Exiles, Hope, Peace and the Call to Live Now

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
23rd November 2025

Jeremiah 29.1, 4–14; John 14.27

Let us pray.
Loving God, giver of life and justice,
            you plant us in your world and invite us to flourish in the midst of change.
Give us ears to hear your word today,
            eyes to see your presence in the places we least expect,
            and courage to live your hope now. Amen.

A letter sent into exile

Jeremiah’s letter is written to a people whose world has fallen apart.

The Babylonians have destroyed Jerusalem, ransacked the temple,
            and marched the leaders, priests, and artisans of Judah into captivity.

All the symbols of divine favour — land, king, temple —
            have been swept away.

The people are left asking the hardest question of all:
            Where is God now?

Into that despair comes a letter from home.
            But it’s not the sort of message they were hoping for.

It doesn’t promise an immediate rescue or call them to armed revolt.
            It’s not a manifesto for quick restoration or a rousing cry of national pride.
Instead, Jeremiah tells them to settle down.
            To build houses and plant gardens.
            To have children, and live ordinary lives.

It’s extraordinary.

At the very moment when the exiles want to flee,
            Jeremiah tells them to stay.

When they want to keep their bags packed,
            he says, “Unpack.”

When they want to curse Babylon,
            he says, “Pray for it.”

But hear this, what we have here is not passive acceptance of injustice.
            It is rather a profound act of theological resistance.

Jeremiah is saying that Babylon does not have the last word on their lives.
            That the empire cannot erase God’s purpose.
He is telling the exiles that they can live faithfully, even in exile.
            That God’s covenant has not been cancelled by geography.

So when Jeremiah says,
            “Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile,”
he is reminding them — and us — that God’s sovereignty
            extends even into the places of displacement.

The exiles thought their faith could only survive in Jerusalem.
            But Jeremiah says, “No — you can worship, serve, and live justly
            even here, in exile in Babylon, even now.”

And then we reach that beloved verse:
            “For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord
            — plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.”

We often quote this as a personal comfort, and rightly so,
            but it’s not a promise of easy success or guaranteed happiness.

It’s a declaration that God’s purposes endure even in exile.

The ‘plans’ it speaks of are not about individual prosperity;
            they are about collective restoration.

God’s future emerges not by escaping Babylon,
            but by being faithful within it.

So, Jeremiah’s letter invites us to discover
            that exile is not the end of the story.

Sometimes, exile is the place where God teaches us how to live again.

Hope that shapes action

Hope, in Jeremiah’s world, is not a warm feeling or a wistful wish.
            It is a concrete way of living.

Jeremiah doesn’t say, “Wait patiently and everything will get better.”
            He says, “Start living as if the future God has promised is already true.”

Build. Plant. Marry. Multiply. Pray.
            These are words of movement, creation, and care.

They root hope in daily life,
            in the soil beneath your feet.

Jeremiah’s instruction is not to retreat into pious isolation
            or hide away until it’s all over,
but to engage fully in the life of the city,
            even when the city feels foreign and strange.

This kind of hope is deeply political.
            It resists despair, but it also resists illusion.

It acknowledges suffering and injustice
            but refuses to let them define the limits of possibility.

Jeremiah’s vision undermines empire’s power
            by insisting that real life — meaningful, flourishing, God-shaped life —
            can happen even under imperial domination.

For us, this means that Christian hope
            is never detached from the public realm.

It’s not an inward spiritual comfort that leaves the world unchanged.
            It’s an embodied commitment to live differently
            in the midst of the world as it is.

When we, as the church in Bloomsbury,
            work with others for housing justice, or campaign for fair pay,
            or welcome those whom society or church excludes,
            we are living Jeremiah’s vision.

We are saying that Babylon does not have the final say over human flourishing.

And notice something subtle:
            Jeremiah doesn’t call the exiles to convert Babylon,
            or to make it more like Jerusalem.
He calls them to seek its welfare.

That’s a remarkable phrase.
            It means our wellbeing is tied up with the wellbeing of our neighbours
            whether or not they share our faith.

For a church like ours, rooted in this diverse city, this is vital.

The flourishing of London,
            the wellbeing of those who live and work around us,
                        migrants, artists, students, workers,
                        the unhoused, the lonely, the asylum seeker and the refugee,
            is bound up with our own.

When the city thrives, we thrive.
            And when the city suffers, we suffer too.

Jeremiah’s letter calls us to that deep solidarity,
            the recognition that God’s shalom is not a private possession
            but a shared ecosystem of justice and compassion.

Living faithfully in a culture of displacement

There’s a deep resonance between the exiles of Babylon
            and our experience as the church today.

We, too, live in a kind of exile,
            not a physical one, but cultural, moral, and spiritual exile.

Once, the church was at the centre of society’s story.
            Its voice was heard, its rituals respected, its buildings filled.

But now we find ourselves at the margins,
            in a post-Christendom world
            where the church is often ignored, misunderstood, or treated as irrelevant.

Some Christians lament this, longing for a return to what was.
            But perhaps, like Jeremiah, we should see this not as disaster but as invitation.

Exile can be painful, but it can also be purifying.
            It strips away our illusions about power and privilege
            and invites us to rediscover what faithfulness really means.

In exile, the people of Judah had to learn to live without the temple,
            without the trappings of authority.

They had to learn to trust that God was still with them.
            And perhaps the same is true for us.

We are being called to let go of nostalgia,
            to stop yearning for a “Christian nation”
                        that never truly embodied Christ’s way,
            and instead to live faithfully in the world as it is.

Our calling is not to recover influence but to model integrity.
            In a consumerist, distracted, and often unjust culture,
            we are to show what life looks like
            when shaped by generosity, forgiveness, humility, and courage.

Our exile can be holy.
            It can teach us to rely less on status and more on grace.
It can free us to act in solidarity
            with those who have always lived on the margins.
It can remind us that God’s presence is not confined to our sanctuaries,
            but pulses through the streets of the city,
            through the lives of those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

And so, like Jeremiah’s exiles,
            we are called to seek the welfare of the city,
to pray for our neighbours, to work for justice,
            to cultivate beauty in unlikely places.

Because even in Babylon, the Spirit still moves.
            Even in exile, God is near.

The peace of Christ and the promise to the church

In John’s Gospel, Jesus offers his disciples a gift
            that seems almost impossible in the moment:

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.
            I do not give to you as the world gives.”

He speaks these words on the night of betrayal.
            He knows the cross is coming.
His friends will scatter.
            The movement they have built will appear crushed.
Yet he speaks of peace.

This peace is not about calm circumstances or the absence of conflict.
            It’s not the peace that comes from being safe or successful.

It’s the peace that arises from knowing that God’s love cannot be defeated.
            It’s the deep, resilient peace that holds us steady
            when everything around us is shaking.

When Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,”
            he’s not telling us to suppress fear or pretend we’re fine.
He’s inviting us to trust that even in the darkest moments,
            we are held by a love that will not let us go.

This is the same peace Jeremiah’s exiles needed,
            the confidence that God was still at work, even in a foreign land.

The peace of Christ empowers us to live faithfully in the midst of uncertainty,
            to act for justice even when the results are slow,
            to speak truth even when the world mocks or resists it.

And notice: Jesus contrasts his peace with the world’s peace.

The world’s peace is fragile, maintained by violence,
            enforced by control, dependent on winning.

Christ’s peace is creative, vulnerable, and enduring.
            It doesn’t depend on circumstances;
            it depends on presence; the presence of the God who dwells with us.

That’s the peace we are invited to receive.
            And it is this peace that equips us to live hopefully in exile,
            without bitterness, without fear.

Living as exiles — agents of hope

So what does this mean for us, here and now,
            in this church, in this city?

What does it mean for us to live as resident aliens
            in our own city of exile here in London?

Well, firstly I think it is no excuse for passivity.
            Rather, it’s a summons to creative action.

Jeremiah calls the exiles to build and plant,
            to create life in the midst of loss.

For us, that means committing ourselves to this place,
            to this city, this congregation, this work.

It means building relationships that sustain us,
            planting seeds of compassion and justice that may outlast us.

When we partner with Citizens UK,
            when we host interfaith gatherings,
when we welcome refugees,
            when we offer hospitality in our building,
we are living as exiles
            who believe that Babylon is not beyond redemption.

It also means seeking the welfare of the city,
            and not just in prayer but also in action.

Our calling is not to withdraw into purity or comfort,
            but to engage the messy, beautiful, broken life of London
            with courage and love.

To challenge systems that exploit the poor,
            to speak out for the voiceless,
            to hold hope when others despair.

And we must also resist the false prophets of our age,
            those who offer easy answers,
            who preach prosperity without justice
            or spirituality without solidarity.

Jeremiah warns against voices that deny the reality of exile
            or promise shortcuts to restoration.

True faith faces the world as it is
            and still chooses to act with compassion and courage.

Finally, Jeremiah calls us to seek God with all our hearts,
            to look for the divine not only in worship
            but in the daily work of living.

Because even in exile, God can be found.

When hope feels fragile

Jeremiah’s letter has a quiet tenderness that I find deeply human.
            He doesn’t tell the exiles to cheer up.

He acknowledges their pain. He honours their loss.
            And then he tells them to live anyway.

That’s what real hope looks like.
            It’s not denial; it’s defiance.
It’s the stubborn insistence that life is still worth living, even in Babylon.

There are times when we all experience exile,
            when our prayers seem unanswered, when our energy runs low,
            when our efforts for justice feel like droplets in a vast sea of indifference.

When inclusion feels like an uphill struggle,
            and compassion seems in short supply.

In those moments, we remember that the call to build and plant
            is not conditional on success.
It’s rooted in faithfulness.

God doesn’t ask us to fix everything;
            God asks us to keep sowing seeds of hope,
            trusting that they will bear fruit in God’s time.

And we remember, too, that the God who calls us to plant gardens
            also calls us to bear the cross.

The peace of Christ doesn’t remove us from struggle;
            it accompanies us through it.

It steadies us, renews us, and reminds us
            that the resurrection life is already breaking through,
            quietly, persistently, in acts of love and justice
            that may seem small but are never wasted.

When hope feels fragile, when the night feels long,
            we hold fast to the promise:

“You will seek me and find me when you search for me with all your heart.”

That’s not a demand for perfection,
            it’s an assurance that God is already seeking us, even as we seek God.

Conclusion – Hope, peace, action

So, my friends, what do we take from this letter to the exiles
            and the words of Jesus?

First, that exile is not the end of faith,
            it is often where faith begins again.
When the familiar structures fall away,
            we discover a God who is not confined to our comfort zones.

Second, that hope is not waiting for the world to change,
            but living as if it already has.
We build, plant, and work for justice
            not because success is guaranteed,
            but because this is what it means to be faithful people of God.

Third, that the peace of Christ is not a promise of ease,
            but a promise of presence.
It is the deep assurance that, even in exile,
            we are held by love, guided by purpose, and empowered to act.

And finally, that our wellbeing is bound up with the welfare of our city.
            The kingdom of God is not something we bring down from heaven;
            it’s something we uncover, nurture, and live into,
                        here, in the heart of London, among our neighbours and friends.

So go, and build houses. Plant gardens. Seek the good of the city.
            For in its welfare, you will find your welfare.

And may the peace of Christ, not as the world gives, but as love gives,
            be with you now and always.

Amen.

Following the Lamb: Power, Mission, and the Way of Love

A Sermon for Mill Hill East Church

16 November 2025

Reframing Revelation

Whenever we open the Book of Revelation, the room changes a little.
            Some people lean in, curious; others brace themselves.

For many, Revelation is the strangest book in the Bible,
            full of beasts and battles, seals and trumpets, fire and judgment.

It’s often treated as a kind of coded timetable
            for how the world will end,
            or a puzzle predicting current events.

But what if Revelation isn’t a secret calendar for the future,
            but a spiritual lens for the present?
What if it’s less about escaping history,
            and more about unveiling what’s really true within it?

You see, the word apocalypse doesn’t mean “disaster.”
            It means “unveiling.”

Revelation is the pulling back of the curtain,
            to show the world as it truly is:
a world in which God reigns, the slain Lamb is Lord,
            and the empires of violence and fear do not have the final word.

You see, John, the writer of Revelation, wasn’t predicting our century.
            He was writing to seven small churches in first-century Asia Minor:
                        Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, and the rest
            each struggling to survive under the shadow of the Roman Empire.

Rome shaped every part of their world:
            the economy, the laws,
            the stories people told, about who mattered and why.

And their question wasn’t “When will the world end?”
            Their question was “How do we stay faithful
            when the empire defines everything?”

So John wrote a pastoral letter disguised as a prophetic vision.
            He offered not a forecast but a perspective,
            a way of seeing that reveals the hidden truth behind the world’s appearances.

When we read it rightly, Revelation doesn’t terrify us; it clarifies us.

It pulls back the propaganda of empire — then and now —
            and helps the church live truthfully and courageously
            in the world God still loves.

That’s why I read Revelation as both ancient and urgent.

It is rooted in the struggles of its first hearers,
            but it speaks directly to ours,
because the empires may change,
            but the temptations remain the same:
to worship power, to compromise truth,
            to trade faithfulness for comfort.

And into that world, both theirs and ours,
            Revelation declares that the true power at the heart of the universe
            is not empire, not violence, not fear.
It is the self-giving love of the Lamb of God.

The Vision of the Scroll and the Lamb

And so in chapter five, John is taken into the throne room of heaven.

At the centre, he sees God seated on the throne,
            holding a scroll sealed with seven seals.

It is the scroll of history:
            the meaning and purpose of creation,
            the unfolding of redemption.

But no one can open it.
            No one in heaven or on earth is worthy even to look inside.

And so John weeps, because if no one can open the scroll,
            history remains locked, meaningless, without hope.

Then one of the elders says something unexpected,
            “Do not weep! The Lion of Judah has triumphed.”

And John looks up, expecting to see a lion,
            the traditional Jewish symbol of strength and victory.
But instead he sees a lamb,
            standing as though it had been slaughtered.

The conquering lion of mythic history
            is revealed to be none other than the slain lamb of God.

It turns out that the victory of God is revealed not in domination,
            but in love that suffers and redeems.

This is the shocking heart of Revelation’s theology:
            The centre of power in the universe is not a throne of force,
            but a cross of mercy.
God reigns, not through coercion, but through compassion.

The Christology of Revelation: The Politics of the Cross

In John’s world, this was a direct challenge
            to Rome’s theology of empire.

Rome proclaimed that peace came through victory
            Pax Romana achieved by the sword.
And John dares to say the opposite,
            that true peace comes through the Lamb who was slain.

Rome declared that Caesar was Lord.
            John proclaims: Jesus is Lord, and that the Lamb of God reigns even now.

Revelation is therefore a political book,
            because it unmasks the lies that empires tell,
            whether ancient Rome or any modern system that says:
“Might makes right.”
            “Profit is peace.”
            or “Security justifies violence.”

Against all this, John’s vision whispers, and sometimes shouts, a different truth:
            The Lamb who was slain is worthy.
            The power that saves the world looks like surrender.
            The throne of heaven is occupied by love.

That’s not weakness;
            it’s divine strength redefined.

The Church’s Mission: Following the Lamb

But Revelation doesn’t stop with worship;
            it sends us into witness.

John tells us that Christ has made us a kingdom and priests,
            mediators of God’s presence in the world.

Our mission, then, is not to conquer but to embody the Lamb’s way.
            To follow the Lamb wherever he goes, even into costly compassion.

And this means that we are called to live differently:
            We are called to choose mercy over revenge,
            generosity over greed, truth over convenience.

We are those who build communities of hope and healing
            in a world still addicted to competition and fear.

In that sense, Revelation is not escapist at all.
            It’s deeply incarnational.
It doesn’t call us out of the world;
            it calls us to live in the world
            as signs of the new creation already breaking in.

Every act of justice, every word of peace, every prayer for healing
            is a participation in the Lamb’s mission.
Friends, this is what it means to live apocalyptically,
            to live as if the veil has been lifted,
            and to act as if God’s kingdom really is at hand.

The Worship of Heaven: Hope Restored

The vision of heaven ends in worship.
            The living creatures and elders fall down before the Lamb,
            singing a new song:

“You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals,
            for you were slain,
and by your blood you ransomed people for God
            from every tribe and language and people and nation.”

And then the angels join in,
            “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain,
to receive power and wealth and wisdom
            and strength and honour and glory and praise!”

This is not escapist worship. It is defiant worship.
            It names what’s true, even when the world denies it.
It says: love is stronger than death;
            grace is greater than empire;
            God’s future is not cancelled by human fear.

What John gives us in this heavenly scene
            is not an escape from reality, but a reorientation toward it.

Worship in Revelation is not about leaving the world behind;
            it is about seeing the world truthfully,
            from heaven’s point of view.

Every image John paints,
            the throne, the elders, the living creatures, the unending song,
            is a challenge to the false worship of empire.

Rome’s cities were full of temples, processions, and imperial hymns.
            Caesar was hailed as “lord” and “saviour,”
                        his image printed on every coin,
            his name sung in the marketplace.

Worship of the emperor wasn’t just religion;
            it was public order.

It told people who mattered and who didn’t,
            who held power and who must obey.

And into that world, John dares to imagine a different liturgy.
            The throne of heaven is not occupied by Caesar but by the Creator.
            The one who receives honour is not the conqueror but the crucified.
The song of the empire which sang the refrain: “Who is like the beast?”
            is drowned out by the song of heaven as angels sing: “Worthy is the Lamb.”

This is why worship is at the heart of resistance.
            Every time the church gathers to sing, to pray, to break bread,
                        it rehearses another story.
            It trains our imagination to see the Lamb at the centre,
                        not the emperor on the throne.

Worship, in that sense, is deeply political.
            Not because it belongs to a party,
            but because it shapes a people who refuse to be shaped by empire.

In worship we are re-formed,
            our desires, our loyalties, our vision of what is possible.

And the more we see the world through the Lamb’s eyes,
            the more we can live as witnesses to his peace and justice in the midst of it.

Revelation’s worship scenes are not interruptions in the action,
            they are the action.
They remind us that the world is changed not by fear, but by wonder;
            not by coercion, but by praise.

The song of heaven becomes the engine of history,
            the soundtrack of God’s new creation breaking in even now.

This is why Revelation ends not with destruction, but with a vision of renewal,
            the New Jerusalem, the river of life, the healing of the nations.
The Lamb who was slain is the one who makes all things new.

Bringing it Home: The Lamb’s Way in Our Time

So what does this mean for us here, in Mill Hill East, in 2025?

It means that Revelation is not about guessing the end,
            but about living in the middle: faithfully, truthfully, compassionately.

It means recognising that the powers of empire still exist,
            not in marble palaces, but in economic systems, in media narratives,
            and in ideologies that promise peace without justice
                        and prosperity without love.

When Revelation speaks of “Babylon” and “the beast,”
            it’s tempting to imagine something safely distant,
            some long-gone empire or future tyrant.

But John’s genius is to describe empire in symbols that travel through time.
            Babylon is every system that worships wealth and crushes the poor.
            The beast is every ideology that demands allegiance to fear.
            And the false prophet is every voice that baptises injustice with pious words.

That’s why Revelation still matters.
            Because empire is not just a political structure; it’s a spirituality.
            It is the worship of what isn’t God.

It thrives wherever power is worshipped,
            wherever human life is treated as expendable,
            wherever creation is exploited for profit,
            wherever truth itself becomes a casualty of propaganda.

We see it when refugees are dehumanised in the name of security,
            when the poor are blamed for their poverty,
            when the earth is plundered as though it were disposable,
            when the language of faith is twisted to justify violence.

Revelation doesn’t ask us to decode these things into prophecy charts.
It asks us to see, and to see clearly,
            to see courageously, to see compassionately.
Because once we see empire for what it is,
            we can begin to live differently within it.

And this is where mission comes in.

To follow the Lamb is not simply to critique empire;
            it is to embody an alternative.
The church’s calling is to be a living contradiction to the world’s logic,
            a community where power is shared,
                        where wealth is held lightly,
            where strangers are welcomed,
                        and where forgiveness is stronger than fear.

When John says the Lamb has made us “a kingdom of priests,”
            he means precisely this:
that the church’s worship and the church’s justice are the same act.

Every Eucharist, every shared meal,
            every act of mercy is a small rebellion against Babylon,
            a proclamation that another kingdom is already among us.

So if Revelation feels political, that’s because it is.

But it’s not the politics of party or ideology;
            it’s the politics of love.
It’s the vision of a world reordered around the Lamb
            who reigns through self-giving grace.

This is what it means to live apocalyptically,
            to see through the glitter of empire
and to live as if the kingdom of God were already here,
            because in Christ, it is.

And it means that the church’s mission, your mission,
            is to reveal a different way of being human:
the way of the Lamb.

Whenever you choose understanding over prejudice,
            generosity over greed, truth over fear,
you bear witness that the Lamb still reigns.

That is Revelation’s Christology in action:
            not speculative prophecy, but practical discipleship.

Conclusion

So today, as we join that heavenly chorus,
            remember what John saw:

At the centre of everything, of heaven and earth, of history and hope,
            stands a Lamb, still bearing his wounds, still reigning in love.

The future of the world is not in the hands of the powerful,
            but in the hands of the crucified and risen Christ.

And because that’s true, we can live with courage,
            serve with hope, and love without fear.

To the one who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb,
            be blessing and honour and glory and power,
            for ever and ever.
Amen.

Weaving Trust: Stories that Build the Common Good

At Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church we recently hosted a Weaving Trust event with partners from West London Citizens and Peaceful Borders. It was an afternoon of stories, connection, and justice, and one that left us energised and inspired to keep building relationships across difference.

Fifty-four participants gathered at the church, and over the course of an hour we had more than 270 conversations. The numbers are impressive, but the real power of the event was not statistical. It was personal. People from different walks of life, members of our congregation, refugees supported by Peaceful Borders, community leaders from Citizens institutions, sat face to face and shared stories. They spoke about what they love in their neighbourhoods, what matters most to them, and what a better world might look like.

The Weaving Trust model is simple, structured, and profoundly human. Participants are guided through a series of short one-to-one conversations, each with a question designed to draw out values, hopes, and shared concerns. It’s not a debate, and it’s not networking. It’s an intentional act of listening, a chance to discover what we have in common and to appreciate what makes each of us unique. In a time when public life feels increasingly divided, this kind of deep listening becomes a quiet act of resistance to polarisation.

Hosting the event was both worthwhile and enjoyable. The structure gave just enough framework to make everyone feel comfortable, even those who are naturally more reserved. There was laughter, curiosity, and moments of genuine connection. By the end of the afternoon, the room felt different: lighter, warmer, and full of potential.

For churches and community organisations considering how to strengthen relationships and nurture a culture of justice, Weaving Trust offers a practical starting point. It builds the relational power that enables collaboration, whether on local social issues, refugee support, or shared campaigns for change. It’s an event that requires little in the way of resources, but yields much in understanding and hope.

If you’re thinking of hosting your own Weaving Trust event, you don’t need to be an expert facilitator. All you need is a willingness to create a safe, welcoming space and to invite a diverse mix of people. The conversations will do the rest. Our partners at Peaceful Borders  and the Anabaptist Mennonite Network can help guide the process and share materials, and there’s a growing network of churches and secular organisations keen to support others to build confidence in doing this.

As one participant said at the end of our session, “I’ve spoken today with people I would never normally meet, and I feel like I understand our city a little better.”

That’s what Weaving Trust is all about: rediscovering our shared humanity through story, one conversation at a time.

Simon Woodman, Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church.

Let justice roll down like waters

A Sermon for Remembrance Sunday

Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

9 November 2025

Amos 1.1–2; 5.14–15, 21–24
John 7.37–38

It is perhaps strange, on a Sunday dedicated to remembering war,
            that the prophet Amos calls us not to remembrance but to repentance.

The words we have heard today
            come from a man who lived in a time of peace and prosperity
            — when Israel’s borders were secure and the economy was booming.

Yet beneath the surface, something was rotting.
            The poor were being trampled down,
            justice was being sold to the highest bidder,
            and violence was a daily reality for those on the margins.

Into that comfortable complacency came the voice of Amos:
            “Seek good and not evil, that you may live.”
            “Let justice roll down like waters,
                        and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Amos speaks across the centuries to us today,
            as we gather in remembrance
            — not to glorify war, but to lament it;
            not to justify violence, but to seek a better way.

Remembering in truth

Remembrance Sunday always draws together
            grief and gratitude, sorrow and hope.

We remember those who died
            — soldiers and civilians, neighbours and strangers —
            and we honour their courage and sacrifice.

But as followers of Jesus, our remembrance must go further.

For we are called to remember in truth
            — not only what was done, but what was lost;
not only the courage of those who fought,
            but the horror of the violence that consumed them.

We remember as those who belong to the one who said,
            “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”

We remember as those who follow the one
            who told Peter to put away his sword.
We remember as those who know that Christ confronted the powers of violence
            not by meeting force with force,
but by absorbing violence into himself
            and transforming it through love.

To remember rightly, in the light of Christ,
            is to mourn the cost of human conflict
            and to renew our commitment to peace.

Dangerous Memory

But true remembrance, as Scripture understands it, is never passive.
            In the Bible, to remember is not merely to recall; it is to act.

When God “remembers” Noah in the ark,
            it means that God moves to save.
When God “remembers” the covenant,
            it means that God intervenes in history to deliver the oppressed.
To remember, in the biblical sense,
            is to bring the past into the present
            so that the future may be different.

Our remembrance, then, cannot be content with nostalgia or pride.
            It must become a living, active memory
            — what some theologians have called a dangerous memory —
            a memory that disturbs complacency and stirs compassion.

For the Christian, to remember those who have died in war
            is to remember, too, the world that allowed such wars to happen.

It is to recall not only courage and sacrifice,
            but also hatred, greed, and fear.

It is to remember, painfully, that human beings are capable of terrible things
            — and that we ourselves are not immune.

Remembrance Sunday is not meant to make us comfortable.
            It is meant to make us faithful.

We remember not to enshrine the past,
            but to change the present.

We remember so that our hearts might be softened,
            our consciences awakened, and our lives redirected toward peace.

And this is why we do not stop at silence or at ceremony.
            We remember in order to act.

We remember, so that — in Amos’s words —
            justice might roll down like waters,
            and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.

It is at this point that our sculpture of The Violinist speaks to us
            — not simply as art, but as a living act of remembrance,
            a testimony in metal and music to what can be made new.

The Violinist

Here at Bloomsbury, our act of remembrance is joined by a powerful symbol.

In our sanctuary today stands The Violinist
            — a sculpture made from decommissioned weapons
                        from Mozambique’s civil war,
            part of Christian Aid’s “swords to ploughshares” initiative.

He stands poised mid-performance,
            violin under his chin, bow raised
            — an image of art born from the wreckage of destruction.

Where once there were rifles and bayonets, now there is a musician.
            Where once there was the power to kill,
            now there is the power to create.

This sculpture proclaims visually what the prophet Isaiah imagined long ago:
            “They shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
            and their spears into pruning hooks.”

The Violinist calls us to imagine a world
            where instruments of death are repurposed for life;
where the tools of war are transformed into expressions of beauty.

And he stands here today as a silent sermon in metal
            — a testimony to the hope that even from the ruins of violence,
            new music can rise.

The world we remember

But we cannot stand before him
            and pretend that this vision has yet come to pass.

We live in a world still scarred by war.

We think of Gaza, where a fragile peace holds
            but where trauma and rubble remain
— and of the West Bank, where violence continues daily
            and justice feels so far away.

We pray for Palestinians and Israelis alike,
            for all who long for safety and dignity,
            for an end to occupation and fear.

We think of Ukraine, where soldiers and civilians alike continue to die,
            where homes lie in ruins,
            where people face yet another winter under the drone of missiles.

We think of Sudan, where millions have been displaced by conflict
            so brutal that the world struggles to look.

We think of Myanmar and the Democratic Republic of Congo,
            where oppression and chaos persist,
            largely unseen by those who enjoy peace.

And we name these places not as distant concerns,
            but as wounds in the one body of Christ.

For as Martin Luther King, who preached from this very pulpit, once said:
            “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

To remember rightly is to stand in solidarity
            with all who suffer the consequences of violence
            — to refuse the temptation of comfortable forgetting.

The religion God rejects

Amos delivers a devastating message from God
            to a nation very proud of its worship.

“I hate, I despise your festivals,” says the Lord,
            “I take no delight in your solemn assemblies.
Even though you bring me offerings, I will not accept them.”

It’s shocking language — especially on a Sunday such as this,
            when we too gather in solemn remembrance.

But perhaps it is exactly the message we need to hear.

Amos insists that worship without justice is meaningless.
            Religion that offers piety to God
            while ignoring the suffering of others is hypocrisy.

If our remembrance becomes merely sentimental,
            or if it serves only to sanctify nationalism or to justify violence,
            then we too risk offering worship that God despises.

God does not ask for ceremonies that make us feel noble.
            God asks for lives that seek good and not evil,
            for communities where justice flows like a river.

Our remembrance, if it is to be faithful, must move us to action
            — to peacemaking, to solidarity, to compassion.

Violence, conscience, and costly peace

Of course, this is not easy.

We know that some who take up arms do so not out of hatred,
            but from a conviction that violence is the least-worst way to confront evil.

We think of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German pastor
            who joined the plot to assassinate Hitler
— a man whose conscience led him to an act he could not justify,
            yet could not avoid.

We may understand such choices, even honour their courage,
            but as followers of Christ we cannot celebrate killing.

We believe that every life is sacred,
            that every act of violence is a tragedy,
            even when it is done in the name of protection or justice.

The peace of Christ is not naïve;
            it does not deny the existence of evil.
But it refuses to let evil define the terms of our response.

Christ calls us to resist the powers of death through the strength of love
            — through truth, compassion, courage, forgiveness.
As Dr King put it, “We will meet your physical force with soul force.”

This is the path of the gospel:
            not passive acceptance of injustice, but active, costly peace.
It is the way of the cross — and therefore, the way of resurrection.

Bonhoeffer and King

Yet if we are honest, part of the challenge of peace
            is that it demands more of us than we often wish to give.

It is easier to remember than to repent.
            Easier to honour the heroes of the past
            than to face the injustices of the present.
Easier to speak of peace in the abstract
            than to live it in the concrete.

The prophet Amos names this with startling clarity.

His vision of justice is not simply about personal morality or private virtue.
            It is about the ordering of society
            — about the structures that crush the poor,
            the systems that privilege some while excluding others.

When Amos cries out for justice to roll down like waters,
            he is not describing a gentle stream for personal refreshment;
he is calling for a flood that will sweep away
            corruption, greed, and indifference.

It is a call for transformation
            — not just of hearts, but of economies, of politics, of relationships.

This is why both Bonhoeffer and Martin Luther King
            found themselves in conflict with the powers of their age.

Each, in his own context, recognised that the gospel’s demand for peace
            is inseparable from the demand for justice.

Peace is not the absence of conflict
            but the presence of righteousness.

For Bonhoeffer, this conviction led him to resist the idol of nationalism
            that had enthroned Hitler as Germany’s saviour.

For King, it led him to resist the idol of white supremacy
            that cloaked itself in American Christianity.

Both knew that the cross of Christ stands as judgment
            on every empire that builds its peace through violence.

And both understood that peace must begin
            with the conversion of the human heart
            — because only a heart set free from fear can love its enemies,
            and only a heart released from greed can work for the common good.

So when we pray for peace,
            we are not asking God to wave a wand over the world;
            we are asking God to change us.

To make us into instruments of that peace
            — as courageous, creative, and costly
as the transformation that turned weapons of war
            into the figure of our Violinist.

Let the waters flow

Amos gives us one of the most enduring images in Scripture:
            “Let justice roll down like waters,
            and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Justice, in this vision, is not a static state of affairs;
            it is something that moves, that surges, that flows.
It is as unstoppable as a river breaking through stone.

And when Jesus later cried out in Jerusalem,
            “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me,
            and let the one who believes in me drink,”
he added,
            “Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.”

The two images converge.

The living waters of Christ are the same waters of justice Amos proclaimed.
            When the Spirit fills our hearts,
            the stream of righteousness begins to flow through us and into the world.

This is how peace comes
            — not imposed from above, but rising from within.

It begins in changed hearts
            and flows outward into changed communities.

The river of God’s justice begins as a spring in the soul.

Hope in a violent world

Friends, we live in a violent world,
            but violence is not the end of the story.

The last word belongs to God,
            and that word is peace.

The Violinist stands as witness to this hope.
            Made from weapons, he now embodies music.
Shaped by the materials of war,
            he has become a sign of beauty.

He is not naïve — his metal still bears the marks of its past —
            but he stands transformed.
He reminds us that God can redeem
            even what seems beyond redemption.

In him, we see the gospel made visible:
            what once destroyed can, by grace, be made creative.

And in the cross of Christ,
            we see that same pattern written on the heart of God:
violence transfigured by love, death defeated by life.

This is our faith — that the love of God is stronger than human hatred,
            that peace is stronger than war,
            that hope is stronger than despair.

A call to act and to hope

So on this Remembrance Sunday,
            as we honour the past and face the present,
            let us also commit ourselves to the future.

Let us remember that peace does not begin in parliaments or treaties;
            it begins in hearts willing to forgive and to change.

Let us remember that justice does not roll down automatically;
            it flows when people act with courage and compassion.

Let us remember that hope is not the absence of fear,
            but the refusal to let fear have the final word.

May we be like The Violinist
            — our lives forged in the fire of human conflict,
            yet transformed by grace into something that sings of peace.

May we be like the rivers of Amos and the living waters of Christ
            — allowing justice and mercy to flow through us into a thirsty world.

And may we hear, even now, in the silence between the notes,
            the music of the kingdom
— the song of peace that will one day fill the earth.

Amen.