The Scroll and the Fire

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

29 June 2025

 

Jeremiah 3611–8, 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.

Breathing the Spirit: Becoming the People of God

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Pentecost Sunday 8 June 2025

 

Acts 2.1-4
Galatians 4.1–7; 5.16–26

Introduction: A Spirit That Breathes
Let us pause for a moment and notice our breath.
 
In… and out.
 
In the quiet rhythm of breathing, we are reminded that life itself is a gift.
            Breath is not something we force; it is something we receive.
 
And it is no coincidence that both the Hebrew and Greek words for Spirit
            — ruach and pneuma — also mean breath, or wind.
 
On this Pentecost Sunday,
            we recall how the Spirit came like a rushing wind,
            like fire resting on each one, filling the room, filling the people.
 
But before the noise and the proclamation, there was the gathering.
            The waiting. The stillness. The breath.
 
At Bloomsbury, we are blessed with a group called Breathing Space
            — a space where people come together to reflect on Scripture,
            to pray, to meditate, to listen, to speak, and to be silent.
 
It is a space for the Spirit. A space for becoming.
            A space where we breathe deeply of the life God gives.
 
Today, as we read again the familiar Pentecost story,
            and as we reflect on Paul’s words to the Galatians
                        about what it means to live by the Spirit,
            we will do so with this invitation:
                        to give space for God’s breath to move in us.
 
Not only in tongues of fire,
            but in gentle stirrings of the soul.
 
Pentecost is not just about what happened back then.
            It is about what is happening now
            — as we open ourselves to the breath of God.
 
Pentecost as Disruption and Gift
Acts 2:1–4
The book of Acts tells us that “When the day of Pentecost had come,
            they were all together in one place.”
 
This simple sentence carries a world of meaning.
            They were gathered, they were waiting, perhaps they were uncertain.
 
Jesus had promised the Spirit,
            but what exactly were they expecting?
 
A quiet inner sense of peace?
            A gentle affirmation of faith?
 
What they got was wind. And fire. And noise.
            What they got was disruption.
 
A sound like the rush of a violent wind filled the house.
            Flames appeared and rested on each person.
 
Suddenly they found themselves speaking strange languages.
 
This was not a tame spiritual experience.
            This was not a private religious feeling.
            This was a public, visible, communal upheaval.
 
And yet, this disruption was also gift.
 
It is easy to forget that Pentecost was already a Jewish festival
            — the Feast of Weeks —
                        a time of thanksgiving for the wheat harvest,
            and also a celebration of the giving of the Law at Sinai.
 
At Sinai, God’s presence descended in fire and smoke,
            and a covenant was formed.
 
Now, at Pentecost, God’s Spirit descends again
            — not on a mountain but on people —
and a new kind of covenant community begins to form,
            not written on tablets of stone,
            but on hearts open to the Spirit’s movement.
 
The disruption is the gift.
            The Spirit shakes things up, not to cause chaos, but to bring life.
 
Wind and fire are dangerous, but they are also creative.
            They clear out what is dead and ignite what is new.
 
In the birth of the church,
            we see that the Spirit of God is not simply about comfort,
            but about transformation.
 
And notice this: everyone is included.
            The fire rests on each of them.
 
The Spirit does not come to the leaders only,
            or the most eloquent, or the most faithful
            — but to all who are present, regardless of status or ability.
 
The miracle of Pentecost is not just that people speak,
            but that others understand.
 
It is a miracle of communication,
            of deep connection across difference.
 
Where Babel confused language and scattered people,
            Pentecost draws people together
            through understanding and mutual recognition.
 
And isn’t that exactly the kind of miracle we need today?
 
In a world where division seems to grow stronger by the day
            — between nations, faiths, identities, and ideologies —
the Pentecost Spirit still speaks, still breaks through,
            still draws us into communities of difference held together by divine breath.
 
Here at Bloomsbury, we are already a kind of Pentecost community
            — multilingual, multivoiced, multicultural,
            holding together differences not by force but by Spirit.
 
We are a church where people are invited to speak in their own voice,
            to listen in their own language, and to be truly heard.
 
And our Breathing Space group reminds us
            that the Spirit does not always arrive with noise.
 
Sometimes the miracle is in the stillness,
            the quiet conversation, the shared silence.
 
The same Spirit that rushes like wind
            also breathes gently in stillness.
 
Both are real. Both are holy.
 
Pentecost is disruption. And Pentecost is gift.
 
From Enslavement to Adoption
Galatians 4:1–7
If Acts tells the story of the Spirit’s arrival,
            Galatians tells us what it means to live in the Spirit’s presence.
 
In this short but powerful passage,
            Paul offers a vision of radical transformation.
 
He speaks of a movement — a liberation —
            from enslavement to adoption.
 
From being controlled by external rules and systems
            to living in intimate, Spirit-led relationship with God.
 
Paul’s language of slavery may feel distant or uncomfortable,
            but his point is deeply pastoral.
 
He is saying that a life lived according to religious obligation
            — trying to earn acceptance, or prove worth —
            is not the life God wants for us.
 
In Christ, through the Spirit,
            we are no longer servants obeying a distant master.
We are dearly loved children,
            welcomed into the household of God, co-heirs with Christ.
 
And this is no cold legal transaction.
 
Paul says, “God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts,
            crying, ‘Abba! Father!’”
 
That word Abba — not a theological title, but an intimate cry —
            speaks of closeness, of trust, of safety.
 
The Spirit doesn’t teach us to recite doctrine.
            The Spirit teaches us to cry.
 
To cry out in longing. To cry out in love.
            To cry out in recognition that we belong.
 
This is the spiritual freedom Paul describes
            — not autonomy, but relationship.
            Not licence, but belonging.
 
The Spirit invites us into the kind of freedom
            that only comes from knowing we are loved,
            held, and welcomed just as we are.
 
And this is precisely what Breathing Space helps us discover.
            In prayer, in reflection, in deep listening,
                        we learn to let go of striving and performing,
                        and to simply be.
 
To notice the presence of God already within us.
            To listen for the whisper of the Spirit,
            not as command, but as invitation.
 
When we take time to be still,
            to reflect on Scripture not as a set of rules but as a living word,
            we begin to experience what Paul means.
 
We are not spiritual orphans.
            We are not religious slaves.
 
We are children of God, breathing God’s breath,
            alive in the Spirit.
 
And if this is true — if we are God’s children —
            then it changes everything.
 
Our spirituality becomes not an obligation, but a gift.
            Our lives become not performances, but responses.
Our worship becomes not duty, but delight.
 
We are no longer slaves. We are children.
 
Living by the Spirit: Fruit, Not Force
Galatians 5:16–26
Paul’s famous list of the “fruit of the Spirit”
            is often read as a moral checklist
— a series of virtues we ought to cultivate in our lives:
            love, joy, peace, patience,
                        kindness, generosity, faithfulness,
            gentleness, and self-control.
 
And yes, these are beautiful qualities.
            But we misunderstand Paul if we think he’s just telling us to try harder.
 
This is not a to-do list.
            It’s not even a guide for spiritual self-improvement.
 
Paul is speaking of what grows naturally
            when the Spirit is given room to breathe within us.
 
Fruit is not forced. It is grown.
            You cannot make a tree bear fruit by shouting at it
            or tying fruit to its branches.
 
Fruit grows when the conditions are right
            — when the roots are deep, when the soil is healthy,
            when the tree is alive and nourished.
 
So too with the fruit of the Spirit.
 
These qualities emerge not by religious effort,
            but by spiritual openness.
 
They grow when we learn to live by the breath of God
            — when we allow ourselves to be rooted in love,
            when we open up space for God’s presence in our inner lives.
 
And this brings us again to Breathing Space
            — our community of spiritual attentiveness here at Bloomsbury.
 
The practices of prayer, meditation, and scripture reflection
            that we share are not burdens to carry;
            they are the soil in which fruit can grow.
 
They are ways of creating space, of paying attention,
            of making room for God’s breath to move in us.
 
Paul contrasts the fruit of the Spirit
            with what he calls “the works of the flesh.”
 
And again, this isn’t about policing individual behaviour
            — it’s about two different orientations of life.
 
One rooted in ego, control, and self-gratification.
            The other rooted in love, freedom, and connection.
 
Living by the Spirit does not mean we suddenly become perfect.
            It means we walk a path — day by day — of choosing life over death,
                        grace over fear, community over isolation.
 
It means letting the Spirit shape our desires,
            not suppress them.
 
It means allowing God’s life to blossom in us,
            often slowly, often imperceptibly.
 
And crucially, the fruit of the Spirit is communal.
            Paul doesn’t say, “you individually will produce these fruits,”
            but rather, “this is what the Spirit produces in a community.”
 
The fruit is not just for personal holiness,
            but for shared life.
 
A community marked by love, joy, peace — imagine that.
            A church that breathes those qualities into the world.
 
This is the vision of Pentecost:
            not just individuals ablaze with the Spirit,
            but a people living differently, loving differently, choosing to grow together.
 
And this is what we are seeking at Bloomsbury.
            Through worship, through organising,
                        through hospitality and activism and study and care,
            we are learning what it means to live by the Spirit.
 
Not to force fruit,
            but to make space for it.
 
The question for each of us is not, “how can I try harder to be joyful or kind?”
            but rather, “how can I give the Spirit more space to breathe in me?”
 
The fruit will come.
            Slowly. Gently. Inevitably.
Not as a reward for effort,
            but as the natural result of life rooted in God.
 
So take time. Breathe deeply. Pay attention.
            The Spirit is not only rushing like wind.
 
She is also whispering in stillness,
            cultivating in you the fruit of divine life.
 
And where the Spirit is, there is freedom.
            There is transformation. There is joy.
 
A Pentecost People: Open, Spacious, Free
So what does it mean for us to be a Pentecost people?
 
It means more than remembering
            a dramatic moment in church history.
 
It means more than celebrating
            a birth-day for the church.
 
To be a Pentecost people is to live with open hearts,
            creating spacious lives,
            breathing the freedom of the Spirit in everything we do.
 
We have seen how the Spirit comes as disruption
            — wind and fire, breaking through barriers,
                        forming a new community where everyone has a voice
                        and every language is heard.
 
We have seen how the Spirit sets us free
            from slavery to fear or obligation,
            calling us into intimate relationship with God as beloved children.
 
And we have seen how the Spirit cultivates fruit in us
            — not through force or performance,
            but through grace and trust and openness.
 
All of this points to a way of being.
            A Pentecost people are those who make space:
            space for God, space for one another, space for transformation.
 
That’s why Breathing Space is not just a group within the church
            — it’s a metaphor for the whole church.
 
A breathing space in the heart of London.
            A place where people are invited not to rush,
                        not to pretend, not to perform
            — but to pause, to reflect, to listen, to grow.
 
To be a Pentecost people is to live open to surprise.
            The Spirit may come in silence or song,
                        in scripture or conversation, in action or rest.
 
The Spirit may disrupt your plans or confirm your path.
 
But always, the Spirit is drawing us deeper into life
            — life that is marked by joy, peace, gentleness, and love.
 
And this life is not for us alone.
            Just as those early disciples spilled out into the streets,
                        speaking words others could understand,
            so we are called beyond ourselves.
 
A Spirit-filled community is a gift to the world
            — a sign that another way is possible.
 
In a world of division, we offer connection.
            In a world of fear, we offer hope.
In a world of pressure, we offer breathing space.
 
So on this Pentecost Sunday,
            let us open ourselves again to the breath of God.
 
Let us become — together — a people who live by the Spirit:
            open, spacious, and free.
 
Come, Holy Spirit.
            Breathe in us.
            Bear your fruit in us.
 
And send us out as your people —
            for the healing of the world. Amen.

One in Christ

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

June 1, 2025

 

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

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

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

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

Thanks be to God.

Holding the Space: Pastors as Christ’s Lieutenants

 

Pastoral ministry isn’t about taking charge.
It’s not about commanding a flock, projecting certainty, or occupying the centre.
At least, it shouldn’t be.

And yet, we’ve built churches around exactly these assumptions.
We appoint leaders to cast vision, drive growth, manage strategy, and protect the brand. We adopt the language of CEOs and influencers. We expect performance, charisma, confidence.
But somewhere along the way, we stopped asking whether this looks anything like Christ.

So I want to offer a different image.
It might sound odd at first, even inappropriate. But that’s part of the point. Sometimes it takes an unfamiliar metaphor to shake us free from the familiar ones that no longer serve us.

What if the pastor is best understood as a placeholder, not a temporary stand-in, but one who holds the space for Christ?
What if the pastor’s calling is not to lead from the front but to be present in the middle, holding open a space where Christ can be encountered, trusted, followed?

Surprisingly, this image is hidden in the roots of a word we might otherwise discard: lieutenant.
From the French lieu (place) and tenant (holding), a lieutenant is literally "one who holds the place."
Not the one in ultimate command, but one entrusted to be present on behalf of another.

Yes, the word carries military weight. Yes, the church has too often mirrored the power structures of empire.
But maybe the awkwardness of the metaphor is precisely what we need. If we strip the word back to its roots, we’re not left with a soldier barking orders. We’re left with someone entrusted to hold the place for someone else.
Not power, but presence. Not dominance, but attentiveness.

This is not the model of leadership found in church growth seminars or leadership podcasts. But it may be closer to the leadership of Jesus.

To be a pastor in this light is not to perform, impress, or manage outcomes.
It is to hold the space Christ has opened in the world.
To hold it with reverence, with tenderness, with courage.
To remain there, long enough and quietly enough, that Christ’s presence can be recognised.

As Paul writes to the Corinthians:

“We do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake. But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us.”
(2 Cor. 4:5–7)

This is a vision of ministry rooted not in strength but in weakness, not in status but in service.
We are not the source of grace, but the ones who hold the space in which grace is made visible.
We are not the light, but those who keep the lampstand trimmed and ready.

And make no mistake, this kind of ministry is deeply countercultural.
In a world addicted to noise, speed, and control, pastors are called to a different way.
We are not empire-builders. We are space-holders.
We are not empire-defenders. We are witnesses to a kingdom not built by human hands.

It is the daily, often unseen work of pastoral ministry:
– The stillness we refuse to fill with platitudes
– The pain we choose to stay present with
– The conversations we hold open with patient love
– The worship we prepare not to impress, but to welcome the holy
– The tensions we bear without demanding resolution

To hold the space well means resisting two powerful temptations.

The first is to fill the space with ourselves, our charisma, our certainty, our urgency.
We are told this is leadership. But when we centre ourselves, we risk eclipsing Christ.

The second is to vacate the space altogether, through burnout, cynicism, or a false humility that whispers, “You’re not enough.” But this too is a distortion. The call is not to disappear, but to remain, present, faithful, even when uncertain. Especially when uncertain.

To be a pastor, then, is to hold the space for Christ.
Not to dominate it. Not to disappear from it.
But to inhabit it attentively, sacrificially, and with fierce gentleness.

This is not glamorous work.
It won’t make you famous. It won’t go viral. It won’t always look like “leadership.”
But it is holy work.

It is the sacred act of creating room, for Christ to be seen, for grace to be trusted, for the Spirit to move.

This kind of ministry is not a stepping stone to real influence. It is real influence, precisely because it refuses to manipulate or control.
It is the quiet subversion of a culture obsessed with power.
It is the patient insistence that God is already at work, even if we aren’t in charge.

We are placeholders of grace.
Clay jars, holding treasure.
Stewards of a presence we cannot manufacture.
Pastors, yes, but perhaps, too, Christ’s lieutenants.

Not generals. Not strategists. Not commanders.
But those who hold the place.

So hold it well.
Hold it with trust.
Hold it with reverence.
And Christ will be known.

 

A Vision of Glory in the Face of Violence

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
4^th May 2025


By Rembrandt - Œuvre appartenant au musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon Public Domain, 
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15686766
 

Acts 6.7–15; 7.1–2a, 51–60

The story of Stephen is one of the most powerful, and most disturbing, moments in the early chapters of the Book of Acts.

 

It is a moment of radiant faith and horrifying violence.

 

It is a vision of glory that emerges in the midst of injustice.

 

And it is, I believe, a story that continues to speak into the life of the church in every age—especially in times when bearing witness to truth comes at a cost.

 

Stephen, described as full of grace and power, is one of the first deacons chosen by the early church—a group of seven appointed to serve the needs of the community, especially to ensure the fair distribution of food among the widows.

 

But Stephen is more than a functionary or administrator. He becomes a prophetic voice, a preacher of the gospel, and, ultimately, the church’s first martyr.

 

His words are bold, his vision is clear, and his death is chilling.

 

This morning, I want us to linger with Stephen—on the edge of his stoning—not simply to remember a moment of persecution from the distant past, but to allow his witness to search us, challenge us, and invite us into a deeper faithfulness.

 

Because Stephen’s story is not just about what happened to him. It is also about the God who was revealed in his life and death.

 

And it is about the kind of church we are called to be, in the face of powers that resist the liberating truth of the gospel.

 

Accusation and Identity

Our reading begins with accusations.

 

Stephen is dragged before the council, accused of speaking against the temple and the law.

 

The charges sound familiar—they echo the charges brought against Jesus himself: blasphemy, disrespect for tradition, a threat to the religious and social order.

 

And like Jesus, Stephen faces a system that has already made up its mind.

 

It is important to note that Stephen is not guilty of these charges in the way his accusers claim.

 

He has not blasphemed; he has not denied the law; he has not desecrated the temple.

 

But he has spoken a difficult truth—that God is not confined to sacred buildings or to legal systems that serve the powerful.

 

He has pointed to Jesus as the righteous one, rejected and killed, but vindicated by God. And for this, he is deemed dangerous.

 

In every age, those who bear witness to inconvenient truths are often accused of being threats to the status quo.

 

Whether it is prophets denouncing injustice, or whistleblowers revealing corruption, or disciples proclaiming a gospel that challenges systems of oppression—there is always resistance.

 

Stephen stands in a long line of witnesses, from Amos to Jesus, who have been told to keep quiet, to stop rocking the boat, to stay within acceptable bounds.

 

But Stephen does not stay silent.

 

And this is where we begin to glimpse the shape of his faith—a faith that is not merely intellectual assent, not simply religious affiliation, but a living, dangerous allegiance to the God who liberates and transforms.

 

A Confronting Word

In the dramatic speech Stephen gives, which we only hear a portion of in this morning’s reading, he rehearses the story of Israel, reminding his hearers of their own history

 

—the call of Abraham, the leadership of Moses, the wilderness journey, the building of the temple.

 

It is a sweeping narrative, and for a while it seems fairly safe. But then comes the turn.

 

“You stiff-necked people,” he says. “You are forever opposing the Holy Spirit, just as your ancestors used to do.”

 

This is not a polite sermon. It is not a measured reflection. It is a prophetic indictment. And it gets him killed.

 

Stephen is holding up a mirror, and what he reflects back is not flattering.

 

He is saying, in effect, “You have always resisted the voice of God—when God spoke through Moses, through the prophets, and now through Jesus. And in doing so, you have aligned yourselves with those who persecuted the righteous.”

 

This is dangerous speech. Not because it is hateful, but because it is truthful.

 

It names the pattern of religious power turning away from divine justice. It names the way institutions can become idols.

 

It names the refusal to recognise God in the face of the other, especially when that other is poor, or marginalised, or crucified.

 

The church today must hear this word too. We are not immune.

 

We too are capable of becoming stiff-necked. We too can close our ears to the Spirit, especially when the Spirit speaks through voices we would rather not hear—through those who challenge our comfort, our privilege, our self-understanding.

 

Stephen’s words come to us as a call to repentance, and a call to humility.

 

A Glimpse of Glory

And then, in the midst of this fury, something extraordinary happens.

 

As the council rushes upon him in rage, Stephen looks up and sees a vision. “I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.”

 

It is the only place in the New Testament where Jesus is described as standing at the right hand of God; elsewhere, he is always seated. It is as if Jesus is rising to welcome Stephen, to honour his witness, to be present with him in his suffering.

 

This vision is Stephen’s strength. It is his comfort. It is, in a profound sense, his vindication. Though he is condemned on earth, he is affirmed in heaven. Though the council sees only blasphemy, Stephen sees glory.

 

And this, perhaps, is the heart of his witness. Not just that he speaks truth to power, not just that he dies with courage—but that he sees something greater than the violence around him.

 

He sees Christ. He sees the kingdom. He sees the presence of God breaking into a courtroom of hatred with a vision of mercy.

 

In moments of crisis, what we see matters. Do we only see the threats, the enemies, the dangers?

 

Or do we see Christ, standing with us, standing for us, welcoming us into the company of the faithful?

 

Stephen’s vision invites us to lift our eyes—to see beyond the rage of the mob, to the mercy of the risen Christ.

 

The Echo of Forgiveness

As the stones begin to fall, Stephen echoes the words of Jesus from the cross. “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,” he prays. And then, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

 

It is breathtaking.

 

Stephen dies as he lived: full of grace. His last words are words of forgiveness.

 

And in that moment, the power of death is broken. Not because the stones stop falling—they don’t. But because violence does not get the final word. Love does.

 

This, too, is part of the gospel. Not only that Christ is risen, but that those who follow Christ are transformed into his likeness.

 

Stephen becomes Christ-like—not only in his suffering, but in his compassion. He does not curse his killers. He prays for them.

 

What kind of church would we be, if we too could learn to forgive like this?

 

What kind of witness might we offer, if our response to hostility was not fear or retaliation, but grace and prayer?

 

This is not easy. It is not sentimental. It is the hard, costly work of love in the face of hatred. But it is the way of Christ.

 

The Seed of the Church

There is one more detail that the narrator gives us, almost in passing, but it changes everything.

 

As Stephen is stoned, we are told, “the witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul.”

 

We know what Saul becomes. We know that the one who approved of Stephen’s death becomes the apostle to the Gentiles, the tireless preacher of grace. But in this moment, he is still part of the system of violence.

 

And yet, something is planted. A seed. A memory. A vision.

 

The early church would often say that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.

 

Stephen’s death is not the end of the story. It becomes the beginning of something new.

 

His witness does not fall silent. It reverberates through the life of Paul, through the spread of the gospel, through the ongoing courage of disciples in every age who have dared to follow Christ even to the point of death.

 

And so we return to our own time. We are not facing a council with stones in their hands. But there are still forces that resist the truth.

 

There are still powers that suppress the Spirit. There are still prices to pay for standing with the marginalised, for proclaiming justice, for naming sin.

 

And yet there is still a vision. There is still Christ, standing at the right hand of God.

 

There is still the call to bear witness—with our words, with our lives, even with our deaths if it comes to that.

 

And there is still grace—grace to forgive, grace to endure, grace to love.

 

Faithful Witness in a Time of Untruth

If Stephen’s story was only about a holy man dying well, it might move us—but it would not transform us.

 

What makes Stephen’s witness so compelling is that it takes place in a deeply political and theological context.

 

He is not killed in a vacuum. He is executed by a religious system colluding with empire, terrified of losing control, unwilling to be disrupted by the inconvenient truth of the gospel.

 

In this way, Stephen's death exposes not only the violence of empire, but the complicity of religion in perpetuating that violence.

 

We are, I believe, living in a moment with disturbing echoes.

 

Around the world, we are witnessing a resurgence of authoritarian ideologies cloaked in religious language.

 

In the United States, the rise of Trumpism has not only destabilised democratic institutions, it has corrupted large swathes of the Christian church, drawing it into an unholy alliance with power, wealth, and white nationalism.

 

And this is not an isolated phenomenon. Across the globe, from Brazil to Russia, from Israel to India, we are seeing religious rhetoric used to justify oppression, marginalisation, and the silencing of dissent.

 

What does it mean to be a church of Stephen in such a world?

 

It means, first, that we must learn again the courage of confrontation.

 

Stephen does not shrink from naming the truth, even when it costs him everything.

 

And the truth today is that many churches have become more concerned with preserving their influence than proclaiming the gospel.

 

The truth is that nationalism, racism, and misogyny are not just political problems—they are spiritual deformations.

 

And the truth is that when the church fails to stand with the vulnerable, it ceases to be the church.

 

Like Stephen, we must call these things what they are. Not because we enjoy conflict, but because silence is not an option.

 

We are followers of Jesus, who was crucified by empire and betrayed by religion. We are heirs of Stephen, whose face shone like an angel even as the stones fell.

 

Our witness must not be timid. It must be truthful.

 

But the second thing it means is that we must resist the temptation to fight empire on its own terms.

 

Stephen does not meet violence with violence. He does not become bitter or cynical.

 

He bears witness through love, through forgiveness, through a vision of glory that cannot be extinguished by hatred.

 

In a world where outrage is cheap and cruelty is viral, Stephen shows us a different way—a way of resistance rooted in mercy, a way of protest grounded in prayer.

 

This is not weakness. It is power. The kind of power that cannot be legislated against.

 

The kind of power that topples empires, not through force, but through faithfulness.

 

It is the power that sustained Martin Luther King as he faced bombs and bullets with nonviolence.

 

It is the power that animated Oscar Romero as he stood with the poor against the death squads. It is the power of the Lamb who was slain—and yet lives.

 

So let us be a Stephen church.

A church that names injustice and refuses to be silent.

A church that speaks truth even when the world closes its ears.

A church that sees heaven opened and Christ standing beside the oppressed.

A church that forgives even in the face of betrayal.

A church that lives not for safety or success, but for the glory of God revealed in a crucified and risen Christ.

 

This is not the easy way. But it is the faithful way.

And if we choose it, if we take up this calling, then we too might shine like angels.

And the world might just see, even for a moment, the glory of God breaking through the darkness.