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.”

It’s easy to forget, after all the symbolism and judgment and resistance,
            that this is where Revelation has been leading us all along.

Not to destruction, but to renewal.
            Not to despair, but to hope.
Not to escape from creation, but to its transformation.

We need this vision.

Because let’s be honest:
            there is plenty in our world that makes hope hard.

We see war.
            We see environmental destruction.
We see inequality that seems baked in.
            We see communities divided along lines of race, class, nation, ideology.

We see a city where people sleep on the streets beside luxury hotels.
            We see systems that tell us to value profit over people,
            security over compassion, comfort over justice.

And even in our personal lives, we carry grief, regret, longing, fear.
            We see relationships fracture.
We feel our own limitations.
            We know what it is to lose.

Revelation does not deny any of this.

In fact, it has spent 20 chapters naming it.
            It has revealed empire’s violence, corruption, idolatry.
It has refused to let us look away from the suffering that power inflicts.

Revelation is not escapist fantasy.
            It is political and economic resistance literature.

It unveils the false promises of empire.
            It insists that things as they are will be judged.
            It tells the truth about the world’s pain.

But it does this so that we can imagine something else.

It tears down our illusions so it can open our eyes to God’s promise.

“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more.” (21.1)

The sea in ancient thought represented chaos, danger, uncreation.

John’s vision isn’t about a literal elimination of oceans.
            It is about God ending the forces of chaos and fear.
            It is about creation healed, safe, whole.

“And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.” (21.2)

Notice: coming down.

This is not a vision of us going up to heaven.
            It is heaven coming down to earth.
It is not escape from creation, but its redemption.

The New Jerusalem is not something 'coming' in a future we watch from afar,
            but the church militant itself
            —called to live as the city of God in the present.

This is a challenge to us.
            Because it says the promise of God’s future is meant to shape our present.

We are not waiting passively for rescue.
            Rather, we are called to live now as citizens of that city.
We are called to be signs of that coming kingdom.

“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them.’” (21.3)

This is the heart of the promise.

Not simply streets of gold.
            Not clouds and harps.
But God with us.
            Emmanuel forever.

This is the hope of the prophets.
            This is the promise of Christmas fulfilled.
This is the dream of the whole biblical story:
            God dwelling with God’s people in a world made new.

And listen to the promise:

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more.” (21.4)

What a word for our grieving world.

For every parent who has lost a child.
            For every refugee who has lost a home.
For every community that has lost members to violence.
            For every person who has sat by a hospital bed in fear.
For everyone who has buried hope.

God will wipe every tear.

Not ignored.
            Not explained away.
Not forgotten.
            But wiped away by God’s own hand.

This is not sentimental comfort.
            It is defiant hope.
It is God’s “No” to everything that wounds and destroys.
            It is God’s promise that death itself will die.

“And the one who was seated on the throne said,
            ‘See, I am making all things new.’” (21.5)

Not all new things.
            But all things new.

This is the promise of renewal, not replacement.
            This is not a divine scrap-and-rebuild.
It is resurrection.
            It is transfiguration.
            It is creation healed.

And it is spoken by the Alpha and the Omega—the beginning and the end.

God is not just the source of creation.
            God is its goal.
God is not a distant observer.
            God is the one drawing all things into life.

Revelation 22 takes the vision even further.

“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)

Do you hear the echo of John’s Gospel?

“The water I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” (John 4)

Jesus offers living water to the Samaritan woman.
            A woman excluded, marginalised, shamed.
And here, at the end of the Bible,
            that promise is fulfilled for the whole world.

The river flows.
            Free.
Abundant.
            Clear.

“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)

The healing of the nations.

What a vision for a divided world.
            A world of war and sanctions.
A world of closed borders and suspicion.
            A world that has normalised inequality.

God’s future is not the triumph of one nation over others.
            It is healing.
It is reconciliation.
            It is justice that restores.

And then this promise:

“They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads.” (22.4)

No more fear.
            No more confusion about who we are.
Marked not by empire’s numbers, but by God’s own name.
            Known.
            Loved.
            Belonging.

“And there will be no more night; they need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.” (22.5)

No more night.

No more hiddenness.
            No more fear of the dark.
No more violence done in secret.
            No more ignorance.
No more despair.

Only light.
            Only God’s presence.
Only love that lasts forever.

Friends, this is the promise that ends Revelation.

And this is the promise meant to sustain us now.

Because John’s vision is not an invitation to passive waiting.
            It is a call to faithful witness.

It is not about predicting the future but deconstructing the present,
            so that readers might participate in bringing God’s vision into being.

If God’s future is a reconciled city,
            then we work for reconciliation now.

If God’s future is the healing of the nations,
            then we work for justice now.

If God’s future is a world without tears,
            then we practice compassion now.

If God’s future is God dwelling with humanity,
            then we make space for God—and one another—here.

But let’s be clear: this is not easy work.

Because empire’s logic is stubborn.
            It seeps into our assumptions.

It whispers that real security lies in exclusion.
            That real success is measured in accumulation.
That real power is domination.
            That compassion is weakness.

The New Jerusalem vision confronts all of that.

It tells 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.
To trust in God’s abundance
            rather than our fear of scarcity.

It asks us, as a church, to examine ourselves honestly:

• Who do we make space for in our worship and our leadership?
• Whose voices are we amplifying—and whose are we neglecting?
• How do our budgets, our prayers, our time reflect God’s priorities?
• Where have we become too comfortable with things as they are?

Because to pray “your kingdom come on earth as in heaven”
            is to invite our own transformation.

Revelation’s final vision is not given to lull us to sleep
            with dreams of heaven.
It is given to wake us up.
            To call us to be a community that embodies even now
            the promise of what God will do.

What would it mean for Bloomsbury to be a foretaste
            of the New Jerusalem in central London?

To be a place where barriers fall,
            where tears are noticed and wiped away,
            where healing is not just spoken of but practiced?

To become, here and now,
            a community so shaped by God’s coming future
            that people catch a glimpse of hope when they meet us?

This is our calling.
            This is our witness.

Not to escape the world’s pain but to share in it with hope.
            Not to build our own kingdom but to point to God’s.
Not to wait for rescue but to live as those already redeemed.

This is why Revelation ends not with fear but with invitation:

“Let anyone who is thirsty come.
            Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.” (22.17)

It is for anyone.
            Anyone who is thirsty.
            Anyone willing to receive.

So today, as we finish this series, hear the invitation again.

If you are weary of the world as it is
            —come.
If you long for healing—for yourself, for your community, for the earth
            —come.
If you are thirsty for meaning, justice, hope
            —come.
If you want to be part of God’s new thing
            —come.

Drink.
Live.
Hope.
Act.

Because this invitation is not abstract.

It is personal.
            It is meant for you.
            For us.

For those who are tired of playing by empire’s rules.
            For those who are grieving losses that still ache.
For those whose hopes have been dashed
            so many times they’re afraid to hope again.
For those who struggle to see anything new
            in themselves or in the world.

This promise is for you:

“See, I am making all things new.”

Not just the grand sweep of history, but your own story.
            Your own heart.
Your own relationships.
            Your own sense of purpose.

God does not discard you.
            God does not replace you.
            God renews you.

This is resurrection hope.
            Not that the old is simply thrown away, but that it is transformed.
That what is wounded can be healed.
            That what is broken can be mended.
That what is dead can live again.

And it’s communal.

Because this promise is not just for isolated individuals but for a people.
            A city.
            A shared life.

It calls us to imagine our church, our neighbourhoods, our city
            as places where God’s renewing work is already breaking in.

What would it look like if Bloomsbury were known
            as a place where tears are wiped away?
Where strangers become friends?
            Where the thirsty are offered living water without price?
Where hope is not a platitude but a practice?

It would mean letting God remake us as well.
            It would mean confessing where we have settled for less.
It would mean opening ourselves to be agents of God’s renewal.

This is not work we do alone.
            It is Spirit work.
Grace work.
            God’s own promise to us:

“I will be their God and they will be my people.” (Jeremiah 31.33)

So let us say yes to this promise.
            Let us receive the invitation.
Let us live as citizens of the New Jerusalem even now,
            witnesses to the world that God is not done yet.
That 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, our loyalty, our lives.

To God be the glory forever and ever.

Amen.