God’s Name, Our Calling

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

28 September 2025

 

Exodus 2.23–25; 3.1–15; 4.10–17 with John 8.58

The book of Exodus begins in the shadow of empire.
            The people of Israel are in bondage, their labour is exploited,
            their bodies are controlled, and their children are under threat.

And then, in the midst of their trial and torment,
            comes this deceptively simple sentence:

“The Israelites groaned under their slavery, and cried out.
Out of the slavery their cry for help rose up to God.” (Exodus 2:23)

It would have been easy for them to believe their cries were falling into silence.
            That no one was listening.
That their suffering was just another statistic
            in the ledger books of Pharaoh’s wealth.
But the text tells us otherwise:

“God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant…
God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them.”

God heard. God remembered.
            God looked. God took notice.

The God of the book of Exodus is no abstract deity
            detached from the world’s pain.
This is a God whose ears ring with the sound of the oppressed,
            whose heart is moved by covenant loyalty,
            whose eyes see what empires try to hide.

When we gather in this sanctuary here at Bloomsbury, and pray for the world,
            we are placing ourselves in the long tradition of people
            who dare to believe that God is not deaf to our cries.

The prayers we offer for justice, for peace, for healing,
            are not acts of wishful thinking.
They are acts of deep faith
            that the same God who heard Israel’s groans still hears ours.

Let me tell you about a meeting I was in some years ago
            with community leaders from Citizens UK.
We were gathered in a draughty community hall in East London,
            listening to the testimonies of low-paid cleaners.
They spoke of working long hours for wages that couldn’t feed a family,
            of harassment at work, of being invisible in the buildings they cleaned.
As each one spoke, you could feel the room lean in.
            We were hearing their groans.

And in that moment, I found myself thinking:
            This is Exodus. This is God’s people crying out.

And as in Exodus, God’s hearing doesn’t stop at sympathy
            —it leads to sending.

Moses isn’t exactly volunteer of the month.
            By the time we meet him in Exodus 3, he’s a fugitive,
                        tending sheep far from Egypt.
            His previously charmed and privileged life has narrowed to the manageable.
                        The wilderness, the sheep, the routines
                        —safe enough, predictable enough.

And then—while doing the most ordinary of tasks—
            he sees something extraordinary:
            a bush on fire, yet not consumed.

It’s striking that God doesn’t first call Moses in the temple,
            or in a grand palace,
            or through a carefully organised conference.

God calls him in the middle of his workday,
            in a patch of wilderness,
            through something he can’t quite explain.

The voice from the bush calls his name:
            “Moses, Moses!”
And like so many before him, he answers,
            “Here I am.”

God wastes no time:
            “I have observed the misery of my people… I have heard their cry…
                        I know their sufferings…
            So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people… out of Egypt.”

There’s a rhythm here worth noticing:
            God hears, God remembers, God sees
            —and then God sends.

But Moses’ reaction is instant:
            “Who am I that I should go?”

He doubts his identity, his capacity, his right to speak.
            It’s the same question so many of us ask
            when we feel nudged towards something daunting:
Who am I to step up?
            Who am I to make a difference?

When God reassures him — “I will be with you” — Moses still hesitates:
            “If they ask me your name, what shall I say?”
In other words:
            I need more than your voice in the dark.
            I need to know who you are.

And God’s answer is unlike anything in the ancient world:
            “I AM WHO I AM” — or “I WILL BE WHO I WILL BE.”

This is not a tidy label to control or domesticate.
            This is God as dynamic presence,
                        God as promise in motion,
            God as the one who will be faithfully with you in whatever comes.

In Egypt, Pharaoh’s name was stamped on monuments,
            decrees, coins, and statues.

Names were claims to power, tools of control.
            But God’s name here refuses the imperial script.
It is not a brand. It is a verb.
            It cannot be carved in stone and made a monument;
            it must be lived, enacted, experienced.

One commentator says that God’s name is “a promise in the form of a verb.”
            And that means that God will be known not in abstraction,
            but in liberation:

• at the Red Sea, when waters part;
• in the wilderness, when bread falls from heaven;
• at Sinai, when covenant shapes community.

This is not just ancient history.
            We see it when migrant workers win legal protection
                        after years of being underpaid.
            We see it when tenants in unsafe housing
                        force landlords to make repairs.
            We see it when a congregation stands alongside people seeking asylum,
                        and the long arc of change begins to bend towards justice.

“I AM” is still showing up in the acts of liberation
            that bear God’s character.

Moses tries one more objection:
            “I am slow of speech and slow of tongue.”

Tradition has wondered if Moses had a stammer,
            or simply feared public speaking.
Either way, he names a limitation.

God’s response is not to erase that limitation, but to work with it:
            “I will be with your mouth.”
And then, graciously, God appoints Aaron as his partner.

I’m reminded of a moment in one of our Living Wage campaigns
            when the person most affected by an issue
                        —the person whose story could move hearts—
            was too nervous to speak at the rally.

So another member stood beside them and told their story for them,
            with their consent and blessing.
The voice was shared, but the truth was still told.
            That is how liberation work often happens:
            together, with our strengths covering one another’s weaknesses.

In God’s economy, our perceived weaknesses
            can become spaces for collaboration.

The mission of liberation is not accomplished by flawless individuals
            but by interdependent communities.

This is good news for us at Bloomsbury.
            We don’t have to wait until we feel eloquent enough, confident enough,
            or strong enough to engage in God’s work for justice.

God works through what we bring,
            and supplies what we lack through the gifts of others.

Centuries later, in the temple courts,
            Jesus will speak words that scandalise his hearers:
            “Before Abraham was, I AM” (John 8:58).

In claiming the divine name,
            Jesus aligns himself fully with the God of Exodus
            —the God who hears the oppressed,
                        who confronts Pharaohs, who liberates captives.

And in Jesus, “I AM” becomes flesh and walks among us:

• hearing the cries of the sick and healing them,
• seeing the hungry and feeding them,
• remembering the outcast and welcoming them,
• confronting the empires of his day with a kingdom of peace and justice.

Grace Al-Zoughbi, part of a Christian Palestinian family in Bethlehem,
            says that for Palestinian Christians, the promise from the book of Hebrews
                        that “Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever”,
            is at the heart of their calling to keep the faith in their land. [1]

For that family, living under military occupation,
            those words weren’t just theology—they are survival.

Jesus is their “I AM,” their present-tense liberator,
            walking with them in their groans.

This is where the political and the personal meet.
            To know Jesus is to know the God of Exodus,
            and to follow Jesus is to walk the path of liberation he walks.

There is no intimacy with God that does not lead to action for justice.
            And there is no enduring action for justice
            that does not spring from intimacy with God.

Some want to separate spirituality from social action,
            as if they were optional extras in the Christian life.

But the burning bush story—and Jesus’ “I AM” declaration—
            remind us they are inseparable.

Our prayer life is not an escape from the world’s pain;
            it is the furnace in which God’s call is forged.

And our activism is not mere human effort;
            it is the outworking of God’s presence in us.

When we kneel in prayer, we bring before God the cries of the world.
            When we stand for justice, we do so in the strength of the God
            who says, “I will be with you.”

Think of William Wilberforce,
            whose decades-long fight against the slave trade was fuelled by daily prayer.
Or Martin Luther King Jr.,
            who spent nights on his knees before stepping out to march.

The coin always has two sides:
            contemplation and action,
            prayer and protest.

And yet, friends, we must be careful here.

There is a temptation—particularly for those of us committed to justice—
            to make God little more than the divine sponsor of our causes.

God becomes the One who validates our agendas,
            fuels our campaigns, blesses our activism.

But the God who speaks from the burning bush is not our mascot.

This is the Holy One whose presence is a fire
            that burns without being consumed
            —a mystery that invites worship before it empowers action.

Moses’ call begins not with strategy,
            but with sandals off.

Before he speaks truth to Pharaoh,
            he kneels before the I AM.

The sequence matters.
            Holiness precedes mission.
            Relationship precedes revolution.

In the stillness before the burning bush,
            Moses learns that liberation flows from the presence of God,
            not from the force of human will.

I think of the late contemplative activist Thomas Merton,
            who once wrote from his monastery:
“Do not depend on the hope of results…
            the real hope, is in the ground of your being.”

This is what Moses learns in the desert.
            This is what Jesus embodies when he retreats to the mountains
                        before returning to the crowds.
It is in that ground—where we are met, loved, and named by God—
            that our courage for justice is forged.

Without this grounding,
            activism becomes frantic, brittle, easily burned out.
But with it, justice becomes worship in motion
            —our hands and feet becoming, in the Spirit,
            living echoes of the great I AM.

Here in central London, we are surrounded by both beauty and brokenness.
            The towers of commerce stand a short walk from people sleeping rough.
International students study in world-class universities
            while refugees wait years for status.

Decisions made in Westminster ripple through the lives of the vulnerable.

To bear God’s name in this place is to hear the cries rising from our streets
            —and to answer them not in our own strength,
            but in the power of the One who is.

It means trusting that God’s presence will accompany us
            into difficult conversations,
            into campaigns for change,
            into acts of compassion.

It means recognising that God’s “I AM” is not confined to church walls,
            but is already out there
                        in council chambers, in hospital wards,
                        in shelters, and in protest lines,
            calling us to join in.

Think of Desmond Tutu in apartheid South Africa.
            Tutu was fierce in confronting the Pharaoh of his day.
But those who knew him well say his power
            came from hours of prayer each morning,
            soaking himself in the presence of the I AM.

His laughter, his joy, his courage
            were the fruits of deep roots in God.

So how do we live this out? Let me suggest three movements:

First, we listen.
We make space to hear the groans of our world and our neighbours.

This might mean literally listening
                        —to the testimonies of those facing injustice,
                        to the fears and hopes of our community.

            But it also means listening in prayer,
                        letting God bring to mind those who need our intercession.

Second, we trust the presence.
Like Moses, we may feel inadequate.
            The tasks may seem too big, the Pharaohs too strong.

But the promise stands: “I will be with you.”
            And that is enough.
            As we act for justice, we do not go alone.

Third, we act in partnership.
God sends Moses with Aaron.
            God sends the church as a body, not a collection of lone heroes.

Our different gifts, even our limitations,
            become channels for God’s work when we act together.

The God who heard the Israelites’ groans still hears today.

The God who revealed the divine name to Moses
            has revealed that name again in Jesus Christ.

And the Spirit of that God breathes in us now,
            empowering us to bear witness—in word and deed—
            to the One who is.

Friends, to know God’s name is to be called into God’s mission.

To pray “hallowed be your name”
            is to commit ourselves to live
            so that God’s liberating presence is known in our world.

The bush still burns. The voice still calls.
            The Name still sends.

Let us, like Moses, answer: “Here I am.”

And let us, like Aaron, walk alongside one another,
            trusting that “I AM” goes with us
—into Pharaoh’s courts, into our city’s struggles,
            and into the very heart of our lives.

Amen.

Prayer

Holy and gracious God,
I AM who I AM,
You are the One who hears the cries of the oppressed
            and the whispered prayers of the weary.
You call us by name,
            and you invite us to realise that we stand on holy ground.

Set our hearts ablaze with the fire of your presence—
            not to consume us, but to sustain us.
Root our actions for justice in the deep soil of your Spirit,
            so that our striving is not from fear or anger,
            but from love and worship.

Give us courage to speak truth to the Pharaohs of our day,
            and humility to listen for Your voice in the wilderness.
Bind us together as your people,
            so that we may go where you send us,
and bear witness to your liberating love in Jesus Christ,
            who is before all things,
            and in whom all things hold together.

We pray in his name,
Amen.

 

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[1] https://www.womanalive.co.uk/bible/i-am-a-palestinian-christian-and-will-be-retracing-the-steps-of-jesus-to-find-hope-this-easter/17440.article

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.

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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.