The Scroll and the Fire

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

29 June 2025

 

Jeremiah 36.11–8, 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.

Living the Alternative into Being

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

22^nd June 2025

Preached in honour of Elias D’eis, Executive Director of Holy Land Trust, Bethlehem

Leviticus 19.1–2, 9–18
Matthew 5.43–44

Before I begin the sermon, a brief word.

Today’s gospel reading “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you”—comes to us in a time of deep conflict and pain, especially in Palestine and Israel, and now also involving Iran.

Our guest preacher, Elias D’eis from Bethlehem, cannot be with us today because of the situation.

So I will be reflecting on the passages he chose, and on the work of those—like Elias—who seek creative, nonviolent paths to peace.

I know these themes stir strong emotions and differing perspectives.

My intention here is not to offer a political argument, but a gospel-shaped invitation: to see, as Jesus sees, the humanity of all people, and to imagine a future beyond vengeance and violence.

Let me say clearly at the outset: I condemn without hesitation the Hamas attacks of 7 October 2023, and I join with many across the world in calling for the immediate and unconditional release of all remaining hostages.

I invite you to listen with openness, prayerfulness, and compassion.

Blessèd are those who refuse the lie that one life is worth more than any other,
for theirs is the future of humanity.

Blessèd are those who have stared long into the abyss,
for theirs is honesty beyond grief.

Blessèd are those who resist retaliation,
for the earth will never be won by force.

Blessèd are those who would rather die for truth than live with compromise,
for the truth will outlive all lies.

Blessèd are those who forgive the unforgivable,
for they have seen the darkness of their own souls.

Blessèd are those who know themselves truly,
for they have seen themselves as God sees them.

Blessèd are those who are provocatively nonviolent,
for they are following the path of the son of God.

Blessèd are those who choose to receive violence but not to give it,
for the future is born out of such choices.

Blessèd are you when you stand up for truth
and hell itself decides to try and destroy you.
You're not the first and you won't be the last.

I'm telling you now, nothing makes any sense unless you learn see it differently,
and then choose to live that alternative into being.

There is a terrible irony in today’s service.

Elias D’eis, a Palestinian Christian living in Bethlehem, and the Executive Director of Holy Land Trust, was due to stand in this pulpit today, to speak to us of peace—peace grounded in justice, rooted in faith, and lived out in nonviolent resistance.

Holy Land Trust describe themselves as, ‘a non-profit Palestinian organization committed to fostering peace, justice and understanding in Palestine.’

They say, ‘We are deeply committed to exploring the root causes of violence and seeking to develop solutions to address them. We believe that true peace and justice is achieved through nonviolent activism, personal and spiritual transformation and empowering the resilience of the local communities.’

Elias’ presence was to have been a sign of hope and a provocation to courage.

And yet, as so often in his life, war has intervened.

Not this time the war between Israel and Gaza, though that continues.

But war with Iran. Another regional escalation, another set of borders closed, another voice of peace silenced.

And so today, we speak for him, even as we speak with him.

We listen for his voice among the prophets and among the peacemakers.

We take his absence not as a silence but as a summons—to the work of creative, nonviolent resistance in the face of violence and empire.

Leviticus and the Call to Holiness

Our first reading, from Leviticus, began with an invitation: “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.”

And it continued with a long list of what that holiness looks like.

It looks like refusing to hoard the abundance of your land.
It looks like honest dealings and fair wages.
It looks like justice in the courts, and care for your neighbour.
It looks like refusing to hate, refusing to take revenge, refusing to bear grudges.
It looks like love—radical, real, inconvenient love: “You shall love your neighbour as yourself.”

This is not a sentimental holiness. It is not the piety of the pure.

It is the fierce holiness of justice, of integrity, of loving the unlovable, of giving up what we think is ours so others may live.

This is the holiness to which the God of the Hebrew Scriptures calls the people of Israel—and calls us still.

Jesus, Enemy-Love, and the Radicalisation of Leviticus

Jesus knew his Torah.

He knew that the call to love one’s neighbour lay at the heart of the law.

But he also knew how quickly that love could be narrowed.

In the hands of frightened people, “love your neighbour” easily becomes “love your tribe”—and hate your enemy.

But Jesus does not let us off the hook.

“You have heard it said, ‘Love your neighbour and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

This is not naivety. It is the most courageous, the most costly, the most subversive teaching in all the gospel.

It is not passivity. It is a choice—a moral, spiritual, and political act: to refuse to return hatred for hatred, to refuse the logic of vengeance and retribution, to stand firm in love when the world calls for blood.

This is the path Elias walks.
And this is the path we are called to walk too.

Enemy-Love in the Landscape of Occupation

But what does it really mean to love an enemy when the enemy controls your land, your movement, your economy, and your sky?

It is easy—too easy—for those of us who live in relative security to quote Jesus and call for love.

But in the occupied West Bank, where Elias lives, this is not abstract theology. It is lived discipleship under duress.

Imagine hearing Jesus’ words not in Bloomsbury, but in Bethlehem.
Not from the pulpit of a free church, but from behind a military checkpoint.

Loving one’s enemy in such a context is not about feelings, but about refusing to mirror oppression.

It’s about resisting the colonisation of the heart. It means refusing to let one’s soul become as walled off as one’s city.

Holy Land Trust has worked to empower Palestinians to face their trauma—not by numbing it or escaping it, but by choosing a different response.

By training in trauma resilience and nonviolent communication, by learning to see the image of God in their adversary, they pursue transformation without hatred.

This is a hard calling. It doesn’t ask Palestinians to accept injustice. It invites them to struggle for justice without losing their humanity in the process.

And it invites us, as Christians in the UK, to ask difficult questions about what solidarity really means—especially when the state of Israel continues to be funded and armed by Western nations, including our own.

To love our enemies, in this case, may well mean challenging the policies of our friends.

The Witness of Elias D’eis and Holy Land Trust

Elias and the work of Holy Land Trust embody what Jesus teaches.

In the shadow of separation walls, military incursions, and intergenerational trauma, they choose to see the humanity of the other.

They choose to create spaces where enemy images can be dismantled.

They engage both Palestinians and Israelis in the hard, holy work of hearing one another’s stories.

They practise what we might call “moral imagination”—the capacity to imagine a future not yet born, and to begin living into it.

They teach nonviolence not as passivity, but as active, courageous resistance—the kind that seeks transformation rather than victory.

The Amos Trust, who were due to be bringing Elias to the UK this week, has supported this work, amplifying it here in the UK and building bridges between peacemakers across the world.

And we at Bloomsbury have not stood by. Our church has long been a place where such voices are welcomed, such visions are shared.

Church as Accompanier: Stories from the Borderlands

Our church has seen people from our congregation and wider community visit Palestine and Israel, with some participating in the Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme—ordinary disciples bearing extraordinary witness.

They have walked children to school past armed checkpoints. They have listened to olive farmers watching their groves be confiscated. They have stood in courts as false evidence was presented, and in silence as homes were demolished.

Their presence may not have stopped the bulldozers.

But it said to the people: you are not forgotten.
And to the powerful: someone is watching.

This is more than activism. It is theological accompaniment.

To accompany is to do what Jesus did on the road to Emmaus: to walk alongside the confused, the hurting, the angry, and the lost, and to help them find the story of resurrection even in the rubble.

The EAPPI volunteers come home changed.
And if we listen, their stories can change us too.

They invite us to see the Gospel in unexpected places—in refugee camps and checkpoints, in children’s laughter despite it all, and in tears shed not from weakness, but from knowing what costly love requires.

In a world that teaches us to pick a side, accompaniment reminds us that to stand with the vulnerable is not to be “against” anyone, but to be for the God who sees the oppressed and calls them beloved.

Beatitudes, Not Platitudes

Some years ago, I wrote a paraphrase of the Beatitudes. Not a softening, but a sharpening. Not platitudes, but calls to action. I read it at the beginning of the sermon. Let’s hear a few words of it again:

Blessèd are those who resist retaliation,
for the earth will never be won by force.

Blessèd are those who are provocatively nonviolent,
for they are following the path of the son of God.

Blessèd are those who choose to receive violence but not to give it,
for the future is born out of such choices.

These are not words for the faint of heart. But they are the words Elias lives by.

They are the words of Jesus. They are the call of God to us today.

Peacemaking Beyond the Headlines

It is so easy to become numb.

We scroll headlines about Gaza, the West Bank, Jerusalem—death tolls rising, ceasefires collapsing, blame being cast like stones.

We form our opinions. We argue. We retreat into fatigue.

And slowly, the humanity drains out of the story.

But Jesus doesn’t call us to keep score. He calls us to make peace.

And the making of peace is a deeply human task. It cannot be done from a distance. It is not a policy paper or a hashtag.

It is the long, slow, painful work of building trust where there is fear, truth where there is propaganda, and love where there has been hatred.

Organisations like the Amos Trust help us do this.

They bring together peacebuilders like Elias and offer platforms for voices usually drowned out.

They connect communities here in the UK with partners in Palestine and Israel, so that the work of justice is not outsourced but shared.

When we support that work—not just financially, but relationally, spiritually, practically—we begin to live the beatitude that says:

Blessèd are those who choose to receive violence but not to give it,
for the future is born out of such choices.

That future is not inevitable. It must be imagined. It must be risked. It must be made.

That is the call before us.

Nonviolence as Prophetic Imagination”

Creative nonviolence is not merely a strategy.

It is a vision—a prophetic act of imagination in a world addicted to retaliation.

It’s what the Hebrew prophets embodied when they spoke truth to kings.

It’s what Jesus enacted when he turned the other cheek—not as submission, but as confrontation.

It’s what Gandhi and Martin Luther King and Oscar Romero
and Elias and the EAPPI volunteers
have all embodied in their refusal to let violence define the story.

Walter Brueggemann calls this “the prophetic imagination”—the ability to dream of a future that contradicts the present, and then to live as though that future were already coming true.

When an unarmed Palestinian youth chooses to plant olive trees in a bulldozed field, that is prophetic imagination.

When a church community here in London chooses to listen, to pray, to act for peace and justice in the Holy Land, that is prophetic imagination.

When we dare to believe that another world is possible, and then shape our lives accordingly, that is prophetic imagination.

And here’s the mystery at the heart of it all: when we choose to live that way, the Spirit breathes through our defiance.

We become, as Jesus said, “children of God.” Not in sentiment, but in substance.

The Cross and the Creative Path

Because at the heart of our faith stands a cross.

Not a sword. Not a flag. Not even a dove

But a cross—instrument of imperial execution, turned by God into the sign of salvation.

We must not sentimentalise it. The cross is where violence did its worst—and failed.

Jesus met domination not with retaliation, but with costly, creative love.

It’s tempting to think of nonviolence as weakness, but the cross says otherwise.

It is the power of God made perfect not in conquest but in vulnerability.

It is resistance that refuses to become what it hates.

It is the refusal to let Caesar, or any modern empire, define what is possible.

Elias knows this. That is why he walks the way of peace not as a political preference but as a theological necessity.

And we who claim to follow the crucified Christ cannot do otherwise.

The resurrection does not come in spite of the cross, but through it.

So we too must walk that path—not to glorify suffering, but to break its power.

This is what it means to live the alternative into being.

Conclusion

So, Elias D’eis could not be with us today. But his absence bears witness to the very forces his life resists.

Let us honour him not only with our prayers, but with our actions.

Let us honour his peacemaking by being peacemakers ourselves.

Let us choose the holiness of Leviticus, the enemy-love of Jesus, and the radical beatitudes that call us to live the alternative into being.

For only such choices will birth a future worth living for.

Amen.

<Silence>

Call to Action

The question, after a sermon like this—or indeed, after any sermon—is always:
What now?
What do I do next?

We’ve heard words that challenge and disturb, words that invite us into the costly work of peacemaking and enemy-love. But how do we turn reflection into faithful action?

As a church with a long-standing partnership with Christian Aid, I want to briefly highlight two simple but meaningful ways they are helping people like us engage with the realities facing Palestine and Israel.

You’ll find more details in Libby’s email next week, but let me offer you a preview.

The first is Christian Aid’s monthly online “Prayers for the Middle East”, held on the 24th of each month from 7 to 8pm. These are spaces for listening—to voices from the region, from Christian Aid’s partners and friends—and for praying together for a just peace in Israel and the occupied Palestinian territory.

https://www.christianaid.org.uk/get-involved/campaigns/prayers-for-peace

The second is a weekly act of embodied solidarity: the Fast for Gaza, where participants are invited to go without food for a day, or for part of a day, standing with the thousands of innocent civilians in Gaza who face the horror of starvation.

https://www.christianaid.org.uk/appeals/emergencies/dec-middle-east-humanitarian-appeal/fastforgaza

These may or may not be practices for you. But they raise the deeper question for all of us:
How do we respond—not just to a sermon, but to the woundedness of the world?

May we be people who not only hear the words of Jesus, but seek to live them.
And may our prayers, our fasting, our listening, and our action—however small—be signs of the alternative we long to see.

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.

One in Christ

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

June 1, 2025

 

 
Galatians 3.1-9, 23-29
 
The Power of Belonging
In recent weeks, we have seen renewed debate in public life
            about identity and belonging,
particularly in light of the Supreme Court's ruling
            that defines 'sex' in legal terms as biological.
 
This ruling, and the discussions surrounding it,
            have caused pain for many in the transgender community,
            as questions of legitimacy, inclusion, and protection
                        are once again placed under scrutiny.
 
For churches like ours, committed to the radical inclusion of all,
            these moments are both challenging and clarifying.
 
They press us to return to the heart of the gospel,
            to ask again what it means to belong,
            and on what grounds that belonging is established.
 
Paul's letter to the Galatians is written
            in the context of just such a crisis of belonging.
 
The Gentile believers in Galatia had received the gospel,
            experienced the Spirit, and begun living lives of freedom in Christ.
 
But now, they were being told that this was not enough.
            That to truly belong, they must also adopt the Jewish law
                        —specifically, circumcision.
 
In other words, they had to become like the insiders
            if they wanted to be fully included.
 
Paul responds with passionate urgency.
 
He begins chapter 3 with a jarring rebuke:
            "You foolish Galatians! Who has bewitched you?"
 
His tone may sound harsh, but it is born of deep concern.
            Paul sees what is at stake.
 
If the Galatians accept that their belonging depends on adopting the law,
            they have misunderstood the gospel entirely.
 
The Spirit, Not the Law
Paul begins his argument with an appeal to their own experience.
            "Did you receive the Spirit by doing the works of the law
            or by believing what you heard?" he asks.
 
Of course, they received the Spirit through faith.
            The Spirit came to them not because they had fulfilled certain requirements,
            but because they trusted the good news.
 
Their experience of grace came first.
            And this, for Paul, is crucial.
 
Belonging begins with grace.
            It is not earned. It is not conditional.
 
This matters because the temptation to add conditions to belonging is perennial.
            It is not just a first-century issue. It is a human one.
 
We want to know who is in and who is out.
            We create rules, boundaries, identity markers.
And often, we baptise these divisions with theological language.
 
But Paul will have none of it.
            The gospel is not a system for measuring religious compliance.
 
It is the announcement of a new creation,
            birthed by the Spirit, sustained by grace.
 
To go back to the law
            —to insist on any external marker as the basis for inclusion—
            is to deny the sufficiency of Christ.
 
In the church today, we still struggle with this.
            We may not demand circumcision, but we create other expectations.
 
And it has to be noted in the light of the current debates around transgender inclusion,
            that we often exhibit a decidedly pointed interest
            in the state of a person’s genitalia.
 
We ask whether people believe the right doctrines,
            whether they conform to certain moral standards,
            whether they fit particular categories.
 
We say "all are welcome,"
            but then make that welcome conditional on identity, agreement, or behaviour.
 
Paul reminds us, as he reminded the Galatians, that the Spirit comes first.
            The Spirit is not a reward for performance, but a gift.
 
And if the Spirit is present in someone's life, that is enough.
            That is the sign of God's welcome.
            That is the sign that they are included.
And who are we to add more?
 
The Faith of Abraham – God’s Universal Promise
Having challenged the Galatians to remember how they received the Spirit,
            Paul turns to scripture.
 
And he goes right to the beginning of the story, to Abraham.
            "Just as Abraham 'believed God, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness,'
            so, you see, those who believe are the descendants of Abraham."
 
This is a bold move.
 
Paul is speaking to Gentile believers,
            people with no ancestral claim on Israel's covenant.
 
And yet he says to them, you are Abraham's children.
            Not because you have taken on the markers of Jewish law,
            but because you have done what Abraham did—you have trusted in God.
 
Abraham becomes for Paul a figure of radical inclusion.
            Long before there was Torah,
                        long before there was circumcision,
            there was a promise.
 
God called Abraham and Sarah,
            not because they had fulfilled a religious system,
but because they were willing to walk into an unknown future in faith.
 
And so the promise came before the law.
            The relationship came before the rulebook.
 
This is what Paul wants the Galatians to see.
            The Gentiles are not second-class citizens in God's household.
They are not latecomers
            who must first become Jewish before they can belong.
 
They are already part of the promise,
            because the promise was always about more than one nation,
            more than one tradition.
 
As Paul says, "All the Gentiles shall be blessed in you."
            The blessing of Abraham was always meant to overflow into the world.
 
The theologian Jin Young Choi draws attention
            to how Paul is reframing the identity of the people of God.
 
Belonging is no longer defined by genealogy or observance;
            it is defined by participation in the promise,
            by trusting the God who creates a new future where none seemed possible.
 
And that is a message we need to hear today.
            Because too often the church has acted as if
            the promise of God is its own private possession.
 
We have guarded it with statements of belief,
            codes of conduct, and criteria for leadership.
 
We have said, sometimes directly
            and sometimes with a quiet shake of the head,
            "you can belong, but only on our terms."
 
But the gospel is not ours to control.
            It was never ours to fence off or to ration out.
 
The promise to Abraham was not a promise to build a wall.
            It was a promise to bless all the families of the earth.
 
And in Christ, Paul says, that promise has now reached its fulfilment.
            The blessing is for all.
 
At Bloomsbury, we have come to see this promise
            as the heart of our calling.
 
We aspire to be a church not for ourselves, but for others.
            A place where people from many nations, many backgrounds, many identities,
            come together not because we are the same,
            but because the Spirit has drawn us into one body.
 
A place where the promise of God
            still calls us forward into a new and more just future.
 
And if we take Abraham as our guide,
            then faith is not about certainty.
 
It is not about having the right answers.
            It is about saying yes to the God who calls, the God who blesses,
            the God who opens a future we could not have imagined.
 
From Prison to Promise – Living in Freedom
Paul now uses a vivid image to describe life under the law.
            "Now before faith came, we were imprisoned
            and guarded under the law until faith would be revealed."
 
For Paul, the law was never meant to be the end of the story.
            It was a kind of holding pattern,
            a protective measure, something provisional.
 
It kept people safe, disciplined, in check,
            but it was not the destination.
 
The language of imprisonment is stark, and it can be unsettling.
            Paul is not saying that the law was evil or oppressive in itself.
He was, after all, raised in that tradition
            and remained deeply shaped by it.
 
But he is saying that to remain under the law, after Christ has come,
            is to live as if the door to freedom has been opened
            and yet to choose to stay inside the cell.
 
This can be difficult for us to grasp,
            especially if we think of law primarily in moral terms,
            as something good that teaches right from wrong.
 
But Paul is thinking here in relational terms.
            The law functioned as a guardian, a disciplinarian,
            something to guide the people of God until maturity arrived.
 
And for Paul, that maturity, that fullness of time,
            has now come in Christ.
 
So to return to law as the basis for belonging
            is to miss the new reality that has dawned.
 
It is to act as though the promise has not yet arrived,
            as though Christ has not broken down the dividing wall.
 
What is at stake here is freedom,
            not freedom as self-expression or licence,
            but freedom as the gift of being fully included,
                        fully known, fully loved.
 
The kind of freedom that allows us to stop striving to prove ourselves,
            and instead to live in the confidence of grace.
 
This is, perhaps, one of the most difficult spiritual lessons for any of us to learn,
            that we are loved, as we are, not as we might become.
 
That we do not have to earn our place at the table.
            That the Spirit of God has already been poured out upon us,
                        not because we have jumped through the right religious hoops,
            but because we are human, and God delights in dwelling with humanity.
 
And yet, we so often return to the old patterns.
            We compare ourselves with others.
            We measure our worth.
 
We wonder whether we are doing enough,
            believing enough, changing enough.
 
We build prisons for ourselves,
            and sometimes we build them for others.
 
But Paul invites us to step into freedom.
            To live not as prisoners or slaves, but as children of the promise.
To know ourselves as already embraced by God,
            already clothed with Christ.
 
This is the spiritual gift of belonging.
            Not something to be achieved, but something to be received.
            Not something to guard, but something to share.
 
And when we receive it, it changes how we see others too.
            No longer as threats or rivals, but as fellow heirs of grace.
 
In Christ, You Are All One – A New Identity, a New Community
And now we arrive at what is, perhaps,
            the most well-known and revolutionary part of this passage.
 
"As many of you as were baptised into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.
There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free,
there is no longer male and female, for all of you are one in Christ Jesus."
 
These are words that have echoed down the centuries,
            shaking the foundations of every human system
            built on hierarchy and division.
 
Paul is not imagining a world without difference,
            but a community where difference no longer determines value.
Where identity is not erased, but transformed.
 
To be baptised into Christ, Paul says,
            is to put on Christ like a garment.
 
To take off the old markers of status and separation,
            and to be clothed with a new identity
            that binds us to one another in love.
 
And the consequences are profound.
            Ethnic distinctions, class divisions, gender binaries,
            these are no longer the terms by which we define belonging.
 
This is not a call to colour-blindness or gender erasure.
            It is not an invitation to pretend we are all the same.
 
It is, instead, a radical reorientation of community life,
            where the labels that have so often been used to exclude or control
            are stripped of their power.
 
It is imagining and living into being a community
            where Christ becomes the common ground, the centre,
            the clothing in which we all stand.
 
And this brings us back to the question we began with.
 
In a society increasingly polarised around questions of gender,
            where court rulings and political campaigns
                        debate who counts as male or female,
            who can enter which spaces,
                        who is protected and who is not,
Paul's words speak with striking urgency.
 
"There is no longer male and female," he writes.
            Not as a denial of embodied difference,
            but as a refusal to let those categories define who belongs.
 
In Christ, the binary is not abolished but transcended.
 
No one is excluded from grace
            on the basis of how their gender is named or perceived.
 
No one is made to feel that their deepest truth
            must be hidden in order to be welcomed.
 
This is the gospel.
 
Not just an abstract promise of salvation,
            but a concrete reshaping of how we live together.
 
A dismantling of the barriers that keep people at the margins.
            A reimagining of community as a space of radical belonging,
            where we see one another not through the lens of fear or judgement,
            but through the eyes of Christ.
 
Here at Bloomsbury, this is more than a theological idea.
            It is a way of life we are committed to embodying.
 
A place where trans people, queer people, migrants,
            those rich and poor, housed and unhoused, educated and uneducated
            —all are not only welcome, but recognised
                        as bearers of divine image and recipients of divine promise.
 
We are not here to gatekeep grace.
            We are here to proclaim that in Christ, the gate is open.
 
This means that when the world tries to reimpose divisions,
            when public discourse tempts us to rank and exclude,
when institutions define people's worth
            by their conformity to narrow norms, we must resist.
 
We must be the community where the walls have come down.
            Where all have been clothed with Christ.
 
Where the Spirit is already at work, stirring among us,
            drawing us into a new humanity.
 
And so we end where we began
            —with the question of belonging.
 
The gospel does not answer that question with conditions or categories.
            It answers it with Christ.
 
In Christ, you belong.
            In Christ, we all belong.

Not because we are the same, but because Christ has gathered us in our difference. 

We are not invited to erase our identities, 
but to discover that none of them can separate us from the love of God, 
nor exclude us from the community of grace. 

If we can live that truth, if we can be that community,
then perhaps others, who have so often been told they do not belong, 
might come to believe that they do.

Thanks be to God.