Forgiven and Free

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

23 February 2025

 
Luke 7.36-50

Some stories carry well across the millennia
            from the first century to the present day,
whilst others less so,
            because the cultural norms of 21^st century London
            are so far removed from those of first century Jerusalem.
 
Today’s reading is one of those that, I think, doesn’t carry so well
            – we don’t have the same taboos about gender, hair, and human contact
            that were operative when this story is set.
 
We have our own versions of them, of course,
            but they are different.
 
So this story, from a modern point of view,
            can seem rather alien to us.
 
But at its heart, this passage confronts us
            with two different responses to Jesus:
one of judgment, the other of love.
 
And it asks us to consider which posture we adopt
            when we come into the presence of Christ.
 
Are we like Simon the Pharisee,
            who thinks he knows who is worthy of Jesus and who is not?
 
Or are we like the woman,
            who understands that grace cannot be earned, only received
            —and that when it is, the only possible response is overwhelming love?
 
The story begins with Jesus invited to dinner
            at the house of Simon, a Pharisee.
 
This in itself is notable—Pharisees were often suspicious of Jesus,
            and elsewhere we see them questioning his authority
            and the company he kept.
 
But Simon is willing to host him,
            perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps to test him.
 
In first-century Jewish culture,
            such meals were often semi-public events,
held in an open courtyard
            where uninvited guests could linger at the edges,
            listening in on the conversation.
 
Into this setting comes an unexpected visitor:
            a woman from the city, known simply as “a sinner.”
 
Luke does not tell us the specifics of her sin,
            only that her reputation precedes her.
She is not invited. She is not welcome.
            But she comes anyway, bringing with her an alabaster jar of perfume.
 
Then, in a deeply emotional and scandalous act,
            she kneels before Jesus, weeping.
 
Her tears fall, and she lets down her hair
            —a shocking act in that culture,
            as women were expected to keep their hair covered in public.
 
She uses her hair to wipe him clean,
            then kisses him again and again,
            before pouring out the expensive perfume in an extravagant act of devotion.
 
The room is filled with the scent of the perfume,
            but also with tension.
The watching guests, especially Simon, are shocked.
 
This is not how a religious teacher should allow himself to be treated,
            especially by a woman of such reputation.
 
But Jesus does not recoil. He doesn’t pull away.
            Instead, he allows her to express her love,
            accepting her act of worship without hesitation.
 
And it’s at this moment that Jesus chooses to teach a lesson
            —not just to the woman, but to Simon,
            and to all who would seek to judge who is worthy of grace.
 
As this scene unfolds, Simon the Pharisee watches in silence,
            but his thoughts are loud.
 
He is not moved by the woman’s act of devotion.
            Instead, he is offended—perhaps even disgusted.
 
In his mind, Jesus’ response, or lack of response,
            confirms something troubling:
            This man cannot be a true prophet.
 
If Jesus had the kind of divine insight that prophets were supposed to have,
            Simon reasons, he would know exactly
            what kind of woman was touching him.
And if he knew, he certainly wouldn’t allow it.
 
Simon doesn’t say these things aloud,
            but Jesus knows his heart.
 
He sees the judgment in Simon’s eyes,
            the self-righteousness in his attitude,
            and the blindness in his understanding of grace.
 
Simon believes he has God all figured out.
            He believes he knows how holiness works,
                        how righteousness should be maintained,
            and—most crucially—who is in and who is out.
 
And in his mind, this woman is most certainly out.
 
But Jesus turns the tables on him.
            Instead of rebuking the woman, Jesus addresses Simon directly,
            saying, “Simon, I have something to say to you.”
 
Simon, perhaps still smug in his assumptions,
            replies, “Say it, Teacher.”
 
He does not yet realise that Jesus is about to expose
            the very thing he is trying to conceal
            —the hardness of his own heart.
 
Jesus tells a short parable about two people
            who owe money to a creditor
            —one a large amount, the other a small sum.
 
When neither can repay, the creditor forgives both debts.
 
Then Jesus asks Simon a simple question:
            Which of them will love the creditor more?
 
Simon answers correctly:
            “I suppose the one for whom he cancelled the greater debt.”
 
But he has walked straight into Jesus’ lesson.
            Simon understands the logic of the parable,
            but he has failed to see its truth playing out in front of him.
 
The woman has been forgiven much, and so she loves much.
            But Simon, who does not see himself as needing much forgiveness,
            does not understand love at all.
 
Having drawn Simon into the parable of the two debtors,
            Jesus now turns the spotlight directly onto him.
 
Simon has acknowledged that the one forgiven the greater debt will love more,
            but he hasn’t yet realised what this means for him.
 
As Jesus shifts his gaze from Simon to the woman,
            he continues speaking to Simon.
 
“Do you see this woman?” he asks.
 
It’s a striking question because, of course, Simon has seen her
            —but only in a certain way.
He’s seen her reputation, her past, her unworthiness.
            But has he truly seen her? Has he recognised her act of love?
            Has he understood her deep gratitude for the grace she has received?
 
Jesus then delivers a direct contrast
            between Simon’s actions as host
            and the woman’s response to him.
 
In first-century Jewish culture, hospitality was a sacred duty.
            A guest arriving at one’s house
                        would normally be offered water to wash their feet,
            a kiss of greeting, and oil to refresh their skin
            —small but meaningful acts of welcome and honour.
 
Simon had done none of these things.
            Whether from negligence, indifference, or quiet disdain,
            he had treated Jesus with a cool, distant politeness,
            rather than with warmth or reverence.
 
In contrast, the woman has poured herself out in love.
            She has given what she can
            —her tears, her hair, her kisses, her costly perfume.
 
While Simon has withheld even the smallest gestures of welcome,
            she has lavished Jesus with extravagant devotion.
 
And her actions, Jesus declares, are a sign of something deeper:
            “Her sins, which were many, have been forgiven;
                        hence she has shown great love.
            But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.”
 
Then, for the first time, Jesus speaks directly to the woman.
            Up until this point, she has remained silent,
            expressing herself only through her actions.
Now, Jesus affirms her before everyone:
            “Your sins are forgiven.”
 
The other guests murmur among themselves:
            “Who is this who even forgives sins?”
 
They are scandalised. Only God can forgive sins.
            Yet Jesus is doing just that—not with a ritual sacrifice,
                        not through the temple system,
                        but in a personal, intimate encounter.
 
Finally, Jesus turns to the woman once more,
            speaking words that change everything:
“Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
 
She came to Jesus broken, burdened by her past,
            and uncertain of how she would be received.
 
She leaves forgiven, restored, and at peace.
 
In this moment, Jesus does more than challenge Simon’s judgmental attitude
            —he redefines what it means to belong in the kingdom of God.
 
It is not the righteous, the respectable, or the religious
            who automatically understand grace.
 
It is those who know their need of it.
            And when grace is received, love overflows.
 
This encounter between Jesus, Simon, and the woman
            offers those of us reading it some lessons
            about grace, love, and the nature of true discipleship.
 
Three key themes emerge from the passage:
            extravagant worship, judgment versus compassion,
            and the relationship between forgiveness and love.
 
1. Extravagant Worship
The woman’s actions are bold, vulnerable, and deeply expressive.
            She does not care what others think
            —she pours out her love for Jesus in a way that is raw and unrestrained.
 
Her worship is costly, not just because of the expensive perfume
            but because of the social risk she takes
            in showing such devotion so publicly.
 
In contrast, Simon, the religious leader, remains distant.
            He keeps Jesus at arm’s length,
            offering no true sign of hospitality or reverence.
 
His faith is respectable, but it is also cold.
            The woman, by contrast, is fully present, pouring herself out in love.
 
I think the challenge here for us is to ask:
            What does our worship look like?
 
Do we come before Jesus with hearts open,
            willing to express our love fully?
Or do we hold back, afraid of what others might think
            or unwilling to fully surrender ourselves?
 
Sometimes churches get caught up in worship wars,
            people like this kind of worship or that,
            traditional or contemporary, organ or guitar or drums or piano…
 
Well, I’ve worshipped in very traditional contexts,
            and in very contemporary contexts.
 
And friends, hear this:
            it’s not about the style.
            It’s about your attitude of heart, my attitude of heart.
 
If you can’t worship because of this or that annoying you,
            look inward rather than outward for the answer.
 
True worship is never about mere performance or duty
            —it is about offering ourselves fully to the one who has shown us grace.
 
2. Judgment vs. Compassion
Simon’s silent judgment of the woman—and of Jesus—
            reveals a common human tendency:
we assume we know who is worthy and who is not.
 
Simon the Pharisee looks at the woman and sees only her past.
            Jesus looks at her and sees her love, her faith, and her transformed heart.
 
How often do we, like Simon, judge others without seeing them fully?
            How often do we assume that some people are beyond redemption
            while failing to recognise our own need for grace?
 
This passage reminds us that the measure we use to judge others
            is the measure by which we, too, will be judged.
 
If we view others through a lens of condemnation,
            we miss the opportunity to participate in God’s grace.
 
If we see them through Christ’s eyes,
            we will respond with love and compassion.
 
3. Forgiveness and Love
At the heart of this passage is the simple but radical truth
            that forgiveness fuels love.
 
Jesus’ parable of the two debtors makes it clear:
            those who are forgiven much, love much.
 
The woman knows the depth of her need,
            and in receiving grace, she responds with overwhelming love.
 
Simon, on the other hand, does not believe he has much to be forgiven for
            —and as a result, his love is small.
 
This is not to say that we should sin more
            in order to experience greater grace.
 
Rather, it is an invitation to honestly acknowledge our own brokenness.
            When we fully grasp the depth of God’s mercy toward us,
            we are freed to love in ways that we never imagined possible.
 
The question this passage leaves us with
            is not just whether we have received forgiveness,
            but whether that forgiveness has changed us.
 
Do we love in response to grace?
            Do we extend that same grace to others?
Or do we, like Simon, hold people at a distance,
            measuring their worth by their past
            rather than by God’s transforming love?
 
The woman in this story did not earn her forgiveness
            —she simply received it.
 
And because she received it, she was set free to love extravagantly.
            May we do the same.
 
Contemporary Application
And so we have this ancient account of grace
            speaking down the millennia to our lives today.
 
Challenging us to consider how we respond to Jesus,
            how we see others,
and how we understand the nature of forgiveness and love in our own context.
 
Who Are We in the Story?
Every time we read scripture,
            we are invited to find ourselves within the narrative.
So, I wonder, where do we see ourselves in this passage?

Are we Simon?
Do we sit in judgment over others,
            making assumptions about their worthiness?
Do we believe we have little need for forgiveness,
            keeping Jesus at a polite but safe distance?
 
It is easy to fall into Simon’s mindset,
            especially if we have spent years in religious spaces,
becoming comfortable with a faith
            that feels respectable but lacks passion.
 
Are we the woman?
Do we recognise our deep need for grace?
            Have we encountered the kind of forgiveness
            that moves us to respond with love?
 
Some of us may carry a heavy burden of guilt or shame,
            wondering if we are truly welcome in Jesus’ presence.
 
This passage reminds us that Christ does not turn us away
            —he receives us, accepts us, and speaks words of peace over us.
 
Are we the other guests?
The people watching this scene unfold murmur among themselves,
            questioning Jesus’ authority to forgive sins.
 
Do we find ourselves on the sidelines,
            unsure about the radical nature of grace,
struggling to believe that it could extend even to those
            we might consider undeserving?
 
Wherever we see ourselves, this passage invites us to step deeper into grace
            —to move from judgment to love, from distance to intimacy,
            from self-righteousness to humility.
 
The Scandal of Grace
One of the striking things about this story
            is how shocking Jesus’ response would have been.
 
The people of his time—especially the religious leaders—
            expected him to affirm their moral boundaries,
            to uphold the distinctions between the righteous and the sinners.
 
But Jesus does the opposite.
            He allows a woman with a bad reputation to touch him.
 
He accepts her offering without hesitation.
             And then he publicly forgives her, declaring that her faith has saved her.
 
This is still scandalous today.
 
We live in a world that loves to categorise people,
            deciding who is in and who is out,
            who is acceptable and who is not.
 
Social media thrives on outrage,
            exposing and condemning those who fall short.
 
Even within the church, it is tempting to create unspoken hierarchies of sin,
            deciding who is truly welcome and who must first prove themselves worthy.
 
But Jesus refuses to play by those rules.
 
He shows us that grace is not something we earn
            —it is something we receive.
 
And when we truly receive it, it transforms us.
 
If we find grace scandalous,
            it is because we have not yet understood
            the depths of our own need for it.
 
The Relationship Between Forgiveness and Love
Jesus’ parable of the two debtors
            teaches us that the depth of our love
            is tied to our awareness of our forgiveness.
 
If we believe we have little to be forgiven for,
            our love will be small.
 
But if we truly grasp the magnitude of grace,
            our response will be one of extravagant love.
 
This has implications for how we live as followers of Christ.
 
It means:
 
We cannot receive grace without extending it.
If we have been forgiven much, we must forgive much.
 
This applies to our personal relationships, our communities,
            and even the way we engage with the wider world.
 
Do we reflect the mercy we have received?
            Or do we hold grudges, withhold forgiveness,
            and insist on keeping others at arm’s length?
 
Love is the evidence of grace at work.
The woman in this story does not speak a word,
            yet her love for Jesus is unmistakable.
 
Our lives should bear the same witness.
 
If we claim to be people of grace,
            our love should be visible in how we treat others
            —especially those whom society deems unworthy.
 
True worship flows from gratitude.
This woman’s act of devotion was not calculated or restrained
            —it was an outpouring of gratitude
            for the grace she had received.
 
If our worship feels routine or lifeless,
            perhaps we need to be reminded of the depth of our forgiveness.
 
The more we remember what Christ has done for us,
            the more our hearts will overflow with love.
 
“Go in Peace” – Living as People of Grace
Jesus’ final words to the woman are not just a declaration of forgiveness;
            they are an invitation into a new way of life:
            “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
 
This is not just about inner peace—it is about wholeness,
            about living in the freedom that grace brings.
 
As we reflect on this passage today, we are challenged to ask ourselves:
Are we living as people who have truly received grace?
Do we extend that same grace to others?
Are we known for judgment, or are we known for love?
 
Jesus calls us not just to receive grace,
            but to be transformed by it.
 
And as we are transformed, we are sent out
            —to love much, to forgive much, and to go in peace.
 
Prayer:
Gracious God, we thank you for the example of the woman who showed extravagant love to your Son. Help us to break free from judgment and to embrace a faith that is bold and authentic. May we offer you our whole selves in worship and extend your grace to others. In Jesus' name, we pray. Amen.
 

Embracing the Unexpected Messiah

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Sunday 16 February 2025

Luke 7.18-35

Introduction
There is something deeply human
            about John the Baptist’s question to Jesus in today’s passage:
 
“Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” (Luke 7:19).
 
Here is John, the great prophet,
            the one who had proclaimed the coming of the Messiah,
                        who had baptized Jesus,
            who had declared, “Behold, the Lamb of God” (John 1:29)
                        —and yet, now, in prison, he finds himself uncertain.
 
He is left wondering whether he was right after all.
 
But John’s doubts—or at least his desire for reassurance—are understandable.
 
He had preached a message of repentance and judgment,
            warning of the coming wrath,
            calling people to prepare the way for the Lord.
 
But Jesus wasn’t quite fitting the mould.
 
Instead of fire and fury, Jesus was healing the sick,
            restoring sight to the blind, welcoming sinners,
            and preaching good news to the poor.
 
Instead of overthrowing the oppressors,
            he was moving among the outcasts.
 
Instead of breaking John out of Herod’s prison,
            he was dining with tax collectors and sinners.
 
It is easy to sympathise with John.
 
He, like so many in Israel, had expectations of what the Messiah would do
            —and Jesus was not fulfilling those expectations
                        in the way they had imagined.
 
I think this raises a crucial question for us:
            How do we respond when God does not act as we expect?
 
Do we, like John, find ourselves asking, “Are you really the one?”
            And if so, how does Jesus respond?
 
This story of John’s moment of doubt
            invites us to reconsider our expectations of Christ,
and to hear his answer not in a theoretical explanation,
            but in the reality of what he is doing in the world.
 
It challenges us to open our eyes and see the presence of the Messiah
            —not necessarily in the places of power and dominance
                        where we might instinctively look,
            but in the work of healing, restoration, and grace
                        that continues to unfold before us.
 
I. John's Question: A Moment of Doubt or Clarification?
John the Baptist is one of the characters in the gospels
            who, in my opinion, doesn’t always get the attention he deserves.
 
He is mentioned in all four gospels,
            and is consistently associated with the start of Jesus’ ministry.
 
But the effect of this is that he is often demoted
            to being a prophetic fore-runner to Jesus.
A kind of messianic warm-up-act.
 
Whereas the reality seems to be that his ministry was complementary to Jesus’s,
            with the actions and teaching of Jesus
            arising out from the prophecies and baptisms of John.
 
And so in today’s passage we meet John the Baptist,
            in a passage not often read in church.
And here we find him towards the end of his life,
            but still unwavering in his prophetic calling.
 
This is the man who had been the very definition
            of the voice crying out in the wilderness,
channelling the prophet Isaiah in his call to ‘prepare the way of the Lord’,
            challenging people to repentance and baptism,
            and warning of the coming judgment.
 
John, we are told, had recognized some of Jesus’ uniqueness from the very beginning,
            so much so that even in the slightly surreal nativity story
            we’re told that in his mother’s womb he leapt at Mary’s greeting (Luke 1:41).
 
He had baptized Jesus in the Jordan,
            witnessing the heavens open, and hearing the voice from heaven declare,
            “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased” (Luke 3:22).
 
And yet, now, John is in prison.
 
Herod Antipas, the ruler of Galilee,
            had locked him away for speaking truth to power,
for condemning Herod’s immorality
            in marrying his brother’s ex-wife Herodias (Luke 3:19-20).
 
Sitting in the darkness of his cell, John must have wondered:
            If Jesus is the Messiah, why is this happening?
 
Where was the axe
            that he proclaimed had been laid at the root of the trees (Luke 3:9)?
 
Where was the winnowing fork
            that he had claimed would clear the threshing floor
            and burn the chaff with unquenchable fire (Luke 3:17)?
 
Had he misunderstood?
            Had he prepared the way for someone else?
 
This is where John’s question comes from:
            “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?”
            (Luke 7:19).
 
It is a question of uncertainty, but not necessarily of complete disbelief.
            John is not rejecting Jesus—he is seeking clarity.
 
He had proclaimed a Messiah of judgment,
            but Jesus was bringing mercy.
 
He had expected a political upheaval,
            but Jesus was healing the sick.
 
John’s question is not a loss of faith
            but an honest grappling with the ways in which God’s work
            is unfolding differently than expected.
 
I suspect that many of us can relate to John’s experience.
 
We, too, can find ourselves in situations
            where the faith we once held with certainty now feels uncertain.
 
When life does not go as we had hoped,
            when justice seems delayed, when prayers seem unanswered,
            we might find ourselves wondering: Is God really at work?
 
Like John, we might long for reassurance.
 
And in Jesus’ response, we find both an answer and an invitation
            —to look again, to see where the kingdom is breaking in,
and to recognise that God’s ways
            are often different from our own expectations.
 
II. Jesus' Response: Demonstrating the Kingdom's Power
So John’s disciples repeat his question to Jesus:
            “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?”
            (Luke 7:19).
 
It is a direct and urgent inquiry
            —one that Jesus could have answered with a simple yes or no.
 
But instead of a straightforward response,
            Jesus points to the evidence of his ministry:
 
“Go and tell John what you have seen and heard:
            the blind receive their sight; the lame walk;
those with a skin disease are cleansed;
            the deaf hear; the dead are raised;
the poor have good news brought to them.”
 
In this answer, Jesus is quoting from Isaiah,
            echoing prophecies about the coming of God’s reign (Isaiah 35:5-6; 61:1).
 
He is saying, in effect: Look at what is happening.
            The signs of the kingdom are all around you.
 
Rather than engaging in a theoretical debate about his identity,
            Jesus invites John—and us—to discern the truth
            in the lived reality of his actions.
 
This response is significant.
 
It tells us that Jesus’ identity as the Messiah
            is not proven through titles, declarations, or political revolutions
            but through the tangible transformation of lives.
 
The power of God’s kingdom is being revealed
            not through conquest but through healing.
It is seen in restoration, in liberation,
            in the lifting up of those on the margins.
 
Jesus’ final words in this response
            —"blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” (Luke 7:23)—a
            re particularly striking.
 
He acknowledges that he is not what many expected.
            His way is not the way of earthly power
            or immediate political deliverance.
 
John may have anticipated a Messiah
            who would overthrow the Romans
            and bring judgment upon the wicked.
 
But instead, Jesus brings healing to the broken
            and good news to the poor.
 
And his message to John is clear:
            Do not be offended or discouraged
                        because I do not fit into your expectations.
            See what I am actually doing,
                        and trust that this is the work of God.
 
There is a challenge here for us, too.
 
How often do we, like John, expect God to act in a particular way,
            only to find that God is working differently than we imagined?
 
How often do we look for signs of power and control,
            when the true signs of the kingdom are acts of love, mercy, and justice?
 
Jesus’ response invites us to re-examine our assumptions
            and to recognise that God’s work is often unfolding
                        in ways that may surprise us
            —but which are no less real, no less powerful, and no less transformative.
 
III. Challenging Preconceptions: The Nature of True Greatness
After sending John’s disciples back with his response,
            Jesus turns to the crowd
            and asks them a series of rhetorical questions about John:
 
“What did you go out into the wilderness to look at?
            A reed shaken by the wind? ²⁵ 
What, then, did you go out to see?
            Someone dressed in soft robes?
Look, those who put on fine clothing and live in luxury are in royal palaces.
 
 ²⁶ What, then, did you go out to see? A prophet?
            Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet.” (Luke 7:24-26)
 
Jesus is asking them to reflect
            on why they were drawn to John in the first place.
 
Did they expect someone weak and indecisive,
            like a reed bending in the wind?
Of course not—John was no wavering figure,
            shifting with public opinion.
 
Did they expect someone powerful and wealthy, dressed in royal robes?
            No—those kinds of figures live in palaces, like Herod,
            the very man who imprisoned John.
 
Instead, they had gone to see a prophet
            —a fiery voice of truth who stood outside the centres of power,
            calling people to repentance.
 
And yet, Jesus says, John was even more than a prophet.
 
He was the messenger foretold in Scripture,
            the one sent to prepare the way for the Lord (Malachi 3:1).
 
Among those born of women, Jesus declares,
            no one is greater than John.
 
That is a staggering statement
            —John stands above all the prophets of Israel,
            the very pinnacle of human faithfulness.
 
But then Jesus says something even more surprising:
            “Yet the one who is least in the kingdom of God is greater than he.”
            (Luke 7:28)
 
His point here is not that John himself is diminished,
            but rather that the kingdom of God redefines greatness.
 
The old categories of status, achievement,
            and even prophetic authority are being overturned.
 
In Jesus, the kingdom is breaking into the world in a new way,
            and those who participate in this unfolding reality
                        —who embrace the ways of grace, healing, and radical inclusion—
            are part of something even greater
                        than the prophetic tradition that came before.
 
This is a challenge to our assumptions about what matters most.
 
We live in a world that often equates greatness
            with power, success, wealth, and influence.
 
Even within religious circles,
            we can be tempted to admire the most prominent leaders,
            the most eloquent speakers, the biggest churches.
 
But Jesus upends all of that.
 
True greatness is not found in status or recognition;
            it is found in participation in God’s kingdom
—a kingdom where the last are first,
            where the outcasts are welcomed,
            where love is the measure of all things.
 
The challenge for us is to recognise
            where we are holding onto worldly ideas of greatness
            and to allow Jesus to redefine them.
 
If John, the greatest of the prophets,
            was pointing beyond himself to something greater,
then we, too, must learn to set aside our own expectations
            and trust that God’s ways are often different
                        —and far more beautiful—
            than we could ever have imagined.
 
IV. Recognising the Messiah in Our Midst
Jesus’ words to the crowd about John the Baptist
            lead to a deeper question:
 
Do we recognise the Messiah when he is right in front of us?
 
In Luke 7:29-30, we see two contrasting responses to Jesus’ ministry.
 
Luke tells us that
“And all the people who heard this, including the tax collectors,
            acknowledged the justice of God, 
            having been baptized with John’s baptism.
 ³⁰ But the Pharisees and the experts in the law,
            not having been baptized by him,
            rejected God’s purpose for themselves.”
 
The division is clear
            —those on the margins, those aware of their own need for grace,
                        receive Jesus with joy.
 
But those who see themselves as already righteous, already knowledgeable,
            struggle to accept what God is doing.
 
Jesus then compares this generation
            to children playing in the marketplace (Luke 7:31-32).
 
They call out to one another:
            " We played the flute for you, and you did not dance;

•                 we wailed, and you did not weep."

                we wailed, and you did not weep."
 
In other words, no response was ever good enough.
 
They rejected John because he was too austere,
            too ascetic, too radical.
 
And then they rejected Jesus because he was too welcoming,
            too open, too willing to feast with sinners.
 
They dismissed both, not because of any real flaw in them,
            but because they were unwilling to accept what God was doing
            in ways they did not expect.
 
This is a warning for us.
 
It is easy to miss the presence of Christ when
            we have already decided what he should look like.
 
If we expect Jesus only in the places of power,
            we will not see him among the poor.
 
If we expect him only in the halls of influence,
            we will not recognise him in the company of the outcast.
 
If we expect him only in the grandeur of religious tradition,
            we may miss his presence in the simple acts
            of kindness, justice, and mercy happening around us.
 
Jesus challenges us to open our eyes.
            Where is the kingdom breaking in today?
 
Who are the people and places that reveal God’s presence,
            even if they do not fit our expectations?
 
Are we willing to embrace a Messiah
            who does not always come in the ways we imagine?
 
As Jesus concludes,
            “wisdom is vindicated by all her children” (Luke 7:35).
 
That is, in the end, the truth of Jesus’ identity
            is revealed not in words alone
            but in the fruit of his ministry.
 
The blind see. The lame walk. The poor hear good news.
            The kingdom is here—if only we have the eyes to see it.
 
Conclusion: Embracing the Unexpected
So, as we conclude…
 
John the Baptist’s question
            —“Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?”—
            is one that echoes through the ages.
 
It is not just John’s question; it is our question too.
 
In times of uncertainty, suffering, or disappointment,
            we may find ourselves wondering
            if Jesus is really who we thought he was.
 
If God is truly at work,
            why do things not look the way we expected?
 
Jesus’ response to John and to us
            is both a reassurance and a challenge.
 
Jesus does not fit neatly into human expectations.
            He does not conform to the world’s ideas of power and greatness.
 
Instead, he brings healing, restoration, and good news to the poor.
 
He turns our assumptions upside down,
            revealing a kingdom where the least are greatest,
                        where justice is done not through conquest but through compassion,
            and where the presence of God is found
                        not in the palaces of the powerful
                        but in the lives of the broken and the outcast.
 
The challenge for us today is to open our eyes
            and recognise the Messiah in our midst.
 
Where is Christ at work in ways we have not expected?
 
Where is the kingdom breaking in, not through dominance,
            but through acts of mercy, justice, and grace?
 
Are we willing to let go of our preconceived ideas
            and embrace the way of Jesus
            —the way of love that is often surprising but always life-giving?
 
John asked, “Are you the one?”
            And Jesus replied, “Look and see.”
 
May we, too, have the eyes to see, the hearts to believe,
            and the courage to follow the Messiah
            who is always more than we imagined,
                        yet exactly what we need.
 
 
Prayer: Gracious God, open our eyes to see your work in unexpected places.
            Grant us the humility to embrace your ways,
            even when they challenge our preconceptions.
May we, like John, seek understanding,
            and like Jesus, extend grace and healing to all. Amen.

Racial Justice Sunday 2025

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Sunday 9 February 2025

Racial Justice Sunday

Jesus healing the servant of a Centurion, by the Venetian artist Paolo Veronese, 16th century

Luke 7.1-10 - Jesus Heals a Centurion’s Slave
 
Introduction: A Centurion's Faith in a Divided World
 
Our passage today tells the story of a Roman centurion who seeks healing for his servant.
 
This account is striking,
            not only because of the remarkable faith of the centurion
but also because of the racial, social, and power dynamics at play.
 
It speaks to a world where some hold power, others suffer under it,
            and yet, in Christ, there is the possibility of a new way.
 
For us, on Racial Justice Sunday, this passage is an invitation to reflect
            on how faith, humility, and justice intersect in our divided world.
 
The centurion represents a system of oppression.
 
As a Roman officer, he was part of the occupying force in Israel,
            a symbol of dominance and control over the Jewish people.
 
His very presence would have been a reminder
            of injustice to those living under Roman rule.
 
And yet, despite his position of power,
            the centurion displays an extraordinary humility and concern
            for someone beneath him in the social hierarchy—a servant.
 
His actions reveal a personality that transcends
            the usual expectations of his rank and status.
 
This act of seeking help from Jesus, a Jewish teacher with no political power,
            can be read as an act of vulnerability.
 
The centurion could have demanded assistance
            or relied on his status to secure what he needed.
 
But instead, he approaches with respect and deference,
            recognising the authority of Jesus as something even greater than his own.
 
This recognition of divine authority over human structures
            can challenge us to examine the ways in which power operates
            in our society and in our churches,
and to consider how we too might use our influence
            for the healing and restoration of others.
 
In a world still marked by racial injustice, discrimination, and inequality,
            this passage calls us to reflect on the ways in which faith can bridge divisions.
 
It demands of us to consider how we might use our positions
            —whether of privilege or marginalisation—to seek justice?
 
How can we cultivate the kind of faith that Jesus commends,
            one that acknowledges the worth and dignity of all people?
 
This centurion’s faith not only brings healing to his servant,
            but also points us to a vision of the kingdom of God
where authority is rooted in love, humility, and justice
            rather than dominance and control.
 
An Outsider's Faith, A Lesson for the Church
 
So let’s take a closer look at the story from Luke’s gospel.
 
The centurion was an outsider.
            A Gentile, an officer of the oppressive Roman empire,
            and yet he emerges in this passage as a surprising exemplar of faith.
 
In the Jewish context of the time, he was part of a system of colonial rule.
            There were very few people who he could not have just summoned
            into his presence if he wanted to see them.
 
And yet, he does not approach Jesus with a sense of entitlement.
 
Instead, he sends Jewish elders to make a plea on his behalf,
            recognising his own unworthiness to even come before Jesus.
 
This is radical.
Here is a man with power, status, and privilege,
            yet modelling something we do not often see
            —humility in the face of Christ’s authority.
 
His faith stands in contrast to the expectation that power and status
            give people access to divine favour.
 
He recognises that he is not the centre of the story,
            but rather that God’s authority transcends human structures.
 
This humility is key to understanding how faith can reshape systems of injustice.
 
The centurion also demonstrates an awareness of his privilege.
 
He does not presume that he has a right to Jesus’ attention
            or that his position guarantees him divine favour.
 
Instead, he acknowledges his limitations
            and seeks intercession from those within the Jewish community.
 
This act invites us to consider how we,
            particularly those of us with social privilege,
must be willing to listen, learn, and seek the guidance
            of those who have been historically marginalised.
 
True faith is not about exerting power
            but about recognising our dependence on God and on the community of faith.
 
Moreover, the centurion's faith is deeply relational.
 
He is not seeking healing for himself but for his servant
            —someone who, in that society, would have been considered insignificant.
 
This act of intercession challenges us to consider who we are advocating for today.
 
Are we using our faith to bring healing and justice to those who are marginalised,
            or are we primarily focussed on maintaining systems that benefit us?
 
The centurion's faith challenges us to move beyond personal spirituality
            to a faith that works for the good of others,
            particularly those who are excluded.
 
In today’s world, where systems of racial and social injustice persist,
            this passage calls us to consider how privilege operates in our own contexts.
 
Who gets access to healing, justice, and restoration?
 
Who is deemed worthy of intervention?
 
The centurion’s story is a call for the church
            to embody a faith that does not seek power for its own sake
            but instead seeks to uplift, restore, and reconcile.
 
Jesus’ Response: A Faith that Crosses Boundaries
 
Jesus’ response is just as striking as the centurion’s request.
            He does not reject the plea because of the centurion’s status.
 
Instead, he is amazed by the man’s faith.
            In fact, he declares, "I tell you, not even in Israel have I found such faith."
 
This statement is extraordinary because it upends assumptions
            about who belongs and who does not.
 
Faith, conceived in this way, is not tied to ethnicity, nationality, or social standing.
            The kingdom of God breaks through human boundaries.
 
Jesus’ amazement at the centurion’s faith is notable.
 
It is one of the few times in the Gospels
            where Jesus is described as being astonished.
 
His reaction signals an important shift in understanding the nature of faith
            —it is not about religious heritage or social standing
            but about trust and recognition of divine authority.
 
The centurion, despite being a Gentile and a representative of imperial power,
            displays the kind of faith that aligns with God’s kingdom.
 
Furthermore, Jesus’ willingness to engage with the centurion
            challenges existing social norms.
 
The interaction defies conventional first-century Jewish-Gentile boundaries,
            demonstrating that in and through Jesus God's grace is extended to all people.
 
This challenges us as the church today:
            Are we willing to engage across the boundaries that divide us?
 
Do we truly see faith and dignity in those who are different from us?
 
Jesus’ response calls us to embrace a vision of the kingdom
            where all are welcome, valued, and included.
 
This story also invites us to examine how we respond
            to faith that emerges from unexpected places.
 
Too often, we confine our understanding of faith
            to certain traditions, cultures, or institutions.
 
Yet, Jesus himself acknowledges that true faith
            can be found beyond these boundaries.
 
This should prompt us to listen to and learn from voices
            that have historically been marginalised in our communities and churches.
 
On this Racial Justice Sunday, we are reminded that Jesus’ ministry
            was one of boundary-crossing.
 
He reached out to those who were considered outsiders.
            He challenged the systems that dehumanised people.
 
He revealed a vision of God’s kingdom
            where every nation, tribe, and people are welcomed (Revelation 7:9).
 
The flow of power dynamics in this story
            challenges us to rethink how we understand reparations and justice.
 
The conversation around reparations
            rightly emphasises that those who have benefitted
                        from the financial legacy of racism
            should contribute to the betterment of those
                        who have been disadvantaged by the colour of their skin.
 
However, if we conceive of reparations
            only as the transfer of wealth from the powerful to the powerless,
we risk missing the deeper transformation that true justice requires.
 
In this passage, Jesus, the powerless Jewish person,
            ministers to the centurion, a powerful Roman officer.
 
This dynamic suggests that the so-called powerful
            have much to receive from the powerless,
and that the equalising of relationships and power benefits everyone.
 
This is not a zero-sum game where one group loses and another gains;
            rather, as power and resources are shared equitably,
                        everyone gains,
            and the sickness at the heart of racialised power is healed.
 
Racial Justice and the Church’s Witness
 
Racial justice therefore is not an optional extra for the church
            —it is at the heart of the gospel.
 
The church is called to be a place where all people,
            regardless of race or background, find dignity, belonging, and justice.
 
Yet, we must also acknowledge
            that our churches have not always lived up to this calling.
 
The deep wounds of racism persist in our communities and institutions.
 
Racial justice requires more than words;
            it requires intentional action.
 
This means actively confronting biases, both personal and systemic,
            and making space for voices that have long been ignored.
 
It involves advocating for policies that promote equity,
            ensuring that church leadership reflects the diversity of the body of Christ,
            and creating worship spaces
                        that celebrate cultural expressions from all backgrounds.
 
Furthermore, racial justice calls us to a deeper theological reflection.
 
How do our interpretations of scripture uphold justice and inclusion?
            How does our preaching address racial inequality?
 
The church must be a prophetic voice, standing against injustice,
            amplifying the cries of the oppressed,
            and embodying the radical love of Christ.
 
The question is: will we, like the centurion,
            have the humility to recognise where we fall short?
 
Will we, like Jesus, be willing to cross boundaries for the sake of justice and love?
 
As we reflect on this passage today,
            let us recommit ourselves to being a church
            that truly welcomes, uplifts, and fights for the dignity of all God’s people.
 
Faith That Acts: Moving from Reflection to Action
 
You see, faith is not passive.
 
The centurion’s faith was active—it sought healing,
            it worked for the good of another, it moved beyond words to action.
 
Likewise, our commitment to racial justice must be more than a matter of reflection;
            it must be lived out in the life of our church and our communities.
 
This means fostering deep relationships
            with communities that experience racial injustice,
partnering with organisations that work toward systemic change,
            and actively challenging discrimination in our own congregations.
 
It is a joy to be around this building during the week,
            and to see teenagers coming in for their dance classes
            at Impact Dance in the Studio upstairs.
 
This building is a place of safety, a spiritual home,
            for young people of colour from across our city.
 
I know we don’t see them on Sunday,
            and many of them are from Muslim background,
but they come to this church each week
            to find joy, health, and healing.
 
And so our commitment to racial justice requires us
            to see beyond our immediate community,
to advocate for policies that promote fairness
            in education, opportunity, employment, and housing,
ensuring that our faith translates into real, transformative action.
 
But we do also need to look amongst ourselves as well,
            to rejoice in the ethnic diversity that God has given to us already,
and to be passionately committed to opposing all forms of racism
            whether within or beyond our community.
 
We must also equip ourselves through education
            —learning about the history and impact of racism
            and listening to the lived experiences of those affected.
 
In this way, through prayer, advocacy, and intentional engagement,
            we can work toward a church and society
            that truly reflects the love and justice of Christ.
 
Implementing Racial Justice in Baptist Churches
 
The call to racial justice therefore requires concrete actions.
 
The Baptist Union, working with the Racial Justice Advocacy Forum
            which was launched here at Bloomsbury a couple of years ago,
has commended some key actions
            for building racial justice in our congregations,
urging churches to implement policies
            that challenge racism and ensure inclusivity.
 
These recommendations include:
 

Establishing racial justice policies,
            ensuring that diversity and inclusion are prioritised
            in leadership and governance structures.
 
Providing training for ministers and church leaders on anti-racism,
            helping congregations to recognise and address unconscious biases.
 
Creating spaces for Black and minority ethnic voices
            to be heard and valued in our worship,
            decision-making, and community engagement.
 
Partnering with organisations that advocate for racial justice,
            both within and beyond the church,
amplifying the voices of those affected by racial discrimination.
 
Committing to reviewing our church policies regularly
            to ensure they align with principles of racial equity and justice.
 
These actions align with the biblical call to justice
            and reflect the heart of the gospel.
 
By implementing these recommendations,
            churches can move from passive reflection to active transformation,
demonstrating what it means to be a truly inclusive and just community of faith.
 
At this point I just want to mention the issue of intersectionality.
 
There is a reading of the story of the healing of the Centurion’s servant
            which suggests that their relationship, the Centurion and the servant,
            were more than just good friends.
 
Some have seen in this story
            a powerful biblical example of a same sex couple.
 
Whether this is the case or not,
            I think it raises for us the issue of how racism
            can intersect with gender identity, homophobia and transphobia.
 
In October last year, Bloomsbury hosted a day conference
            entitled ‘Unified in Love: Everybody. Every Story’
which sought to amplify Black and Brown LGBTQ affirming voices,
            support affirming leaders, and provide practical and theological support.
 
The keynote speaker was Professor Robert Beckford,
            a Black Theologian well-known from his TV documentary work.
 
Standing where I am now,
            he made a passionate plea to the mostly Black congregation,
suggesting that those who have experienced the evils of systemic racism
            can be those best placed to be at the forefront
            of opposing exclusions on the grounds of gender and sexuality.
 
There is a common misconception that LGBTQ affirmation
            and being a Black or Brown person don’t mix.
 
Some have even told me that Bloomsbury’s support for same sex marriage
            is a racism endeavour because it
            ‘excludes people from non-white backgrounds’.
 
I think this conference with Robert Beckford,
            held here just a few months ago, gives the lie to this.
 
Injustice is injustice, and working for justice in one area of identity
            does not preclude doing the same in other areas.
 
Rather, in the name of Christ, it should mandate it.
 
Conclusion: A Vision of the Kingdom
 
So here in Luke 7, we see a glimpse of God’s kingdom
            —a place where the dividing walls of hostility are broken down,
where faith is recognised in the least expected places,
            and where healing is extended beyond the boundaries we create.
 
But this is not just a future hope
            —it is a present reality that we are called to live into now.
 
Realised eschatology reminds us that the kingdom is both 'already' and 'not yet'
            —God’s justice is breaking into our world,
            and we are invited to be part of that transformation.
 
As a church, our partnerships with the Racial Justice Advocacy Forum,
            and with the organisation BLAM,
                        which stands for Black Learning Achievement and Mental Health,
            has been an expression of this kingdom reality.
 
We have spoken out against racial injustice,
            amplifying the voices of those affected and holding institutions accountable.
 
But there is so much more that we could do,
            more that we will do,
            more that we must do.
 
I hope we can embrace and embody the recommendations
            for Baptist churches to implement policies of racial justice,
ensuring that our communities reflect the inclusivity and justice of God’s kingdom.
 
May we continue this work,
            enacting a faith that does not wait passively for change
            but actively seeks to bring it about.
 
Let us be a church that lives the reality of the kingdom today,
            standing in solidarity with the oppressed, advocating for justice,
            and witnessing to the boundless love of God.
 

Keeping the Sabbath

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

2 February 2025

Luke 6.1-16

If I’m honest, arguments about Sabbath-keeping

            haven’t really been particularly significant

            in my personal understanding of Christian discipleship.

 

Growing up, Sunday always seemed less about rest and more about activity.

            At the age of 13, I took my first Sunday job,

                        starting with a morning paper round

                        and eventually moving on to working in the papershop itself.

 

            My Sundays began at 5 a.m.,

                        and I would rush straight from work

                        to church band practice before the morning service.

            Then there was afternoon Bible Study, the Evening Service,

                        and the after-church Evening Youth Group.

 

Sabbath rest?

            It wasn’t exactly top of my priorities.

 

Later, as a minister, ‘working’ on Sundays came with the territory,

            as it does for many professions:

                        healthcare workers, police officers,

                        farmers, and retail staff, just to name a few.

 

I suspect many of you can relate to the feeling that Sunday

            —rather than being a day of rest—

            is often one of the busiest days of the week.

 

For church members, Sundays are often filled with rotas,

            responsibilities, and commitments

            that leave little space for stopping and breathing.

 

I still remember the ‘Keep Sunday Special’ campaign of the late 1980s,

            when various Christian groups protested

            against proposals to allow shops to open on Sundays.

 

It was a heated debate, but most of the Christians I knew

            were quietly pleased they could finally pop to the supermarket

            on their way home from church.

 

It seemed practical considerations had triumphed over the call to rest.

 

However, I did encounter some Christians

            who took a more rigid approach to Sunday observance.

 

Friends in the Strict Baptist tradition would have no television, no work,

            and—intriguingly—no cooking on Sundays.

 

The wife, and yes, it was always the wife,

            would have to prepare the food by midnight on Saturday

            so it could simply be heated up on the Lord’s Day.

 

Their commitment was impressive,

            though I couldn’t help but wonder whether such strictness

            obscured the deeper intention of the Sabbath.

 

For most of us today,

            the idea of Sabbath has shifted dramatically from its roots.

 

The Jewish Sabbath, celebrated from Friday evening to Saturday evening,

            was a cornerstone of Jewish identity and faith.

 

Early Christians, many of whom were also Jewish,

            would observe the Sabbath on Saturday

            and then gather for worship on Sunday—the day of resurrection.

 

Over time, as Christianity moved from being a Jewish sect

            to a predominantly Gentile religion,

            the focus shifted entirely to Sunday.

 

By the time of Constantine in the fourth century,

            Sunday had become enshrined as both a day of worship and a day of rest.

 

But for the Pharisees of the first century,

            Sabbath keeping was a crucial marker of faithfulness to God

            in a world of Roman occupation and economic exploitation.

 

Their commitment to Sabbath was not about arbitrary rule-keeping;

            it was about resisting systems of oppression

            and affirming God’s sovereignty over human life.

 

But here’s the challenge:

            even the best traditions can lose their way.

 

When rules take precedence over compassion,

            or when rituals become rigid instead of life-giving,

the original intent of practices like Sabbath can be obscured.

 

This is the tension we see in today’s passage.

            Jesus doesn’t reject the Sabbath; he reclaims it.

 

He reminds his followers—and us—

            that God’s laws are always oriented toward flourishing, renewal, and life.

 

As we reflect on this text,

            I want us to consider what Sabbath might mean for us in 2025.

 

In a world that never seems to stop,

            where productivity is prized and rest feels indulgent,

            how can we reclaim the Sabbath as a gift of grace?

 

How might this ancient tradition speak into the rhythms of our lives,

            our church, and our city?

 

These are the questions I’d like us to explore together today.

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Sabbath as Resistance

You see, Sabbath was never just a rule;

            it was a profound act of resistance.

 

In the ancient world,

            where economies operated on relentless cycles of productivity,

the concept of Sabbath stood out

            as a defiant proclamation that human beings are not defined by their labour.

 

The command to rest on the seventh day

            wasn’t simply a spiritual discipline;

            it was an economic and social disruption.

 

It declared that the value of a person

            lies not in what they produce

            but in their inherent dignity as children of God.

 

The Sabbath commandment found in the Ten Commandments

            is grounded in two key stories: creation and liberation.

 

In Exodus 20, Sabbath is rooted in the rhythm of creation.

            Just as God rested on the seventh day,

                        so humanity is called to rest

                        and reflect on the goodness of God’s provision.

 

But in Deuteronomy 5, the emphasis shifts to liberation.

            The people of Israel are reminded that they were once slaves in Egypt,

                        where their worth was measured

                        solely by their ability to produce bricks for Pharaoh.

 

Sabbath, then, becomes a weekly reminder

            that they are no longer slaves.

 

It is a gift of freedom, a declaration that their lives belong to God,

            not to oppressive systems.

 

This liberating vision of Sabbath was deeply countercultural.

 

In a world where the wealthy landowners

            exploited their workers relentlessly,

insisting on a day of rest was an act of rebellion.

 

It disrupted the economic norms of the day,

            offering a foretaste of God’s kingdom where all people

                        —regardless of status—

            could experience rest and renewal.

 

And yet, as with all good things,

            the practice of Sabbath could be co-opted.

 

By the time of Jesus, the Pharisees

            —in their zeal to preserve this sacred tradition—

had developed detailed rules

            about what could and couldn’t be done on the Sabbath.

 

Their intentions were noble;

            they sought to protect a practice

            that had been integral to Jewish identity for centuries.

 

But over time, these rules became burdensome,

            especially for the poor and marginalized,

who found themselves hemmed in by regulations

            that prioritized form over substance.

 

Jesus’ actions in Luke 6 challenge this distortion.

 

By allowing his disciples to pluck grain

            and by healing a man with a withered hand,

he reclaims the Sabbath’s original intent.

 

His question, “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the Sabbath,

            to save life or to destroy it?”,

cuts to the heart of the matter.

 

The Sabbath is not about rigidly adhering to rules;

            it is about life—life in all its fullness.

 

In this way, Jesus reasserts the radical nature of Sabbath.

 

It is not a burden but a gift.

            It is not a restriction but a release.

It is not about exclusion but inclusion.

 

The Sabbath, as Jesus teaches it,

            is a space where the kingdom of God breaks through,

            bringing healing, restoration, and hope.

 

As we think about our own lives and context,

            we might ask: what would it mean to recover the Sabbath

            as an act of resistance today?

 

In a culture that glorifies busyness and equates rest with laziness,

            how might we embody a countercultural rhythm of rest and renewal?

 

And how can we ensure that our practices

            —both personal and communal—

            reflect the liberating, life-giving spirit of God’s kingdom?

 

These are not easy questions, but they are vital ones.

 

Today I want us to explore how Jesus’ vision of Sabbath

            challenges us to rethink our priorities, our traditions,

            and our understanding of what it means to live faithfully in a restless world.

 

Jesus: Lord of the Sabbath

When Jesus declares that he is “Lord of the Sabbath,”

            he is making an audacious claim

            —one that would have reverberated through his Jewish context.

 

To call himself Lord of the Sabbath is to claim authority

            over one of the most sacred institutions of Jewish life.

 

It is a statement not only about the Sabbath

            but also about who Jesus is.

 

He is positioning himself as the one

            through whom God’s purposes for the Sabbath are fulfilled.

 

At its heart, this declaration challenges us to reconsider

            how we view Jesus’ relationship with the law.

 

Jesus does not abolish the law; he fulfills it.

            He embodies its deepest intentions.

 

The Sabbath was always meant

            to point toward the restorative power of God

            —and in Jesus, that restoration comes to life.

 

The healings he performs on the Sabbath

            are not violations of the law;

they are manifestations of what the law was always meant to achieve:

            wholeness, healing, and flourishing.

 

In Luke 6, the healing of the man with the withered hand

            is a powerful example of this.

 

Jesus does not wait for another day to act.

            He sees the man’s need and responds immediately,

            restoring him to health.

 

This act is a living parable of the kingdom of God

            breaking into the present moment.

 

It reminds us that God’s priorities

            are not bound by human regulations or timetables.

Compassion and restoration take precedence over ritual.

 

By claiming lordship over the Sabbath,

            Jesus also redefines authority.

 

The Pharisees saw their role as guardians of the tradition,

            but Jesus challenges them to see that true authority

            comes from aligning with God’s purposes.

 

This alignment is not about rigid adherence to rules

            but about embodying the spirit of the law.

 

The Sabbath, as Jesus reveals, is not an end in itself;

            it is a means of encountering God’s grace.

 

For us today, this raises important questions.

 

How often do we allow traditions, however well-meaning,

            to become barriers to grace?

 

Do we, like the Pharisees, sometimes prioritise rules over relationships,

            or form over substance?

 

Jesus’ example calls us to constantly re-evaluate our practices,

            ensuring that they reflect God’s life-giving intentions.

 

Moreover, Jesus’ lordship over the Sabbath

            invites us into a deeper trust in God.

 

Sabbath is ultimately an act of faith.

 

It is a recognition that we are not defined by what we produce,

            and that the world will not fall apart if we stop and rest.

 

In a culture that often equates busyness with importance,

            embracing the Sabbath is a countercultural declaration

            of trust in God’s provision.

 

As we reflect on Jesus’ lordship over the Sabbath,

            let us remember that this is not just about

            what we do or don’t do on one day of the week.

 

It is about how we live every day.

            It is about aligning our lives with the rhythm of God’s grace,

                        seeking restoration for ourselves and others,

            and trusting in the sufficiency of God’s love.

 

In doing so, we honour the true spirit of the Sabbath

            and proclaim Jesus as Lord not only of the Sabbath but of our entire lives.

 

Reclaiming Our Rhythms

This idea of reclaiming Sabbath rhythms for our lives today may feel abstract,

            but it is profoundly practical.

 

In our fast-paced world,

            where productivity often takes precedence over well-being,

the concept of Sabbath challenges us to stop,

            to breathe, and to trust in God’s provision.

 

Reclaiming the rhythms of Sabbath means creating intentional spaces

            for rest, reflection, and renewal

            —not as an afterthought, but as an essential part of our discipleship.

 

For some, this might involve rethinking how we structure our time.

 

In a culture that rewards busyness and multitasking,

            we need to rediscover the sacredness of rest.

 

What would it look like to carve out moments in our week

            where we step away from work, social media, and endless to-do lists?

 

These pauses are not about escaping reality;

            they are about grounding ourselves in the presence of God,

            who invites us to be still and know that he is God.

 

But reclaiming Sabbath is not just about individual rest.

            It is also about communal rhythms.

 

As a church, how can we create spaces

            that reflect the restorative heart of the Sabbath?

 

This might mean reimagining how we gather for worship,

            ensuring that our services are not just another activity on a packed schedule

            but a genuine encounter with God’s grace.

 

It might also mean prioritising ministries

            that offer respite to those who are weary

—whether through hospitality, pastoral care,

            or advocacy for fair working conditions in our wider society.

 

At Bloomsbury, we are already taking steps in this direction.

 

Our "Breathing Space" gatherings, for example,

            are an opportunity to step away from the noise and busyness of life

            and enter into God’s rhythm of grace.

 

These times of intentional reflection remind us

            that deepening our spirituality is not about adding more to our plates

            but about creating room for God to move in and through us.

 

Reclaiming Sabbath rhythms

            also means challenging the systems that rob others of rest.

 

How can we, as a church, advocate for those

            whose lives are dominated by relentless work, exploitation, or anxiety?

 

The call to keep Sabbath is a call to seek justice

            —ensuring that everyone, not just the privileged,

            can experience the rest and renewal that God intends.

 

Ultimately, reclaiming our rhythms

            is about aligning our lives with God’s vision for the world.

 

It is about saying no to the relentless demands

            of a culture that equates worth with productivity

and yes to the abundant life that Jesus offers.

 

It is a radical act of trust in the God who provides, sustains, and renews.

 

And it is an invitation to participate in the in-breaking kingdom of God,

            where rest, restoration, and renewal are not luxuries

            but essential characteristics of life as it was meant to be.

 

The challenge of Sabbath today

            is not about adding another rule to follow

            or another item to check off our to-do list.

 

It is about reorienting our lives around God’s grace.

            It is about trusting that the world will not fall apart if we stop.

 

It is about creating space for God to work in us and through us,

            so that we can be renewed and restored for the work of God’s kingdom.

 

The Sabbath is not just a day;

            it is a posture of the heart.

 

It is a reminder that we are not slaves to the systems of this world

            but children of a God who loves us, sustains us, and calls us to rest.

 

May we rise to this challenge, embracing the gift of Sabbath

            and living into the abundant life that Jesus offers.

Amen.