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.

Behold the Lamb: Power Reimagined

 A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

10 August 2025

Series: Revelation: An Unveiling for Our Times

Revelation 5.1–14; John 1.29–31

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

Today we stand before one of the most breath-taking visions in all of Scripture.

Revelation 5 is not just a text to be read.
            It is a drama to be witnessed. A vision to enter.
            A reality to shape our imaginations and our loyalties.

It is, quite simply, an unveiling.

Because Revelation, as we’re discovering in this series,
            is not a coded prediction of future disasters.
It is an apocalypse in the original sense—a revealing.

It rips away the veil that empire would drape over our eyes.
            It shows us the world as God sees it.
And it calls us to live accordingly.

A couple of weeks ago, we began this journey
            with John’s opening vision of Christ as the faithful witness,
            the firstborn of the dead, the ruler of the kings of the earth.

Today we move deeper into the throne room of heaven.

Revelation 5 continues a scene that began in chapter 4,
            where John is summoned through an open door
            to see “what must take place.”

He is shown the true centre of the universe: a throne.

Not Rome’s throne.
            Not Caesar’s palace.
But the throne of God.

Surrounded by living creatures, elders,
            thunder and lightning, singing day and night:

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come.” (4.8)

This is the context for chapter 5.

Because if Revelation 4 declares God’s sovereignty over creation,
            Revelation 5 reveals God’s plan to redeem it.

John sees in the right hand of the one seated on the throne a scroll.
            It is written on the inside and on the back, sealed with seven seals.

Scholars have debated endlessly what exactly the scroll represents,
            but one thing is clear:

It contains the divine plan.
            God’s redemptive purposes for history.
The answer to the question:
            How will God address evil, suffering, injustice?

It is, if you like, the script of salvation.

But there is a problem.

John says, “I saw a mighty angel proclaiming with a loud voice,
            ‘Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?’” (5.2)

This is the question:
            Who is worthy to reveal God’s plan?
            Who is fit to enact God’s justice?
            Who can bring history to its true goal?

And no one is found.

No one in heaven or on earth or under the earth.

And so John begins to weep bitterly.

And I want us to pause here.

Because this is one of the most honest moments in all of Scripture.

John is not a distant observer of celestial visions.
            He is a pastor.
            A prophet.
            A human being who knows his world is broken.

And when he sees no one worthy, he weeps.

He weeps for his churches in Asia Minor, struggling under the shadow of Rome.
            He weeps for martyrs who have died for their faith.
He weeps for a world where evil seems unchallenged,
            where empire seems unending, where hope seems impossible.

John’s tears are our tears.
            And we don’t have to look far to find reasons to weep.

We live in a world where children go to bed hungry
            while billionaires race to build private rockets.

We live in a world where refugees drown at sea
            while borders close and hearts harden.

A world where the climate crisis accelerates,
            and those least responsible suffer the most.

Where systemic racism, sexism, ableism, and homophobia
            persist in structures meant to serve all.

We live in a world where wars rage, families are shattered,
            and the innocent pay the price.

We know these things.
            They are not distant abstractions.
They are our neighbours.
            They are our headlines.

We weep for Ukraine and Gaza and Sudan.
            We weep for those sleeping on our streets.
We weep for the violence done to the earth.
            We weep for racism and injustice and cruelty that seem to have no end.

These are the wounds of our city and our planet.
            And like John, sometimes all we can do is weep.

Because we see that no one seems worthy to fix this.
            No political leader who will truly choose justice over power.
No system that can truly reform itself.
            There is no ‘plan’ that does not compromise with empire’s logic.

And we know our own complicity, too.
            We see the ways we benefit from injustice, even as we lament it.
We see our limits, our failures, our fear of sacrifice.

It is right to weep.
            It is faithful to lament.
Revelation does not rush past this moment.

John’s tears are holy.
            They name the truth that empire wants to hide:
That things are not as they should be.
            That the world is broken.
            That we cannot save ourselves.

But Revelation does not leave us there.
            It does not silence our weeping, but responds to it.

“Do not weep,” says the elder.

Not because there is nothing to grieve,
            but because there is one who is worthy.

There is one who does not conquer through violence, but through love.
            One who bears the wounds of empire rather than inflicting them.
One who takes away the sin of the world
            not by demanding sacrifice, but by becoming the sacrifice.

This is our hope:
            Not in our own power, but in the Lamb who was slain.
Not in the strategies of empire, but in the faithfulness of God.
            Not in avoiding the cross, but in trusting resurrection.

And so the vision turns.

The elder says to John:

“Do not weep. See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals.” (5.5)

We expect power.
            We expect might.
            We expect the Lion.

But John looks—and what does he see?
            “Then I saw a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.” (5.6)

Not a Lion roaring in conquest.
            But a Lamb who has been slain.

This is the heart of Revelation.

This is the scandal of Christian faith.

God’s answer to evil is not greater violence.
            God’s answer to empire is not a rival empire.
            God’s answer to power is not more power.

God’s answer is the Lamb.
            Slaughtered.
            Yet standing.
Alive.
            Victorious through vulnerability.

Here we are offered an alternative image that purifies our imagination.

Rome’s images were everywhere in the first-century world:

• Eagles and standards.
• Statues of Caesar.
• Coins proclaiming his divinity.
• Triumph arches celebrating military conquest.

They all shouted: Power is violence. Power is domination. Power is fear.

But John offers a different image.

A Lamb.
            Slain.
            Yet alive.
Worthy.

This is the vision Revelation wants to burn into our hearts.

Because the Lamb reveals the true nature of God.

Not distant.
            Not indifferent.
            Not a cosmic tyrant.

But one who enters into suffering.
            Who bears the wounds of empire.
Who refuses to conquer by the sword,
            but conquers through the cross.

It’s here that our companion text from John’s Gospel speaks so powerfully:

“Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

John the Baptist’s words are prophetic.

Because the sin of the world is not just personal failure.
            It is the whole system of violence, exploitation,
            idolatry, and empire that crushes life.

And Jesus comes not to reinforce it, but to take it away.

Not by killing his enemies.
            But by forgiving them.
Not by demanding sacrifice.
            But by becoming the sacrifice.

Revelation 5 then shows the heavenly response to the Lamb.

The living creatures and elders fall before him.

They sing a new song:

“You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals,
for you were slaughtered and by your blood you ransomed for God
saints from every tribe and language and people and nation;
you have made them to be a kingdom and priests serving our God.” (5.9-10)

Notice the logic:

• Worthiness is not in might, but in sacrifice.
• Redemption is not for one nation, but for all nations.
• The result is not a new empire, but a kingdom of priests.

This is profoundly political.

Because it challenges every system that divides, exploits, excludes.
            It challenges every boundary we draw between us and them.
It challenges the assumption that violence is necessary,
            that domination is natural,
            that security requires oppression.

It says: There is another way.

The way of the Lamb.

John’s vision culminates in cosmic worship.

Countless angels sing:

“Worthy is the Lamb that was slaughtered
to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might
and honour and glory and blessing!” (5.12)

Every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth joins in:

“To the one seated on the throne and to the Lamb
be blessing and honour and glory and might forever and ever!” (5.13)

This is not escapist fantasy.
            It is resistance literature.

Because worship is political.

To say worthy is the Lamb is to say Caesar is not.
            To worship the slain Lamb is to refuse to worship the beast.
To sing this song is to train our hearts to see the world as God sees it.

We need this liturgical and visionary purification of our imaginations.

Because empire still trains our imaginations.

• Advertising tells us our worth is in what we buy.
• Politicians tell us security requires walls and weapons.
• Economies tell us the earth is a resource to be plundered.
• Media tells us violence is entertainment.

Revelation says: Look again.
            See the Lamb.
            Worship the Lamb.
            Follow the Lamb.

But let’s be honest:
            following the Lamb is not the path of prestige or ease.

It is profoundly countercultural—even here, even now.

Because our world still rewards the roar of the lion
            more than the vulnerability of the Lamb.

We live in a city of ambition, competition,
            branding, and self-promotion.

We are told daily that success is power,
            wealth is security, and image is everything.

The logic of empire is subtle.
            It does not always come with legions and banners.

Sometimes it comes with advertising slogans,
            corporate strategies, and political soundbites.

It promises us peace but demands our complicity.
            It offers us comfort at the cost of someone else’s suffering.
It normalises injustice and numbs compassion.

To follow the Lamb means refusing those lies.

It means asking hard questions
            about how we live, spend, vote, work, worship.

It means acknowledging
            where we have benefited from systems of oppression.

It means choosing solidarity over safety,
            truth over convenience, sacrifice over self-interest.

It also means letting ourselves be changed.

Because the Lamb is not just a model to admire but a Lord to obey.
            He calls us not to dominate but to serve.

Not to repay violence with violence but to seek peace.
            Not to exclude but to welcome.
Not to fear death but to trust resurrection.

And this calling is not just for individuals.
            It is for us as a community.

What would it mean for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
            to be known as a people of the Lamb?

A community that embodies the politics of the cross?
            A congregation that sings a different song in the heart of empire?

It would mean shaping worship
            that forms our imagination away from empire’s values.

It would mean nurturing relationships
            that resist isolation and commodification.

It would mean working for justice
            not as an optional add-on but as core to our calling.

It would mean opening our doors and our hearts
            to those the world excludes.

Friends, this is the invitation Revelation offers.

Not an escape from the world but an unveiling of its truth
            —and a summons to live differently.

Not fear of the future but faithfulness in the present.

Not allegiance to the beast but worship of the Lamb.

And friends, this is our calling.

We are not spectators of this vision.
            We are participants.

We are the kingdom of priests the Lamb has ransomed.
            We are the community that witnesses to another way of being human.
We are called to resist empire’s lies and embody the Lamb’s truth.

This might look like welcoming the stranger when the world builds walls.

It might look like refusing the logic of violence
            in our speech, our politics, our policies.

It might look like sharing our resources generously in a world of greed.
            It might look like telling the truth even when it costs us.

It might look like worship that shapes our ethics,
            prayer that fuels our action,
            and community that practices forgiveness.

It will not be easy.
            Because the Lamb was slain.
And we too may face cost, loss, and misunderstanding.

But John says that the Lamb stands.
            Resurrected.
            Victorious.

And so will God’s purposes.

So let us behold the Lamb.

Let us weep with John over a broken world.
            But let us also hear the angel say: Do not weep.
            See the Lamb.

Let us join the song of heaven.
            Let us refuse the worship of empire.
Let us be, even now, a kingdom of priests serving our God.

For worthy is the Lamb that was slain.
            Worthy is the Lamb to receive our loyalty, our love, our lives.

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

Amen.