Sowing the Seeds of the New Creation

A Sermon for Christ Church, New Southgate & Friern Barnet Baptist Church

6 July 2025

 

Galatians 6:1–16 

There’s a quiet revolution going on in our passage for today

            from Paul’s letter to the Galatians,
and it’s a revolution that echoes down to our world today,
            because it’s a revolution that resists the loud, combative powers
            of religion and politics alike,
inviting instead a Spirit-shaped life of gentleness, generosity, and grace.

We live in a world that thrives on division.
            Just open your preferred news-app, or scroll social media,
or listen to debates about immigration, gender,
            the environment, or education.

There is so much polarisation, so many lines drawn between “us” and “them.”
            Even within the church, we find ourselves fractured
            —by doctrine, by tradition, by fear of what is changing around us.

It’s from just such a divided world that Paul’s words come to us today,
            not as a clanging gong, but as a gentle summons:

“Bear one another’s burdens…
            and in this way you will fulfil the law of Christ.”

And I find myself wondering,
            what would it look like if we took that seriously?

If we truly believed that the life of faith
            is not about defending boundaries or proving we’re right,
but about sowing to the Spirit—
            about being people of compassion, of humility, of new creation?

Paul opens this passage with a pastoral instruction that is disarmingly gentle:

“If anyone is detected in a transgression,
            you who have received the Spirit
            should restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness.”

It’s a striking departure from the angry tone
            Paul has used elsewhere in the letter.

He has been battling fiercely against those
            who were insisting that Gentile believers
            had to be circumcised to be truly Christian.

But now, as he turns toward his conclusion, his tone softens.
            He stops shouting and starts shepherding.

And the word he uses—restore—
            is the same one used for mending fishing nets.

This isn’t about punishment or exclusion; it’s about healing.

When someone messes up,
            our call is not to cut them off or shame them, but to mend the net.

To gently help them find their way back into community, into wholeness.

This is a hard word in a cancel culture, where failure is often final.
            Our world says, “Expose them. Shame them. Cut them out.”
            But the Spirit says, “Restore them.”

This also means we have to recognise our own vulnerability.

Paul continues, “Take care that you yourselves are not tempted.”
            We’re all fragile. We all fall.

And so we approach one another not from a place of superiority,
            but solidarity.

Church, if we can’t be a community of restoration, who will be?

Paul continues:

            “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfil the law of Christ.”

This is the heart of the passage.

In a world obsessed with individualism, Paul calls us into a radical mutuality.
            Not just, “Look after yourself,” but “Carry each other.”

The burdens are many.
            For some, it’s the weight of mental illness or depression.

For others, it’s the daily anxiety of poverty or food insecurity.
            Still others carry grief, illness, loneliness, or the exhaustion of caregiving.

The person in the pew next to you may be carrying more than you know.

And Paul doesn’t say, “Fix each other’s burdens.”
            He says “bear them.”

Walk alongside. Be present.
            Offer prayer. Offer time. Offer listening ears.

Sometimes just staying near
            is the most Spirit-filled act we can perform.

But then he adds something curious:
            “For each of you have to carry your own load.” (v.5)

At first glance this contradicts what he just said.
            But the Greek words are different.
The “burdens” we are to bear together
            are heavy, crushing weights.
The “load” each is to carry is more like a backpack
            —a personal responsibility.

In other words, we don’t offload our responsibilities onto others,
            but neither do we let others struggle alone
            with what no one should carry by themselves.

In our culture of burnout and busyness,
            this is a revolutionary vision of church
—not as a place we go to consume spiritual goods,
            but as a community we belong to, where we all give and receive.

Paul then shifts his metaphor from burden-bearing to sowing:

“You reap whatever you sow. If you sow to your own flesh, you will reap corruption from the flesh; but if you sow to the Spirit, you will reap eternal life from the Spirit.”

Sowing is slow work. It’s not flashy.
            It doesn’t get you viral fame or immediate returns.
But over time, it transforms the landscape.

And sowing to the Spirit means investing our lives
            in ways that align with God’s kingdom:
            generosity, compassion, justice, patience, peacemaking.

In contrast, sowing to the flesh
            —what we might today call ego, status, or self-preservation—
            leads to the withering of our humanity.

Paul is echoing here something Jesus said often:
            that the path to life comes through giving ourselves away.

Paul acknowledges this is tiring work.
            “Let us not grow weary in doing what is right”, he says.

Because the harvest doesn’t always come when we want it.
            Sometimes we sow seeds of kindness or justice and see no fruit.
            Sometimes we wonder if our efforts matter.

But Paul insists they do. He says we should keep sowing. Keep praying.
            Keep showing up. The Spirit is at work.

There’s something powerful, even subversive,

            about Paul’s metaphor of sowing and reaping
            in our current ecological moment.

In an age of climate breakdown, unsustainable consumption,
            and economic exploitation, his words land with renewed force.

“You reap whatever you sow.”

We know this to be true.
            We’re seeing, globally, the harvest of generations of sowing to the flesh
            —of living as though the earth were disposable,
                        as though people were commodities,
            as though we ourselves were gods.

Rising seas, choking forests, displaced communities.
            The world groans, as Paul says elsewhere,
            under the weight of our choices.

But the good news is:
            it’s not too late to sow differently.

Sowing to the Spirit means reimagining
            how we live in the world God has made.

It means aligning our lives with God’s justice.
            Not just personally, but collectively.

It means asking: how do our choices affect others?
            What does it look like to bear the burden of ecological repentance?
            Of climate responsibility?

Sowing to the Spirit might look like divesting from fossil fuels,
            campaigning for food justice,
                        supporting local community gardens,
            or simply learning to live with less so that others can have enough.

It might mean walking alongside those
            whose burdens are increased by the injustices of our systems:
            the poor, the marginalised, the displaced.

Paul’s metaphor is hopeful.
            A seed is small. It takes time. But it carries life.

If we sow generously, intentionally, prayerfully—even in the smallest acts—
            the Spirit brings the growth.

A more just, more sustainable, more compassionate world begins to emerge.

Paul now picks up his pen and writes in his own hand

            —emphasising the final point.

The troublemakers in Galatia
            want the Gentile believers to get circumcised,
not because it’s spiritually helpful,
            but because it makes them look good in front of others.

They want to avoid persecution
            from the more conservative elements of the Jewish community.

But Paul isn’t having it. He says:

            “I will boast only about the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ” (v.14)

Why? Because for Paul, the cross is the great leveller.
            It’s where all our boasting dies
            —whether in religion, nationality, gender, or success.

And then he writes the sentence that sums up his whole theology:

            “It does not matter at all whether or not one is circumcised;
            what does matter is being a new creature.” (v.15)

This is what matters.
            Not whether we wear the right labels.
            Not whether we look religious.

But whether we are part of God's new creation.
            Whether we are letting the Spirit remake us.

This “new creation” is not something that will arrive at the end of history.
            It’s already breaking in—here, now,
            in people and communities where the Spirit is bearing fruit.

Where burdens are shared, the fallen restored,
            the poor remembered, the marginalised embraced.

These are the signs of the new creation,
            the inbreaking kingdom of God.

Paul’s declaration that what matters most is being a new creature,

            is not just a spiritual affirmation.
            It is a radical redefinition of belonging.

In Christ, the old categories that once marked people in or out
            —circumcision or uncircumcision, Jew or Gentile,
                        male or female, slave or free—
            are no longer the measure of inclusion.

What matters is not ethnicity, religious pedigree,
            social status, or conformity to cultural norms,
but whether we are being made new in the Spirit.

This is profoundly disruptive.

It unsettles any community—ancient or modern—
            that seeks security by drawing boundaries.

Because Paul is not interested
            in the maintenance of religious identity for its own sake.

He’s interested in how the gospel
            breaks down walls and builds something new.

And that’s as challenging now as it was then.

We, too, live in a world of labels.
            Conservative, liberal. Cis, trans.
                        Citizen, refugee. Black, white, British, other.

Labels that help us organise society
            —but also divide us, categorise us, judge us, and exclude.

But in Christ, Paul insists, there is a new logic at work.
            The church is to be the place where these labels are relativised,
                        where no one is dismissed or elevated based on their category,
            where each person is received as a bearer of the Spirit,
                        a participant in the new creation.

This doesn’t mean pretending differences don’t exist.
            It means they no longer determine value or belonging.

It means being a community where everyone
            —regardless of background, status, gender, sexuality, or history—
            is seen as a beloved child of God.

To be the church in this way is not easy.
            It asks us to surrender control, to widen our circle,
            to trust the Spirit’s work in others.

But it is exactly here, in this kind of inclusive community,
            that the cross takes root and the new creation becomes visible.

So what does this mean for us—here, now, at Christ Church?

Paul’s words call us to ask: What kind of seeds are we sowing?

• Are we sowing seeds of inclusion, or exclusion?
• Are we sowing grace, or judgement?
• Are we sowing community, or competition?
• Are we sowing gentleness, or aggression?

We are in a moment of great opportunity.
            The world around us is asking big questions
            about truth, identity, justice, and community.

People are hungry for places of authenticity and grace.
            And here, in this church, you have something beautiful to offer.

What if we became a place where burdens are gently shared,
            not silently carried alone?

What if we became a place where people who have failed or fallen
            find restoration, not rejection?

What if we became a people so deeply rooted in the Spirit
            that the fruits of love, joy, peace, patience,
                        kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control
            just kept growing among us?

That’s what it means to be a new creation.
            Not perfect, but Spirit-shaped.
            Not flashy, but faithful.

And yes, this kind of community will cost us something.
            It may mean carrying someone else’s grief when we’re already tired.
            It may mean stepping into uncomfortable conversations.
            It may mean giving generously when resources are thin.

But Paul reminds us:
            “let us not become tired of doing good;
            for if we do not give up, the time will come when we will reap the harvest

Which brings us to the Table.

Here, in bread and wine,
            we encounter the One who bore our burdens.

The One who sowed his life into the soil of our broken world.
            The One who, through the cross, has brought about a new creation.

Here we see the shape of the gospel
            —not in outward appearances, but in brokenness and blessing shared.

Communion is not a reward for the righteous.
            It is sustenance for the journey.
            It is food for the weary, grace for the burdened, hope for the discouraged.

So as we come to this table today, let us come:

• Not boasting in ourselves, but in Christ crucified.
• Not as individuals, but as a community—gathered in grace.
• Not to escape the world, but to be renewed for our calling in the world.

Here we are reminded: We are one body.
            We belong to each other. We are being made new.

Let us sow to the Spirit.
            Let us bear one another’s burdens.
            Let us live as signs of the new creation.

In the name of the Christ who gathers us,
            restores us, and sends us.
Amen.

The Scroll and the Fire

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

29 June 2025

 

Jeremiah 36.1–8, 21–23, 27–31
John 5:31–38
 
We begin today a new series exploring the words of the prophet Jeremiah,
            and we do so not because Jeremiah makes for comfortable reading,
but because in an age like ours,
            we need prophets who speak difficult truths.
 
The lectionary leads us today not to Jeremiah’s call or visions of judgement,
            but instead to a lesser-known episode
—a dramatic and disturbing tale
            of political power trying to silence a prophetic word.
 
It is, in many ways, a story as old as time:
            the uncomfortable word is spoken, the powerful are threatened,
            and someone tries to burn it all down.
 
But, as we shall see,
            the word of God is not so easily destroyed.
 
Let’s begin with the story.
 
Jeremiah is, by this point in his life,
            effectively banned from entering the temple precincts.
 
His message has become too much.
 
The powers that be have silenced him—at least in person.
            But it turns out that the word of God
            doesn’t require a pulpit to be preached.
 
And so Jeremiah turns to Baruch, his scribe and co-labourer,
            and dictates the whole of his prophetic message
            —years of proclamations, warnings, visions, and pleas—
                        onto a single scroll.
 
It is painstaking work. It is dangerous work.
            And it is deeply hopeful work.
 
“Perhaps,” says Jeremiah, “when the people hear of all the disasters
            that the Lord intends to bring upon them…
            perhaps then, they will all turn from their evil ways.” (v.3)
 
And we hear in this not the glee of a prophet enjoying judgment,
            but the plea of one who longs for repentance, for change, for mercy.
 
And so, in a dramatic moment of holy subversion,
            Baruch takes the scroll and goes to the temple to read it aloud.
 
It’s worth pausing here to name the risk:
            this is a scribe and a prophet, confronting the king and the court
            not with swords, but with words.
 
It is an act of hope, but also of defiance.
 
Eventually, word of this subversive public reading reaches King Jehoiakim.
            The scroll is retrieved, and brought into the king’s presence.
 
He’s sitting in his winter palace
            —warm, comfortable, and secure.
 
And thus the scene is set: the king reclines before a brazier,
            a fire gently crackling, as Jehudi begins to read.
 
But then the horror begins.
 
As the scroll is read, the king takes a penknife and slices off the columns
            —three or four at a time—and throws them into the fire.
 
This is no mere distraction.
            This is not a bored monarch playing with parchment.
 
This is a calculated rejection. This is theological violence.
 
What we witness here is the wilful destruction of a prophetic word.
            Jehoiakim does not argue with the scroll, nor debate it.
            He just burns it.
 
This is the ancient world’s version of censorship,
            of banning books, of silencing dissent.
 
It’s not just an act of political convenience;
            it is a spiritual rejection of the voice of God.
 
But here’s where the story refuses to end.
            Jehoiakim may burn the scroll, but he cannot silence the word.
 
God tells Jeremiah: write it again.
            Take another scroll. Dictate every word once more.
 
And add to it a new word of judgment
            against the king who dared to destroy the first one.
 
So what does this tell us?
 
Maybe we hear that the word of God is not fragile.
            It may be ignored, resisted, even burned—but it is never destroyed.
 
This is a theme that resonates throughout scripture:
The bush that burns but is not consumed.
The Word made flesh, crucified but raised.
The Spirit that speaks through silenced mouths.
 
And so, here in Jeremiah, the prophetic word is rewritten.
            The hope of repentance remains.
The judgment deepens. And the call continues.
 
Which brings us to our second reading, from John’s Gospel.
 
Here we find Jesus in dialogue with his critics
            —those who question his authority, his message, and his identity.
 
And once again, we see a pattern emerge:
            the word of God is spoken, and yet it is not believed.
 
Jesus speaks of testimony
            —the testimony of John the Baptist,
                        of the works he performs,
                        and of God the Father.
 
“You search the scriptures,” he says later in this chapter,
            “because you think that in them you have eternal life;
                        and it is they that testify on my behalf.
            Yet you refuse to come to me to have life.” (John 5:39–40)
 
These are haunting words.
            The people who know the scriptures best
            do not recognise the Word made flesh when he stands before them.
 
Like Jehoiakim, they hear but do not listen.
            Like the king, they would rather silence the Word than let it confront them.
 
When Jesus speaks of testimony in John 5,
            he is not simply listing credentials.
 
He is inviting his hearers to see the divine continuity
            between the prophets of old
            and his own witness in the present.
 
There is to be heard in Jesus’ words,
            a profound resonance with Jeremiah’s experience.
 
The people of his time, too, have heard the voice of God in their midst
            —but they do not receive it. They do not recognise it.
 
And so we see a troubling pattern:
Jeremiah's scroll is burned.
Jesus’ body, the living Word, will be crucified.
Later, the early church’s message will be driven underground,
scattered by persecution.
 
But again and again, the word re-emerges
            —resurrected, unquenchable, alive.
 
In John’s Gospel, Jesus describes his own works
            as signs of divine testimony.
 
Just as Baruch’s scroll carried Jeremiah’s oracles,
            so Christ’s actions and presence carry the very words and will of God.
 
But to recognise this—to truly hear it—
            requires something more than external validation.
 
As Jesus says, “his word does not abide in you,
            because you do not believe him whom he has sent.” (John 5:38)
 
This is not merely a failure of intellect,
            but a failure of imagination, of faith, of willingness.
 
The issue is not that the evidence is lacking
            —it’s that the heart is resistant.
 
Here is the deep spiritual challenge for us today:
            Are we open to hearing the Word
            when it comes to us from unexpected places?
 
Are we prepared to receive the testimony of Christ
            when it disturbs our comfort?
 
Jeremiah’s scroll, Jesus’ ministry,
            and the prophetic voice in our own generation
all carry the same invitation: not just to hear, but to turn
            —to repent, to change, to live differently.
 
So let’s return now to the fire in Jehoiakim’s chamber.
 
There are two kinds of fire in this story.
 
One is the fire of destruction
            —the fire of censorship, of silencing, of domination.
This is the fire in the king’s brazier.
 
But there is another fire, a different fire.
            The fire of God. The fire of prophecy.
            The fire of Pentecost.
 
Jeremiah speaks elsewhere of this fire:
            “Is not my word like fire, says the Lord,
            and like a hammer that breaks a rock in pieces?” (Jer. 23:29)
 
The fire of God’s word does not consume
            —it purifies. It refines. It ignites.
 
At Pentecost, it does not destroy the disciples
            —it empowers them.
 
And at Bloomsbury, this is the fire we seek
            —not the fire that burns scrolls, but the fire that burns in our hearts.
            The fire that warms, illuminates, and inspires.
 
There is something deeply significant
            about the physicality of the scroll in Jeremiah’s story.
It is not just symbolic—it’s tactile.
            It can be held. It can be cut. It can be burned.
 
But the Word of God is never confined to ink and parchment.
 
We who are heirs to the Reformation
            have sometimes reduced scripture to a static text
            —to be analysed, explained, and controlled.
 
And yet Jeremiah’s story reminds us
            that the word is not a dead letter. It is a living voice.
 
When King Jehoiakim burned the scroll,
            he thought he was silencing the message.
 
But God’s word had already taken root
            —in Baruch, in Jeremiah, in the hearers at the temple gate.
 
The scroll was not the Word
            —it was merely its vehicle.
 
We need this reminder today.
            Because the Bible can become a weapon when treated as lifeless text.
                        It can be misquoted to justify injustice.
                        It can be marshalled to oppress.
 
But when we treat scripture as living, breathing Word
            —always moving, always speaking,
                        always calling us deeper into love, justice, and mercy—
            we find ourselves drawn into transformation.
 
This is why Jesus can say in John’s Gospel
            that his critics “search the scriptures” but still miss the life it offers.
They knew the text, but not the voice.
 
And so the question returns to us:
Are we treating the Bible as a static artefact
            or as a living conversation with God?
Are we open to the Spirit’s fresh breath moving through the familiar words?
Do we encounter the fire of the Word as it kindles new life in us,
            or do we reach for the penknife?
 
If Jehoiakim saw the scroll only as a threat to his power,
            we are invited to see it as an invitation
                        to a deeper, more radical discipleship
            —a call to repentance, yes, but also to justice, peace, and hope.
 
And so this story asks hard questions of us.
 
Because we are not just Jeremiah or Baruch.
            Sometimes, we are Jehoiakim too.
 
We all have our penknives.
            We all have moments when the word of God comes too close,
                        too uncomfortably,
            and we are tempted to slice it away.
 
And in our world, prophetic voices are still being silenced:
Voices calling for racial justice are dismissed as divisive.
Calls for climate action are framed as extremist.
Pleas for Palestinian dignity are labelled dangerous or antisemitic.
The witness of LGBTQ+ Christians is often burned before it is ever heard.
 
Jehoiakim lives on wherever power fears truth.
            Wherever the prophetic word is deemed too threatening to tolerate.
 
But Baruch also lives on
            —wherever courageous scribes, preachers, and communities
            speak the truth again, and again, and again,
                        even when it is rejected.
 
So how, then, do we become people who listen rightly?
            Who welcome the word of God even when it arrives
                        uninvited, uncomfortable, or disruptive?
 
First, we must cultivate what the spiritual tradition calls holy listening.
 
Holy listening is not passive;
            it is active attentiveness to the voices that challenge us.
It is choosing to remain open to a word
            that we did not write, and may not like.
 
At Bloomsbury, we already know the importance of this:
In our commitment to interfaith conversation,
            we practise listening to the divine word
            spoken in the lives and experiences of others.
In our community organising, we listen for the cries of the poor,
            the marginalised, and the excluded.
In our inclusive theology,
            we have listened to those the church has too often silenced.
 
All of this is prophetic. All of this is faithful.
 
To listen well is to allow the Spirit to speak in unexpected ways,
            through unexpected voices.
 
Baruch was not a prophet—he was a scribe.
            And yet his reading of the scroll
            became a proclamation of divine judgment and hope.
 
Likewise, the voices we are tempted to overlook
            —those without official titles, credentials, or authority—
            may yet speak with the fire of God.
 
And so we must keep our ears open and our penknives sheathed.
            We must resist the temptation to excise, edit, or explain away
            the parts of scripture—or of testimony—that unsettle us.
 
Because it is in those very moments
            that the Spirit may be speaking most clearly.
 
So what kind of community are we called to be?
 
Here at Bloomsbury, we are not called to be a comfortable court
            gathered round a fire, editing the gospel for our own peace of mind.
 
We are called to be scribes of justice.
            Voices of compassion. Prophets of inconvenient truth.
 
We are called to take the scrolls others burn and write them again.
            To speak the truth that was silenced.
            To read aloud the words that power tried to hide.
 
We are called to let the word of God abide in us
            —not just in our minds, but in our actions, our politics, our relationships.
 
And we are called to let that word take flesh in us,
            as it did in Christ.
 
In a world of political spin and theological censorship,
            the story of Jeremiah 36 reminds us
            that the word of God is not so easily extinguished.
 
It may be torn up, cut down, thrown into fire
            —but it rises again, rewritten, re-spoken, re-lived.
 
The question for us is this:
 
Will we be the ones who feed the flames of censorship?
            Or will we be the ones who carry the fire of truth?
 
Will we slice away the parts of scripture that challenge us?
            Or will we let the whole word abide in us, even when it burns?
 
The scroll may burn, but the word of God endures.
            The prophet may be silenced, but the voice of God returns.
 
The Word became flesh—and the light shines in the darkness,
            and the darkness did not overcome it.
 
May that Word abide in us.
 
May we speak it, live it, and never be afraid to write it again.
 
Amen.

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.