When the River Runs Free: Building a Vision for the Common Good

Community organising begins by naming two realities: the world as it is, and the world as it should be. The first requires honesty about injustice and failure. The second requires imagination; the capacity to see beyond the limits of the present and picture a better future.

This is exactly what the Book of Revelation in the Christian Bible does. John of Patmos looks the world as it is straight in the face: an empire built on greed, violence, and exploitation. But he also dares to sketch the world as it should be: a renewed city, where the nations are healed, where gates are never shut, where water flows freely, and where light is shared by all.

Imagination is not an optional luxury. As any architect will tell you, if you cannot first picture a different structure, you cannot begin to build it. Revelation is architectural in this sense: a blueprint for human community reimagined.

With this frame in mind, two images from Revelation’s closing chapters speak directly to our present moment.

A Light That Guides Every Nation
Revelation 21.23–26
“The city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb. The nations will walk by its light.”

A River for All Who Thirst
Revelation 22.1–3, 17
“Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb... The leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations... Let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.”

Water for the Common Good

As Thames Water teeters on the edge of collapse, many are asking whether it’s time to take back public control of our most essential resource. Across London, and the UK, millions rely on clean, affordable water every day. But right now, too many are being let down by a system that puts private profit before public need.

At moments like this, we need more than crisis management. We need vision: something that can guide us toward long-term justice.

Revelation offers one. Its vision is of a city that shines not with scarce or privatised light, but with brightness that illuminates the streets for all. Its river flows, not through gated pipelines or private meters, but as a gift, clean and abundant, “for everyone who thirsts.”

These are metaphors, but they carry real-world implications. We all know the difference between systems designed for the public and systems run for private gain. Streetlighting is a simple example: it illuminates the whole road, not just the stretch outside one person’s house. The system only works when it works for all.

Water should be the same.

Yet our current model is failing. Many water companies in England are owned by distant investors who prioritise profit over people. Sewage pours into rivers. Infrastructure decays. Bills rise. The most vulnerable are hit the hardest. This is not just poor service, it is a failure of imagination.

Imagining and Building the World as It Should Be

Revelation invites us to dare to imagine differently. Essential services like water work best when designed for the common good, not private profit. This is not nostalgia; it is a vision of the world as it should be, and a call to organise for systems that guarantee life’s essentials to all, regardless of wealth or postcode.

The world as it is can feel entrenched. But the world as it should be can be pictured, and therefore built. Revelation’s city of light and water calls us to that task.

If we can imagine it, we can begin to build it.

In the Beginning, God…

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Sunday 7th September 2025

Genesis 1.1 – 2.4a 
John 1.1-5

There’s something about opening lines.

The first words of a story set the tone for everything that follows.
            “Call me Ishmael.”
            “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
            “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

We remember them because they are gateways — portals into another world.

And the first line of the Bible is no different.
            It opens, not with argument, or proof, or explanation, but with declaration:

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”

This is not a statement you can ease into.
            It’s not a gentle clearing of the throat.
It is a trumpet blast, announcing that everything
            — all that is, all that ever was, all that ever will be —
            finds its origin in the creative will and Word of God.

And it begins, not in stillness, but in chaos.

The earth is formless and void;
            darkness is over the face of the deep;
            the wind — the ruach — of God hovers over the waters.

The scene is not neat or safe.
            It is pregnant with possibility,
            waiting for the Word that will shape it.

And then God speaks. And things happen.
            Light bursts into being.
                        The waters divide.
            The land appears.
                        The sky fills with stars and the seas teem with life.
Order emerges from the chaos.

This is not the story of God snapping divine fingers
            and everything popping into place in an instant.
It’s a narrative of rhythm, of deliberate movement,
            of a creation that unfolds with care,
            a creation infused with love.

Genesis 1 unfolds like a hymn
            — a carefully structured liturgy of creation.
It has verses and refrains, repetitions and variations,
            each day following a rhythm:
“And God said… and it was so… and God saw that it was good.”

If we look closely, we see a profound symmetry.

• Days 1 to 3 are about forming
              — the creation of spaces or realms.
  Light is separated from darkness,
              waters from sky, land from sea.
  The world is being given its architecture.
• Days 4 to 6 are about filling
              — populating those realms with inhabitants.
  The sun, moon, and stars fill the light and darkness;
              fish and birds fill the sea and sky;
  animals and, finally, humans fill the land.

And then there’s Day 7 — which doesn’t fit the pattern.
            On this day, God does not create. God rests.
The Hebrew here suggests not weariness but completion.
            It’s the rest of satisfaction,
            the pause to delight in what has been made.
The Sabbath stands apart as the crown of creation
            — the moment when God’s ordering work
            is celebrated, not continued.

This seven-day structure isn’t a timetable, or a scientific chronology.
            It’s theology in motion.
The pattern tells us that the world
            is not encountered by humans as a random accident,
            but as an ordered gift.

It begins in chaos,
            but God’s Word brings rhythm, balance, and beauty.
The days stack like the movements of a symphony,
            leading to the stillness of the final chord.

And perhaps the most radical part of this opening chapter
            is that it doesn’t begin by asking us to prove God’s existence
            — it simply proclaims it.

The God of Genesis 1 is not a character in the drama of creation;
            God is the Author.
And this Author speaks creation into being
            — not with violence, not with conquest,
            but with words, with breath, with blessing.

When Genesis tells us
            that “the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters,”
the Hebrew word — ruach —
            means wind, breath, and spirit all at once.
It’s the invisible force of life itself,
            moving with purpose and possibility over the chaos.

And when God speaks,
            that Word does something no human word can do:
            it creates.
We know the power of words to bless or wound,
            to lift up or to destroy,
but in Genesis 1,
            God’s Word brings something out of nothing.

The cosmos responds to the divine voice.
            The sea gives birth to swarms of living things.
            The earth itself “brings forth” plants and animals.

There’s a mutuality here:
            creation is not a passive lump waiting to be moulded,
            but an active participant.

God’s creative speech calls the world into partnership
            — and then steps back to let it flourish.

Even before humans arrive on the scene,
            there is a relational rhythm of call and response,
            Word and world, Spirit and soil.

Now, just around the corner from here
            — about a five-minute walk from Bloomsbury —
            you can stand in front of a clay tablet in the British Museum.
It contains part of the Enuma Elish,
            the Babylonian creation story,
            written hundreds of years before Genesis.

The Enuma Elish also begins with watery chaos.
            But its account is very different.
In that story, the gods are at war.
            The younger gods kill the sea-goddess Tiamat,
                        slicing her body in two.
            One half becomes the sky, the other the earth.
The world is literally made from the corpse of a defeated deity.

And humans?
            They are fashioned from the blood of another slain god,
                        created to serve the gods as slaves
            — doing the work the divine beings would rather avoid.

This is a vision of creation born out of violence
            and sustained by exploitation.

The writers of Genesis knew this story.
            Israel spent decades in Babylonian exile;
            these myths were in the air they breathed.
But they told the beginning of the world differently.

In Genesis, there is no cosmic battle,
            no divine bloodshed, no rival gods to defeat.
The waters are not a slain monster, but a canvas.
            Creation is not an act of war, but an act of love.
Humans are not made to be slaves,
            but to share in God’s image — to steward and to bless.

This is a radically subversive retelling.
            It whispers to exiles under Babylonian rule:
Your world is not founded on violence.
            Your life is not an accident.
You were made in the image of the God who speaks peace into chaos.

And that changes everything
            about how we see the world — and each other.

The structure of Genesis 1 isn’t just beautiful;
            it is political and pastoral.
It tells us the universe is trustworthy because its source is trustworthy.
            It reminds us that love, not violence, is the ground of our being.

And then, after six days of creative work,
            the narrative slows right down.

We’ve had light and darkness, sea and sky, plants and animals
            — and now the tone shifts.
The divine voice says:

“Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness…”

In the Enuma Elish,
            humanity’s purpose was to serve as unpaid labour for the gods
            — an expendable workforce.

But in Genesis, the creation of humans is not a grudging afterthought.
            It is the high point of the story.

And the radical move here is this: in the ancient Near East,
            only kings were thought to bear the “image” of a god.
            It was a royal title, a claim to divine authority.
Genesis takes that elite concept and democratises it.
            Every person — male and female, young and old, rich and poor —
            is made in the image and likeness of God.

This is a theological earthquake.
            It declares that no one is disposable.
            No one exists to be a slave.
            No one’s worth is determined by wealth, rank, or status.
The divine image is not a badge of privilege for a few
            but the birthright of all.

And with that dignity comes vocation.
            Humanity is called to “have dominion” — but not as tyrants.
The Hebrew radah can mean ruling,
            but it is framed here by God’s own creative character.
If we are made in God’s image,
            then our “dominion” must mirror God’s dominion
            — bringing order without oppression,
                        nurturing life, enabling flourishing.

In other words, Genesis gives us a job description:

• Steward the earth so that it thrives.
• Treat one another with the dignity
  you would give a fellow bearer of God’s image.
• Use power as God uses power
  — not to crush, but to create.

The church, when it remembers this calling,
            becomes a living contradiction to the empires of our day.

We bear witness to a Creator
            whose image is reflected in the face of every person
            — and whose love undergirds the whole of creation.

After six days, creation reaches its crescendo:

“On the seventh day God finished the work that had been done, and God rested…”

If we’re not careful,
            we can imagine God slumping in a cosmic armchair,
            exhausted from all the effort.

But the Hebrew word shabbat is about stopping
            — ceasing — rather than collapsing.
It is the pause of satisfaction,
            the deliberate choice to step back and delight in what has been made.

In Babylon, rest was for the gods alone
            — and humans existed precisely so the gods could have that rest,
            doing all the work for them.

But in Genesis, rest is not a divine privilege hoarded by the powerful.
            It is a gift woven into the fabric of creation itself, extended to all:
            land and livestock, neighbour and stranger.

In Israel’s later story, Sabbath becomes law
            — a regular interruption of the economic machine.
Every seventh day, no one works.
            Not you, not your servants, not even your animals.
For that one day, the world stops running on production and profit.

Sabbath, thought of in this way, is resistance.
            Resistance to the lie that our worth is measured in output.
                        Resistance to the idea that the world belongs to the strongest.
            Resistance to the grinding logic of overwork,
                        exploitation, and environmental exhaustion.

Here at Bloomsbury, in the heart of London,
            surrounded by constant motion,
Sabbath invites us into a different pace.

It calls us to trust God enough to stop
            — to make space for worship, for delight,
                        for noticing the goodness that is already here.

And it sends us back into the week with our values reordered,
            our hearts re-centred, our eyes open to the dignity of all creation.

Genesis 1, you see, isn’t just an origin story.
            It’s a declaration about the kind of world we live in,
the kind of God who made it,
            and the kind of people we are called to be.

We live in a city that, like ancient Babylon,
            often runs on the logic of competition, extraction, and exhaustion.
But Genesis insists that:

• The world is not an accident — it is the work of a God who creates out of love.
• Every person you meet carries the image of God — no exceptions.
• The pattern of creation includes rest, delight, and mutual flourishing.

That means our vocation here in Bloomsbury
            is to live this story out loud.
To organise for justice.
            To treat creation as a gift, not a commodity.
To resist every system that denies the image of God in another.

And then — Jesus.

The Gospel of John begins with a deliberate echo of Genesis:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God… Through him all things were made.”

John is telling us that the creative Word
            who spoke light into darkness
            is now speaking again
                        — this time in flesh and blood.
Jesus is God’s Genesis project come to life among us.

In him we see what it means to bear the image of God perfectly:

• He orders chaos without violence, calming the storm with a word.
• He treats every person — leper, tax collector, foreigner, child —
              as an image-bearer.
• He embodies Sabbath as a gift of restoration,
              healing the sick, lifting the burdened.

A personal relationship with Jesus
            means letting that Word speak into the chaos of our own lives
                        — the fears, habits, and wounds —
            and trusting him to bring light and order and hope.

A corporate relationship with Jesus
            means learning together how to be his body in the world
            — hands and feet that bless and heal,
                        a voice that speaks truth to power,
            a heart that loves the city with the Creator’s own love.

Here at Bloomsbury,
            we’re called to be that kind of community
— a living testimony that the world is not founded on violence but on love,
            and that the love revealed in Jesus is still making all things new.

So we listen again for the Voice that spoke in the beginning.
            We listen for the Word who became flesh.
We listen for the Spirit’s breath moving over the waters of our lives.

And then we join in the song of creation
            — working for justice, keeping Sabbath,
honouring the image of God in every person,
            delighting in the goodness of God’s world.

---

Prayer

Creator God,
You spoke, and light burst into the darkness;
            you breathed, and life began to grow;
            you blessed, and the world was good.

Speak again into our lives today.
            Where there is chaos, bring your peace.
            Where there is weariness, bring your rest.
Where there is injustice, bring your justice.

Jesus, Word made flesh,
            Shape us in your image.
Teach us to walk with you day by day,
            to listen for your voice,
            to rest in your love,
and to work with you for the healing of creation.

Spirit of God, breath of life,
            Hover over us, over this city, over your world.
Make us a people who live your story —
            for the glory of your name,
            and the blessing of all you have made.
Amen.

The New Christendom? Churches, Big Society, and the Temptation of Relevance

When David Cameron launched the “Big Society” agenda back in 2010, it was heralded as a chance for citizens, communities, and voluntary groups to step into the space left by a retreating state. Churches, it was implied, would be “empowered” to do what they do best: serve the poor, feed the hungry, care for the vulnerable.

Fifteen years on, we can see how this has played out. Food banks, once rare and shocking, have become a normal feature of the landscape. Churches up and down the country are running night shelters, offering English classes for migrants, and hosting projects for those left behind by austerity. On one level this is inspiring: communities of faith rolling up their sleeves, loving their neighbours, and embodying compassion.

But there is a darker side too. As churches have stepped up, the state has stepped back. The “Big Society” has functioned less as empowerment and more as outsourcing. And in many cases, the church has become a subcontractor of the state’s social agenda. We are doing the work that government has chosen not to fund.

In practice, this is a quiet reinvention of Christendom. Not the grand, throne-and-altar version of Constantine, but a subtler contract: the state grants the church renewed relevance and a pat on the back, provided we deliver its preferred form of social care. It is a bargain that looks like power but is in fact dependency. We gain visibility, but at the cost of being drawn into propping up an unjust economic settlement.

The danger is that our food banks and night shelters allow the government to wash its hands. We become part of the safety net that makes austerity politically viable. In exchange, we feel “useful” again in a society that often treats the church as irrelevant.

As a Baptist, I am wary of this Christendom-shaped temptation. Our tradition has valued the painful but liberating break between church and state. Early Baptists understood that true faith cannot be coerced by law, nor co-opted by government. We do not exist to deliver the state’s agenda, however noble it may sound. Our calling is to witness to the reign of God, a reign that critiques all earthly powers.

This does not mean withdrawing from social action. Far from it. Feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, and welcoming the stranger are at the heart of the gospel. But the question is how and why we do these things. Are we service-providers for the state, or are we communities of resistance? Are we filling the gaps left by austerity, or are we organising with our neighbours to challenge the systems that produce such gaps in the first place?

Here is where I see hope. Across the country, churches are discovering the power of organising. Rather than standing alone, we are joining hands with mosques, synagogues, schools, and unions. We are finding common ground across difference, not in order to make ourselves “useful” to government, but to hold government to account. Together, we can press for structural change: a real living wage, affordable housing, a humane migration system, fair energy costs, and a properly resourced NHS.

This is the hopeful future of the church: not subcontractors of the Big Society, but citizens of the New Jerusalem. Not grasping for scraps of relevance, but building communities of solidarity that embody God’s justice here and now.

The gospel is not an add-on to the welfare state. It is good news to the poor because it declares that the kingdoms of this world are under notice, and another world is possible.

Prayer or Sorcery?

At this year’s Greenbelt Festival, I went to a conversation hosted by Shibboleth magazine on the nature of prayer. At one point they played an audio clip from a woman reflecting on her fertility journey. Friends and fellow Christians had told her, with all sincerity, that they were praying she would conceive. More troublingly, some told her that they had “heard from God” that she would. Rather than comforting her, these assurances weighed heavily. She was not only facing the profound personal struggle of infertility, but now bore the burden of other people’s expectations of God on her behalf.

I was struck by how prayer in this story had become not a gift but a pressure, not a comfort but a burden. It raised a deeply uncomfortable question: might much of what passes for Christian prayer be little more than a Christianised form of sorcery?

The Hebrew Bible repeatedly forbids sorcery:

“You shall not practice augury or witchcraft” (Leviticus 19.26).
“There shall not be found among you… anyone who practices divination or sorcery” (Deuteronomy 18.10).

Why this strict prohibition? Sorcery, in its ancient context, meant seeking to control the gods through rituals, words, or incantations. It was about bending divine power to human will. And it seems to me that the prohibition exists precisely because such attempts damage relationships—both with God and with others. If I declare that my words have secured God’s action, I place myself in power over you, demanding that your life now conform to my “answered prayer.”

And yet, isn’t this how Christians often pray? We tack on the phrase “in Jesus’ name” as though it were a magic spell. We claim God has “answered” us with certainties about what will happen. We sometimes present prayer as a mechanism: if enough faith is applied, the outcome is guaranteed. In these moments, prayer becomes manipulative rather than liberating.

Jesus himself warned against this kind of prayer. “When you are praying, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think they will be heard because of their many words” (Matthew 6.7). His model of prayer, the Lord’s Prayer, is strikingly un-magical. It does not manipulate God into delivering what we want. It begins instead with re-orientation: your kingdom come, your will be done. Prayer here is not about control but surrender.

This brings me back to the Greenbelt conversation. What if prayer is not about changing God’s mind, or bending God’s will, but about opening ourselves to a different world? When I pray for someone, even if nothing in their external circumstances shifts immediately, I have already shifted. For a moment, my attention has moved beyond myself and towards them, and towards God. The world after that prayer is not the same as it was before, because it contains that moment of attention, compassion, and love.

In that sense, prayer is the opposite of sorcery. Sorcery seeks to control; prayer seeks to release. Sorcery says: “Let the world conform to my will.” Prayer says: “Let me be conformed to God’s will.” Sorcery burdens others with my expectations. Prayer frees me from my own self-centredness.

Does this mean God is unaffected? I don’t think so. The God we meet in scripture is not static but dynamic, engaging in living relationship with humanity. When Moses intercedes for Israel in the wilderness, “the Lord changed his mind about the disaster he planned to bring” (Exodus 32.14). When the people of Nineveh repent, God “changed his mind” and spared the city (Jonah 3.10). In prayer, as we change, so too God is changed—but not by being manipulated, rather by being encountered.

A world in which a prayer has been prayed is always a better world than one in which no prayer has been prayed. Not because the words unlock heaven like a spell, but because prayer opens up space for God’s Spirit to work through us, the body of Christ. That is a mystery far greater than any magic.

Behold, I Am Making All Things New

 A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

31 August 2025

Series: Revelation: An Unveiling for Our Times

John 4.1–14; 16.20–22
Revelation 21.1–6; 22.1–5, 17

Grace and peace to you
            from the One who is and who was and who is to come.

Today we reach the end of our series on the Book of Revelation.
            And what an ending it is.

We stand now at the climax of John’s vision
            —not with beasts and plagues, not with terror and fear,
but with this breathtaking declaration:
            “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth.”

But to understand this,
            we must remember how Revelation works.

Way back in chapter 4, John invited his readers to enter the heavens.
As we have journeyed through his book,
            we have done so not merely as observers;
            but as those who are being are drawn into a journey.
We entered heaven through the open door,
            we have travelled with John,
            we have seen the earth from the perspective of God.

We have looked down upon our world—our city, our communities, our lives—
            and we have seen them as heaven sees them.

We have seen the patterns of power and empire,
            the places where violence and greed crush creation.
And we have seen the faithful witness of the church,
            standing in resistance.

This is Revelation’s unique vision:
            We are given God’s eyes, God’s perspective,
            to see the world clearly and without illusion.

And so empire appears as a beast stamping on the earth,
            or a dragon demanding worship.
Whilst the faithful church is a woman clothed with the sun,
            or two witnesses testifying boldly to God’s truth.

The visions of judgment are not distant spectacles;
            rather they are a way of seeing our present world with divine clarity.
They sharpen our perception,
            so that we can see the true cost of compromise.

And then comes the vision of the New Jerusalem,

            which we meet in our reading today.

The heavenly city is presented as a bride, adorned for her husband.
And within John’s visionary scheme,
            this is an image the church militant, the church here-and-now,
            it is the faithful people of God—made visible as God’s city.

When Martin Luther King Jr. preached on this passage,
            in this church, in 1961, he noted that the image of the new Jerusalem,
            is presented as a city of equal length, breadth and depth.

And he said:
‘what John is really saying is this:
            that life at its best and life as it should be is three-dimensional;
            it’s complete on all sides.
So there are three dimensions of any complete life,
            for which we can certainly give the words of this text:
            length, breadth, and height.’

For King, the length of life is living to the best of one’s ability.
But on its own this can be a selfish life,
            so in equal dimension is needed a breadth of life,
            where one lives out a concern for fellow humans.
But a long and broad life is still inadequate – it is a life lived without a sky –
            unless in equal dimension we also have
            a relationship with the God who loves us.

The New Jerusalem is a vision of what life could be like,
            it is the world as it should be,
            to set against the cold reality of the world as it is.

And after having seen Babylon as heaven sees it,
            it turns out those who have journeyed with John through Revelation
            can no longer sustain their citizenship of the evil empire.

The faithful readers of Revelation must transfer their allegiance to God’s kingdom,
            becoming instead citizens of the New Jerusalem.

And so the New Jerusalem returns to the earth,
            reversing the upward journey of Chapter 4.

We who are the New Jerusalem cannot remain in heaven for ever,
            we have to come back down to earth with a bump.
But we do so transformed,
            because now we can see creation as God sees it.

And the earth we encounter is not the earth we left,
            something profound has changed.
We now have a vision for renewal – of a new heaven and a new earth—
            not as something God will give us one day,
            but as a vision toward which God calls us now.

And we will need this vision,
            because the world as it is can be overwhelming.
We look around us and we see war, environmental destruction, and inequality,
            we see communities divided by race, class, nation, and ideology

We see the powerful ignoring the vulnerable,
            profit prioritized over people,
            comfort over justice.

Even in our personal lives,
            grief, regret, and fear can cloud our view.
Relationships fracture, hope feels fragile, loss is heavy.

And Revelation does not deny any of this.
            It has spent 20 chapters naming it.

It unmasks for us empire’s violence, corruption, and idolatry.
            It refuses to let us look away from suffering.
Revelation is not escapist fantasy;
            it is political and economic resistance literature.

It exposes false promises,
            insists that things as they are will be judged,
            and tells the truth about the world’s pain.

But Revelation does this so we can imagine something else.
            It tears down illusions to open our eyes to God’s promise.

The sea in ancient thought represented chaos, danger, uncreation.
And so when John says that the first heaven and the first earth had passed away,
            and that the sea was no more,
he is not describing annihilation,
            he is describing transformation.

And the thing is, this is not an abstract or distant event.
            It is an invitation to see the present world through the lens of renewal.
To recognize where systems of violence, exploitation, and neglect persist,
            and to participate in God’s restorative work here and now.

To see a vision of the earth renewed is to see possibility:
            that human beings can live in harmony with creation,
            that rivers can flow clean, forests can flourish, seas can teem with life,
            that communities can thrive in sustainable and just ways.

John’s vision reminds us that God’s renewal is not a future escape,
            but a present call.

The passing away of the old is a prelude to the blossoming of what is new,
            and we—the faithful bride of Christ which is the New Jerusalem—
            are called to be agents of that transformation.

We participate in God’s work
            when we heal what is broken,
            when we advocate for justice,
            when we live in ways that honour creation,
when our actions flow like the river from the throne,
            nourishing life in all its forms.

The new heaven and new earth are a vision of what is possible,
            a horizon toward which God calls us,
            and a challenge to live faithfully in the present.

Seeing the world through John’s eyes,
            we are invited to become participants in creation’s renewal,
to act with hope, courage, and creativity,
            and to embody the reality of God’s kingdom here on earth.

The New Jerusalem is the church,
            called to embody God’s kingdom here and now.

This is the challenge:
            As the promise of God’s future shapes our present,
we are no longer spectators,
            we are citizens of God’s city today.
We are signs of the kingdom God envisions.

We are those who see the world from heaven’s perspective,
            and this means recognising what is broken.

It means seeing injustice not as normal,
            but as something to resist.
It means identifying where God’s people are faithful witnesses,
            and where we ourselves must act.

It changes how we live, what we prioritise, and whom we trust.

The vision continues: “God will wipe every tear from their eyes.
            Death will be no more;
            mourning and crying and pain will be no more.” (21.4)

This is surely a word for our grieving world.
            For every parent, refugee, community, or person who has lost hope.
God will wipe their tears like a loving parent comforting a beloved child.
            The pain of life is not ignored, not explained away, not forgotten,
            but relieved by God’s own hand.

The vision continues: “Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life,
            bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb.” (22.1)

This surely is an echo of the words of Jesus
            offering living water to the marginalised in John’s Gospel.
But here in Revelation, that promise flows to the whole world
            —free, abundant, and clear.

And then we are told,
“On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit…
            and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.” (22.2)

And notice the emphasis here: the leaves are for the healing of the nations.
            It is not only about human relationships.
            It is about the whole of creation.
The vision John offers is one of wholeness, of a world restored.

The church is called to participate in this restoration,
            to imagine and enact ways of living
                        where humans are no longer at war with creation,
            where our communities, our economies, and our technologies
                        serve life, and not destruction.

We are invited to cultivate a vision for holistic living,
            where justice, mercy, and care extend beyond human societies
to the rivers, the forests, the air, the soil,
            and the creatures with whom we share the planet.

The leaves of the tree of life are a symbol
            for every decision we make, every policy we support, every habit we form:
            It is for us to choose life rather than exploitation.

Our choices can grow systems of cooperation rather than domination,
            and nourish environments in which all living things flourish.

This is part of our vocation as God’s people:
            to be agents of renewal not only in human relationships,
            but in the web of creation itself.

Our worship, our teaching, our organising, our daily choices—
            all can become acts of alignment with the river flowing from the throne,
            with the leaves that bring healing.

The church, as New Jerusalem, is called to model this holistic vision.
            We are a sign to the nations
                        that life can be abundant,
                        that humans do not need to dominate creation to thrive.
            That harmony is possible.

By embodying this vision, we teach, invite, and inspire others,
            so that the healing of the nations becomes more than metaphor—
it becomes lived reality,
            a foretaste of God’s kingdom on earth.

John’s vision is not an invitation to passive waiting.
            It is a call to faithful witness.
It’s not prediction, but participation.

If God’s future is a reconciled city,
            we work for reconciliation now.
If God’s future is healed nations,
            we pursue justice today.
If God’s future is tears wiped away,
            we practice compassion now.
If God’s future is God dwelling with humanity,
            we make space for God here.

Empire’s logic is stubborn.
It whispers that security is exclusion,
            success is accumulation,
            power is domination,
            and compassion is weakness.

The New Jerusalem vision confronts that.
It calls us to value what the world dismisses,
            to welcome those the world excludes,
            to forgive when the world seeks revenge,
            to share when the world hoards.

It asks us, as a church, to examine ourselves honestly:
• Who do we make space for in worship and leadership?
• Whose voices are amplified—and whose neglected?
• How do our budgets, prayers, and time reflect God’s priorities?
• Where have we settled for things as they are?

When we pray “your kingdom come on earth as in heaven”
            we invite our own transformation.

Revelation’s final vision is not a lullaby for a troubled world.
            Rather it is a clarion call to wakefulness.
To be a community embodying God’s promise even now.

What would it mean for Bloomsbury
            to be a foretaste of the New Jerusalem in central London?
A place where barriers fall, tears are noticed and wiped away,
            where healing is practiced, not only spoken of?
What would it mean for us to be a community so shaped by God’s future
            that God’s hope is tangible to all who meet us.

Friends, this is our calling.
            It is our witness.
We are not those who seek to escape the world’s pain,
            rather we share it with hope.
We are not those who spend energy building our own kingdom,
            rather we point with everything we are to God’s inbreaking kingdom.
We are not those desperately waiting for rescue,
            but rather we are those living today as the redeemed people of God.

We are those who join our voices with that of the Spirit,
            proclaiming to the world:
“Let anyone who is thirsty come.
            Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.” (22.17)

This healing water is for anyone and everyone to receive.

If you are weary of the world as it is—come.
            If you are longing for healing—come.
If you are thirsty for justice, hope, and meaning—come.
            If you are wanting to be part of God’s new thing—come.

This invitation is not abstract.
            It is personal.
It is for you, for me, for us.

It is for those weary of empire’s rules,
            those grieving losses that ache,
            those struggling to hope again.

“See, I am making all things new.” says the voice from the throne.

Not only history’s sweep, but your story,
            your heart, your relationships, your purpose.
God does not discard or replace; God renews.

This is resurrection hope.
            The old is transformed.
The wounded are healed.
            The broken are mended.
The dead live again.

And it is communal.
It is for a people, a city, a shared life.

Imagine our community as a place
            where God’s renewing work is already breaking in.
Where tears are wiped away,
            strangers become friends, and living water flows freely.

If you can imagine it, then we can start building it.

But for this vision to become reality
            we have to let God remake us,
we must confess where we’ve settled for less,
            and open ourselves to be agents of renewal.

This is not work we do alone.
            It is Spirit work, grace work

So let us say yes to this promise.
Let us learn to live as citizens of the New Jerusalem,
            witnesses that God is not done with us, with humans, or with creation.

Even here, even now, God is making all things new.

For the One seated on the throne says:
            “See, I am making all things new.”
And in this promise we place our faith, loyalty, and lives.
            To God be the glory forever and ever.
Amen.

The Great Multitude: Hope for a Wounded World

 A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

17 August 2025

Series: Revelation: An Unveiling for Our Times

Revelation 7.9-17
John 14:1-4

Grace and peace to you
            from the One who is and who was and who is to come.

Today, in our ongoing journey through the Book of Revelation,
            we stand before a vision of astonishing beauty and hope.

Revelation 7:9–17 has been called
            one of the most beloved and comforting passages in the entire book.

It is read at funerals.
            It is stitched into tapestries and stained glass.
It is quoted when people need assurance
            that God is with them in suffering.

But it is also a deeply political, radically challenging text
            —one that pushes us to see beyond the narrow boundaries
            of empire, nation, race, class, and fear.

It invites us to see the world as God sees it.
            And to live as if that vision is true.

We’ve been seeing through this series that apocalypse doesn’t mean catastrophe.
            It means unveiling.

Revelation isn’t written to frighten us about the future.
            It is meant to help us see the present more clearly
            to see our here-and-now from heaven’s perspective.

John seeks to purify the imaginations of his hearers
            to construct alternative images that resist empire’s power.

And that’s exactly what we have before us today.

John writes:

“After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb.” (7.9)

Can you imagine it?

An uncountable crowd.
            From every nation.
            Every tribe.
            Every language.

A vision of humanity gathered, reconciled, united
            —not by coercion, but by worship.

Not by Rome’s military conquest.
            Not by any empire’s forced assimilation.
But by shared allegiance to the Lamb.

This is Revelation’s counter-vision to the empire.

Because let’s remember the context:
            John’s churches lived under Rome’s shadow.
Rome boasted of its “Pax Romana”—its peace.

But that peace was built on conquest,
            on slaughter, slavery, taxation, and humiliation.
It was a peace that erased difference,
            enforced loyalty, and extracted wealth.

Rome’s vision of unity was uniformity at the point of the sword.

And against this John offers a different picture.

He sees difference not erased but embraced.
            Every language is there.
            Every culture.
            Every people.

All united—not under Caesar’s banner, but in worship of the Lamb.

This is deeply political.
            And it is also profoundly pastoral.

Because it says to John’s small, struggling congregations:
            Your witness is not in vain.
            Your suffering is not forgotten.
            You belong to something far bigger than you can see.

You are part of a multitude that no empire can number or silence.

But let’s be honest:
            This vision can feel impossibly distant.

Our world is still divided by race, nation, language, class.
            We see borders hardened, refugees demonised,
            racism woven into systems.
We see fear of the “other” exploited for power.

Even within the church, we have often failed this vision.
            We have divided along doctrinal, cultural, political, and ethnic lines.
            We have sometimes baptised empire’s values instead of resisting them.

And so John’s vision is both comfort and critique.

It says: This is what God desires.
            This is the shape of God’s redeemed people.
            This is what true worship looks like.

It calls us to examine ourselves:

• Who is missing from our communities?
• Whose voices are silenced?
• Whose needs are ignored?
• What walls have we built—visible or invisible?

Notice what the multitude cries:

“Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!” (7.9)

Salvation doesn’t belong to Rome.
            It doesn’t belong to any nation-state or ideology.
            It doesn’t belong to the market or the military.
            It doesn’t belong to us.

It belongs to God.
            It is a gift.
It is universal in scope but particular in cost
            —because it is the Lamb who was slain who saves.

And this is crucial.

Because John’s vision centres not on the throne alone but on the Lamb.

Remember what we saw last week in Revelation 5:
            The Lion of Judah is revealed as the Lamb who was slain.
            Power is redefined through sacrifice.
            Victory comes through vulnerability.

This is the heart of Revelation’s theology.

Empire says: Power is domination.
            Revelation says: Power is self-giving love.

Revelation’s imagery purifies the imagination
            offering an alternative to Rome’s visions of absolute control.”

Here, that alternative is the Lamb.

The Lamb who suffers with the suffering.
            The Lamb who redeems through blood, not swords.
            The Lamb who gathers all peoples not by conquest, but by love.

John’s vision continues:

“These are they who have come out of the great ordeal.”

This isn’t cheap hope.
            It’s forged in suffering.

John’s churches knew persecution.
            Christians were marginalised, slandered, sometimes killed.
They faced pressure to conform, to worship the emperor, to compromise.

John doesn’t deny their pain.
            He honours it.

And this “Great ordeal” is not just theirs.
            It is ours also.

We live in a world that is hard to love.
            We see violence, greed, indifference.
We face personal losses, grief, fear, anxiety.
            We wonder if anything can really change.

John’s vision doesn’t promise escape from ordeal.
            It promises God’s presence in it.

“They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” (7.14)

Strange imagery.
            Laundry advice, it is not.

It’s paradoxical.
            Blood stains—but here it purifies.

Because it is Christ’s blood.
            His sacrificial love.
His refusal to return violence for violence.

They are cleansed not by their own virtue, but by God’s grace.

This is grace we can’t manufacture.
            We can only receive it.
            We can only live into it.

John then hears the promise:

“They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the centre of the throne will be their shepherd.” (7.16)

Here the Lamb is also the shepherd.

A tender image.
            Pastoral in the truest sense.
Here we see God incarnated not as a tyrant but a guide.
            Not as a destroyer but a protector.

Revelation continues: “He will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (7.17)

Every tear.

Think about that.

Not ignored.
            Not dismissed.
            Not minimised.

Wiped away.
            By God’s own hand.

This is not sentimental escapism.
            It is defiant hope.
It is a promise that the pain of empire, the grief of injustice,
            the wounds of violence, will not have the last word.

It is a promise of healing that is both personal and cosmic.

And so our companion text from John’s Gospel speaks here too:

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places… I go to prepare a place for you.” (14.1-2)

Jesus promises not an exclusive mansion for the privileged few,
            but a spacious welcome for all who will come.

He is the way—not of conquest, but of sacrificial love.
            Not of fear, but of trust.
Not of exclusion, but of radical hospitality.

Friends, Revelation 7 is not a map of the future.
            It is a manifesto for the present.

It is a vision meant to shape us now.
            To draw us into God’s dream for the world.

So what might it mean for us at Bloomsbury?

It might mean asking whose languages and cultures we celebrate.
            Whose struggles we stand alongside.
            Whose suffering we refuse to ignore.
            Whose voices we amplify.

It might mean choosing welcome over suspicion.
            Generosity over fear.
            Solidarity over apathy.

It might mean refusing to baptise empire’s false peace,
            and instead working for God’s true shalom.

Because empire always offers us a counterfeit peace.

Rome called it the Pax Romana
            —peace through conquest, through fear, through enforced silence.
It was the peace of the cross used as an instrument of terror.
            It was peace for the powerful and subjugation for everyone else.

Today, empire’s peace might look different,
            but its logic remains the same.

It tells us to value stability over justice.
            To keep quiet about racism, poverty, and violence
            so as not to make things “political.”

To protect our comfort rather than confront injustice.
            To accept growing inequality as the price of prosperity.
To treat refugees and migrants as threats instead of neighbours.
            To believe that security requires surveillance, walls, weapons.

Empire’s peace is always conditional.
            It always depends on someone else’s suffering being ignored.

But Revelation’s vision refuses that lie.
            It unveils it.
            It calls it what it is.

John’s great multitude is not gathered by force but by grace.
            It is not uniform but diverse.
            It is not a conquered people but a redeemed people.

And at its centre is the Lamb who was slain.
            The one who suffered empire’s violence rather than inflict it.
The one who reveals that true peace comes only through justice,
            only through truth,
            only through love that is willing to bear wounds.

So to work for God’s true shalom
            means refusing to stay silent in the face of empire’s injustices.
It means being willing to name the systems
            that benefit some at the expense of others.
It means choosing solidarity with the marginalised
            even when it is costly.
It means letting our tears move us to action.

Because God’s promise is not a peace that ignores pain
            but one that wipes away every tear.
Not a kingdom that crushes difference
            but one that gathers every nation, tribe, people, and language.
Not a victory won by the sword
            but by the Lamb’s self-giving love.

This is the vision that must shape our worship,
            our mission, our politics, our lives.
This is the alternative to empire’s false peace
            that we are called to proclaim and embody.

But let’s be honest: this vision can feel so far away it’s hard to grasp.

We might nod along on Sunday,
            but by Monday we’re back in a world
            that runs on fear and competition.

We’re surrounded by messages that tell us
            that security means shutting others out,
that success means outdoing others,
            that belonging means sameness.

We hear that real power is force,
            that real victory is domination,
            that real worth is wealth.

Revelation knows this.
            It knows the pull of empire’s imagination is strong.
It knows how easy it is
            to lose hope that anything can change.

That’s why John doesn’t just argue. He shows.

He paints this vast, cosmic, beautiful picture
            of a multitude no one can count
            —gathered, praising, healed, reconciled.

He wants us to see it.
            To let that vision soak into us.
To let it shape our longings, our decisions, our loyalties.

Because change begins in the imagination.

If we can’t imagine a reconciled world,
            we’ll never work for one.
If we can’t see a community of every nation and tongue praising God together,
            we’ll settle for churches that all look and think the same.
If we can’t picture God wiping away every tear,
            we’ll start believing that suffering is just how things are.

So Revelation says: Look again.
            Don’t let empire be your teacher.
Don’t let cynicism have the last word.
            Don’t accept the world as it is
            as the world as it must be.

We need this vision precisely because the world is broken.
            Because the work of justice is hard.
            Because solidarity is costly.
            Because hope is fragile.

John offers us not an escape from the world’s pain,
            but a promise that God is at work redeeming it.

He gives us a glimpse of where God is leading all creation.
            He invites us to live now
            as if that future is already breaking in.

So, friends, can we dare to let this vision shape us?
            Can we commit to seeing as John sees?
Can we help one another imagine—and practice—
            a community where every tribe and people
            and language are truly welcome?
Where worship isn’t just words
            but a witness to God’s coming kingdom?

This is the gift—and the challenge—of Revelation’s unveiling.

And yes, it might mean reimagining our worship.
            But I’m not talking here about musical style or preferred choice of instrument.

Because worship in the Book of Revelation isn’t about the music,
            it’s about the politics.

To sing “Salvation belongs to our God”
            is to say it does not belong to any government or system.
To gather across difference is to reject empire’s divisions.
            To follow the Lamb is to renounce the logic of violence.

This is hard.
            It will cost us.

But Revelation dares to say: It is worth it.

Because there is a multitude waiting.
            Longing.
            Hoping.

And God is still gathering them in.

“They will hunger no more.”
“God will wipe away every tear.”

This is the promise.
            This is the hope.
            This is the call.

So let us join the song of the multitude:

“Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!”

Let us follow the Lamb wherever he goes.
            Let us bear witness to a love that conquers by giving itself away.
Let us live even now as citizens of that redeemed, reconciling multitude.

For worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy to receive our worship, our loyalty, our lives.

To him be blessing and honour and glory and might forever and ever.

Amen.