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.