The Scroll and the Fire

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

29 June 2025

 

Jeremiah 3611–8, 21–23, 27–31
John 5:31–38
 
We begin today a new series exploring the words of the prophet Jeremiah,
            and we do so not because Jeremiah makes for comfortable reading,
but because in an age like ours,
            we need prophets who speak difficult truths.
 
The lectionary leads us today not to Jeremiah’s call or visions of judgement,
            but instead to a lesser-known episode
—a dramatic and disturbing tale
            of political power trying to silence a prophetic word.
 
It is, in many ways, a story as old as time:
            the uncomfortable word is spoken, the powerful are threatened,
            and someone tries to burn it all down.
 
But, as we shall see,
            the word of God is not so easily destroyed.
 
Let’s begin with the story.
 
Jeremiah is, by this point in his life,
            effectively banned from entering the temple precincts.
 
His message has become too much.
 
The powers that be have silenced him—at least in person.
            But it turns out that the word of God
            doesn’t require a pulpit to be preached.
 
And so Jeremiah turns to Baruch, his scribe and co-labourer,
            and dictates the whole of his prophetic message
            —years of proclamations, warnings, visions, and pleas—
                        onto a single scroll.
 
It is painstaking work. It is dangerous work.
            And it is deeply hopeful work.
 
“Perhaps,” says Jeremiah, “when the people hear of all the disasters
            that the Lord intends to bring upon them…
            perhaps then, they will all turn from their evil ways.” (v.3)
 
And we hear in this not the glee of a prophet enjoying judgment,
            but the plea of one who longs for repentance, for change, for mercy.
 
And so, in a dramatic moment of holy subversion,
            Baruch takes the scroll and goes to the temple to read it aloud.
 
It’s worth pausing here to name the risk:
            this is a scribe and a prophet, confronting the king and the court
            not with swords, but with words.
 
It is an act of hope, but also of defiance.
 
Eventually, word of this subversive public reading reaches King Jehoiakim.
            The scroll is retrieved, and brought into the king’s presence.
 
He’s sitting in his winter palace
            —warm, comfortable, and secure.
 
And thus the scene is set: the king reclines before a brazier,
            a fire gently crackling, as Jehudi begins to read.
 
But then the horror begins.
 
As the scroll is read, the king takes a penknife and slices off the columns
            —three or four at a time—and throws them into the fire.
 
This is no mere distraction.
            This is not a bored monarch playing with parchment.
 
This is a calculated rejection. This is theological violence.
 
What we witness here is the wilful destruction of a prophetic word.
            Jehoiakim does not argue with the scroll, nor debate it.
            He just burns it.
 
This is the ancient world’s version of censorship,
            of banning books, of silencing dissent.
 
It’s not just an act of political convenience;
            it is a spiritual rejection of the voice of God.
 
But here’s where the story refuses to end.
            Jehoiakim may burn the scroll, but he cannot silence the word.
 
God tells Jeremiah: write it again.
            Take another scroll. Dictate every word once more.
 
And add to it a new word of judgment
            against the king who dared to destroy the first one.
 
So what does this tell us?
 
Maybe we hear that the word of God is not fragile.
            It may be ignored, resisted, even burned—but it is never destroyed.
 
This is a theme that resonates throughout scripture:
The bush that burns but is not consumed.
The Word made flesh, crucified but raised.
The Spirit that speaks through silenced mouths.
 
And so, here in Jeremiah, the prophetic word is rewritten.
            The hope of repentance remains.
The judgment deepens. And the call continues.
 
Which brings us to our second reading, from John’s Gospel.
 
Here we find Jesus in dialogue with his critics
            —those who question his authority, his message, and his identity.
 
And once again, we see a pattern emerge:
            the word of God is spoken, and yet it is not believed.
 
Jesus speaks of testimony
            —the testimony of John the Baptist,
                        of the works he performs,
                        and of God the Father.
 
“You search the scriptures,” he says later in this chapter,
            “because you think that in them you have eternal life;
                        and it is they that testify on my behalf.
            Yet you refuse to come to me to have life.” (John 5:39–40)
 
These are haunting words.
            The people who know the scriptures best
            do not recognise the Word made flesh when he stands before them.
 
Like Jehoiakim, they hear but do not listen.
            Like the king, they would rather silence the Word than let it confront them.
 
When Jesus speaks of testimony in John 5,
            he is not simply listing credentials.
 
He is inviting his hearers to see the divine continuity
            between the prophets of old
            and his own witness in the present.
 
There is to be heard in Jesus’ words,
            a profound resonance with Jeremiah’s experience.
 
The people of his time, too, have heard the voice of God in their midst
            —but they do not receive it. They do not recognise it.
 
And so we see a troubling pattern:
Jeremiah's scroll is burned.
Jesus’ body, the living Word, will be crucified.
Later, the early church’s message will be driven underground,
scattered by persecution.
 
But again and again, the word re-emerges
            —resurrected, unquenchable, alive.
 
In John’s Gospel, Jesus describes his own works
            as signs of divine testimony.
 
Just as Baruch’s scroll carried Jeremiah’s oracles,
            so Christ’s actions and presence carry the very words and will of God.
 
But to recognise this—to truly hear it—
            requires something more than external validation.
 
As Jesus says, “his word does not abide in you,
            because you do not believe him whom he has sent.” (John 5:38)
 
This is not merely a failure of intellect,
            but a failure of imagination, of faith, of willingness.
 
The issue is not that the evidence is lacking
            —it’s that the heart is resistant.
 
Here is the deep spiritual challenge for us today:
            Are we open to hearing the Word
            when it comes to us from unexpected places?
 
Are we prepared to receive the testimony of Christ
            when it disturbs our comfort?
 
Jeremiah’s scroll, Jesus’ ministry,
            and the prophetic voice in our own generation
all carry the same invitation: not just to hear, but to turn
            —to repent, to change, to live differently.
 
So let’s return now to the fire in Jehoiakim’s chamber.
 
There are two kinds of fire in this story.
 
One is the fire of destruction
            —the fire of censorship, of silencing, of domination.
This is the fire in the king’s brazier.
 
But there is another fire, a different fire.
            The fire of God. The fire of prophecy.
            The fire of Pentecost.
 
Jeremiah speaks elsewhere of this fire:
            “Is not my word like fire, says the Lord,
            and like a hammer that breaks a rock in pieces?” (Jer. 23:29)
 
The fire of God’s word does not consume
            —it purifies. It refines. It ignites.
 
At Pentecost, it does not destroy the disciples
            —it empowers them.
 
And at Bloomsbury, this is the fire we seek
            —not the fire that burns scrolls, but the fire that burns in our hearts.
            The fire that warms, illuminates, and inspires.
 
There is something deeply significant
            about the physicality of the scroll in Jeremiah’s story.
It is not just symbolic—it’s tactile.
            It can be held. It can be cut. It can be burned.
 
But the Word of God is never confined to ink and parchment.
 
We who are heirs to the Reformation
            have sometimes reduced scripture to a static text
            —to be analysed, explained, and controlled.
 
And yet Jeremiah’s story reminds us
            that the word is not a dead letter. It is a living voice.
 
When King Jehoiakim burned the scroll,
            he thought he was silencing the message.
 
But God’s word had already taken root
            —in Baruch, in Jeremiah, in the hearers at the temple gate.
 
The scroll was not the Word
            —it was merely its vehicle.
 
We need this reminder today.
            Because the Bible can become a weapon when treated as lifeless text.
                        It can be misquoted to justify injustice.
                        It can be marshalled to oppress.
 
But when we treat scripture as living, breathing Word
            —always moving, always speaking,
                        always calling us deeper into love, justice, and mercy—
            we find ourselves drawn into transformation.
 
This is why Jesus can say in John’s Gospel
            that his critics “search the scriptures” but still miss the life it offers.
They knew the text, but not the voice.
 
And so the question returns to us:
Are we treating the Bible as a static artefact
            or as a living conversation with God?
Are we open to the Spirit’s fresh breath moving through the familiar words?
Do we encounter the fire of the Word as it kindles new life in us,
            or do we reach for the penknife?
 
If Jehoiakim saw the scroll only as a threat to his power,
            we are invited to see it as an invitation
                        to a deeper, more radical discipleship
            —a call to repentance, yes, but also to justice, peace, and hope.
 
And so this story asks hard questions of us.
 
Because we are not just Jeremiah or Baruch.
            Sometimes, we are Jehoiakim too.
 
We all have our penknives.
            We all have moments when the word of God comes too close,
                        too uncomfortably,
            and we are tempted to slice it away.
 
And in our world, prophetic voices are still being silenced:
Voices calling for racial justice are dismissed as divisive.
Calls for climate action are framed as extremist.
Pleas for Palestinian dignity are labelled dangerous or antisemitic.
The witness of LGBTQ+ Christians is often burned before it is ever heard.
 
Jehoiakim lives on wherever power fears truth.
            Wherever the prophetic word is deemed too threatening to tolerate.
 
But Baruch also lives on
            —wherever courageous scribes, preachers, and communities
            speak the truth again, and again, and again,
                        even when it is rejected.
 
So how, then, do we become people who listen rightly?
            Who welcome the word of God even when it arrives
                        uninvited, uncomfortable, or disruptive?
 
First, we must cultivate what the spiritual tradition calls holy listening.
 
Holy listening is not passive;
            it is active attentiveness to the voices that challenge us.
It is choosing to remain open to a word
            that we did not write, and may not like.
 
At Bloomsbury, we already know the importance of this:
In our commitment to interfaith conversation,
            we practise listening to the divine word
            spoken in the lives and experiences of others.
In our community organising, we listen for the cries of the poor,
            the marginalised, and the excluded.
In our inclusive theology,
            we have listened to those the church has too often silenced.
 
All of this is prophetic. All of this is faithful.
 
To listen well is to allow the Spirit to speak in unexpected ways,
            through unexpected voices.
 
Baruch was not a prophet—he was a scribe.
            And yet his reading of the scroll
            became a proclamation of divine judgment and hope.
 
Likewise, the voices we are tempted to overlook
            —those without official titles, credentials, or authority—
            may yet speak with the fire of God.
 
And so we must keep our ears open and our penknives sheathed.
            We must resist the temptation to excise, edit, or explain away
            the parts of scripture—or of testimony—that unsettle us.
 
Because it is in those very moments
            that the Spirit may be speaking most clearly.
 
So what kind of community are we called to be?
 
Here at Bloomsbury, we are not called to be a comfortable court
            gathered round a fire, editing the gospel for our own peace of mind.
 
We are called to be scribes of justice.
            Voices of compassion. Prophets of inconvenient truth.
 
We are called to take the scrolls others burn and write them again.
            To speak the truth that was silenced.
            To read aloud the words that power tried to hide.
 
We are called to let the word of God abide in us
            —not just in our minds, but in our actions, our politics, our relationships.
 
And we are called to let that word take flesh in us,
            as it did in Christ.
 
In a world of political spin and theological censorship,
            the story of Jeremiah 36 reminds us
            that the word of God is not so easily extinguished.
 
It may be torn up, cut down, thrown into fire
            —but it rises again, rewritten, re-spoken, re-lived.
 
The question for us is this:
 
Will we be the ones who feed the flames of censorship?
            Or will we be the ones who carry the fire of truth?
 
Will we slice away the parts of scripture that challenge us?
            Or will we let the whole word abide in us, even when it burns?
 
The scroll may burn, but the word of God endures.
            The prophet may be silenced, but the voice of God returns.
 
The Word became flesh—and the light shines in the darkness,
            and the darkness did not overcome it.
 
May that Word abide in us.
 
May we speak it, live it, and never be afraid to write it again.
 
Amen.

Breathing the Spirit: Becoming the People of God

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Pentecost Sunday 8 June 2025

 

Acts 2.1-4
Galatians 4.1–7; 5.16–26

Introduction: A Spirit That Breathes
Let us pause for a moment and notice our breath.
 
In… and out.
 
In the quiet rhythm of breathing, we are reminded that life itself is a gift.
            Breath is not something we force; it is something we receive.
 
And it is no coincidence that both the Hebrew and Greek words for Spirit
            — ruach and pneuma — also mean breath, or wind.
 
On this Pentecost Sunday,
            we recall how the Spirit came like a rushing wind,
            like fire resting on each one, filling the room, filling the people.
 
But before the noise and the proclamation, there was the gathering.
            The waiting. The stillness. The breath.
 
At Bloomsbury, we are blessed with a group called Breathing Space
            — a space where people come together to reflect on Scripture,
            to pray, to meditate, to listen, to speak, and to be silent.
 
It is a space for the Spirit. A space for becoming.
            A space where we breathe deeply of the life God gives.
 
Today, as we read again the familiar Pentecost story,
            and as we reflect on Paul’s words to the Galatians
                        about what it means to live by the Spirit,
            we will do so with this invitation:
                        to give space for God’s breath to move in us.
 
Not only in tongues of fire,
            but in gentle stirrings of the soul.
 
Pentecost is not just about what happened back then.
            It is about what is happening now
            — as we open ourselves to the breath of God.
 
Pentecost as Disruption and Gift
Acts 2:1–4
The book of Acts tells us that “When the day of Pentecost had come,
            they were all together in one place.”
 
This simple sentence carries a world of meaning.
            They were gathered, they were waiting, perhaps they were uncertain.
 
Jesus had promised the Spirit,
            but what exactly were they expecting?
 
A quiet inner sense of peace?
            A gentle affirmation of faith?
 
What they got was wind. And fire. And noise.
            What they got was disruption.
 
A sound like the rush of a violent wind filled the house.
            Flames appeared and rested on each person.
 
Suddenly they found themselves speaking strange languages.
 
This was not a tame spiritual experience.
            This was not a private religious feeling.
            This was a public, visible, communal upheaval.
 
And yet, this disruption was also gift.
 
It is easy to forget that Pentecost was already a Jewish festival
            — the Feast of Weeks —
                        a time of thanksgiving for the wheat harvest,
            and also a celebration of the giving of the Law at Sinai.
 
At Sinai, God’s presence descended in fire and smoke,
            and a covenant was formed.
 
Now, at Pentecost, God’s Spirit descends again
            — not on a mountain but on people —
and a new kind of covenant community begins to form,
            not written on tablets of stone,
            but on hearts open to the Spirit’s movement.
 
The disruption is the gift.
            The Spirit shakes things up, not to cause chaos, but to bring life.
 
Wind and fire are dangerous, but they are also creative.
            They clear out what is dead and ignite what is new.
 
In the birth of the church,
            we see that the Spirit of God is not simply about comfort,
            but about transformation.
 
And notice this: everyone is included.
            The fire rests on each of them.
 
The Spirit does not come to the leaders only,
            or the most eloquent, or the most faithful
            — but to all who are present, regardless of status or ability.
 
The miracle of Pentecost is not just that people speak,
            but that others understand.
 
It is a miracle of communication,
            of deep connection across difference.
 
Where Babel confused language and scattered people,
            Pentecost draws people together
            through understanding and mutual recognition.
 
And isn’t that exactly the kind of miracle we need today?
 
In a world where division seems to grow stronger by the day
            — between nations, faiths, identities, and ideologies —
the Pentecost Spirit still speaks, still breaks through,
            still draws us into communities of difference held together by divine breath.
 
Here at Bloomsbury, we are already a kind of Pentecost community
            — multilingual, multivoiced, multicultural,
            holding together differences not by force but by Spirit.
 
We are a church where people are invited to speak in their own voice,
            to listen in their own language, and to be truly heard.
 
And our Breathing Space group reminds us
            that the Spirit does not always arrive with noise.
 
Sometimes the miracle is in the stillness,
            the quiet conversation, the shared silence.
 
The same Spirit that rushes like wind
            also breathes gently in stillness.
 
Both are real. Both are holy.
 
Pentecost is disruption. And Pentecost is gift.
 
From Enslavement to Adoption
Galatians 4:1–7
If Acts tells the story of the Spirit’s arrival,
            Galatians tells us what it means to live in the Spirit’s presence.
 
In this short but powerful passage,
            Paul offers a vision of radical transformation.
 
He speaks of a movement — a liberation —
            from enslavement to adoption.
 
From being controlled by external rules and systems
            to living in intimate, Spirit-led relationship with God.
 
Paul’s language of slavery may feel distant or uncomfortable,
            but his point is deeply pastoral.
 
He is saying that a life lived according to religious obligation
            — trying to earn acceptance, or prove worth —
            is not the life God wants for us.
 
In Christ, through the Spirit,
            we are no longer servants obeying a distant master.
We are dearly loved children,
            welcomed into the household of God, co-heirs with Christ.
 
And this is no cold legal transaction.
 
Paul says, “God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts,
            crying, ‘Abba! Father!’”
 
That word Abba — not a theological title, but an intimate cry —
            speaks of closeness, of trust, of safety.
 
The Spirit doesn’t teach us to recite doctrine.
            The Spirit teaches us to cry.
 
To cry out in longing. To cry out in love.
            To cry out in recognition that we belong.
 
This is the spiritual freedom Paul describes
            — not autonomy, but relationship.
            Not licence, but belonging.
 
The Spirit invites us into the kind of freedom
            that only comes from knowing we are loved,
            held, and welcomed just as we are.
 
And this is precisely what Breathing Space helps us discover.
            In prayer, in reflection, in deep listening,
                        we learn to let go of striving and performing,
                        and to simply be.
 
To notice the presence of God already within us.
            To listen for the whisper of the Spirit,
            not as command, but as invitation.
 
When we take time to be still,
            to reflect on Scripture not as a set of rules but as a living word,
            we begin to experience what Paul means.
 
We are not spiritual orphans.
            We are not religious slaves.
 
We are children of God, breathing God’s breath,
            alive in the Spirit.
 
And if this is true — if we are God’s children —
            then it changes everything.
 
Our spirituality becomes not an obligation, but a gift.
            Our lives become not performances, but responses.
Our worship becomes not duty, but delight.
 
We are no longer slaves. We are children.
 
Living by the Spirit: Fruit, Not Force
Galatians 5:16–26
Paul’s famous list of the “fruit of the Spirit”
            is often read as a moral checklist
— a series of virtues we ought to cultivate in our lives:
            love, joy, peace, patience,
                        kindness, generosity, faithfulness,
            gentleness, and self-control.
 
And yes, these are beautiful qualities.
            But we misunderstand Paul if we think he’s just telling us to try harder.
 
This is not a to-do list.
            It’s not even a guide for spiritual self-improvement.
 
Paul is speaking of what grows naturally
            when the Spirit is given room to breathe within us.
 
Fruit is not forced. It is grown.
            You cannot make a tree bear fruit by shouting at it
            or tying fruit to its branches.
 
Fruit grows when the conditions are right
            — when the roots are deep, when the soil is healthy,
            when the tree is alive and nourished.
 
So too with the fruit of the Spirit.
 
These qualities emerge not by religious effort,
            but by spiritual openness.
 
They grow when we learn to live by the breath of God
            — when we allow ourselves to be rooted in love,
            when we open up space for God’s presence in our inner lives.
 
And this brings us again to Breathing Space
            — our community of spiritual attentiveness here at Bloomsbury.
 
The practices of prayer, meditation, and scripture reflection
            that we share are not burdens to carry;
            they are the soil in which fruit can grow.
 
They are ways of creating space, of paying attention,
            of making room for God’s breath to move in us.
 
Paul contrasts the fruit of the Spirit
            with what he calls “the works of the flesh.”
 
And again, this isn’t about policing individual behaviour
            — it’s about two different orientations of life.
 
One rooted in ego, control, and self-gratification.
            The other rooted in love, freedom, and connection.
 
Living by the Spirit does not mean we suddenly become perfect.
            It means we walk a path — day by day — of choosing life over death,
                        grace over fear, community over isolation.
 
It means letting the Spirit shape our desires,
            not suppress them.
 
It means allowing God’s life to blossom in us,
            often slowly, often imperceptibly.
 
And crucially, the fruit of the Spirit is communal.
            Paul doesn’t say, “you individually will produce these fruits,”
            but rather, “this is what the Spirit produces in a community.”
 
The fruit is not just for personal holiness,
            but for shared life.
 
A community marked by love, joy, peace — imagine that.
            A church that breathes those qualities into the world.
 
This is the vision of Pentecost:
            not just individuals ablaze with the Spirit,
            but a people living differently, loving differently, choosing to grow together.
 
And this is what we are seeking at Bloomsbury.
            Through worship, through organising,
                        through hospitality and activism and study and care,
            we are learning what it means to live by the Spirit.
 
Not to force fruit,
            but to make space for it.
 
The question for each of us is not, “how can I try harder to be joyful or kind?”
            but rather, “how can I give the Spirit more space to breathe in me?”
 
The fruit will come.
            Slowly. Gently. Inevitably.
Not as a reward for effort,
            but as the natural result of life rooted in God.
 
So take time. Breathe deeply. Pay attention.
            The Spirit is not only rushing like wind.
 
She is also whispering in stillness,
            cultivating in you the fruit of divine life.
 
And where the Spirit is, there is freedom.
            There is transformation. There is joy.
 
A Pentecost People: Open, Spacious, Free
So what does it mean for us to be a Pentecost people?
 
It means more than remembering
            a dramatic moment in church history.
 
It means more than celebrating
            a birth-day for the church.
 
To be a Pentecost people is to live with open hearts,
            creating spacious lives,
            breathing the freedom of the Spirit in everything we do.
 
We have seen how the Spirit comes as disruption
            — wind and fire, breaking through barriers,
                        forming a new community where everyone has a voice
                        and every language is heard.
 
We have seen how the Spirit sets us free
            from slavery to fear or obligation,
            calling us into intimate relationship with God as beloved children.
 
And we have seen how the Spirit cultivates fruit in us
            — not through force or performance,
            but through grace and trust and openness.
 
All of this points to a way of being.
            A Pentecost people are those who make space:
            space for God, space for one another, space for transformation.
 
That’s why Breathing Space is not just a group within the church
            — it’s a metaphor for the whole church.
 
A breathing space in the heart of London.
            A place where people are invited not to rush,
                        not to pretend, not to perform
            — but to pause, to reflect, to listen, to grow.
 
To be a Pentecost people is to live open to surprise.
            The Spirit may come in silence or song,
                        in scripture or conversation, in action or rest.
 
The Spirit may disrupt your plans or confirm your path.
 
But always, the Spirit is drawing us deeper into life
            — life that is marked by joy, peace, gentleness, and love.
 
And this life is not for us alone.
            Just as those early disciples spilled out into the streets,
                        speaking words others could understand,
            so we are called beyond ourselves.
 
A Spirit-filled community is a gift to the world
            — a sign that another way is possible.
 
In a world of division, we offer connection.
            In a world of fear, we offer hope.
In a world of pressure, we offer breathing space.
 
So on this Pentecost Sunday,
            let us open ourselves again to the breath of God.
 
Let us become — together — a people who live by the Spirit:
            open, spacious, and free.
 
Come, Holy Spirit.
            Breathe in us.
            Bear your fruit in us.
 
And send us out as your people —
            for the healing of the world. Amen.