Resistance is never futile

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

1 December 2024

Advent 1

Daniel 6.6-27

Revelation 13.1-10

Introduction: A World Demanding Our Allegiance

As we gather at the beginning of this Advent season,

            we do so at a time when the world feels more polarized than ever.

 

Across nations, we are witnessing the rise of leaders and ideologies

            that thrive on division, fear, and the consolidation of power.

 

From Trump’s re-election in the United States

            to the growth of far-right movements in Europe and beyond,

a dangerous narrative is emerging:

            one that demands unquestioning loyalty, silences dissent,

            and marginalizes those who do not fit the mould

            of what is deemed acceptable or worthy.

 

These forces often cloak themselves in promises of security,

            prosperity, or national greatness,

but their underlying goal is to claim for themselves

            allegiance that rightly belongs to God alone.

 

They seek to define our values, control our priorities,

            and shape our sense of identity and community.

 

Like King Darius in the story of Daniel,

            or the beast described in Revelation 13,

these powers demand worship

            —whether that worship takes the form of blind nationalism,

                        unregulated consumerism,

            or the idolisation of strength and dominance.

 

This is not a new story.

 

Throughout history, empires and leaders have sought to dominate

            through fear and coercion,

from the time of the Babylonian exile,

            to the Roman Empire of the first century,

            to modern authoritarian regimes.

 

Such empires have always tried to persuade people

            to trade their faith and integrity

            for promises of comfort or survival.

 

And yet, in every age, faithful people have stood up to say, “No.”

 

Daniel, thrown into the lion’s den

            for refusing to bow to earthly power,

            is one such example.

 

The faithful described in Revelation 13,

            who refused to worship the beast

            despite the risk of persecution, are another.

 

These stories remind us that the call to resist oppressive forces

            is not only ancient—but it is also deeply relevant today.

 

As Christians in the 21^st century, we face this same challenge.

 

The pressures we encounter to conform

            may not always look like a decree from a king, or the mark of a beast,

            but they are no less real.

 

We are constantly confronted by ideologies that tempt us to compromise:

            the relentless push for economic gain at the expense of others,

            the demonisation of the vulnerable,

            the glorification of violence and dominance.

 

In this context, the season of Advent calls us

            to examine where our true allegiance lies.

It reminds us that we belong to a kingdom

            that stands apart from the powers of this world

            —a kingdom of peace, justice, and love.

 

So the question before us today is this:

            will we remain faithful to that kingdom,

            resisting the forces that seek to draw us away?

Or will we give in to the temptation to conform,

            to follow the crowd, to prioritize comfort over conviction?

 

This is not an easy question, because resistance is costly.

            It requires courage, sacrifice, and a willingness to stand firm

            even when the world seems to be moving in the opposite direction.

 

But as we see in both Daniel’s story and the vision of Revelation,

            resistance is also a profound act of hope.

It proclaims that no matter how powerful earthly empires may seem,

            their rule is temporary.

 

Whereas God’s kingdom is eternal.

 

So this Advent, as we prepare to celebrate the coming of Christ,

            we are reminded that his birth was itself an act of resistance

            —a challenge to the powers and principalities of the world.

 

And Christ’s coming invites us to participate in that resistance,

            living as people of hope and faith

            in a world demanding our allegiance to anything but God.

 

The Beast and the Lion’s Den: Parallels of Oppression

So let’s turn now to our texts for this morning,

            where first we meet this powerful image

            of a beast rising from the sea in Revelation 13:1–10

 

It is as terrifying as it is symbolic.

 

This beast, with its ten horns and seven heads,

            represents the overwhelming power of empire,

            wielding authority over the nations and demanding worship.

 

Its might is such that the people cry out,

            “Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it?”

 

This question reflects the deeply ingrained fear

            that haunts all those who might consider taking a stand of resistance

            against powerful forces or ideologies:

the fear that resistance is futile,

            that no power can stand against such overwhelming force.

 

In Daniel’s story, we encounter a different but related kind of empire.

 

King Darius, though portrayed as a somewhat sympathetic ruler,

            becomes complicit in an oppressive system

when he allows his advisors to manipulate him

            into passing a decree that turns him into a god-like figure.

 

This decree—demanding exclusive worship of the king under threat of death—

            reveals the essence of empire, in every age including our own:

the desire to control not just people’s actions,

            but their very allegiance and faith.

 

At first glance, these two narratives may seem far removed from our own time.

            After all, no one today is demanding we worship a literal king or beast.

And yet, as we dig deeper, we see all too easily

            that the dynamics of oppression, coercion, and domination

            are alive and well in our world.

 

Consider the powers and systems that demand our allegiance today.

 

They may not always carry the outward symbols of empire,

            but their mechanisms are just as insidious.

 

Nationalistic leaders demand loyalty to their vision of “greatness,”

            often at the expense of truth, justice, and compassion.

 

Consumerist ideologies insist that our worth is tied to what we buy or achieve,

            rather than who we are as beloved children of God.

 

Militaristic narratives glorify strength and violence as the path to security,

            overshadowing the Gospel’s call to peace.

 

The parallels to Daniel and Revelation are striking.

 

Last week Liz and I went to Lord Mayor’s show,

            something I always enjoy, but always with a sense of unease.

The parade showcases the latest in military hardware

            with soldiers in uniform high-fiving children,

along with the great wealth of London’s ancient livery companies,

            all shot through with stirring nationalistic marching music

            and more union jacks than you can shake a flag at!

 

And like Darius’s decree, today’s ideologies often seek to suppress dissent,

            whether through legal systems, economic pressures, or cultural norms.

 

They punish those who refuse to conform,

            whether that punishment comes as public ridicule, exclusion,

            or more severe consequences.

 

Similarly, the beast of Revelation

            —with its blasphemous claims and demand for worship—

reflects the way modern systems of power

            elevate themselves to god-like status.

 

Governments, corporations, and cultural narratives

            often position themselves as ultimate authorities,

promising salvation through their policies, products, or philosophies.

 

They ask us to place our trust in them,

            to bow before their vision of the world,

            even when that vision contradicts the values of God’s kingdom.

 

Yet in both Daniel and Revelation,

            we find a powerful message of hope and resistance.

 

When Daniel is faced with the choice of obeying Darius’s decree

            or remaining faithful to God, he chooses faithfulness,

            even though it means facing the lion’s den.

 

His quiet act of defiance—continuing to pray as he always had—

            becomes a profound statement of resistance

            against a system that sought to control his allegiance.

 

In Revelation, the faithful are described as those who refuse to worship the beast,

            even though this choice leads to suffering.

 

They endure, not because they are unaware of the cost,

            but because they know that ultimate power belongs to God.

The beast’s authority, while immense, is temporary,

            and its defeat is certain.

 

These stories remind us that the powers of oppression,

            though overwhelming at times, are not invincible.

 

They may roar like lions or trample like beasts,

            but their reign is limited.

God’s kingdom, by contrast, is eternal and unshakeable.

 

For us today, the question is clear:

            where will we place our allegiance?

 

Will we bow to the pressures of the world,

            allowing fear, greed, or apathy to dictate our actions?

 

Or will we stand firm, like Daniel and the faithful in Revelation,

            proclaiming through our lives that we belong to a different kingdom

            —a kingdom of justice, mercy, and peace?

 

This is no easy task.

 

The beast of Revelation and the empire of Darius

            are not defeated by sheer human effort.

 

Their defeat comes through the enduring faithfulness

            of those who trust in God.

 

And so our resistance must be rooted in faith

            —a faith that trusts in God’s power to overcome,

            even when the odds seem insurmountable.

 

As we reflect on the parallels between the beast and the lion’s den,

            and how they speak to our experience of power in our world,

let us remember that resistance is not primarily about grand gestures

            or dramatic confrontations.

 

Sometimes, it is as simple as continuing to pray, to speak truth, to act justly,

            when the world demands otherwise of us.

 

It is in these acts of quiet faithfulness that we proclaim the ultimate victory

            of God’s kingdom over every oppressive power.

 

Faithful Resistance: A Call to Trust in God

So what might it mean for us to resist faithfully?

 

Daniel’s story and the vision of Revelation 13

            paint a vivid picture of what it looks like to stand firm in allegiance to God

            when faced with immense pressure to conform.

 

But faithful resistance is not about stubborn defiance for its own sake.

            Rather, it is a deep commitment to God’s vision for the world

                        —a vision of justice, compassion, and peace—

            a commitment that refuses to bow to the demands of oppressive powers.

 

In Revelation 13, we encounter a stark image of empire at its most brutal.

            The beast wields authority over nations and peoples,

                        and its power seems overwhelming.

            It blasphemes, it intimidates, and it demands worship.

 

It is, of course, an image for the emperor of Rome,

            but it’s also an image that can be applied

            to other ‘emperors’ down the centuries.

 

I wonder how this Beast might fare in a presidential election?

            What do you think?

 

The text acknowledges the reality of suffering for those who resist:

            “If anyone is to be taken captive, to captivity they go;

            if anyone is to be killed with the sword, with the sword they will be killed”

            (Revelation 13:10).

 

This is no naïve call to resistance. The stakes are high, and the cost is real.

            As Martin Luther King knew when he called people to nonviolent resistance

                        in the American Civil Rights struggle,

            people were going to die.

 

Yet the passage nonetheless calls for “the endurance and faith of the saints”.

            And the endurance envisaged here is not passive.

 

It is an active, courageous decision, to trust in God’s ultimate sovereignty,

            even when the odds seem insurmountable.

 

And this is the kind of trust we see in Daniel,

            who continues to pray to God despite knowing the consequences.

 

His resistance is quiet but unwavering.

            He does not try to fight or flee; he simply remains faithful.

 

This type of nonviolent faithful resistance challenges the logic of the world,

            which so often equates power with domination, and survival with submission.

 

Instead, it embraces the paradox of the Gospel:

            that true strength is found in vulnerability,

            and true victory in surrendering to God’s purposes.

 

Faithful resistance also requires discernment.

 

Daniel’s decision to continue praying,

            even when it meant defying the king’s decree,

            was not a reckless act of rebellion.

 

It was a deliberate choice rooted in his relationship with God.

 

Similarly, the saints in Revelation 13

            do not resist the beast out of pride or personal gain,

but out of a profound conviction

            that their ultimate allegiance belongs to the Lamb who was slain.

 

For us today, this kind of resistance invites us to examine our own lives

            and ask: where is our allegiance?

 

Are we placing our trust in the powers of this world

            —be it political and military systems, economic stability, or cultural acceptance?

 

Or are we grounding our trust in God,

            who calls us to live as citizens

            of a kingdom that transcends all earthly powers?

 

Faithful resistance also means recognizing

            the subtle ways in which oppressive systems infiltrate our lives.

 

It’s not always as obvious as a decree demanding worship of a king or a beast.

            It can be the small compromises we make to fit in,

            the ways we stay silent in the face of injustice,

            or the times we choose comfort over conviction.

 

Resistance begins when we notice these patterns and choose a different path.

 

This resistance is not without cost.

            Like Daniel, we may face ridicule, exclusion, disadvantage or even danger

                        for standing firm in our faith.

 

But the promise of both Daniel and Revelation

            is that God is with us in the struggle.

 

Daniel was not alone in the lion’s den;

            God sent an angel to shut the lions’ mouths.

The saints in Revelation endure not because of their own strength,

            but because they know their names are written in the book of life.

 

Faithful resistance, you see, is also an act of hope.

            It proclaims that the powers of this world, no matter how mighty they seem,

            are ultimately subject to God’s authority.

 

And when we resist, we declare that God’s kingdom

            —a kingdom of justice, peace, and love—

is more real and more lasting than any empire or ideology.

 

In practical terms,

            faithful resistance might look like standing up for those

            who are marginalized or oppressed.

 

It might mean challenging systems

            that exploit the vulnerable or perpetuate inequality.

 

It might involve acts of solidarity, advocacy,

            or even simple kindness that defy the logic of self-interest.

 

But faithful resistance is not just about what we do;

            it is also about who we are.

 

It calls us to be people of integrity,

            whose lives bear witness to the values of God’s kingdom.

 

It is about aligning our actions, words, and decisions

            with the justice and mercy of God,

            even when it is costly or countercultural.

 

Ultimately, faithful resistance is a call to trust in God.

 

It is a call to believe that God’s kingdom is breaking into the world,

            even when the evidence seems to suggest otherwise.

 

It is a call to live in the hope that no beast, no empire,

            no power of this world can separate us from the love of God.

 

As we see in both Daniel’s story and the vision of Revelation,

            faithful resistance is never futile.

 

It is a proclamation of hope, a testimony to the enduring power of God,

            and a hopeful participation in the coming of God’s kingdom.

 

The Hope of Advent: A Kingdom That Will Never End

And so we find ourselves here in Advent, the season of hope

            —a time when we look beyond the brokenness of our world

            and lift our eyes to the promises of God.

 

It is a season that calls us to remember that,

            though the powers of this world may seem strong,

            their reign is temporary.

 

Daniel’s story and the vision in Revelation 13 remind us that oppressive powers

            —whether symbolized by a lion’s den or a monstrous beast—

            do not have the final word.

 

The hope of Advent is that God’s kingdom,

            unlike the empires of this world, will never end.

 

The Advent season is rooted in waiting,

            but it is not a passive or resigned waiting.

It is an active anticipation of what is to come.

 

As followers of Christ who comes as light to a dark world,

            we do not wait as those who despair

            but as those who live in hope,

knowing that the coming of Christ signals the breaking in of God’s kingdom

            where justice, peace, and love reign forever.

 

Signs of Hope in a Broken World

The hope of Advent is not naïve

            or detached from the pain of the world.

It is a hope that comes

            precisely because we know how broken things are.

 

Daniel’s hope in the lion’s den was not a denial of his predicament;

            it was a trust in God’s power to deliver him, even in the face of death.

The saints in Revelation endure not because they are blind to the beast’s power,

            but because they trust in the Lamb’s ultimate victory.

 

Today, we are called to look for signs of hope,

            even amidst the darkness.

 

And we find that hope in the courage of those who stand up for what is right,

            in the acts of compassion that restore dignity,

and in the resilience of communities

            that refuse to be defined by their suffering.

 

Every time we see love triumph over hate,

            justice over oppression, and truth over lies,

we catch a glimpse of God’s kingdom breaking into our world.

 

Proclaiming the Kingdom Through Our Lives

Advent invites us not just to hope for the kingdom

            but to participate in it.

As followers of Christ,

            we are called to be witnesses to God’s coming reign.

 

This means living in ways that reflect the values of the kingdom

            —loving our neighbours, standing up for the vulnerable,

            and working for peace and justice.

 

When we resist the forces of oppression and dehumanization,

            when we choose to forgive rather than retaliate,

            when we extend hospitality to the stranger,

we are proclaiming that God’s kingdom is real and present.

 

We become signs of hope for others,

            demonstrating that another way is possible.

 

The Promise of God’s Eternal Kingdom

And so Advent is ultimately a season of promise.

            It is a reminder that the story of the world is not one

                        of endless cycles of power and decay

            but of redemption and renewal.

 

The birth of Jesus signals that God has not abandoned creation

            but is actively working to restore it.

 

This is the hope of Advent: that God’s kingdom will never end,

            and all things will be made new.

 

So, as we wait and watch a dark world this Advent,

            let us do so with hope.

 

Let us resist the powers

            that seek to draw us away from God’s purposes,

and let us live as citizens of a kingdom that is eternal.

 

For the hope of Advent is not just that Christ has come,

            but that Christ comes again, to each of us,

being born anew in our lives

            as we open ourselves to the hope and mystery of God.

 

May this hope sustain us, guide us, and inspire us

            to live as people of hope and resistance,

proclaiming the good news of a kingdom that will never end.

 

Where's Jesus?

Sermon for a Baptist Communion Service

King's College London, Strand Chapel,

27 November 2024

Exodus 16.13-21

1 Corinthians 10.14-17

For our sermon today I’m going to offer some reflections
          on what makes a Baptist-style communion service distinctive,
what is might be that is particularly ‘Baptist-ish’
          about the way Baptists such as myself structure a communion service,
and particularly the way we share bread and wine
          in obedience to the command of Jesus.
 
As a guiding idea for this, I want offer simple question,
          and it’s this: ‘Where’s Jesus?’
 
If we were in a Catholic church, you might point to the crucifix.
          If we were in a high Anglican church you might point to the reserved host.
As we’re in a College Chapel, you might point
          to the bread and wine on the table over there.
 
And all of these are good, ecumenically valid answers.
          But they aren’t the answer that a Baptist would give.
 
I’ll come back to that.
          But first, I need to give you a little bit of Baptist history.
 
The Baptists came into being in the very early 17^th century,
          and it was really all an argument about religious liberty.
 
At that point, in England, it was basically illegal
          to be anything other than CofE.
However a group who became known as ‘dissenters’
          came to believe that religion should be a matter of choice,
          not state imposition.
 
One key thing they wanted was freedom to worship
          in their own congregations, rather than in the local parish church.
 
Quite a few of these dissenters were actually Anglican priests themselves,
          but that’s a story for another day.
 
In search of religious liberty, they took themselves to Amsterdam
          where, then as now, things were a bit more liberal.
 
And it was whilst they were there
          that they came to some important conclusions.
 
Firstly, they concluded that each Christian believer
          could read scripture and pray directly to God in the name of Jesus;
          no-one needed a priest to do it for them.
 
And secondly, they said that baptism
          administered to a child at birth wasn’t valid,
          because it denied that child freedom of choice;
rather they said that baptism should be freely chosen,
          and administered upon a person’s profession of faith.
 
In these conclusions you can see the influence
          of individualistic enlightenment thinking,
and also the rising availability of the Bible in languages other than Latin.
 
Anyway, whilst in Amsterdam in 1609,
          the two founders of the English Baptists,
                   John Smyth and Thomas Helwys,
          baptised each other in the river,
having come to the rather startling conclusion
          that the true church had died out in all the world,
          and that it was their responsibility to re-start it.
 
Smyth died in Amsterdam,
          but Helwys came back to England a couple of years later,
          and wrote to King James.
 
What he wrote has come to be regarded
          as the first plea for religious liberty in the English language,
because he argued for freedom not only for himself,
          but also for the Jew, the Muslim, and the atheist.
 
His conviction that freedom for one must be freedom for all
          is of course echoed in the theology
          of that great Baptist preacher of the 20^th century, Martin Luther King Jr,
who said that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
          Incidentally, Martin Luther King Jr preached his first sermon in the UK
          at my own church on Shaftesbury Avenue in 1961.
 
But what has all this to do with Communion,
          you may be wondering…
 
Well, several things.
 
Firstly, if the church is gathered rather than geographical,
          if it is made up of those who have chosen baptism and discipleship,
          rather than those who live in a parish,
then the meal that sustains the church is not, in fact, for everyone.
 
The early Baptists therefore had communion
          as a separate service to their main worship service.
 
They would meet for singing, praying, and preaching,
          and then close the service.
All the non-baptised would be asked to leave,
          and only the baptised would stay
          for breaking of bread and sharing of wine.
 
In these days of ecumenical respect and trust,
          most Baptists no longer exclude from communion
          those who have been baptised in other traditions
– and certainly in my church all are welcome to the Lord’s Table.
 
In fact, Bloomsbury Baptist was founded
          as an ‘open communion’ church in 1848
          – something that was quite unusual in those days.
 
But there is still an echo of the two services model in Baptist practice.
 
We only celebrate communion once a month,
          on the first Sunday of each month,
and when we do the service is about 15 minutes longer,
          with communion tagged on the end.
 
This pattern takes us right back to those early years
          when the un-baptised would be asked to leave.
 
Actually, my church did take a decision
          to exclude people from the Communion service
                   just a few years after it was founded,
          but not on the basis of their baptism.
 
It was 1851, the year of Prince Albert’s great exhibition in London,
          and lots of American Baptists were coming to London.
 
The church took an advert in the Times
          welcoming visiting Americans to the church,
but then stating that if any visitors were supportive of the Fugitive Slave Law,
          they would be denied access to the Lord’s table.
 
This was a law that returned enslaved people
          who had escaped to the free north
          back to their masters in the south.
 
So, within three years of opening,
          my church was excommunicating fellow Baptists
          on an issue of racist exclusion.
 
But let’s come back now to the question of where Jesus is to be found
          in a Baptist communion service.
 
If he’s not in the bread and wine, where is he?
          And what’s the point of the bread and wine?
 
The theology of being a gathered church is important again here.
 
Because for Baptists, the central idea of communion
          isn’t the presence of the body Christ
          in the elements of the bread and wine
 
Rather, it’s the recognition that Jesus is present in the community itself
          —the gathered people of God who share in the meal.
 
As we heard earlier, in 1 Corinthians 10:16-17, Paul writes:
"The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a sharing in the blood of Christ?
The bread that we break, is it not a sharing in the body of Christ?
Because there is one bread,
          we who are many are one body,
          for we all partake of the one bread."
 
Notice that Paul doesn’t focus here
          on the physical properties of the bread or wine
          but on their symbolic function within the body of believers.
 
The bread we break and the cup we share
          are outward signs of our shared participation in Christ
          and our unity as one body.
 
For Baptists, this means that communion
          is less about encountering Christ in the elements
          and more about encountering Christ in one another.
 
This is why we are served the bread and wine our places,
          because Christ comes to us as we are, where we are.

Incidentally, if you're wondering about the use of the little shot glasses,

         these came into common use during the 'Flu Pandemic of 1918;

and the move to non-alcoholic wine came before this,

         under the influence of the temperance movement.
 
As we break bread and share wine together,
          we acknowledge the presence of Jesus
                   in the relationships we share, in our collective witness,
          and in our mutual commitment to love and serve the world in his name.
 
This is why the Baptist tradition
          places such a strong emphasis on the gathered church.
 
Communion isn’t something that happens
          in isolation or mediated through a priest.
 
It happens when the people of God come together
          —each person equal before God, part of a priesthood of all believers,
                    each voice part of the song of praise,
                             each life a testimony to God’s grace.
 
In this sense, the bread and wine
          function as signs pointing us to Jesus,
          but they don’t contain him.
 
Instead, they remind us of his ongoing presence
          with us through the Spirit
and his call for us to be his body in the world.
 
The bread and wine, like the manna in the wilderness from Exodus 16,
          are gifts of sustenance for the journey.
 
They feed us because they nourish our faith
          and remind us that Christ is the one who unites and sustains us.
 
So, where’s Jesus in a Baptist communion service?
 
He’s here in the gathered community
          —where two or three are met in his name,
          where the bread is broken, the cup is shared,
          and the people of God are sent out to live and love in his name.
 
This understanding doesn’t deny the significance of the elements;
          it transforms it.
 
The bread and wine are holy because of what they represent:
          Christ’s sacrifice, our unity,
          and God’s abundant provision for the life of the church.
 
But their holiness points us beyond themselves
          to the deeper reality of Christ’s presence among us,
          in the body of believers, empowered by the Spirit.
 
And this is what makes a Baptist communion service distinctive.
 
When we gather at the Lord’s table in obedience to Christ’s command,
          the risen Christ is sacramentally present with us, and among us.
As we remember him,
          we are re-membered into the body of Christ which is the church.
 
The Baptist communion service
          is therefore a celebration of the church gathered
          and a commissioning of the church sent out.
 
When we leave the table, we carry Christ with us
          —not in our hands, or our stomachs, but in our hearts,
          as we live out the gospel in our daily lives.
 
So, as we gather around the table today,
          let us give thanks for the bread and wine,
for the Spirit who draws us together,
          and for the presence of Jesus in the midst of his people.
Amen.
 

An ecological reading of Jonah

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

10 November 2024

Jonah 3.10 – 4.11 
Matthew 6.25-34 

The relationship between humanity and the natural world
            has been one of hardship and toil
                        since humans first emerged from the great rift valley,
                        to go forth and multiply upon the earth.
The struggle for survival is as old as our species,
            and we have battled on many fronts over the millennia.
From early competition with other hominids,
            to struggles to adapt to hostile environments;
from diseases and disasters,
            to famine and crop failure.
 
Humans have been at war with planet earth
            in a battle for survival since the very beginning.
Our current fights about fossil fuels, global warming, and climate change
            are simply the latest skirmishes in a war that has claimed more lives,
            and done more damage, than any other conflict in the history of humanity.
 
So it is no surprise that the Old Testament,
            or the Hebrew Bible as it’s sometimes called,
            reflects this struggle for survival in many of its narratives.
Those who told these stories down the generations,
            passing the wisdom of the Israelite tradition from parent to child,
knew first hand what it was to do battle with the earth;
            and in their stories they reflected before God
            on what it might mean to be human.
 
And what we find in their traditions
            are a range of responses to the question
            of how humans might exist in relation to nature.
 
The Genesis creation narrative, for example,
            starts by affirming the goodness of all things:
                        from the heavens above, to the depths of the ocean,
                        and everything in between;
            and it locates humans as part of this God-inspired created order.
 
However, it goes on to describe
            the fracturing of the relationship between humanity and nature,
                        pointing the finger firmly at the sinfulness
                        of the representative humans of Adam and Eve
                                    as the originators of the battle for survival.
 
If we fast forward to their sons Cain and Abel,
            we meet the battle between the hunter-gatherer and agrarian lifestyles.
Agriculture first developed in the Fertile Crescent of the Middle East,
            where Israel is located,
            sometime around 10,000 years ago,
and we have an echo of this in the deadly conflict
            between Cain the cultivator of land,
                        and Abel the herdsman.
 
The suggestion of this story is that God is more pleased
            with Abel’s animal
            than with Cain’s grain,
but of course it’s ultimately Abel who dies at Cain’s hand,
            and it’s Cain and his descendants who survive
            to continue planting the land and reaping the harvest.
 
And then we come to the story of Noah and the flood,
            with God washing his hands of the whole created order,
                        and ordering a total wipeout and reboot,
            with just Noah and his family and a selection of animals surviving.
 
According to the Noah story,
            human sinfulness had so spoiled nature
                        that the whole thing was ruined beyond salvation,
            and just needed to be destroyed and re-created from scratch.
 
And I could go on, and on, through the wisdom tradition and the prophets,
            through the books of history and monarchy,
                        describing the battles for land, the times of famine,
                        all the stories of plague, pestilence, and hardship that humanity has faced.
 
And in all of these, the Hebrew way
            has been to try to reflect before God
            on the relationship between humans and the natural order.
 
So we come to the book of Jonah, which is many things,
            including, I want to suggest, an ecological parable
            in the tradition of the Hebrew wisdom literature.
 
I believe that it has something profound to say to us
            about the relationship between humans and the natural order.[1]
 
The clue comes right at the end of the book:
            did you spot it??
 
Listen again to verse 11. God says:
 
“And should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city,
in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons
who do not know their right hand from their left, and also many animals?"
 
It’s always worth paying attention to the way biblical stories end,
            and this one ends with many animals.
Once we’ve spotted this, when we start to read back into the story,
            we find that the natural world
            plays an especially prominent role in the book of Jonah.
 
Bear with me a moment, and we’ll go back over it…
 
The book starts with Jonah being called to go and preach a message
            of repentance to the great city of Nineveh,
            but deciding to do a runner in the opposite direction, and jumping a ship.
 
At this point, the forces of nature start to move in against him.
            We’re told in the 4^th verse of the first chapter that
            “the LORD hurled a great wind upon the sea,
                        and such a mighty storm came upon the sea
                        that the ship threatened to break up.”
 
As soon as Jonah puts himself where he shouldn’t be,
            he finds himself at war with natural forces way beyond his control.
 
When the sailors on the boat ask Jonah what’s going on,
            he realises that there’s a link between his own disobedience to God
            and the disturbance in the natural order.
 
So he says to them that he’s a Hebrew,
            a worshipper of the God who made the sea and the dry land (1.9).
 
He goes on to tell the sailors that if they pick him up and throw him into the sea,
            the great storm will quiet down and their lives will be spared (1.12),
                        and this is, of course, what happens.
 
The link between Jonah and God and the natural order
            moves at this point from the theoretical to the practical,
            as Jonah’s actions are seen to have a clear effect on the forces of nature.
 
But then they take a turn from the practical to the surreal,
            as instead of drowning in the sea of chaos,
                        Jonah find himself in the belly of a fish,
                        and not just any fish, but a fish provided by God to rescue him.
 
The story is at pains to tell us that this isn’t some random act of luck
            – rather, God is at work in the natural world
            to bring Jonah back to where he should be in the order of things.
 
Eventually, Jonah is spewed up onto dry land,
            as he escapes the clutches of the sea,
            and makes his way to Nineveh to preach his message of repentance.
 
And the response he gets is astonishing, and actually quite funny
            – not only do the people repent, not only does the king repent,
                        but so do the animals!
 
The king even issues a decree,
            demanding that both humans and animals together must fast,
                        and put on sackcloth;
            with human and animal voices together crying to God for mercy. (3.7-8).
 
Of course, what Jonah knew would happen does happen,
            and God lets the wicked city of Nineveh off.
No judgment, no fire from heaven, no punishment,
            just mercy and compassion.
 
This doesn’t suit Jonah at all, and so in disgust that justice has not been done,
            he wanders off to sit under a shelter and sulk.
The sun beats down on him, relentlessly baking him into submission,
            but then God appoints a bush to grow up by him,
                        giving him some shade from the sun,
                        and for a little while he seems to lift out of his bad mood.
 
But then God appoints a little worm to come and destroy the tree,
            and then God sends a sultry wind and more sun,
            and Jonah decides that he’s had enough of these games and that he wants to die.
 
God has been merciful to the wretched Ninevites
            with their comedy cows in sackcloth,
but seems to be setting the whole of nature systematically against Jonah.
 
Of course, it’s all a matter of perspective,
            and so with the set-up complete, Jonah and God have their big argument.
 
Jonah said, "It is better for me to die than to live." 
⁹ But God said to Jonah,
            "Is it right for you to be angry about the bush?"
And he said, "Yes, angry enough to die." 
¹⁰ Then the LORD said, "You are concerned about the bush,
            for which you did not labor and which you did not grow;
            it came into being in a night and perished in a night. 
¹¹ Should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city,
            in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons
            who do not know their right hand from their left,
            and also many animals?" (4.8-11) The End.
 
Jonah pitied the plant, but did not want God to pity Nineveh.
            The irony is inescapable, and the inconsistency of his position becomes obvious.
 
God is not the God that Jonah thought and hoped he was.
            God does not judge as Jonah judged,
                        and Jonah had set himself above God,
                        and at odds with nature,
            in his attempt to create God in his own image.
 
And those of us reading Jonah’s story are invited to join him
            in reflecting on our own place within the natural order.
 
The recurring theme in all of this is that whilst Jonah is disobedient to God,
            the natural world acts not only in obedience to God,
            but also to bring Jonah back to a right relationship with both God and nature.
 
And here’s the parable.
            Jonah represents humanity.
            He represents all of us.
            We are Jonah.
 
And the lesson of the parable is that when we humans, like Jonah,
            put themselves at war with God and God’s world,
            the consequences are catastrophic.
 
But the hopeful message of the Book of Jonah
            is that God is also at work through the natural order
            to bring humans back to a place of repentance and restoration.
 
We humans have consistently created a philosophical and practical division
            between ourselves and the rest of the natural world.
 
I don’t think we can entirely blame Descartes,
            but his famous dictum ‘I think therefore I am’
            is probably the best summary of this approach.
 
We who ‘think’ have come to view animals as automatons incapable of consciousness,
            and so we have taken permission to treat animals as, in effect, machines,
            which exist as a means rather than for their own sake.
 
In all this, of course, we are acting entirely against the wisdom of Genesis
            which declares that all of creation is good;
but nonetheless we consistently choose to see nature as a tool to exploit,
            and animals as a means to an end.
 
We have built our civilisations on a human-centred view of the world,
            which regards nature as a commodity available exclusively for our benefit.
 
Our unfettered and rampant exploitation of nature
            is challenged by the story of Jonah,
who consistently discovers what we must also learn;
            that when we place ourselves over and against nature, there is hell to pay.
 
We are a part of the natural order, not separate to it.
            And we can no more run from our place in God’s creation
            than Jonah could run from the presence of God.
 
We humans keep placing ourselves at the centre of our own story,
            we place our own desires above our responsibility to the planet,
            and so we create a situation where we are at war with nature
                        in a struggle for survival.
 
It’s the story of Adam and Eve’s rebellion
            told over-and-over again in each generation,
            as we somehow convince ourselves that we’re right and God must be wrong.
 
Yet the story of Jonah is that in God’s world,
            it is compassion that lies at the heart of the story.
God’s mercy in Jonah’s story is extended to all creation.
            God has compassion on the just and the unjust,
                        on animals, plants and planet.
 
In the story of Jonah we find our human-centred view of creation challenged.
            We, like Jonah, have to learn that God is not just ‘our’ God,
                        but is rather the God of the entire earth,
                        from animals to plants to the elements to Nineveh itself.
 
Nature is not there to be exploited by humans,
            as if the two were somehow separable;
but rather humans are a part of the natural world,
            and all exist together and continue to co-exist because, and only because,
                        of God’s compassion.
 
Creation itself suffers because of human greed and idolatry,
            and the voices of the animals are crying out in our time for mercy,
            every bit as much as the animals in Nineveh cried out for compassion.
Humans and the natural world will rise and fall together,
            and the wilful human destruction of ecologies
            is a sin against the nature of God.
 
So, what to do…?
 
Well, there’s an interesting comparison to be drawn
            between the story of Jonah and the Whale,
            and the story of Noah and the flood.
 
Both stories begin with a threat of destruction
            against wicked people for their sinfulness.
Both stories involve a perilous sea journey.
            Both stories involve animals.
 
And, interestingly, both stories also involve a dove.
            You see, Jonah means ‘dove’,
                        and in both stories, it is the dove which flies off and eventually returns,
                        bringing the hope of salvation.
 
In Noah’s story the dove brings the olive branch
            which marks the end of the flood.
And in Jonah’s story,
            Jonah is the dove that brings the message of repentance.
 
However, there are important differences.
            In Noah’s story, God destroys the wicked people
                        along with almost all of the natural order,
                        with only Noah’s family and a few select animals
                                    surviving to repopulate the earth.
 
            In Jonah’s story, God is merciful to the wicked city;
                        and the natural world, represented by the animals of Nineveh,
                                    is spared.
 
In many ways, Jonah’s story is a reversal of Noah’s,
            and offers a hopeful glimpse of God at work in the natural world,
            calling humans to discover ways of living in peace with creation.
 
So what might this mean for us tomorrow?
            Should we re-think our addiction to meat, for example?
There is no doubt that there are far more sustainable ways
            of feeding humanity than feeding cows, pigs, and sheep
                        and then shooting them and eating them.
 
This may or may not mean that we fully embrace vegetarianism,
            but it should certainly challenge our relationship
            to the animals on which we are dependent for our ongoing existence.
 
We might want to think carefully about issues
            of animal experimentation, exploitation, and genetic modification.
 
We could well ask ourselves at what cost are we at odds
            with the natural world in our own time.
There certainly is a cost, but whether we are counting it or not is far from certain.
 
Maybe GM crops do hold the future for feeding humanity,
            but if so, where does that leave our battery chicken farms,
                        and our herdsmen industries.
 
If we are not careful, the conflict between Cain and Abel
            could easily resurface in contemporary guise
            to haunt a globally warmed world which is struggling with mass starvation.
 
These are issues that Christians cannot and should not turn away from.
            We cannot afford to hide our heads in the sand
                        and eat ostrich instead of beef.
 
Rather, we need to keep ourselves educated and informed,
            and to take informed and educated decisions together
            as to how we will partner with God in the care of this world
                        that has been entrusted to us.
 
The message of Jonah is that God has not given up on creation,
            and that neither has creation given up on humanity.
 
We are part of nature, we are part of God’s good creation,
            and we are called to repent of our wickedness,
                        of our exploitation, of our destructive patterns of living.
 
And the invitation is that if we find ways together of existing in harmony with nature,
            we are opening ourselves up, with the inhabitants of Nineveh,
            to the compassion and mercy of God.
 
We are called to repent of our acquisitiveness,
            to turn away from our obsessions with possessions,
            and to discover together what it means to live as children of this earth.
 
Or, as Jesus put it:
 
"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life,
            what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body,
            what you will wear.
Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? 
²⁶ Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns,
            and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
Are you not of more value than they? 
²⁷ And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? 
²⁸ And why do you worry about clothing?
            Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, 
²⁹ yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. 
³⁰ But if God so clothes the grass of the field,
            which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven,
            will he not much more clothe you-- you of little faith? 
³¹ Therefore do not worry, saying, 'What will we eat?' or 'What will we drink?'
            or 'What will we wear?' 
³² For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things;
            and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. 
³³ But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness,
            and all these things will be given to you as well. 
³⁴ "So do not worry about tomorrow,
            for tomorrow will bring worries of its own.
Today's trouble is enough for today.

---

[1] I have been helped in the preparation of this sermon by reading Yael Shemesh, ‘“And Many Beasts” (Jonah 4:11); The Function and Status of Animals in the Book of Jonah’, Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, Volume 10, Article 6.