the Church. At best, I’m tolerated; at worst, I’m accused of abandoning the faith. But the truth is, I hold these convictions because of my faith, not in spite of it. I hold them because I follow a Christ who stood with the outcast, who touched the untouchable, who crossed boundaries of ethnicity, gender, and purity to proclaim good news to the poor and liberty to the oppressed.

Jesus: The Original "Wrong Kind" of Religious Person

Sometimes it feels as though Christianity, especially in its more institutional or conservative expressions, has become more concerned with defending cultural orthodoxy than with truly embodying Christ. It’s as if the point has become to draw lines around who’s "in" and who’s "out," rather than to walk with those whom society—and often religion itself—has pushed out.

I’m not trying to be difficult, or to ‘go against the grain’ for the sake of it. But when I look at Jesus, I see someone who was constantly getting into trouble for breaking the rules in the name of love. He healed on the Sabbath, ate with sinners, spoke to women in public, and touched the unclean. He, too, was considered the ‘wrong’ kind of religious person by the establishment of his day. He, too, was misunderstood by his own.

And perhaps that’s the point. The gospel has never been about protecting power or preserving purity in a rigid, isolating sense. It’s always been about a radical, risky solidarity with those at the bottom of the pile. That includes queer teenagers navigating a world that often rejects them. That includes dying people facing painful choices about their final moments. That includes women in desperate circumstances making incredibly difficult decisions. And yes, that includes Palestinians living under military occupation.

To stand with these people—to see their humanity and affirm their dignity—is not a betrayal of the gospel. It is, in fact, its fulfilment. It is a tangible expression of a realised eschatology, bringing the perfect love and justice of God’s kingdom into the imperfect present.

I believe we are called to play the game of faith with rules shaped by Christ’s radical love and unwavering solidarity. This is the only kind of Christianity worth living.

If you’ve found yourself called the ‘wrong kind’ of Christian for embracing compassion and justice, take heart. You may be walking the same narrow, costly path Christ walked—a path that leads not to exclusion, but to the abundant life found in radical love.

Grace and Peace in an Age of Empire

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

27 July 2025

Series: Revelation: An Unveiling for Our Times

Revelation 1.4–8; John 8.13–20

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come.

We begin this new preaching series on the Book of Revelation
            with the words that begin John’s own letter
            to the seven churches of Asia Minor.

Words that were meant to be read aloud in the gathered assembly,
            perhaps in a room not so different from this one: Grace and peace.

It’s a striking place to start.

Because if you asked people on the street today
            to describe the Book of Revelation in one phrase,
            I suspect most wouldn’t say “grace and peace.”

They might say “end of the world,” “apocalypse,” “doom,” or “judgment.”
            They might recall beasts and plagues, dragons and destruction.
Some might even remember being told
            that Revelation predicted specific events of our times
            —wars in the Middle East, European political unions,
                        microchips as the mark of the beast.

For many, Revelation has been a text of terror.

But John begins with “grace and peace.”

This is our first clue that we have often misread this extraordinary book.
            And it is our invitation, at the start of this new series, to ask:
            What if Revelation isn’t about escaping the world,
                        but seeing it more truly?

What if it is not an instruction manual for the end times,
            but a pastoral letter for difficult times?
What if it is not a code to be cracked, but a vision to be entered?

John’s first hearers lived in the shadow of empire.

Rome dominated the Mediterranean world.
            Its armies enforced a peace that came at the price of subjugation.
Its emperors claimed divine honours.
            Its temples and markets and forums and statues
            shouted an unending propaganda campaign:
                        Rome is eternal. Caesar is Lord.

And yet John begins with ‘Grace and peace’?

For the Christians of Asia Minor—small, marginal communities,
            facing local hostility and the looming threat of imperial persecution
            —grace and peace were not cheap words.
They were not the marketing slogans of empire.

They were subversive.
            They were counter-imperial.
They proclaimed another Lord, another kingdom, another reality.

And so, John writes to these seven churches with the bold greeting:

“Grace to you and peace from him who is and who was and who is to come, and from the seven spirits who are before his throne, and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth.” (1.4)

Let’s listen carefully to that greeting.

John does something very deliberate here:
            he repurposes the form of a letter to speak a prophetic word.

Revelation is not just a strange vision. It is a letter.

It is written to real communities
            —Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira,
            Sardis, Philadelphia, Laodicea.
Communities with real fears and real hopes.
            These are real places: Liz and I visited them a few years ago.

And John wants the people in these towns to know: this vision is for you.
            It is for your life.
            It is for your witness.

It is not an escape from history.
            It is an unveiling of its true shape.

“Grace and peace” is how Paul begins his letters too.
            But here the source of that grace and peace is named with radical specificity.

It is not Caesar who gives peace.

It is not Rome that secures grace.

In John’s letter, Grace and Peace come from
            “the one who is and who was and who is to come.”
This is the God who transcends time.
            The God who is not caught in empire’s cycles of violence and revenge.
            The God who holds history in sovereign hands.

It is “the seven spirits before his throne” (1.4)
            —a symbol of the fullness of the Spirit of God.

And it is “Jesus Christ.”

Now John slows down. He can’t just mention Jesus in passing.
            He has to describe him.

“Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead,
            and the ruler of the kings of the earth.” (1.5)

This threefold title is the key to everything.

First: the faithful witness.

In Greek, the word here is martys,
            which is the root of our word martyr.

Jesus is the one who bore witness to God’s truth even to the point of death.
            He did not compromise.
            He did not accommodate to empire.
He testified to the kingdom of God.

And for that, he was executed by imperial power.

To confess Jesus as faithful witness
            is to remember that truth-telling can be dangerous.

It is to acknowledge that the gospel is not neutral.
            It is not simply “good advice” for living better.

It is good news that challenges the lies of empire.

Rome proclaimed: Caesar is Lord.
            John proclaims: Jesus is Lord.

Rome promised peace through victory.
            John proclaims peace through the cross.

Rome demanded loyalty even to death.
            John proclaims Christ who remained loyal even unto death, for our freedom.

Second: the firstborn of the dead.

Jesus was killed—but God raised him.
            At the resurrection, Rome’s ultimate weapon—death itself—was defeated.

For John’s hearers, living in fear of persecution,
            this was no abstract theology. It was hope.

If Christ has been raised, so will those who remain faithful.
            If Christ lives, then Caesar’s threats are empty.

Third: the ruler of the kings of the earth.

This is breathtaking.

This is not saying that Jesus will be ruler one day.
            Nor is it saying that his reign is in spiritual terms.

But rather, the claim John is making hers
            is that Jesus is now the ruler of the kings of the earth.

John wants his readers to see the present
            in light of God’s ultimate reality.

It doesn’t look like Jesus rules.
            It looks like Caesar does.
It looks like violence wins, wealth triumphs, oppression is unchallenged.

But Revelation says: look again.

Look from heaven’s perspective.
            See who really reigns.
See whose kingdom will endure.

John then breaks into doxology, into thanksgiving:

“To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father…” (1.5-6)

This is the gospel in miniature.

Jesus loves us.
            Jesus frees us.
Jesus makes us into something new.

Not a people waiting passively for heaven.
            Not a people resigned to empire’s rule.
But a kingdom of priests.

Think about that.

A kingdom—but not like Rome.
            A kingdom not built on violence, but on love.
A kingdom not ruled by coercion,
            but by the Lamb who was slain.

And priests—people who mediate God’s presence in the world.
            People who stand between God and neighbour,
            interceding, serving, blessing.

John’s vision is not escapist.
It is transformational.

And it is deeply political, in the best sense.

It unveils the false promises of empire.
            It unmasks the claims of absolute power.
It calls the church to live as an alternative community
            of truth, peace, justice, and mercy.

John continues:

“Look! He is coming with the clouds; every eye will see him, even those who pierced him; and on his account all the tribes of the earth will wail.” (1.7)

This is a quotation from Daniel 7,
            where the Son of Man comes with the clouds
            to receive authority and dominion.

It is not describing a secret rapture or a timetable of end-times events.
            It is describing the public vindication of Christ.

The empire tried to silence him.
            But God raised him.
And God will reveal him to all.

So every eye will see.
            Even those who opposed him will know.

This is both promise and warning.
            A promise to the persecuted: your Lord is coming.
            A warning to the powerful: your reign is temporary.

Finally, God speaks:

“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, “who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.” (1.8)

Alpha and Omega—the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet.

God is the beginning and the end.

History is not a random cycle of violence.
            It is not controlled by the whims of tyrants.
It has a direction.
            It has a goal.
And that goal is God.

Friends, this is the vision John wants us to see.

Revelation is not meant to confuse us.
            It is meant to unveil the truth.

It is not written to terrify us.
            It is written to give us hope.

It does not call us to escape the world.
            It calls us to see the world differently, and to live accordingly.

And so, as we begin this series together at Bloomsbury,
            I want to invite us to let this vision shape us.

We live in our own age of empire.
An empire not of legions and Caesars,
            but of global capital, of militarised borders,
            of manufactured scarcity, of relentless consumption, of systemic injustice.

We live in a world that tells us to accept things as they are.
            That worships power and wealth.
That silences truth-tellers.

Revelation invites us to see through the propaganda.
            To unmask the lies.
To refuse to bow to idols.
            To remain faithful witnesses.

But what does this really mean for us, here and now?

We might think that talk of “empire” is ancient history
            —something about Rome and Caesar,
            a problem for those first-century churches but not for us.

Yet empire has many faces.

Today it wears the suit of corporate boardrooms
            that value profit over people.

It wraps itself in flags and anthems that promise security
            while building walls to keep out the desperate.

It speaks through advertising that convinces us our worth lies in what we own,
            what we achieve, how we appear.

It is embedded in systems that privilege some while oppressing others,
            that extract wealth from the poor to enrich the powerful,
            that destroy the earth for short-term gain.

We are told this is just “how the world works.”
            We are urged not to question it.
We are warned that to resist is naïve, idealistic, even dangerous.

But Revelation calls that bluff.

It says: See it for what it is.
            It is Babylon, drunk on its own excess.
It is the beast that demands allegiance.
            It is the false prophet that sells us comforting lies.

And Revelation says to us: Come out of her, my people.
            Refuse her mark.
Worship the Lamb not the beast,
            worship Christ not the empire.

This is not a call to physical withdrawal.
            We are not told to abandon the world,
            to retreat into gated communities of the saved.

Rather, we are called to be a counter-community within the world.
            A city on a hill.
            A lamp on a stand.
            A kingdom of priests.

We are called to bear witness to another reality:
            That love is stronger than hate.
That peace is not made by violence but by justice.
            That the last shall be first and the least shall be greatest.
That Christ is Lord, and Caesar is not.

Bloomsbury, this is our vocation.

To read Revelation is to ask ourselves:
            Where do we see empire at work in our city?
            What idols tempt our loyalty?
            How will we choose to witness to the Lamb who was slain?

This is not easy work.
            It will cost us.
But it will also set us free.
            Free to live truthfully.
            Free to love boldly.
            Free to be, even now, citizens of God’s new creation.

This is why our companion text from John’s gospel matters today.

In John 8, Jesus says:

“Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is valid, for I know where I came from and where I am going.” (8.14)

He speaks with authority because he knows his origin and his destiny.

Revelation calls us to root our own identity in Christ’s.
            To know where we come from: a God of grace and peace.
            To know where we are going: toward the Alpha and Omega.

Bloomsbury, we are called to be a kingdom of priests.

A community that mediates God’s grace in London.
            A people who tell the truth about empire.
A congregation that refuses to be co-opted.
            A church that welcomes the outcast, confronts injustice,
            proclaims Christ crucified and risen.

So let us hear John’s greeting afresh:

            Grace to you, Bloomsbury.
            Peace to you, beloved community.

Not from any earthly power.
            Not from any political program.
But from the one who is and who was and who is to come.
            From the sevenfold Spirit before his throne.

And from Jesus Christ: the faithful witness,
            the firstborn of the dead, the ruler of the kings of the earth.

To him be glory and dominion forever and ever.

Amen.

The Covenant of Knowing

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

20 July 2025

 

 
Jeremiah 33.14–18; 31.31–34
John 17.1–8
 
“The days are surely coming, says the Lord…” (Jeremiah 33:14)
 
It’s a phrase we’ve heard before.
            A declaration from Jeremiah,
            the prophet who saw the destruction of all he held dear
            and still dared to imagine a better future.
 
“The days are surely coming…”
 
For Jeremiah, this was not a pious platitude;
            it was a cry of defiant hope against the crushing weight of exile and despair.
 
Jeremiah lived through the disintegration
            of everything that defined his world:
the fall of Jerusalem, the destruction of the temple,
            the exile of the people.
 
He watched the collapse of monarchy, the failure of religion,
            the betrayal of neighbour.
 
And yet, from the ashes of that ruin,
            he did not call simply for repair.
 
He envisioned something deeper:
            not a return to the old ways, but the revelation of something new.
 
Not nostalgia for what was lost, but covenant reborn.
 
And so Jeremiah gives us two visions
            —closely connected, yet profoundly radical in their own right.
 
The first is the promise of just leadership:
            “a righteous Branch to spring up for David” (Jer. 33:15),
            one who will enact justice and righteousness.
 
The second is the promise of a new covenant:
            not written on tablets of stone, not mediated by kings or priests,
            but inscribed on the heart—written within each person.
 
These are not simply parallel ideas
            —they are two dimensions of the same divine promise.
 
For justice to flourish outwardly,
            it must be rooted inwardly.
 
And for the heart to be transformed inwardly,
            there must be a community shaped by righteousness.
 
The days that are surely coming, according to Jeremiah,
            are days when the personal and political are reconciled;
            when knowledge of God is not the property of the elite,
            but the birthright of all.
 
But to grasp the full power of Jeremiah’s vision,
            we must not rush too quickly to its fulfilment.
Rather, we must dwell for a moment in the grief that precedes it.
 
Jeremiah’s prophecies, you see, emerge amid devastation.
            The monarchy, which was supposed to embody divine justice,
                        had become corrupt.
            The temple, which was supposed to house divine presence,
                        had become a symbol of privilege and exclusion.
            The covenant, once forged on Sinai,
                        had been broken again and again.
 
This is no distant history.
            In our world too, systems have failed.
Leaders have exploited. Religion has wounded.
            Power has corrupted.
 
And the human cost
            —measured in lives displaced, rights denied, dignity destroyed—
            cries out to heaven.
 
Into such a moment, Jeremiah speaks
            —not to deny the pain, but to imagine its transformation.
 
The answer to faith betrayed is not cynicism.
            The answer to collapse is not despair.
The answer is promise—a new thing,
            born of the old, but surpassing it in every way.
 
Jeremiah 31 offers one of the most striking theological reimaginings
            in the whole of Scripture:
“I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts…
            They shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest”
            (Jer. 31:33–34).
 
It’s a reversal of everything that had gone before.
            The covenant was no longer mediated by priests or scrolls or institutions.
It would not rely on compliance to external rules.
            It would not be enforced by fear or shame.
Instead, it would be written within.
 
What Jeremiah sees is a shift
            from religion as something imposed,
            to faith as something internalised.
 
A relationship with God not filtered through hierarchy or ritual,
            but encountered directly, intimately, inwardly.
 
It is a deeply democratic vision:
            “from the least to the greatest.”
 
There is no spiritual elite here.
            No insiders and outsiders. No sacred and profane.
            All are included. All are known. All are called.
 
And crucially, all are forgiven.
            “For I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.”
 
In the heart of the covenant is mercy.
            The newness does not come through perfection, but through grace.
The future does not emerge by erasing the past, but by redeeming it.
 
If Jeremiah 31 speaks of the inward transformation of the covenant,
            Jeremiah 33 speaks of its outward embodiment.
 
A “righteous Branch” from David’s line.
            A leader who will execute justice and righteousness in the land.
 
It’s tempting to hear this as a messianic promise, fulfilled in Jesus
            —and of course, Christian tradition has read it that way.
But before we rush to that conclusion,
            let’s hear what this text meant in its own time.
 
In Jeremiah’s world, kings were meant to guarantee justice.
            Their failure was not just political—it was theological.
A corrupt king was not simply a bad ruler;
            he was an offence to the very covenant he represented.
 
So Jeremiah’s vision of a new king
            is not nostalgic longing for monarchy,
            but radical hope that power might yet serve the good.
 
Whether in ancient Judah or modern Britain,
            this vision calls us to imagine leadership not as domination, but as service;
            not as spectacle, but as integrity.
 
The righteous branch is not just an individual
            —it’s a principle, a pattern, a possibility.
It names a world where power is exercised for the sake of the vulnerable,
            and justice is made visible in public life.
 
Which brings us to John’s Gospel.
            In chapter 17, on the night before his arrest, Jesus prays.
And he speaks these words:
            “I have glorified you on earth
            by finishing the work that you gave me to do.”
 
What is that work?
            It is not spectacle. Not conquest. Not even religious revival.
            It is the quiet, difficult, costly work of making God known.
 
Jesus says, “I have made your name known
            to those whom you gave me…”
In other words, Jesus has enacted
            the very covenant Jeremiah foretold.
 
He has embodied a relationship with God
            not built on exclusion or hierarchy,
            but on intimacy, justice, mercy, and love.
 
And this knowing is not simply intellectual.
            It is participatory. It is lived.
 
In Jesus, the law is not only written on the heart
            —it takes flesh in human life.
 
The covenant becomes a person.
            The justice becomes a presence.
            The knowledge of God becomes a community shaped by grace.
 
But what does it mean to know God?
 
In both Hebrew and Johannine theology,
            knowing is never abstract.
 
It is not simply about having correct beliefs
            or assenting to doctrinal statements.
 
The Hebrew word for “know”—yada—
            is the same word used for the deepest of human intimacy.
 
“Adam knew Eve…” it says in Genesis, and she bore a child.
 
To know, in this sense, is not to observe from a distance
            but to enter into relationship.
 
It is to be shaped, changed,
            and even created anew through encounter.
 
This is the knowing that Jeremiah imagines in the new covenant.
            “They shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest.”
 
This is not a command to master information about God.
            It is an invitation to participate in the life of God.
 
And it is offered equally to all
            —no matter their education, their background, their place in society.
 
From the prisoner in exile to the scribe in the palace,
            from the street sweeper to the synagogue elder:
            all are addressed, all are embraced.
 
And in John’s Gospel, this knowing takes on flesh.
 
In Jesus, the name of God—the character of God—is made visible and personal.
            Jesus doesn’t just talk about God. He shows God.
 
He heals the outcast, welcomes the sinner,
            breaks bread with the poor.
 
In Jesus, to know God is to encounter justice embodied in mercy,
            holiness embodied in hospitality,
            truth embodied in love.
 
And that same knowing
            is what Jesus prays will continue through his disciples.
 
“They have kept your word,” he says.
            Not in the sense of rote obedience,
                        but in the sense of abiding relationship.
            The Word has abided in them. They have lived it.
 
And that Word, that covenant, is not a burden to bear,
            but a joy to share
—a transformation from within
            that leads outward into acts of liberation and love.
 
This has profound implications for how we understand discipleship today.
            If knowing God means entering into covenantal intimacy,
            then spiritual growth is not about
                        accumulating theological knowledge
                        or perfecting moral performance.
 
It is about becoming ever more open
            to the movement of grace in our lives.
 
It is about letting the law of love be written on our hearts
            —until justice becomes instinct, mercy becomes habit,
            and hope becomes second nature.
 
This is why we gather as a church
            —not to preserve tradition for its own sake,
            but to become a living community of covenant.
 
A people who know God by living God’s justice.
            A people who enact the Word
                        by becoming a sanctuary for the wounded
                        and a sign of hope for the weary.
 
A people in whom, somehow, someone else might come to know
            that they, too, are known and loved by the divine.
 
So where does this leave us,
            at Bloomsbury, in 2025?
 
We, too, are people living amid the fractures of our age.
            The collapse of trust in institutions.
            The failure of leadership.
            The loss of a shared moral vision.
 
We see inequality deepening,
            climate crisis accelerating,
            war and violence multiplying.
 
We know what it is to feel exiled
            from a world that once seemed more secure.
 

But into this, Jeremiah speaks still. 

“The days are surely coming…” he dares to proclaim…

And we live in a world crying out for a new covenant. 

In the face of political failure, ecological crisis,

systemic injustice, and rising despair, 

the old scripts no longer serve. 

We do not need more empty promises or louder slogans

—we need hearts transformed by justice, 

communities shaped by mercy, 

and a church courageous enough 

to live as if God’s law of love is already written within us. 

The days are surely coming

—but God is daring us to act as though they have already arrived.

And so our calling is to live as if they are already here.

 

To embody the covenant written on the heart:
            a community not built on conformity, but on compassion.
 
A people not defined by doctrine, but by justice.
            A church where knowing God means acting for the good of others.
 
We are called to be branches of the righteous tree:
            to lead not from the top down, but from the margins in.
 
To resist the temptations of domination
            and embrace the power of service.
 
To proclaim the reign of God not in triumphalism,
            but in tenderness, truth, and solidarity.
 
The days are surely coming
            —and indeed, they are already here:
in every act of mercy, every movement for justice,
            every heart opened to the knowing love of God.
 
And maybe the most important truth is this:
            covenantal hope isn’t abstract.
 
It’s not just about nations or movements
            —it’s about you.
 
God’s new covenant is written on hearts,
            including yours, including mine.
 
Which means our story matters.
            Our longing, our doubts, our wounds, our joys
—they are not marginal to our faith;
            they are the very soil in which the covenant is planted.
 
You don’t have to be perfect to carry the promise.
            You don’t have to have all the answers to know God.
 
You don’t have to wait for some future time
            when you’ll have more faith or less fear.
 
The days are surely coming, yes
            —but the day is also now.
 
Today is the moment for grace.
            Today is the day God remembers your sin no more,
            and instead remembers only your belovedness.
 
Let me tell you a story.
 
A member of a church—not here, but a place like this—
            had grown up in a faith where shame was preached more often than grace.
 
They knew the Bible backwards,
            but had never been told they were loved.
 
After decades of trying to “get it right,”
            they finally stopped going to church.
 
It just felt like too much.
            Too heavy. Too hard.
 
Years later, they found their way into a small congregation
            —one that wasn’t flashy, or loud, or particularly large.
 
What it had, though, was warmth.
            No one quizzed them at the door.
            No one checked their theological credentials.
 
Someone just said:
            “You’re welcome here. We’re glad you’ve come.”
 
And it changed everything.
 
Because in that space,
            they encountered something they’d never known before:
            the God Jeremiah describes.
 
The God who writes on hearts, not scorecards.
            The God who says: “You are mine. You are known. And you are loved.”
 
That church didn’t give them all the answers.
            But it gave them something more precious: a community of grace.
            A glimpse of the covenant alive in people’s lives.
 
Friends, this is who we are called to be.
 
A church where justice and mercy meet.
            A place where covenant lives in the love we show one another.
 
A people whose lives proclaim:
            the days are surely coming
            —and by the grace of God, they are already here.
 
So let us be people of the promise.
            People of the covenant.
 
People of the Christ who makes God known.
Amen.
 

Love Never Ends

A sermon for the funeral of Chris

Psalm 23
1 Corinthians 13 

We are here today because of love.
Love for Chris — a daughter, a sister, a friend, a colleague.

Someone whose life touched ours in ways that we may not even fully realise until now, in this moment of farewell.

Love draws us together — across time and space to this moment, in this chapel.

We gather today from Bloomsbury Baptist Church, from other parts of London and the country; we gather in person and online — and what we share is that love holds us in our grief, and invites us to remember and to give thanks.

But love also hurts.
We would not grieve if we had not loved.

And that pain — this aching absence that we are feeling — is the cost of having known and cared for someone so dearly.

It is the cost of relationship. The cost of connection. And yes, the cost of love.

Chris died far too young.
There’s no easy way to say that, and no dressing it up with pious platitudes.

We are here because her life, which brought light and joy and struggle and laughter and wisdom, ended too soon.

And in the face of death, especially a death that comes before we’re ready — which is to say, always — we can feel powerless. Lost. Even angry.

And yet —
And yet in this place, at this time, we are not without hope.

We heard a moment ago the words of Psalm 23 — one of the most familiar and well-loved passages in all of scripture.

It speaks of a journey, of walking through the valley of the shadow of death — not bypassing it, not denying it, but walking through it.

And it names the possibility of divine presence: “You are with me.”

That’s the promise that Christians cling to, especially in the hardest of times.

That we are not alone. That in the mystery of all things, in the darkest valleys, there is a presence — unseen but not unfelt — that goes with us.

Holding us. Accompanying us. Shepherding us.

And then we heard from the letter to the Corinthians, one of the earliest Christian communities — a church that was messy, complicated, full of life and conflict and joy and division.

Paul, writing to them, speaks of a better way: the way of love.

And he says this:
“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things,
endures all things. Love never ends.”

These are astonishing words.
In a world where so much feels temporary, and fragile, and finite — love never ends.

It’s a bold claim. But perhaps you’ve seen it too:

In the way that love outlasts absence.

In the way that Chris’s memory lingers in our hearts, her words still echoing in our minds, her presence somehow still with us in our stories, our laughter, even our tears.

In the way that the bonds she formed — with her family, her friends, her community — continue on, even now.

If love is the thing that binds us to one another,
And if love does not end,
Then in some way — in some mysterious, grace-filled way
— Chris is not gone from us entirely.

Christian faith speaks of resurrection, of an eternal quality to our lives.

But it also speaks of the here and now — of how we live in this life, and how we carry the lives of others with us.

Of how the love we give, and the love we receive, becomes part of who we are.

And that’s where we find meaning today.
Not in trying to explain away the pain —
            Not in pretending we’re not heartbroken.

But in holding to the truth that Chris’s life mattered.
            That her love was real.
            That she gave of herself to others.

That she lived, truly lived, and that her memory will continue to live in us.

So today we remember her.

We grieve what we have lost, and we give thanks for what we have received.
            We commit her to the care of the eternal Shepherd,
Trusting, hoping, believing,
            that love — ultimately — is stronger than death.

And perhaps the best way to honour her life is to keep loving:

To be people who walk with others through their valleys,
To be people who choose kindness, compassion, gentleness, and grace,
To be people who do not lose heart.

Chris knew something of that kind of love — and she shared it.

May we do likewise,
As we hold her in our hearts,
And entrust her now to the heart of God.

Amen.

Hope in the Field

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

13 July 2025

 
Jeremiah 32.1–3a, 6–15
John 4.34-38

It was the tenth year of King Zedekiah of Judah,
            the eighteenth year of King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon.
 
It was the year that we call 587 BCE.
            And things were bad—in fact, they were worse than bad.
            Because the Babylonian army was laying siege to Jerusalem. Again.
 
The walls of the city were crumbling,
            the economy had collapsed,
            and death hovered in the air like smoke.
 
And here, in the middle of this devastation,
            Jeremiah the prophet—ever the troublemaker,
                        always out of step with the powerful—
            is under arrest, and imprisoned by the king.
 
It’s hard not to think of Gaza. Of Rafah. Of Jenin.
            It’s hard not to think of refugee camps and war zones,
            of occupied territories and cities held under siege
                        —places where hope feels foolish,
                        where futures are buried in rubble.
 
And into such a moment,
            the prophet of doom buys a field.
 
It’s an absurd thing to do.
            Economically irrational. Politically meaningless. Personally unwise.
 
Jeremiah’s act is not only impractical
            —it’s utterly ludicrous.
 
But that’s the point.
            For the prophet enacts what the imagination dares to dream:
                        that land will again be bought and sold;
            that vineyards will again be planted and harvested;
                        that life will return from exile.
 
And this morning, perhaps more than most,
            we need prophets who will buy fields.
 
The Book of Jeremiah, as many of you will know,
            is not exactly a comfort read.
 
It’s hard going.
            It tells the story of a people in collapse.
 
But nestled in this long, difficult book are remarkable glimpses of hope
            —what Walter Brueggemann calls hope in spite of the data.
 
Chapter 32 is one of those moments.
 
Jeremiah is locked up, the nation is tearing apart,
            and God says to him, “Your cousin is going to come and offer you a field to buy.”
And then, as if to prove that even prophets can be surprised,
            the cousin does.
 
So Jeremiah buys the field.
 
This is not a parable. It’s a land transaction.
            It’s a signed and sealed deed, placed in a jar for safekeeping.
 
It’s boringly bureaucratic.
            And it is the most powerful act of prophetic resistance Jeremiah will perform.
 
We often think of hope as a feeling. A mood.
            But biblical hope is something far more muscular.
 
From a Biblical perspective, hope is something you do.
            It’s the practice of living toward a future not yet visible,
                        but promised nonetheless.
 
This field purchase is not hopeful because things look good,
            but precisely because they don’t.
 
It’s not optimism. It’s resistance.
 
Jeremiah dares to embody an alternative reality.
            He dares to imagine a future shaped not by the brutality of Babylon
            but by the faithfulness of God.
 
And then he dares to live as if that future is coming true.
 
And I wonder—where are the places in our own lives,
            in our city, in our world, where we are called to buy fields?
 
·      What does hope look like in a climate emergency?
·      What does hope look like in a housing crisis?
·      What does hope look like in a broken immigration system?
·      What does hope look like for churches that feel like they are in decline, in exile?
 
Jeremiah’s symbolic field purchase
            is not just a gesture of delayed gratification.
It is a declaration of God’s future being enacted in the present.
 
This is what theologians sometimes call realised eschatology
            —the idea that the reign of God is not just a distant hope
            but a lived reality breaking into the now.
 
Jeremiah is not simply predicting that one day things will be better.
            He is insisting that the promise of restoration
                        is so trustworthy, so real, that it demands action now
                        —even when the evidence suggests otherwise.
 
His field purchase is not about pie-in-the-sky optimism.
            It is a deeply political and theological act,
one that collapses the false divide
            between spiritual hope and material investment.
 
We sometimes fall into the trap of imagining
            that God’s kingdom is only about the life to come.
 
But what if it’s about life right now?
            About justice now, equity now, liberation now?
 
That’s why Jeremiah buries the deed in a jar
            —not to protect it for some heavenly future,
but to preserve it for a restored community,
            on this earth, in that land.
 
This prophetic imagination challenges us:
            do we believe in a God whose promises make demands of our present?
 
A God whose coming reign interrupts our current injustices?
            A God who does not abandon us to despair,
            but who calls us to live as if the New Jerusalem were already among us?
 
At Bloomsbury, we have sought to be this kind of church
            —a people shaped not by the fear of Babylon
                        but by the hope of the kingdom.
 
We do not merely wait for heaven.
            We plant heaven in the middle of history.
 
And poor old Jeremiah is in prison when all this happens.
            Literally locked away.
A prisoner of the king, silenced for his unpopular message.
 
It is not only the city that is besieged
            —so is the prophet.
 
And that’s a familiar experience.
            Sometimes we are imprisoned by circumstances,
                        hemmed in by loss, fear, exhaustion.
 
Sometimes the prison is emotional
            —trauma, regret, or grief.
 
Sometimes the walls are social
            —systems of injustice, racism, or economic exclusion.
 
And sometimes we build the walls ourselves.
 
But Jeremiah’s prophetic act reminds us
            that even from a place of confinement,
            it is possible to choose freedom.
 
Even when the future seems foreclosed,
            it is possible to enact a different story.
 
The work of faith is not always to escape the prison,
            but to live faithfully within it.
 
To do the thing that makes no sense.
            To buy the field. To prepare for return.
            To invest in a future you may not live to see.
 
And so Jeremiah buys the field.
 
He weighs out the silver. He signs the deed.
            He calls witnesses. He stores the document.
 
He does all the things people do
            when they believe there will be a tomorrow.
 
Let’s be clear: this is a terrible investment.
            The land is already under Babylonian control.
            The title deed means nothing to them.
 
Jeremiah will never farm that land.
            And yet, he goes through the ritual,
                        not because he expects a return on investment,
                        but because he expects a return from exile.
 
He is not just engaging in prophetic theatre.
            He is enacting a truth deeper than power:
                        that empires fall, that hope survives,
                        and that God’s promises outlast Babylonian armies.
 
Here at Bloomsbury, we also buy fields
            —metaphorically, perhaps, but no less powerfully.
 
When we welcome the stranger in our midst,
            we are buying fields.
 
When we speak truth to power through our community organising,
            we are buying fields.
 
When we say that LGBTQ+ lives are holy and beloved,
            we are buying fields.
 
When we open our doors to artists, activists, and pilgrims,
            we are investing in futures others cannot yet see.
 
We are stubbornly and prophetically choosing to live into God’s tomorrow,
            even when today feels like exile.
 
There’s something quietly beautiful about the detail
            that the deed of purchase is placed in a jar of clay.
 
It’s a preservation act—proof that history isn’t over.
 
The jar becomes a vessel of hope.
            A container for possibility. A sacred trust to the future.
 
We all have our jars.
            Perhaps they are stories. Or songs. Or sacraments.
Perhaps they are relationships, or communities, or buildings like this one.
 
Things we preserve not to escape the present,
            but to proclaim the future.
 
“Put them in an earthenware jar,” says Jeremiah,
            “so that they may last a long time.”
 
We are the custodians of jars,
            holding space for God’s future.
 
And sometimes, when all seems lost,
            it is enough to keep the jar sealed, to preserve the deed,
to say with our actions:
            this land, this life, this future still belongs to God.
 
The act of placing the deed in a jar is not just about preservation.
            It is about entrusting a story to the future.
 
Jeremiah knows he might not be the one to see the fulfilment
            —but someone will.
 
And his small, faithful act will become part of their story.
 
Some of us carry longings that feel unfulfilled.
            Prayers that haven’t been answered.
            Griefs that have not healed.
 
We wonder if the work we have done
            —our loving, our labouring, our witnessing—
                        has mattered at all.
 
We bury our deeds in jars,
            and wonder if anyone will remember.
 
But the gospel assures us that nothing offered in faith is lost.
 
Maybe you are grieving something that never came to fruition
            —a relationship, a vocation, a vision for life.
 
Maybe, as a church, we look back on times of flourishing
            and wonder if those days are gone forever.
 
But Jeremiah’s deed tells us that memory and hope are not separate things.
            They are the same thing held in tension.
 
We do not need to resolve the tension.
            We are simply called to live within it.
 
To trust that what we place in jars of clay
            —our love, our witness, our longing—is held by God.
 
So keep the deed. Bury it in the jar.
            And know that it is safe.
 
Because one day, someone will find it.
            One day, someone will harvest the field we bought in faith.
 
And when they do,
            they will give thanks for those who dared to hope in dark times.
 
We don’t know if Jeremiah lived to see the fulfilment of the promise.
            Probably not.
 
But the point isn’t whether he returned.
            It’s that he acted as if return were possible.
 
And in doing so, he planted seeds for others.
 
This is the paradox of prophetic ministry:
            it often looks futile in the moment.
 
But it seeds the ground for transformation.
 
Jeremiah bought a field he would never harvest.
            And in John’s Gospel, Jesus tells his disciples something remarkably similar:
“One sows and another reaps.
            I sent you to reap that for which you did not labour.
Others have laboured, and you have entered into their labour.” (John 4:37–38)
 
These words come just after
            Jesus has spoken with the Samaritan woman at the well
—a woman who, like Jeremiah,
            dares to hope in the face of exclusion.
 
And Jesus, in turn, offers a vision of divine purpose
            that transcends the boundaries of time and tribe.
 
The disciples are eager to get on with the harvest
            —to see results, to do something visible, something tangible.
 
But Jesus points them deeper.
            He invites them to live in solidarity with the slow, patient work of the Spirit.
 
To enter into the labour of others.
            To join the quiet sowers of seeds.
 
There’s humility in this invitation, as well as hope.
            Because the work of the gospel is not a solo project.
            It is shared. Layered. Collective. Intergenerational.
 
We inherit the fields others have sown in tears.
            We harvest from justice movements long forgotten.
            We draw from wells we did not dig.
 
And still we sow again
            —trusting that even our smallest acts of love and resistance
            become part of a larger harvest in God.
 
Sometimes we see the fruit. Often we do not.
            But still we plant. Still we water. Still we labour.
 
This is what Jesus calls food
            —his sustenance, his very purpose:
“My food is to do the will of the one who sent me, and to complete that work.”
 
This is the nourishment of the faithful.
            Not accolades. Not outcomes.
But the deep joy of joining our lives
            to the long, slow redemption of the world.
 
So yes—Jeremiah bought a field.
            And we, too, sow our seeds.
 
In sermons preached and bread broken.
            In protest marches and policy meetings.
 
In songs sung and letters sent
            and prayers whispered at hospital bedsides.
 
We enter into the labour of saints and prophets.
            We plant vineyards we may never drink from.
We work for justice we may never fully see.
 
But Christ is the Lord of the harvest.
            And even now, the fields are ripe.
 
In our work—whether in church, in justice campaigns,
            in quiet acts of care and compassion—
            we may not always see the results.
 
But we do not labour in vain.
            The field is bought. The deed is stored. The promise is alive.
 
One day, houses and fields and vineyards will again be bought in the land.
            And the call to us, friends, is to live that truth now.
 
To buy the field.
To store the deed.
To plant the seed.
 
Jeremiah’s story reminds us that faith is not about escaping exile
            but about finding God in the middle of it.
 
And hope in exile is not a vague feeling,
            but a radical act of commitment.
 
It’s not easy. It’s often costly.
            But it is the gospel-shaped way of living.
 
A cruciform hope that trusts in resurrection
            even while standing by the tomb.
 
We are called, here and now,
            to be a people of field-buying faith.
 
So may we, like Jeremiah, risk absurd hope.
 
May we invest in God’s tomorrow, even in the ruins of today.
 
And may our deeds of love and justice
            be found in jars of clay,
            testifying that the story is not over.
 
Amen.