A Voice in the Wilderness

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

28 December 2025

John 1.19–34

Redeeming God, help us see Christ clearly and bear witness to his love. Amen.

There is something striking about today’s reading from the gospel of John.

Only eighteen verses earlier we were soaring in the theological heights of the prologue:
            in the beginning, Word and Light and Life.
            The creation of everything through the Word.
            The light the darkness cannot overcome.
It is cosmic, breathtaking, transcendent.

And then suddenly the gospel narrative lands
            — in the dust of the wilderness, in the Jordan Valley,
surrounded not by angels or cherubim
            but by questioners, critics, priests,
            Levites, people wanting answers.

The shift is jarring.
            From cosmic Christology to ordinary human conversation.

Perhaps this is intentional.
            Perhaps the gospel is telling us that the eternal Word
            becomes known not only in the breathtaking sweep of divine truth
            but in the gritty moments of human encounter.
God is not just found in heaven;
            God meets us on the riverbank,
            in the waters of baptism.

The religious leaders arrive and ask John the Baptist the question
            that echoes through human existence: Who are you?

The question is more than biographical.
            It is messianic, political, existential.

Everyone at the time is looking for the one who will fix things,
            who will rescue Israel from occupation,
            who will restore justice,
            who will heal what is broken.

And John’s answer is clear: I am not the Messiah.
            They ask again in another way. Are you Elijah? No.
            Are you the Prophet? No.
His identity begins with everything he refuses to claim.

This is fascinating.
            How many of us begin self-definition not with who we are
            but with who we are not?

John resists every opportunity for self-aggrandisement.
            He refuses the mantle of significance, of power, of messianic status.

And only after this stripping back does he finally speak of who he is:
            I am a voice crying in the wilderness,
            “Make straight the way of the Lord.”

Not a hero. Not a saviour.
            Not a figure who commands armies or carries status.
But a voice.

A voice crying in the wilderness.
            It is such a humble phrase and yet so powerful.
Because a voice is enough.
            A voice can make a way.
            A voice can call the world back to love.
A voice can break open complacency.
            A voice can awaken hope.
            A voice can shine a light into despair.
A voice can prepare the way for God.

And where is this voice positioned?
            Not in the temple. Not in the palace. Not among the elite.
            But in the wilderness.

The wilderness is never simply a geographical location in the biblical imagination.
            It is the place of struggle, of wandering,
            of vulnerability, of dislocation.
It is where the people have no illusions of power
            and no safety except in God.
It is where the illusions of success and control fall away.

And perhaps that is why the voice is heard there
            — because it is in our wildernesses that we are ready to listen.

John’s baptism is also disturbing to the religious leaders.

Baptism, at that time, was not new.
            Ritual washing for purity was a regular religious practice.
But John’s baptism is not about purity for acceptance.
            It is not about performing religion correctly so that God might approve.
His baptism is about turning the heart, about reorientation,
            about a radical change of direction.
It is a washing not into religion but into readiness.

To be baptised by John is not to be made respectable.
            It is to be made expectant.

So the questioning from the authorities continues
            because they do not understand.

Who gives you the authority to do this?
            Who do you think you are?

And John responds not with self-justification, not defensively, not angrily,
            but with humility and startling clarity:

I baptise with water
            — but among you stands one whom you do not know,
                        the one who is coming after me;
            I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.

If the first part of John’s witness is knowing who he is not,
            the second part is knowing who Jesus is.

He does not draw attention to himself.
            He points beyond himself.
            His whole life is an arrow of witness.

And then the next day the gospel reaches a moment of monumental simplicity
            and world-changing power.

Jesus approaches, and John declares,
            “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.”

The phrase is familiar to us,
            perhaps so familiar we barely feel its force anymore.

But imagine hearing it for the first time.
            The Lamb of God — the one who reveals God
            not through triumph but through self-giving love.

The one who breaks the power of sin
            not through violence but through compassion.

The one who redeems the world not by dominating but by serving.

Behold the Lamb of God.
            With that proclamation, John steps from centre stage.
His mission is complete. His humility is total. His joy is fulfilled.
            He has done the one thing he has been called to do:
            point others to Christ.

What does this mean for us here today
            — here at Bloomsbury, in the centre of London,
            in a complicated city, in a complicated world?

First, it teaches us something crucial about the nature of the church.

The church does not need to be powerful to be faithful.
            It does not need to be dazzling to be significant.
            It does not need to dominate to change lives.

It is enough to be a voice.
            A voice that cries out against injustice,
                        that calls people back to compassion,
            that speaks peace in a world addicted to conflict,
                        that invites connection in a culture of isolation,
            that names hope where despair claims to have the final word.

John does not ask for attention; he simply tells the truth.
            Our task is to tell the truth of God’s love, God’s justice,
            God’s welcome, and God’s calling to every human being to flourish.

We sometimes imagine that unless the church is big,
            wealthy, loud, influential, and culturally dominant,
            it cannot transform the world.

But the gospel does not support that fantasy.
            The gospel gives us John: a voice in the wilderness.
            And that is enough.

Second, today’s gospel reminds us that Christian identity
            is rooted not first in who we are
            but in whom we bear witness to.

John begins by refusing to allow others to define him
            according to their expectations.

He refuses to inhabit identities rooted in power, nostalgia,
            prophetic glamour or religious status.

He locates himself instead in service to God’s work.
            And perhaps we must do the same.

We live in a society that encourages us to construct identity
            through achievement, performance, consumer choices,
            social rank, wealth, image, and productivity.

But we are invited to define ourselves in another way
            — as people who belong to Christ,
            who follow his way of compassion and justice,
            who live not merely for ourselves but for the sake of the world.

Our identity is not self-manufactured.
            It is received through love.

Third, we discover that being witnesses means pointing beyond ourselves.
            And this is not easy.
Institutions, organisations, and individuals
            are always tempted toward self-promotion.
But the gospel calls us away from that.

When we serve our neighbour, when we take action for justice,
            when we welcome the stranger, when we work for reconciliation,
            when we show mercy
— we do not point to ourselves as the solution.
            We point to the Lamb of God whose love reshapes the world.

So our community organising, our interfaith partnerships,
            our LGBTQ inclusion, our work with refugees,
            our night shelter for people who are homeless, our advocacy
— these are not projects that show how wonderful Bloomsbury Baptist Church is.
            They are signs pointing to Jesus.
            They say: look, here is what the love of God looks like.
            Come and see.

But bearing witness to Christ does not only happen
            through public action or social engagement.
It also begins in the quietness of the heart.

Before John ever proclaimed anything to the crowds,
            he first learned to listen.
A voice can only speak the truth if it has first listened deeply.

We live in a culture of constant noise and constant reaction.
            It is easy to move from one demand to the next,
            always busy, always distracted, even when doing good things.

Yet the gospel calls us not only to action but to attention.
            If we are to point others to Christ,
            we must first allow Christ to speak to us.

Personal prayer is not an escape from the world.
            It is preparation for it.

In prayer we remember who we are and whose we are.
            In prayer we allow the Spirit to reshape our hearts.
In prayer we learn again to trust that love is stronger than fear,
            that grace is deeper than guilt,
            that hope is more real than despair.

In prayer we learn to recognise the Lamb of God in our midst,
            so that when we go back into the world,
            we do not lose sight of him.

So I want to encourage each of us to claim time this week
            — not out of duty or guilt, but out of desire —
to sit in stillness before God,
            even if only for a few minutes at a time.

You might choose to hold a name before God,
            or a place of conflict, or someone who is suffering.
You might hold before God your own struggles, confusions or joys.
            You might simply take a line from our reading
            and carry it with you through the day:
“Behold the Lamb of God.”
            Let that phrase become breath, prayer and grounding.

Because when we learn to behold Christ in stillness,
            we become more ready to behold him in our neighbour.

And then our witness does not come only from conviction but from overflow
            — from hearts that have already encountered love
            and are eager to share it.

And then fourthly, this passage reminds us
            that Christ is not a distant hope but a present reality.

John speaks in the present tense:
            “Among you stands one whom you do not know.”

The presence of Christ is here, now, in our midst
            — in our worship, in our relationships, in our work for justice,
            in our struggle for peace, in our ordinary days and difficult days.

Faith is not about waiting for Jesus to arrive
            but learning to recognise him already at work.

Every time joy breaks through sorrow, Christ is there.
            Every time forgiveness interrupts resentment, Christ is there.
Every time courage rises against fear, Christ is there.
            Every time community overcomes loneliness, Christ is there.
Every time hope refuses to die, Christ is there.

Our task is not to bring Christ into the world.
            Christ is already here.
Our task is to notice him and to help others notice too.

Finally, we must return to that crucial word in today’s reading: wilderness.
            It is where the voice speaks.
            It is where people are transformed.
            It is where Christ is revealed.

Which means that the wilderness is not something to be escaped;
            it is something God enters.
And God meets us there.

There are wildernesses everywhere in our city
            — in those who feel forgotten,
                        in those who are grieving,
            in those whose mental health is fragile,
            in those who feel excluded because of race, sexuality, disability,
                        immigration status, poverty, or trauma.

There is wilderness in the life of those weighed down by guilt,
            or overwhelmed by expectations,
            or carrying private sadness they cannot explain.

There are wildernesses far away
            — regions torn by war, famine, occupation, exploitation —
but there are also wildernesses close at hand,
            sometimes hidden behind bright smiles.

And the gospel tells us that Christ comes to those places.
            Not only to the strong, the successful, the well-adjusted, and the comfortable.
            Christ comes first to the wilderness.

Which means that if we want to be where Christ is,
            we must not run from the world’s pain.

We must not protect ourselves with polite distance.
            We must not hide from the cries of the suffering.
We must not retreat into a domesticated religion
            that exists only to make us feel good.

The place where Christ stands is where people hurt.
            The place where Christ stands is where people hope against all hope.
The place where Christ stands is where humanity
            is most fragile and most beloved.

John’s voice continues to echo: Make straight the way of the Lord.
            Prepare. Turn toward the light.
                        Turn toward the Lamb of God.
            Turn toward the One who takes away the sin of the world
                        — not only personal sin, but collective sin, structural sin,
            the sin that perpetuates violence, exclusion, injustice,
                        inequality and greed.

Turn toward the One who heals the world
            not by punishment but by love.

So today we are invited to hear John's call
            not only for long-ago listeners but for ourselves.

We are invited to recognise Christ in our midst.
            We are invited to be witnesses.
            We are invited to be voices.

We may not be famous. We may not be powerful.
            We may not be the ones the world listens to first.

But God has always done extraordinary things
            through ordinary voices in ordinary wildernesses.

So may we speak.

May we speak love where there is hatred.
            May we speak courage where there is fear.
May we speak truth where there is falsehood.
            May we speak mercy where there is cruelty.
May we speak hope where there is despair.
            May we speak Christ into every corner of the wilderness.

And as we do, may others hear — not us, but the One we point to.

Behold the Lamb of God.
Behold the One who takes away the sin of the world.
Behold the One whose love makes all things new.

Amen.

 

Light the Darkness Cannot Overcome

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
Advent 4 - 21^st December 2025

 

John 1.1-18
Psalm 130.5-8

My soul waits for the Lord, and in God's word I put my hope.

There are some moments in the biblical year
            that feel like standing at the hinge of time.

The fourth Sunday of Advent is one of them.

We are so very close to Christmas
            that we can almost hear the rustling of both angels' wings
            and wrapping paper.

Yet we are not there quite yet.
            Today is the shortest day, and the longest night,
And whilst the light is beginning to rise,
            the shadows have in no way fully retreated.

And so we live caught between longing and fulfilment,
            between yearning for redemption
                        and recognising redemption already at work.

It is a holy tension.
            The psalmist gives us the language for that tension.
            "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in God's word I hope."

The psalm comes from a place that is not comfortable or romantic.
            It speaks from the depths. From anguish.
            From fear that something is broken.
            From the sense that things are not as they should be.

It is the cry of someone who knows something about despair
            yet refuses to surrender to it.
Someone who chooses hope even when hope costs something.

Waiting here is not passive.
            Waiting is an act of commitment, an act that engages the whole being.
            Waiting is faith that refuses to be silenced.

Advent is the season that gives permission for this kind of waiting.
            It does not demand that we pretend to be cheerful.
            It does not insist that we smooth over the pain of the world.

Advent looks the darkness in the face and says:
            we will wait here, because we believe the light is coming.

Advent sits with the grief of the Holy Land.
            Advent cries with refugees on cold borders.
Advent aches with families worried about bills and debt and homelessness.
            Advent weeps for the devastation of our planet.

Advent does not avert its gaze from the shadows.
            Advent holds its place and waits, heart and soul and body, for the coming of God.

And then, into that aching, yearning darkness, the Gospel of John begins.
            Not with shepherds and stars and a manger.
            Not with Mary and Joseph.

John begins with a prologue that sounds like the creation of the universe.
            "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God,
            and the Word was God."

And before we have time to catch our breath,
            the prologue moves from the cosmic to the miraculous.
"The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth."

It is almost too much to hold in our minds.
            The Word who spoke creation into existence
                        does not remain distant or abstract.
            The Word enters the story. The Word becomes human.
                        The Word takes on skin and bones and breath.
            The Word does not hover in a cloud of glory
                        but lives and walks and eats and suffers.
            The Word comes into the world not as an idea but as a person.
                        Not as a symbol but as flesh.

And something crucial happens here.
            The incarnation reveals what God is like.
If we want to know God, we look to Jesus.
            God is not remote, not untouchable, not indifferent to the world.
            God is present. God is embodied. God is relational.
            God is love that moves toward the world rather than away from it.

The psalmist waits with longing for redemption.
            The Gospel declares that redemption has begun to arrive.
The psalmist hopes in God's word.
            The Gospel reveals that the Word has taken on human life.

The truth of the incarnation is both deeply comforting and deeply disruptive.
            It comforts us, because it tells us
                        that God has not abandoned the world to its chaos.
            It disrupts us, because it tells us
                        that if God has come to the world in flesh,
                        then everything is now touched with holiness.

Nothing can be dismissed as unworthy of divine concern.
            Flesh is holy. Human life in all its vulnerability is holy.
A newborn baby is holy.
            But so also are those the world treats as disposable.

The Word becoming flesh announces that bodies matter.
            The bodies of the hungry matter.
            The bodies of the marginalised matter.
            The bodies of the wounded matter.
The bodies of those in Gaza and the West Bank matter.
            The bodies of those in Israel matter.
The bodies of those on the streets of London matter.
            The bodies of those who feel they do not belong matter.

And this is not just sentiment.
            The incarnation is a declaration that if God chooses
                        to stand in solidarity with human lives,
            then nothing is beneath the concern of heaven.

There is also a message for the church.

If the Word has become flesh,
            then we who follow Christ cannot live faith as an idea alone.

Faith is not a theory. Faith is not a hobby.
            Faith is not a personal preference.
Faith is flesh and blood. Faith is embodied.
            Faith takes place in real relationships.

Faith demands that we notice suffering and do something about it.
            Faith demands that we step toward the pain of the world
            rather than turn away from it.

Faith demands that we love, not in generalities, but in actions.

When the church becomes abstract,
            when it becomes detached from human lives,
            it stops looking like Jesus.

And yet, even as we hear the call to embody faith,
            we must acknowledge how difficult it can be to live as bearers of light.

The darkness in our world is not abstract;
            it is real and often overwhelming.

We see it in communities divided by inequality,
            in families struggling with illness or loss,
            in the relentless pace of injustice and indifference.
Sometimes it can feel as if the darkness is stronger than the light.

Advent, however, reminds us
            that even the smallest flicker of light
            can pierce the deepest darkness.
The Word became flesh not in grand palaces,
            but in the vulnerability of a child.

The glory of God did not overwhelm the world with dazzling brilliance,
            but entered quietly, gently, into the rhythm of ordinary life.
In that quiet, ordinary presence,
            the darkness could not extinguish the light.

This gives us both courage and direction.
            In our neighbourhoods, in our workplaces, in our church community,
            we are called to be small lights that shine persistently.

Acts of kindness, moments of listening,
            gestures of solidarity, campaigning for justice, welcoming the stranger
            – these are the ways the light of the Word continues to shine.

None of these acts are flashy,
            but each one counters the darkness,
            each one embodies hope,
and each one witnesses to the God who is already at work in the world.

We are not powerless. We are not spectators.
            The incarnation calls us to participate.

The psalmist waits with hope,
            but we wait as those who already carry the light.

In the act of waiting and acting, we join in the work of God,
            so that darkness is met not with despair
            but with patient, relentless light.

I want you to imagine a quiet street in London on a winter evening.
            The snow has started to fall, thick and soft,
            muffling the usual sounds of traffic.

The sky is dark, the street is dark,
            and the houses are dark behind their curtains.

And yet, at the corner, there is a single streetlamp,
            its yellow glow spilling across the snow.

The light is small.
            It cannot illuminate the entire street.
            It cannot stop the cold.
            It cannot prevent the snow from falling.

But it does what it can.
            It gives direction to someone walking home.
It casts shadows that make the world look alive.
            It is a signal: there is care here, there is attention, there is light.

In the same way, our lives, our church,
            our acts of justice and compassion are like that streetlamp.

We cannot eradicate all darkness.
            We cannot solve every problem or heal every wound.
But in the small, faithful ways we live and serve, we shine.

A kind word to a neighbour,
            a phone call to someone who is lonely,
            our campaigning for clean water or housing justice,
            the spaces we make for people to feel welcomed and valued
                        – all these are lights.

And together, as a community,
            those small lights meet the darkness
            and announce that the Word has come,
            and the darkness has not overcome it.

This is the hope of Advent:
            that light is already breaking in,
            that even a little light matters,
and that each of us is invited to carry it into the world.

John's Gospel tells us near the beginning
            that the first calling of those who meet the Word
            is to witness to the light.
To reveal what we have seen and heard.

Witnessing is not forcing belief on others.
            It is not winning arguments.
Witnessing is simply saying through our actions and our community:
            this is what the light looks like.
            This is what love looks like.
            This is what justice looks like.
            This is what hope looks like when it is embodied.
This is what compassion looks like when it becomes flesh
            in the lives of those who follow Jesus.

What would Bloomsbury look like if we fully lived that calling?
            If we were a community that others could look to and say,
            "If you want to see what the light looks like, look there."

I think we already know the answer.
            We see it whenever we choose generosity over indifference.
We see it in our campaigning and our organising.
            We see it in our advocacy for those who are pushed to the margins.
We see it in choosing to be a place
            where LGBTQ people are cherished and celebrated.
We see it in bearing witness to the pain of Palestine
            and insisting that every life has equal value.
We see it in offering welcome to students, seekers, doubters,
            the grieving, the hopeful and the curious.
We see it whenever we dare to love one another
            as if Christ were loving through us.

And yet, we also know that faithfulness is not always easy.
            The prologue to John says, "The light shines in the darkness,
            and the darkness has not overcome it."

The grammar is important.
            It does not say the darkness never tries.
            It does not say the darkness is imaginary.
It says the darkness does not win.
            Darkness never has the final word.

But until the final word of love is spoken,
            we still live in a world where love is resisted,
            and justice is delayed, and violence is real.

Advent is honest about this.

The psalmist waits through the night longing for dawn.
            The church waits for the fullness of redemption.
Yet we wait not with despair, but with confidence.

"With the Lord is steadfast love, and with the Lord is full redemption."
            As Psalm 130 puts it
Full redemption. Not partial.
            Not symbolic. Not theoretical. Full.
It is a promise that what God starts, God completes.

John uses different language to say the same thing.
            "From Christ's fullness we have all received grace upon grace."

It is a cascading abundance.
            It is the relentless generosity of God
            spilled into the world through Jesus.

Grace upon grace.
            Grace that heals shame. Grace that dismantles fear.
            Grace that unravels hatred. Grace that restores dignity.
            Grace that sets people free.
Grace that reaches those who believe themselves beyond reach.
            Grace that will not give up.

Put the psalm and the Gospel together and you hear a single message.
            Wait in hope, because the One who is coming is already here.
Wait in confidence, because the One who is coming
            is full of redemption and grace.
Wait actively, because the One who is coming
            demands a witness in our lives and in our world.

Advent is more than preparing to celebrate the birth of Jesus long ago.
            Advent invites us to prepare for Christ who continues to enter the world.

Christ comes every time fear is met with courage,
            every time loneliness is met with welcome,
            every time hatred is answered with love,
            every time injustice is confronted with collective power.
Christ comes when we act in faith.
            The Word continues to become flesh in us.

And so we wait.

Not waiting for escape from the world,
            but waiting for the transformation of the world.
Not waiting for God to fix everything while we remain passive,
            but waiting as those who already embody hope.
Waiting like people who believe
            that we have a part to play in the inbreaking of grace.

This is our calling as a church.

To open our lives and our community
            so that the Word continues to dwell among us.
To be a place where it is safe to long, safe to weep,
            safe to hope and safe to doubt.
To be a place where justice and compassion
            are not abstract ideas but lived truths.
To be a place where bodies matter
            whatever their colour, gender, or other identity,
            and where no one is disposable.
To be a place where light shines in the darkness
            and where the darkness does not overcome it.

The world is yearning.
            The psalmist understands it. The Gospel meets it.
Humanity is crying out from the depths,
            from war and injustice, from fear and division,
            from isolation and anxiety.

And God answers not with distance but with incarnation.
            Not with condemnation but with grace.
            Not with withdrawal but with solidarity.

So here we are at the hinge of time.

We are so close to the day of celebration that we can almost hear the angels.
            Yet as Advent insists, we do not rush.
We stay in the waiting.
            We wait for Christmas, yet we also wait for the fullness of redemption.
We wait with hope, because the Word who became flesh walks with us.
            The world is not abandoned.
            God is not absent. Light is already shining.

And so we pray:

Come, Christ who is our light.
            Come into the shadows of this world.
Come into the depths of our fear and our longing.
            Come into our community, our city and our world.
Come with grace upon grace until every life is honoured,
            every injustice confronted, every tear wiped away
            and every person knows they are loved.
Make your home among us once again.
            And make us your witnesses. Amen.

The Light Shines in the Darkness

Photo Credit: Zoe Norfolk

 We have just heard those luminous words from the opening of John’s Gospel:
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.”

Yesterday, I attended a gathering in central London 
at the invitation of another faith tradition: 
multi faith lighting of a Chanukah candle, hosted by Progressive Judaism. 

It took place in the shadow of the attack at Bondi Beach this week, 
and it brought together voices from Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, 
humanist and Christian communities.

“The light shines in the darkness” is not an exclusive Christian claim. 
Christians borrowed this language from another tradition. 

The Jewish story knows something profound 
about keeping light alive in dark times. 

Chanukah is a festival that refuses to give in to despair, 
insisting that even a small flame matters. 

That is why Jews light Chanukah candles. 
And it is why Christians light Advent candles.

What struck me most was that Muslims, Christians and Jews were present together.
   Our presence together became a moment of holy encounter. 

Sometimes simply turning up pushes back against the logic of terror, 
which seeks to isolate, to frighten and to divide. 

When we stay together, when we refuse to withdraw into fear, 
we quietly but decisively resist that logic.

At the heart of the Christian faith is the conviction 
that God does not remain distant from the world, 
but enters into the midst of human life. 

Into joy and grief. Into violence and longing. 
Into places like Bondi Beach, Gaza and the West Bank, 
Jerusalem, Ukraine and Sudan. 

The Word becomes flesh not in an idealised world, 
but in the real one we inhabit.

So when we speak of the light of Christ shining in the darkness, 
we are speaking of God’s presence in the world. 

A presence that cannot be extinguished. 

And we are also speaking of our calling: 
to bear that light in our own lives, 
through presence rather than fear, 
through compassion rather than withdrawal, 
so that the light may continue to shine in the darkness.

Let us pray.

God of light and life,
you are present in the midst of the world as it is,
not distant from its pain, nor absent from its hope.

Where there is fear, let your light bring courage.
Where there is violence, let your light bring compassion.

Where communities are torn apart, draw us together in trust and solidarity.

As we celebrate the light of Christ shining in the darkness,
shape us into people who carry that light in our own lives:

choosing presence over withdrawal,
love over indifference,
and hope over despair.

May your light shine through us,
for the healing of the world
and the blessing of all your people.

Amen.

The Living Water of God's Abundant Welcome

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Advent 3 - 14 December 2025

Isaiah 55.1-13
John 4.13-14

Good morning. On this Third Sunday of Advent
            we gather in a city facing tension, division, and fear.

Saturday’s march in London made claims to the Christian story
            in ways that sought to speak for British identity and national heritage,
            and to create a certain version of “our country”.

But for countless people: our neighbours, our friends,
            asylum‑seekers, migrants,
            Jewish people, Muslims, people of colour, and many more,
the echoes of fear still linger this morning.

I recognise that some who get swept up in this rhetoric
            are anxious about economic insecurity, social fragmentation, and rapid change.
But the kind of rhetoric that marched in our streets yesterday
            leaves others of us with a range of emotions from despair to grief.

And so today our Advent waiting does not feel distant or abstract.
            It feels urgent.

The invitation of the prophet remains as pressing and as beautiful now as then.
            Isaiah says: “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters.”

And in John’s Gospel, Jesus echoes that promise:
            “If anyone drinks of the water that I will give, they will never be thirsty.”

These words of universal invitation come to us today not as escapist spirituality,
            but as living hope, as challenge,
            as a call to courage, compassion, justice and welcome.

This sermon is offered because I believe our faith summons us
            to a hope bigger than fear,
a hope rooted in God’s abundance, God’s word made flesh,
            and God’s transforming presence in the world.

The church should not take its cues from extremist movements,
            our starting point is always the revelation of God in Jesus Christ,
            made known to us through the scriptures by the Spirit.
Our response should always be rooted in God’s vision of shalom.

And so I want to begin by returning to the message of the prophet,
            “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters.”

This invitation is radically inclusive.
            There is no small print. No qualifications. No membership card.
            The only admission requirement to God’s kingdom is thirst.

When Isaiah spoke those words,
            his hearers were people shaped by exile, loss,
            economic hardship, and displacement.

Scarcity was the condition of their lives.
            Houses destroyed. Dreams shattered.
            The world rearranged around them.

Perhaps you know something of that pain today.
            Perhaps you feel it in your own bones, or you see it in the lives of others;
friends living precariously, people longing for welcome,
            those for whom “belonging” feels like a distant promise.

The dominant voices around us,
            in politics, on social media, through banners or slogans,
            often demand that we protect, exclude, and guard what is “ours”.

That logic says: we have limited resources.
            We must decide who belongs and who does not.
            We must guard identity, defend heritage, seal borders.

That logic does not seek to heal. It seeks to preserve.

But the word of Isaiah says something entirely different.
            It declares abundance.
Water for the thirsty. Bread for the hungry.
            Welcome for those who have no money, no status, no place at the table.

This is not sentimentality.
            This is counter-imperial theology.
            It is a subversive logic that refuses scarcity as the final word.

And then Isaiah adds another weighty claim.
            God’s word, he says, like rain and snow, does not return empty.
It accomplishes the purpose for which it was sent.
            When God speaks, something happens.
            Life blossoms. Deserts bloom. Drought ends.

That is a powerful claim in ordinary times.
            But it becomes urgent when our world is torn
            by narratives of fear, hostility, and exclusion.

When hateful slogans are chanted in the streets
            and religious symbols are misused to justify prejudice,
            we must resist the temptation to stay silent.

Because God’s word is not quiet by default,
            it moves. It challenges. It renews.

In the Gospel of John we encounter Jesus standing at a well.
            An ordinary place. Not a temple courtyard. Not a hall of power.
            Just a dusty well where people come for water.

And Jesus speaks to a foreign woman there, and offers her living water.
            Water that does not run dry.
            Water that satisfies her deepest thirst.

This living water that Jesus speaks of is not reserved for insiders,
            for those with certificates of belonging.

It flows for everyone. For those seen and unseen.
            For those welcome, and those pushed to the margins.
            For those acclaimed by society, and those disregarded.

This week we have seen Christian identity
            claimed by those who marched under banners of exclusion.
            Some worshipping twisted slogans, and appeals to nationalism.

But the Gospel reminds us that the water Jesus offers flows to all humanity,
            regardless of passport, skin colour, language, religion, or status.

If we follow Christ, we cannot remain silent.
            If we follow the One who offers living water, we must speak truth.
We must act. We must welcome.

Isaiah’s invitation is not only to drink and be satisfied;
            it is a summons to discern how we live in the world.

The prophet speaks to people who have experienced exile, oppression,
            and the arbitrary power of rulers.

This is precisely the world that can look familiar to us
            in the wake of marches, slogans, and fear-driven politics.

The thirst Isaiah calls us to acknowledge
            is not only our personal longing for God’s comfort;
                        it is the thirst of the city itself,
            the thirst for justice, for honesty, for dignity, and for mercy.

In a society where fear is leveraged to divide communities,
            where identity is weaponised against neighbours,
            and where power seeks to intimidate the vulnerable,
God’s living water calls us to resist all forms of spiritual and social dehydration.

Jesus offered this living water at the well of Samaria,
            as he reached across boundaries of gender, ethnicity, and status.
He spoke to a woman whom society had marginalised
            and whose community would have preferred she remain invisible.

He did not ask her to qualify for grace, to prove her worthiness,
            or to demonstrate allegiance to the powerful.

He simply invited her to drink, to engage,
            to experience the transformation of God’s presence in her life.

In the same way, the church is called to practice inclusion that is active, not passive.
            To see, hear, and welcome
            those whom others seek to silence, exclude, or demean.

This active welcome is not sentimental.

It is inherently political because it challenges the logic of exclusion and scarcity.
            In a world where fear drives narratives
                        about “our city,” “our people,” and “our country,”
            the Christian response is to insist that living water is for all.

That God’s provision does not run out.
            That grace, hospitality, and solidarity are abundant,
            not limited to the privileged or the powerful.

When we make space for those whom society would push to the margins,
            we enact the kingdom’s logic in tangible ways.

We resist the co-option of religion for fear,
            and we witness that love and justice
            are stronger than slogans or intimidation.

We are called to drink deeply ourselves, yes,
            but also to become conduits of that water for others.

To stand with those who feel threatened, marginalised, or afraid.
            To speak truth when the powerful misrepresent faith to justify exclusion.

To intervene in subtle and overt ways when injustice manifests,
            whether through casual prejudice, hostile policies,
            or public demonstrations that sow fear.

The living water Jesus offers transforms us
            so that we become bearers of hope, dignity, and welcome.

It allows us to see beyond fear and scarcity,
            to recognise the God-given worth of every person,
            and to act courageously in ways that promote peace and justice.

In this season of Advent, when we await the Christ-child,
            the challenge is clear: to align our thirst with God’s purpose.

To let our longing for justice, for healing, and for reconciliation
            shape how we move through the city,
            how we engage with our neighbours,
            and how we make room at the table for the stranger,
                        the outsider, and the oppressed.

God’s invitation is radical, countercultural, and transformative.
            It demands that we confront fear, reject the idolatry of exclusion,
            and participate actively in God’s mission of abundant life for all.

And so we come to the simplicity, and the challenge, of the Nativity.

We sometimes sanitise this story.
            We place it in a cosy manger,
            with warm lamps, sweet music, and sentimental angels.

But that sanitised version is not the Bible’s version.

The real story is raw.
            The real story involves displacement.

A pregnant mother and a fiancé forced to travel
            because the empire demanded a census and control.

We know the story:
            Mary likely gave birth in the lower room of a family home,
            among extended family, with women providing support,
            because the guest room was already full.

It’s a story of hospitality and solidarity within the community,
            not rejection by it.

A story of vulnerability, of human fragility.
            and ordinary people giving care to those who are vulnerable
            in the face of powerful forces set to do them harm.

And in that story the powerful find no place.
            The empire claims control.
            The census demands numbers.
            The rulers tax and count.

But the Word becomes flesh not in a palace,
            not in a hall of power,
but in a borrowed room in a little town,
            among people whose names never make the headlines.

Oppression comes from empire, with its census, displacement,
            fear, militarised power, and Herod’s violence.

But solidarity comes from ordinary people making space in cramped conditions,
            offering us a powerful counter-image to the hostile rhetoric in public life today.

The little child of God belongs to the poor,
            to the refugees, the outsiders, the marginalised.

The Christ child belongs to every womb that trembles with uncertainty,
            to every heart that wonders if they belong,
            to every human being whose dignity has been questioned.

So when we hear the Christmas story this year,
            in the days after a march claiming to recover “our heritage” and “our identity”,
            let us remember who that baby was, and who that baby still is.

Not the symbol of empire.
            Not the flag of a nation.
            Not the banner of exclusion.

But the sign of God’s belonging and God’s welcome.
            The sign that God chooses the vulnerable, the displaced,
            the stranger, and the outsider.
The sign that no human border, no human slogan,
            no human barricade can contain the love God pours out.

This is the theology of the manger.
            This is Advent hope.

And if this is true, then our call is to live it.
            Not only on Sundays.
            Not only in sermons or hymns.
But in everyday life. In our streets. In our workplaces.
            In our neighbourhoods. In our city.

We are called to radical hospitality.
            To offer water and welcome to those who thirst.
To offer dignity to those who have been denied it.
            To stand with those who feel threatened, marginalised, and afraid.
To make our church a sanctuary not just in name, but in practice.

This Advent, as every Advent,
            Christ’s call to abundant welcome becomes a political act.

Christ comes to our world as we open our doors, our hearts, and our resources.
            As we challenge prejudice.
            As we stand beside those the world would rather ignore.
            As we speak truth in public spaces.

When we offer living water,
            we are claiming that God’s resources are not limited.

That love, justice, dignity, belonging
            are not scarcity goods to be rationed.
            They are abundant gifts. Gifts poured out for all.

We might be a small congregation.
            We might have limited resources.
But we are part of the church universal, the household of God,
            where the feast is open, where the table is large,
            and where there is a place for everyone.

We do not need to hoard. We do not need to fence.
            We do not need to fear the outsider.
We only need to remember that the Word became flesh among the vulnerable.
            That God’s welcome is wider than any ethnic identity,
            any nationality, any passport.

So this Advent, I invite you to imagine differently.

To imagine a London transformed,
            not a closed city, not a city of fear, suspicion and division.

But a city of living abundant water,
            a city of welcome, a city of belonging.

A city where the table is open,
            where strangers become neighbours,
                        where fear is met with courage,
            where justice meets mercy,
                        and where love becomes action.

Imagine a city shaped not by slogans of identity
            but by hospitality, solidarity, compassion,
            justice, and dignity for every person.

This Sunday, as we gather for worship, liturgy, song, and prayer,
            and as we celebrate the coming of Jesus,
we affirm that God’s invitation still stands:
            “Come, all you who are thirsty.”

We do not wait passively.
            We come. We listen.
            We drink. We act. We welcome.

Because the living water Christ offers is not for some.
            It is for all.

Because God’s word will not return empty.

Because the manger was never meant for empires.
            It was meant for the world.

May we, this congregation, this city, this people, live into that promise.

Amen.