The Shield of Faith: Forming Communities of Resistance

 A Sermon for the Baptist Union of Wales Annual Conference

The Welsh Church, London

22^nd June 2025

 

By Jean-Pierre Dalbéra from Paris, France - La tenture de l'Apocalypse (Angers)
Uploaded by Markos90, CC BY 2.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20845125

Revelation 13.1–10

Introduction

Friends, it is a privilege to share this time of worship and reflection
            with you today at the Baptist Union of Wales Annual Conference,
            here in the heart of London.

We gather as Baptists from different contexts
            —rural and urban, Welsh and English-speaking,
            long-established and newly emerging.

But what we share is this: we are people of faith.

And more than that, we are people of resistant faith.

We gather today not just to celebrate our shared life
            but to renew our vision for what it means to be the church of Jesus Christ
            in a world increasingly shaped
                        by the forces of domination, division, and despair.

And the reading set before us—Revelation 13:1–10
            —confronts these forces head-on.

Here we meet the beast rising from the sea,
            a monstrous symbol of imperial violence and oppression.

And yet, nestled within this apocalyptic vision is a call:
            a call to endurance, and to faith.

It is to this call that I invite us now to respond afresh,
            as we ask what it might mean for us today to raise the shield of faith,
            and to become communities of resistance,
            communities of faith-full endurance.

Why Revelation Still Matters

Before we dive into the beasts and battles of Revelation 13,
            it’s worth asking: Why bother with Revelation at all?

Why preach from a book filled with such troubling images,
            when so many people associate it with fear,
            fanaticism, or end-times speculation?

I want to suggest that Revelation still matters, perhaps now more than ever
            —not as a prediction of future disasters,
            but as a profound critique of the present.

It speaks from the underside of history,
            giving voice to persecuted believers under empire.

And it gives us vision—not just of what is, but of what could be.

Revelation disrupts our illusions.
            It unmasks the systems we’re told to accept.

It reminds us that injustice is not inevitable,
            and that God's future is already breaking into the present.

And for congregations in Wales and London alike
            —faithful, weary, hopeful communities living in uncertain times—
                        it offers courage.

Not by denying reality,
            but by seeing it more clearly than ever, and still daring to hope.

So today, we approach Revelation not as a puzzle to decode,
            but as a call to faith.

A summons to see with different eyes.
            A challenge to resist what must be resisted,
            and to believe that the Lamb still reigns.

Naming the Beast

And so to chapter 13, where the imagery we meet is jarring, even grotesque:

“And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, having ten horns and seven heads…
            and on its heads were blasphemous names.” (v.1)

But this beast is not just a monstrous creature of nightmare;
            it is a political symbol.

Drawing on Daniel’s vision of four beasts representing successive empires,
            John’s vision combines them into one ultimate empire
            —a terrifying composite of lion, bear, and leopard.

The point is clear: this beast represents imperial power
            in its most destructive form.

It is the embodiment of empire.
            In John’s world, that meant Rome.

Rome with its military might.
            Rome with its cult of emperor-worship.

Rome with its violent suppression of any who dared resist.
            Rome, which crucified Jesus and exiled John to Patmos.

But John’s vision is not limited to one time and place.

The beast is not Rome alone.
            It is any system of domination that demands allegiance,
            enforces conformity, and punishes dissent.

The beast is empire, wherever and whenever it raises its head.

And so we must ask: where do we see the beast today?

• Do we see it in economic systems that profit from the exploitation of workers
              and the destruction of the planet.
• In political ideologies that promote xenophobia and nationalism
              while scapegoating the vulnerable.
• In media empires that distort truth, glorify violence,
              and commodify our attention.
• In religious institutions, even churches,
              that align with power instead of standing with the powerless.

The beast is all around us.
            But it is also insidious.

It doesn’t always come with horns and thunder.
            Sometimes it comes with slogans, algorithms, flags, and headlines.
            Sometimes it comes wrapped in prayers.

This is why Revelation matters
            —not as a map of the future, but as a mirror held up to the present.

It helps us unmask the forces at work in our world.
            It gives us language for resistance.

It reveals empire for what it is:
            a counterfeit kingdom, demanding our worship
            and declaring war on the saints.

Worship and Resistance

One of the most chilling lines in this passage is verse 4:

“They worshipped the dragon, for he had given his authority to the beast,
            and they worshipped the beast, saying,
            ‘Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it?’”

This is the crux of empire’s power:
            it demands not just obedience, but worship.

And it convinces the people that resistance is futile.
            “Who can fight against it?” they ask.

This is the temptation in every age
            —to believe the lies of inevitability.

That injustice is just how the world works.
            That politics is a game we can’t change.
            That the poor will always be with us, so why bother?

But Revelation says:
            Do not believe the beast.

It may appear invincible, but it is doomed.
            Its power is derivative, not divine.

And its end is certain.
            The beast rises, yes.
            But it does not reign forever.

In contrast to the beast’s worship,
            Revelation calls us to alternative allegiance
            —to the Lamb who was slain,
            to the God who brings down the mighty and lifts up the lowly.

Worship, in Revelation you see, is an act of resistance.

When we gather to proclaim Jesus as Lord,
            we are refusing to worship Caesar.

When we share bread and wine,
            we are defying a world that feeds the rich and starves the poor.

When we sing songs of peace,
            we confront a culture addicted to violence.

In this sense, worship is not escape from the world.
            It is our training ground for re-entering the world
            as agents of transformation.

Faith as Resistance: The Shield We Raise

And so we come to the heart of today’s reflection, in verse 10:
            “Here is a call for the endurance and faith of the saints.”

Endurance and faith.
            Not submission. Not despair. Not compromise.
            But faith that endures.

This is the shield of faith that Paul speaks of in Ephesians 6
            —a defensive but active posture against the arrows of evil.

And in the context of Revelation,
            it is the shield we raise when we stand against empire.

Faith is not naïve optimism.
            Faith is not “thoughts and prayers” offered as a substitute for justice.

Faith is resistance.

• It is the resistant faith of a church in Cardiff that joins a housing campaign,
  challenging landlords to treat tenants with dignity.
• It is the resistant faith of a church in East London
  that chooses to become a Sanctuary Church,
  offering hospitality to migrants facing deportation.
• It is the resistant faith of rural chapels that teach young people about climate justice,
  helping them organise to protect their future.
• It is the resistant faith of Christian communities in Palestine
  who, amidst unimaginable suffering, continue to pray,
  to protest, and to hope.

This is the kind of faith that Revelation is calling forth.

Not a private spirituality,
            but a public witness.

Not a retreat into the safety of religion,
            but a bold engagement with the world,
            fuelled by the gospel of peace.

Holding Faith on the Margins

But let’s be honest.

Holding the shield of faith is hard
            —especially when you’re tired.

Some of our congregations are ageing.
            Our buildings are demanding.
            Our numbers are shrinking.

Many churches, both in the valleys of Wales and the suburbs of London,
            are surrounded by neighbourhoods
            that no longer feel like they understand
                        —or even need—the church.

It can feel as though we are fading, forgotten, and marginalised.

The temptation is to see this as failure.

But I want to suggest that the margins
            are precisely where the Lamb is most powerfully at work.

In Revelation, it is not the empire’s temples or palaces
            that carry God’s presence.

It is the small, scattered, vulnerable communities
            that bear faithful witness.

The power of the Lamb is revealed not in strength,
            but in solidarity with the oppressed.

The endurance of the saints is not triumphant,
            but patient, persistent, and deeply rooted.

Could it be that the story of God in our time is not being written in the corridors of power,

·       but in the pews of chapels in Carmarthenshire,

·       in church basements in Tower Hamlets,

·       in small Sunday services attended by six faithful souls,

·       in these rhythms of prayer and protest
            carried out far from the spotlight?

We may sometimes be small.
            But we are never irrelevant.

We may be on the edge.
            But the edge is often where the Spirit breathes new life.

And so, to every congregation feeling fragile,
            overlooked, or anxious for the future:
hear this word from Revelation
            —not as condemnation, but as commissioning.

The shield of faith is not given only to the mighty, but to the weary.

And your faithfulness matters.

You are part of the story. You are part of the resistance.

Forming Communities of Resistance

But here’s the thing: we cannot do this alone.
            Resistance is not a solo sport.

The call is not just to individual endurance, but to communal faith.

·       The beast isolates; but the church gathers.

·       The empire fragments; but the church unites.

·       The world excludes; but the church embraces.

We are called to form communities of resistance
            —communities shaped not by fear, but by faith;
            not by domination, but by the radical inclusivity of the gospel.

These communities may look small. They may seem fragile.

·       But so did the early church.

·       So did the nonviolent marches in Alabama.

·       So do the candlelit vigils for ceasefire and peace.

These are the mustard seeds of God’s kingdom.

In London, in Wales, across these islands and beyond,
            God is forming such communities.

You are such communities.

• When you pray for peace and work for justice,
• when you welcome the refugee and listen to the marginalised,
• when you challenge economic injustice and embody environmental care,

You are resisting the beast.
            You are raising the shield of faith.

Resisting with Imagination: The Prophetic Role of the Church

If the beast thrives by limiting our vision
            —by convincing us that nothing can ever change—
then one of the most powerful tools of resistance the church holds
            is prophetic imagination.

The Book of Revelation itself is an act of radical imagination.
            It dares to see beyond the empire’s propaganda.

It paints alternative visions:
            of heavenly worship, of divine justice,
            of a new city descending from heaven in which every tear is wiped away.

These are not idle dreams.
            Rather they are declarations of what could be
            —and what, in God’s reality, already is.

And this is where the church comes in
            —not just as a place of sanctuary, but as a school of imagination.

Our calling is not merely to critique the powers that be,
            but to embody and imagine the world
            as it could be under the reign of the Lamb.

• When we gather and listen deeply to one another’s stories,
  we are imagining a world where all voices matter.
• When we shape our worship around justice and mercy,
  we are rehearsing the rhythms of the world to come.
• When we teach children to sing peace rather than power,
  we are planting seeds of transformation.
• When we organise with others—Muslim, Jewish, secular, or spiritual—
              towards shared goals for housing, wages, or safety,
  we are incarnating that vision in the here and now.

Such imagination is not escapism. It is resistance.
            Because if we cannot imagine a better world,
            we will never work for one.

So let the church be a place of dangerous dreaming.

·       Let our sermons, songs, and sacraments stir new hope.

·       Let our liturgies shape our loyalties.

·       Let our prayers stretch our politics.

And let us refuse to be confined by what empire tells us is possible.

Because the Lamb shows us a better way
            —and calls us to live it now as communities of resistance,
            faithful communities of endurance.

Conclusion: Daring to Hope

So where does this leave us, here today,
            gathered from the Baptist Union of Wales
            in the heart of the imperial capital?

I suggest it leaves us with a decision.
            A daily decision.

Will we align with the powers of domination,
            or will we bear witness to the power of the Lamb?

Revelation 13 is not the end of the story, you see.

The beast is not the final word.

The New Jerusalem is coming
            —not in some far-off future, but breaking in, even now,
            through faithful communities that dare to live differently.

Let us be such communities.
            Let us take up the shield of faith.

Let us proclaim with our words and with our lives that the beast is a lie,
            and the Lamb is Lord.

Let us say to our neighbours, our politicians, our churches, and ourselves:

·       Everyone is loved.

·       Everyone is welcome.

·       No-one is alone.

·       A better world is possible.

·       And we will work for it together.

For here is a call to the endurance and faith of the saints.
And by the grace of God, may we answer that call.

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 global conflict and pain, in Ukraine, in Sudan, 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 in the UK this week,
    including an invitation to speak at the Glastonbury Festival
    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 anyone 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 echo the words of Jesus. And maybe 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.