The Great Multitude: Hope for a Wounded World

 A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

17 August 2025

Series: Revelation: An Unveiling for Our Times

Revelation 7.9-17
John 14:1-4

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

Today, in our ongoing journey through the Book of Revelation,
            we stand before a vision of astonishing beauty and hope.

Revelation 7:9–17 has been called
            one of the most beloved and comforting passages in the entire book.

It is read at funerals.
            It is stitched into tapestries and stained glass.
It is quoted when people need assurance
            that God is with them in suffering.

But it is also a deeply political, radically challenging text
            —one that pushes us to see beyond the narrow boundaries
            of empire, nation, race, class, and fear.

It invites us to see the world as God sees it.
            And to live as if that vision is true.

We’ve been seeing through this series that apocalypse doesn’t mean catastrophe.
            It means unveiling.

Revelation isn’t written to frighten us about the future.
            It is meant to help us see the present more clearly
            to see our here-and-now from heaven’s perspective.

John seeks to purify the imaginations of his hearers
            to construct alternative images that resist empire’s power.

And that’s exactly what we have before us today.

John writes:

“After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb.” (7.9)

Can you imagine it?

An uncountable crowd.
            From every nation.
            Every tribe.
            Every language.

A vision of humanity gathered, reconciled, united
            —not by coercion, but by worship.

Not by Rome’s military conquest.
            Not by any empire’s forced assimilation.
But by shared allegiance to the Lamb.

This is Revelation’s counter-vision to the empire.

Because let’s remember the context:
            John’s churches lived under Rome’s shadow.
Rome boasted of its “Pax Romana”—its peace.

But that peace was built on conquest,
            on slaughter, slavery, taxation, and humiliation.
It was a peace that erased difference,
            enforced loyalty, and extracted wealth.

Rome’s vision of unity was uniformity at the point of the sword.

And against this John offers a different picture.

He sees difference not erased but embraced.
            Every language is there.
            Every culture.
            Every people.

All united—not under Caesar’s banner, but in worship of the Lamb.

This is deeply political.
            And it is also profoundly pastoral.

Because it says to John’s small, struggling congregations:
            Your witness is not in vain.
            Your suffering is not forgotten.
            You belong to something far bigger than you can see.

You are part of a multitude that no empire can number or silence.

But let’s be honest:
            This vision can feel impossibly distant.

Our world is still divided by race, nation, language, class.
            We see borders hardened, refugees demonised,
            racism woven into systems.
We see fear of the “other” exploited for power.

Even within the church, we have often failed this vision.
            We have divided along doctrinal, cultural, political, and ethnic lines.
            We have sometimes baptised empire’s values instead of resisting them.

And so John’s vision is both comfort and critique.

It says: This is what God desires.
            This is the shape of God’s redeemed people.
            This is what true worship looks like.

It calls us to examine ourselves:

• Who is missing from our communities?
• Whose voices are silenced?
• Whose needs are ignored?
• What walls have we built—visible or invisible?

Notice what the multitude cries:

“Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!” (7.9)

Salvation doesn’t belong to Rome.
            It doesn’t belong to any nation-state or ideology.
            It doesn’t belong to the market or the military.
            It doesn’t belong to us.

It belongs to God.
            It is a gift.
It is universal in scope but particular in cost
            —because it is the Lamb who was slain who saves.

And this is crucial.

Because John’s vision centres not on the throne alone but on the Lamb.

Remember what we saw last week in Revelation 5:
            The Lion of Judah is revealed as the Lamb who was slain.
            Power is redefined through sacrifice.
            Victory comes through vulnerability.

This is the heart of Revelation’s theology.

Empire says: Power is domination.
            Revelation says: Power is self-giving love.

Revelation’s imagery purifies the imagination
            offering an alternative to Rome’s visions of absolute control.”

Here, that alternative is the Lamb.

The Lamb who suffers with the suffering.
            The Lamb who redeems through blood, not swords.
            The Lamb who gathers all peoples not by conquest, but by love.

John’s vision continues:

“These are they who have come out of the great ordeal.”

This isn’t cheap hope.
            It’s forged in suffering.

John’s churches knew persecution.
            Christians were marginalised, slandered, sometimes killed.
They faced pressure to conform, to worship the emperor, to compromise.

John doesn’t deny their pain.
            He honours it.

And this “Great ordeal” is not just theirs.
            It is ours also.

We live in a world that is hard to love.
            We see violence, greed, indifference.
We face personal losses, grief, fear, anxiety.
            We wonder if anything can really change.

John’s vision doesn’t promise escape from ordeal.
            It promises God’s presence in it.

“They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” (7.14)

Strange imagery.
            Laundry advice, it is not.

It’s paradoxical.
            Blood stains—but here it purifies.

Because it is Christ’s blood.
            His sacrificial love.
His refusal to return violence for violence.

They are cleansed not by their own virtue, but by God’s grace.

This is grace we can’t manufacture.
            We can only receive it.
            We can only live into it.

John then hears the promise:

“They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the centre of the throne will be their shepherd.” (7.16)

Here the Lamb is also the shepherd.

A tender image.
            Pastoral in the truest sense.
Here we see God incarnated not as a tyrant but a guide.
            Not as a destroyer but a protector.

Revelation continues: “He will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (7.17)

Every tear.

Think about that.

Not ignored.
            Not dismissed.
            Not minimised.

Wiped away.
            By God’s own hand.

This is not sentimental escapism.
            It is defiant hope.
It is a promise that the pain of empire, the grief of injustice,
            the wounds of violence, will not have the last word.

It is a promise of healing that is both personal and cosmic.

And so our companion text from John’s Gospel speaks here too:

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places… I go to prepare a place for you.” (14.1-2)

Jesus promises not an exclusive mansion for the privileged few,
            but a spacious welcome for all who will come.

He is the way—not of conquest, but of sacrificial love.
            Not of fear, but of trust.
Not of exclusion, but of radical hospitality.

Friends, Revelation 7 is not a map of the future.
            It is a manifesto for the present.

It is a vision meant to shape us now.
            To draw us into God’s dream for the world.

So what might it mean for us at Bloomsbury?

It might mean asking whose languages and cultures we celebrate.
            Whose struggles we stand alongside.
            Whose suffering we refuse to ignore.
            Whose voices we amplify.

It might mean choosing welcome over suspicion.
            Generosity over fear.
            Solidarity over apathy.

It might mean refusing to baptise empire’s false peace,
            and instead working for God’s true shalom.

Because empire always offers us a counterfeit peace.

Rome called it the Pax Romana
            —peace through conquest, through fear, through enforced silence.
It was the peace of the cross used as an instrument of terror.
            It was peace for the powerful and subjugation for everyone else.

Today, empire’s peace might look different,
            but its logic remains the same.

It tells us to value stability over justice.
            To keep quiet about racism, poverty, and violence
            so as not to make things “political.”

To protect our comfort rather than confront injustice.
            To accept growing inequality as the price of prosperity.
To treat refugees and migrants as threats instead of neighbours.
            To believe that security requires surveillance, walls, weapons.

Empire’s peace is always conditional.
            It always depends on someone else’s suffering being ignored.

But Revelation’s vision refuses that lie.
            It unveils it.
            It calls it what it is.

John’s great multitude is not gathered by force but by grace.
            It is not uniform but diverse.
            It is not a conquered people but a redeemed people.

And at its centre is the Lamb who was slain.
            The one who suffered empire’s violence rather than inflict it.
The one who reveals that true peace comes only through justice,
            only through truth,
            only through love that is willing to bear wounds.

So to work for God’s true shalom
            means refusing to stay silent in the face of empire’s injustices.
It means being willing to name the systems
            that benefit some at the expense of others.
It means choosing solidarity with the marginalised
            even when it is costly.
It means letting our tears move us to action.

Because God’s promise is not a peace that ignores pain
            but one that wipes away every tear.
Not a kingdom that crushes difference
            but one that gathers every nation, tribe, people, and language.
Not a victory won by the sword
            but by the Lamb’s self-giving love.

This is the vision that must shape our worship,
            our mission, our politics, our lives.
This is the alternative to empire’s false peace
            that we are called to proclaim and embody.

But let’s be honest: this vision can feel so far away it’s hard to grasp.

We might nod along on Sunday,
            but by Monday we’re back in a world
            that runs on fear and competition.

We’re surrounded by messages that tell us
            that security means shutting others out,
that success means outdoing others,
            that belonging means sameness.

We hear that real power is force,
            that real victory is domination,
            that real worth is wealth.

Revelation knows this.
            It knows the pull of empire’s imagination is strong.
It knows how easy it is
            to lose hope that anything can change.

That’s why John doesn’t just argue. He shows.

He paints this vast, cosmic, beautiful picture
            of a multitude no one can count
            —gathered, praising, healed, reconciled.

He wants us to see it.
            To let that vision soak into us.
To let it shape our longings, our decisions, our loyalties.

Because change begins in the imagination.

If we can’t imagine a reconciled world,
            we’ll never work for one.
If we can’t see a community of every nation and tongue praising God together,
            we’ll settle for churches that all look and think the same.
If we can’t picture God wiping away every tear,
            we’ll start believing that suffering is just how things are.

So Revelation says: Look again.
            Don’t let empire be your teacher.
Don’t let cynicism have the last word.
            Don’t accept the world as it is
            as the world as it must be.

We need this vision precisely because the world is broken.
            Because the work of justice is hard.
            Because solidarity is costly.
            Because hope is fragile.

John offers us not an escape from the world’s pain,
            but a promise that God is at work redeeming it.

He gives us a glimpse of where God is leading all creation.
            He invites us to live now
            as if that future is already breaking in.

So, friends, can we dare to let this vision shape us?
            Can we commit to seeing as John sees?
Can we help one another imagine—and practice—
            a community where every tribe and people
            and language are truly welcome?
Where worship isn’t just words
            but a witness to God’s coming kingdom?

This is the gift—and the challenge—of Revelation’s unveiling.

And yes, it might mean reimagining our worship.
            But I’m not talking here about musical style or preferred choice of instrument.

Because worship in the Book of Revelation isn’t about the music,
            it’s about the politics.

To sing “Salvation belongs to our God”
            is to say it does not belong to any government or system.
To gather across difference is to reject empire’s divisions.
            To follow the Lamb is to renounce the logic of violence.

This is hard.
            It will cost us.

But Revelation dares to say: It is worth it.

Because there is a multitude waiting.
            Longing.
            Hoping.

And God is still gathering them in.

“They will hunger no more.”
“God will wipe away every tear.”

This is the promise.
            This is the hope.
            This is the call.

So let us join the song of the multitude:

“Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!”

Let us follow the Lamb wherever he goes.
            Let us bear witness to a love that conquers by giving itself away.
Let us live even now as citizens of that redeemed, reconciling multitude.

For worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy to receive our worship, our loyalty, our lives.

To him be blessing and honour and glory and might forever and ever.

Amen.

Behold the Lamb: Power Reimagined

 A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

10 August 2025

Series: Revelation: An Unveiling for Our Times

Revelation 5.1–14; John 1.29–31

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

Today we stand before one of the most breath-taking visions in all of Scripture.

Revelation 5 is not just a text to be read.
            It is a drama to be witnessed. A vision to enter.
            A reality to shape our imaginations and our loyalties.

It is, quite simply, an unveiling.

Because Revelation, as we’re discovering in this series,
            is not a coded prediction of future disasters.
It is an apocalypse in the original sense—a revealing.

It rips away the veil that empire would drape over our eyes.
            It shows us the world as God sees it.
And it calls us to live accordingly.

A couple of weeks ago, we began this journey
            with John’s opening vision of Christ as the faithful witness,
            the firstborn of the dead, the ruler of the kings of the earth.

Today we move deeper into the throne room of heaven.

Revelation 5 continues a scene that began in chapter 4,
            where John is summoned through an open door
            to see “what must take place.”

He is shown the true centre of the universe: a throne.

Not Rome’s throne.
            Not Caesar’s palace.
But the throne of God.

Surrounded by living creatures, elders,
            thunder and lightning, singing day and night:

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come.” (4.8)

This is the context for chapter 5.

Because if Revelation 4 declares God’s sovereignty over creation,
            Revelation 5 reveals God’s plan to redeem it.

John sees in the right hand of the one seated on the throne a scroll.
            It is written on the inside and on the back, sealed with seven seals.

Scholars have debated endlessly what exactly the scroll represents,
            but one thing is clear:

It contains the divine plan.
            God’s redemptive purposes for history.
The answer to the question:
            How will God address evil, suffering, injustice?

It is, if you like, the script of salvation.

But there is a problem.

John says, “I saw a mighty angel proclaiming with a loud voice,
            ‘Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?’” (5.2)

This is the question:
            Who is worthy to reveal God’s plan?
            Who is fit to enact God’s justice?
            Who can bring history to its true goal?

And no one is found.

No one in heaven or on earth or under the earth.

And so John begins to weep bitterly.

And I want us to pause here.

Because this is one of the most honest moments in all of Scripture.

John is not a distant observer of celestial visions.
            He is a pastor.
            A prophet.
            A human being who knows his world is broken.

And when he sees no one worthy, he weeps.

He weeps for his churches in Asia Minor, struggling under the shadow of Rome.
            He weeps for martyrs who have died for their faith.
He weeps for a world where evil seems unchallenged,
            where empire seems unending, where hope seems impossible.

John’s tears are our tears.
            And we don’t have to look far to find reasons to weep.

We live in a world where children go to bed hungry
            while billionaires race to build private rockets.

We live in a world where refugees drown at sea
            while borders close and hearts harden.

A world where the climate crisis accelerates,
            and those least responsible suffer the most.

Where systemic racism, sexism, ableism, and homophobia
            persist in structures meant to serve all.

We live in a world where wars rage, families are shattered,
            and the innocent pay the price.

We know these things.
            They are not distant abstractions.
They are our neighbours.
            They are our headlines.

We weep for Ukraine and Gaza and Sudan.
            We weep for those sleeping on our streets.
We weep for the violence done to the earth.
            We weep for racism and injustice and cruelty that seem to have no end.

These are the wounds of our city and our planet.
            And like John, sometimes all we can do is weep.

Because we see that no one seems worthy to fix this.
            No political leader who will truly choose justice over power.
No system that can truly reform itself.
            There is no ‘plan’ that does not compromise with empire’s logic.

And we know our own complicity, too.
            We see the ways we benefit from injustice, even as we lament it.
We see our limits, our failures, our fear of sacrifice.

It is right to weep.
            It is faithful to lament.
Revelation does not rush past this moment.

John’s tears are holy.
            They name the truth that empire wants to hide:
That things are not as they should be.
            That the world is broken.
            That we cannot save ourselves.

But Revelation does not leave us there.
            It does not silence our weeping, but responds to it.

“Do not weep,” says the elder.

Not because there is nothing to grieve,
            but because there is one who is worthy.

There is one who does not conquer through violence, but through love.
            One who bears the wounds of empire rather than inflicting them.
One who takes away the sin of the world
            not by demanding sacrifice, but by becoming the sacrifice.

This is our hope:
            Not in our own power, but in the Lamb who was slain.
Not in the strategies of empire, but in the faithfulness of God.
            Not in avoiding the cross, but in trusting resurrection.

And so the vision turns.

The elder says to John:

“Do not weep. See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals.” (5.5)

We expect power.
            We expect might.
            We expect the Lion.

But John looks—and what does he see?
            “Then I saw a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.” (5.6)

Not a Lion roaring in conquest.
            But a Lamb who has been slain.

This is the heart of Revelation.

This is the scandal of Christian faith.

God’s answer to evil is not greater violence.
            God’s answer to empire is not a rival empire.
            God’s answer to power is not more power.

God’s answer is the Lamb.
            Slaughtered.
            Yet standing.
Alive.
            Victorious through vulnerability.

Here we are offered an alternative image that purifies our imagination.

Rome’s images were everywhere in the first-century world:

• Eagles and standards.
• Statues of Caesar.
• Coins proclaiming his divinity.
• Triumph arches celebrating military conquest.

They all shouted: Power is violence. Power is domination. Power is fear.

But John offers a different image.

A Lamb.
            Slain.
            Yet alive.
Worthy.

This is the vision Revelation wants to burn into our hearts.

Because the Lamb reveals the true nature of God.

Not distant.
            Not indifferent.
            Not a cosmic tyrant.

But one who enters into suffering.
            Who bears the wounds of empire.
Who refuses to conquer by the sword,
            but conquers through the cross.

It’s here that our companion text from John’s Gospel speaks so powerfully:

“Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

John the Baptist’s words are prophetic.

Because the sin of the world is not just personal failure.
            It is the whole system of violence, exploitation,
            idolatry, and empire that crushes life.

And Jesus comes not to reinforce it, but to take it away.

Not by killing his enemies.
            But by forgiving them.
Not by demanding sacrifice.
            But by becoming the sacrifice.

Revelation 5 then shows the heavenly response to the Lamb.

The living creatures and elders fall before him.

They sing a new song:

“You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals,
for you were slaughtered and by your blood you ransomed for God
saints from every tribe and language and people and nation;
you have made them to be a kingdom and priests serving our God.” (5.9-10)

Notice the logic:

• Worthiness is not in might, but in sacrifice.
• Redemption is not for one nation, but for all nations.
• The result is not a new empire, but a kingdom of priests.

This is profoundly political.

Because it challenges every system that divides, exploits, excludes.
            It challenges every boundary we draw between us and them.
It challenges the assumption that violence is necessary,
            that domination is natural,
            that security requires oppression.

It says: There is another way.

The way of the Lamb.

John’s vision culminates in cosmic worship.

Countless angels sing:

“Worthy is the Lamb that was slaughtered
to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might
and honour and glory and blessing!” (5.12)

Every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth joins in:

“To the one seated on the throne and to the Lamb
be blessing and honour and glory and might forever and ever!” (5.13)

This is not escapist fantasy.
            It is resistance literature.

Because worship is political.

To say worthy is the Lamb is to say Caesar is not.
            To worship the slain Lamb is to refuse to worship the beast.
To sing this song is to train our hearts to see the world as God sees it.

We need this liturgical and visionary purification of our imaginations.

Because empire still trains our imaginations.

• Advertising tells us our worth is in what we buy.
• Politicians tell us security requires walls and weapons.
• Economies tell us the earth is a resource to be plundered.
• Media tells us violence is entertainment.

Revelation says: Look again.
            See the Lamb.
            Worship the Lamb.
            Follow the Lamb.

But let’s be honest:
            following the Lamb is not the path of prestige or ease.

It is profoundly countercultural—even here, even now.

Because our world still rewards the roar of the lion
            more than the vulnerability of the Lamb.

We live in a city of ambition, competition,
            branding, and self-promotion.

We are told daily that success is power,
            wealth is security, and image is everything.

The logic of empire is subtle.
            It does not always come with legions and banners.

Sometimes it comes with advertising slogans,
            corporate strategies, and political soundbites.

It promises us peace but demands our complicity.
            It offers us comfort at the cost of someone else’s suffering.
It normalises injustice and numbs compassion.

To follow the Lamb means refusing those lies.

It means asking hard questions
            about how we live, spend, vote, work, worship.

It means acknowledging
            where we have benefited from systems of oppression.

It means choosing solidarity over safety,
            truth over convenience, sacrifice over self-interest.

It also means letting ourselves be changed.

Because the Lamb is not just a model to admire but a Lord to obey.
            He calls us not to dominate but to serve.

Not to repay violence with violence but to seek peace.
            Not to exclude but to welcome.
Not to fear death but to trust resurrection.

And this calling is not just for individuals.
            It is for us as a community.

What would it mean for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
            to be known as a people of the Lamb?

A community that embodies the politics of the cross?
            A congregation that sings a different song in the heart of empire?

It would mean shaping worship
            that forms our imagination away from empire’s values.

It would mean nurturing relationships
            that resist isolation and commodification.

It would mean working for justice
            not as an optional add-on but as core to our calling.

It would mean opening our doors and our hearts
            to those the world excludes.

Friends, this is the invitation Revelation offers.

Not an escape from the world but an unveiling of its truth
            —and a summons to live differently.

Not fear of the future but faithfulness in the present.

Not allegiance to the beast but worship of the Lamb.

And friends, this is our calling.

We are not spectators of this vision.
            We are participants.

We are the kingdom of priests the Lamb has ransomed.
            We are the community that witnesses to another way of being human.
We are called to resist empire’s lies and embody the Lamb’s truth.

This might look like welcoming the stranger when the world builds walls.

It might look like refusing the logic of violence
            in our speech, our politics, our policies.

It might look like sharing our resources generously in a world of greed.
            It might look like telling the truth even when it costs us.

It might look like worship that shapes our ethics,
            prayer that fuels our action,
            and community that practices forgiveness.

It will not be easy.
            Because the Lamb was slain.
And we too may face cost, loss, and misunderstanding.

But John says that the Lamb stands.
            Resurrected.
            Victorious.

And so will God’s purposes.

So let us behold the Lamb.

Let us weep with John over a broken world.
            But let us also hear the angel say: Do not weep.
            See the Lamb.

Let us join the song of heaven.
            Let us refuse the worship of empire.
Let us be, even now, a kingdom of priests serving our God.

For worthy is the Lamb that was slain.
            Worthy is the Lamb to receive our loyalty, our love, our lives.

To him be blessing and honour and glory and might forever and ever.

Amen.

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, and understanding it more deeply?

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 an 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 feel-good culture.

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.

You see, 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 real people in these real 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.

And so, this phrase, grace and peace, is not just the opening flourish of a letter.
            It is a summons. A spiritual invitation.
            A rhythm to breathe into.

This afternoon, some of us will gather again here for our Breathing Space meeting.
            It’s a time when we slow down, turn again to scripture,
            and create space to listen—both to God and to one another.

And I wonder whether this same benediction, grace and peace,
            might shape that gathering, too.

To receive grace is to acknowledge our need,
            and to breathe in the unearned, unending love of God.

To receive peace is to release our fear, our urgency, our exhaustion,
            and to breathe out trust, courage, and stillness.

In a world that runs on violence and competition,
            Breathing Space becomes a quiet act of resistance.

It is, in its own way, a form of worship:
            not loud, not performative, but gently transformative.

A place where the Lamb reigns,
            not through force, but through presence.

So whether you join us later or not, I wonder:
            Where is grace making itself known in your life right now?
            Where might peace be quietly taking root in your spirit?

Interestingly, “Grace and peace” is how Paul begins his letters too.
            But here in the book of Revelation 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 apocalyptic 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 that follows.

The first part of the title describes Jesus as the faithful witness.

In Greek, the word here is martys,
            which is the root of our word martyr, and it means, literally, ‘witness’.

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.
Rather, he faithfully testified to the kingdom of God.

And for that, he was executed by imperial power.

So 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 military victory.
            John proclaims peace through the violence of the cross.

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

And so we come to the second title used for Jesus,
            describing him as 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,
            even to the point of martyrdom.
If Christ lives, then Caesar’s threats are empty.

And this brings us to the third of the opening titles used for Jesus,
            describing him as 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 here
            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, and 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, and 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,
            the A-Z of history.

By this understanding, history is not a random cycle of violence.
            It is not controlled by the whims of tyrants.
Rather, 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.

Friends, 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?

And sometimes, witnessing to the Lamb
            means speaking uncomfortable truths in the face of real-world injustice.

This week, our Baptist Union issued a bold and timely statement [1]
            calling for an immediate ceasefire in Gaza and the release of hostages,
but also going further:
            denouncing the illegal occupation of Palestine,
            calling for an end to UK arms sales to Israel,
and advocating for a future rooted in justice, safety, and equal rights for all.

This is not political partisanship. It is Christian witness.

It is what happens when the church remembers that Caesar is not Lord,
            that violence is not peace,
and that the God we worship stands always with the wounded,
            the marginalised, and the oppressed.

John’s vision in Revelation reminds us
            that the powers of this world are not ultimate.
That God’s justice will not be silenced.
            And that grace and peace must be more than words:
            they must be lived.

This is the kind of witness we are called to.

To stand in solidarity with the suffering.
            To speak where others remain silent.
To name injustice clearly, and to hope courageously.
            To proclaim, still, that Jesus is Lord.
Not empire. Not violence. Not fear.

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.

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[1] https://www.baptist.org.uk/Groups/447734/Statement.aspx