Baptist Bookworm: The Shield of Faith: Forming Communities of Resistance

A Sermon for the Baptist Union of Wales Annual Conference

The Welsh Church, London

22^nd June 2025

By Jean-Pierre Dalbéra from Paris, France - La tenture de l'Apocalypse (Angers)
Uploaded by Markos90, CC BY 2.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20845125

Revelation 13.1–10

Introduction

Friends, it is a privilege to share this time of worship and reflection
with you today at the Baptist Union of Wales Annual Conference,
here in the heart of London.

We gather as Baptists from different contexts
—rural and urban, Welsh and English-speaking,
long-established and newly emerging.

But what we share is this: we are people of faith.

And more than that, we are people of resistant faith.

We gather today not just to celebrate our shared life
            but to renew our vision for what it means to be the church of Jesus Christ
            in a world increasingly shaped
                        by the forces of domination, division, and despair.

And the reading set before us—Revelation 13:1–10
—confronts these forces head-on.

Here we meet the beast rising from the sea,
a monstrous symbol of imperial violence and oppression.

And yet, nestled within this apocalyptic vision is a call:
a call to endurance, and to faith.

It is to this call that I invite us now to respond afresh,
            as we ask what it might mean for us today to raise the shield of faith,
            and to become communities of resistance,
            communities of faith-full endurance.

Why Revelation Still Matters

Before we dive into the beasts and battles of Revelation 13,
it’s worth asking: Why bother with Revelation at all?

Why preach from a book filled with such troubling images,
when so many people associate it with fear,
fanaticism, or end-times speculation?

I want to suggest that Revelation still matters, perhaps now more than ever
—not as a prediction of future disasters,
but as a profound critique of the present.

It speaks from the underside of history,
giving voice to persecuted believers under empire.

And it gives us vision—not just of what is, but of what could be.

Revelation disrupts our illusions.
It unmasks the systems we’re told to accept.

It reminds us that injustice is not inevitable,
and that God's future is already breaking into the present.

And for congregations in Wales and London alike
—faithful, weary, hopeful communities living in uncertain times—
it offers courage.

Not by denying reality,
but by seeing it more clearly than ever, and still daring to hope.

So today, we approach Revelation not as a puzzle to decode,
but as a call to faith.

A summons to see with different eyes.
A challenge to resist what must be resisted,
and to believe that the Lamb still reigns.

Naming the Beast

And so to chapter 13, where the imagery we meet is jarring, even grotesque:

“And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, having ten horns and seven heads…
and on its heads were blasphemous names.” (v.1)

But this beast is not just a monstrous creature of nightmare;
it is a political symbol.

Drawing on Daniel’s vision of four beasts representing successive empires,
John’s vision combines them into one ultimate empire
—a terrifying composite of lion, bear, and leopard.

The point is clear: this beast represents imperial power
in its most destructive form.

It is the embodiment of empire.
In John’s world, that meant Rome.

Rome with its military might.
Rome with its cult of emperor-worship.

Rome with its violent suppression of any who dared resist.
Rome, which crucified Jesus and exiled John to Patmos.

But John’s vision is not limited to one time and place.

The beast is not Rome alone.
It is any system of domination that demands allegiance,
enforces conformity, and punishes dissent.

The beast is empire, wherever and whenever it raises its head.

And so we must ask: where do we see the beast today?

Do we see it in economic systems that profit from the exploitation of workers
and the destruction of the planet.
In political ideologies that promote xenophobia and nationalism
while scapegoating the vulnerable.
In media empires that distort truth, glorify violence,
and commodify our attention.
In religious institutions, even churches,
that align with power instead of standing with the powerless.

The beast is all around us.
But it is also insidious.

It doesn’t always come with horns and thunder.
Sometimes it comes with slogans, algorithms, flags, and headlines.
Sometimes it comes wrapped in prayers.

This is why Revelation matters
—not as a map of the future, but as a mirror held up to the present.

It helps us unmask the forces at work in our world.
It gives us language for resistance.

It reveals empire for what it is:
a counterfeit kingdom, demanding our worship
and declaring war on the saints.

Worship and Resistance

One of the most chilling lines in this passage is verse 4:

“They worshipped the dragon, for he had given his authority to the beast,
and they worshipped the beast, saying,
‘Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it?’”

This is the crux of empire’s power:
it demands not just obedience, but worship.

And it convinces the people that resistance is futile.
“Who can fight against it?” they ask.

This is the temptation in every age
—to believe the lies of inevitability.

That injustice is just how the world works.
That politics is a game we can’t change.
That the poor will always be with us, so why bother?

But Revelation says:
Do not believe the beast.

It may appear invincible, but it is doomed.
Its power is derivative, not divine.

And its end is certain.
The beast rises, yes.
But it does not reign forever.

In contrast to the beast’s worship,
            Revelation calls us to alternative allegiance
            —to the Lamb who was slain,
            to the God who brings down the mighty and lifts up the lowly.

Worship, in Revelation you see, is an act of resistance.

When we gather to proclaim Jesus as Lord,
we are refusing to worship Caesar.

When we share bread and wine,
we are defying a world that feeds the rich and starves the poor.

When we sing songs of peace,
we confront a culture addicted to violence.

In this sense, worship is not escape from the world.
It is our training ground for re-entering the world
as agents of transformation.

Faith as Resistance: The Shield We Raise

And so we come to the heart of today’s reflection, in verse 10:
“Here is a call for the endurance and faith of the saints.”

Endurance and faith.
Not submission. Not despair. Not compromise.
But faith that endures.

This is the shield of faith that Paul speaks of in Ephesians 6
—a defensive but active posture against the arrows of evil.

And in the context of Revelation,
it is the shield we raise when we stand against empire.

Faith is not naïve optimism.
Faith is not “thoughts and prayers” offered as a substitute for justice.

Faith is resistance.

It is the resistant faith of a church in Cardiff that joins a housing campaign,
challenging landlords to treat tenants with dignity.
It is the resistant faith of a church in East London
that chooses to become a Sanctuary Church,
offering hospitality to migrants facing deportation.
It is the resistant faith of rural chapels that teach young people about climate justice,
helping them organise to protect their future.
It is the resistant faith of Christian communities in Palestine
who, amidst unimaginable suffering, continue to pray,
to protest, and to hope.

This is the kind of faith that Revelation is calling forth.

Not a private spirituality,
but a public witness.

Not a retreat into the safety of religion,
but a bold engagement with the world,
fuelled by the gospel of peace.

Holding Faith on the Margins

But let’s be honest.

Holding the shield of faith is hard
—especially when you’re tired.

Some of our congregations are ageing.
Our buildings are demanding.
Our numbers are shrinking.

Many churches, both in the valleys of Wales and the suburbs of London,
            are surrounded by neighbourhoods
            that no longer feel like they understand
                        —or even need—the church.

It can feel as though we are fading, forgotten, and marginalised.

The temptation is to see this as failure.

But I want to suggest that the margins
are precisely where the Lamb is most powerfully at work.

In Revelation, it is not the empire’s temples or palaces
that carry God’s presence.

It is the small, scattered, vulnerable communities
that bear faithful witness.

The power of the Lamb is revealed not in strength,
but in solidarity with the oppressed.

The endurance of the saints is not triumphant,
but patient, persistent, and deeply rooted.

Could it be that the story of God in our time is not being written in the corridors of power,

· but in the pews of chapels in Carmarthenshire,

· in church basements in Tower Hamlets,

· in small Sunday services attended by six faithful souls,

· in these rhythms of prayer and protest
carried out far from the spotlight?

We may sometimes be small.
But we are never irrelevant.

We may be on the edge.
But the edge is often where the Spirit breathes new life.

And so, to every congregation feeling fragile,
overlooked, or anxious for the future:
hear this word from Revelation
—not as condemnation, but as commissioning.

The shield of faith is not given only to the mighty, but to the weary.

And your faithfulness matters.

You are part of the story. You are part of the resistance.

Forming Communities of Resistance

But here’s the thing: we cannot do this alone.
Resistance is not a solo sport.

The call is not just to individual endurance, but to communal faith.

· The beast isolates; but the church gathers.

· The empire fragments; but the church unites.

· The world excludes; but the church embraces.

We are called to form communities of resistance
—communities shaped not by fear, but by faith;
not by domination, but by the radical inclusivity of the gospel.

These communities may look small. They may seem fragile.

· But so did the early church.

· So did the nonviolent marches in Alabama.

· So do the candlelit vigils for ceasefire and peace.

These are the mustard seeds of God’s kingdom.

In London, in Wales, across these islands and beyond,
God is forming such communities.

You are such communities.

When you pray for peace and work for justice,
when you welcome the refugee and listen to the marginalised,
when you challenge economic injustice and embody environmental care,

You are resisting the beast.
You are raising the shield of faith.

Resisting with Imagination: The Prophetic Role of the Church

If the beast thrives by limiting our vision
—by convincing us that nothing can ever change—
then one of the most powerful tools of resistance the church holds
is prophetic imagination.

The Book of Revelation itself is an act of radical imagination.
It dares to see beyond the empire’s propaganda.

It paints alternative visions:
of heavenly worship, of divine justice,
of a new city descending from heaven in which every tear is wiped away.

These are not idle dreams.
Rather they are declarations of what could be
—and what, in God’s reality, already is.

And this is where the church comes in
—not just as a place of sanctuary, but as a school of imagination.

Our calling is not merely to critique the powers that be,
but to embody and imagine the world
as it could be under the reign of the Lamb.

When we gather and listen deeply to one another’s stories,
we are imagining a world where all voices matter.
When we shape our worship around justice and mercy,
we are rehearsing the rhythms of the world to come.
When we teach children to sing peace rather than power,
we are planting seeds of transformation.
When we organise with others—Muslim, Jewish, secular, or spiritual—
towards shared goals for housing, wages, or safety,
we are incarnating that vision in the here and now.