Come and See

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

4 January 2026

John 1.35–51

What Are You Seeking?

At the turning of the year, when the days are short
            and the lights of Christmas are being packed away,
            we come to a Gospel passage that feels like a new beginning.

A fresh call. A simple invitation.
            A question from Jesus that speaks straight into the heart
            of anyone who has ever stood at a crossroads:
What are you seeking?

It’s such a disarming question.
            Honest, gentle, and open.

Jesus does not command the first disciples to believe.
            He does not test them, examine them, interrogate them,
            or insist that they sign up to a doctrinal statement.

He simply turns, sees them following him, and asks:
            What are you seeking?

I wonder how we would answer.

Perhaps we come seeking peace in a troubled world,
            or purpose in a shifting culture,
            or courage in uncertain times.

Perhaps we come seeking a place to belong,
            a way of living that feels authentic,
            or a hope that does not collapse under pressure.

Every one of us is seeking something.

And the Gospel begins by telling us
            that the God who calls us sees us clearly,
            knows us deeply, and invites us graciously.

This is a story of calling.
            But it is also a story of desire.
            A story of longing. A story of invitation.
And like all stories of calling, it is not about one shining moment,
            but about the beginning of a journey.

John the Baptist as the First Witness: Faith that Points Beyond Itself

The passage begins, curiously, not with Jesus and not with the disciples,
            but with John the Baptist.

John stands with two of his own followers,
            and as Jesus walks past, John announces:
            Behold, the Lamb of God.

It’s a remarkable moment of humility.
            John’s whole ministry — his identity, his community, his momentum —
            all of it is now redirected toward Jesus.
John is not the centre. John is the signpost.

And John teaches us something essential about Christian faith:
            that faith is always meant to point beyond itself.

Our calling is not to build little kingdoms with our name on them,
            but to direct others toward life in Christ.
To make space. To step aside.
            To rejoice when someone discovers a deeper connection with God
            that takes them beyond where we had brought them.

John shows us what it looks like to let go —
            to let those who have walked with us be drawn into the life of Christ.

This is a deeply liberating truth:
            discipleship is not about possession; it is about release.

The first disciples come to Jesus not because Jesus sought them out,
            but because John released them.
            Because John refused to cling.
Because John knew his calling was not to gather but to prepare,
            not to keep but to open,
            not to claim but to invite.

And so those two disciples begin to follow Jesus,
            tentatively, curiously, perhaps hesitantly,
drawn by the witness of someone whose faith pointed beyond himself.

Jesus’ First Words: A Question that Opens the Soul

When Jesus feels them behind him,
            he turns and asks his first words in the Gospel of John:
            What are you seeking? What are you looking for?

Not: Who are you?
            Not: What have you done?
Not: What do you believe?
            Not: Why are you following me?

But: What are you seeking?

The question honours their humanity before it asks anything of them.
            It recognises that discipleship begins with desire.
                        With longing.
            With the deep hunger that lies beneath all our searching.

And Jesus’ question teaches us that God does not approach us with demands,
            but with curiosity.
God does not start by prescribing, but by listening.
            God does not begin with judgement, but with welcome.

The first words of Jesus in this Gospel
            are not a command but an invitation to honesty.

Perhaps this is something our churches need to rediscover.
            An invitation that honours the searching heart.
                        An invitation without fear.
            An invitation without coercion.
An invitation that trusts that the God who calls is also the God who draws.

So Jesus asks: What are you seeking?
            And they answer, somewhat awkwardly:
            Rabbi… where are you staying?

Perhaps they don’t know what to say.
            Perhaps they are shy.
Perhaps they are afraid to reveal the deeper longing of their hearts.

But Jesus’ response shows that their exact words don’t matter.
            What matters is that they are willing to approach him.

And Jesus answers: Come and see.

Come and See: An Invitation Without Pressure

Come and see — a supremely gentle response.
            No pressure. No manipulation.
            No demand. Just openness.

Jesus does not say, “Believe in me.”
            He does not say, “Follow me now, or else.”
            He does not say, “Sign up to this list of doctrines first.”

He simply says: Come and see.

Come as you are.
            Come without certainty.
Come with your questions.
            Come with your doubts.
Come with your longing.
            Come without knowing where it will lead.

This is the shape of Christian hospitality —
            an open invitation without strings attached.

A welcome that trusts God to do the work in God’s time.

And so the disciples come.
            They spend the day with Jesus.
They abide with him, sit with him,
            walk with him, and talk with him.

And in that simple, unhurried presence,
            something begins to awaken.

They find themselves drawn into a new way of being,
            a new beginning, a new identity.

Faith begins, not with a creed,
            but with an invitation to spend time with Jesus.

Andrew’s First Act: Bringing Someone Else

One of those first followers is Andrew.
            And what does he do after spending a day with Jesus?

He finds his brother Peter and says to him:
            We have found the Messiah.

But notice the pattern:
            First, Andrew spends time with Jesus.
Then, Andrew shares what he has discovered.
            Then, he brings someone else.

Evangelism begins with encounter.
            Not with persuasion. Not with strategy.
            But with personal transformation.

Andrew becomes a witness
            because he has been changed by what he has seen.

And so Andrew brings Peter
            — the future rock of the church —
            but the story doesn’t celebrate Andrew’s success in “finding a top leader.”

Andrew doesn’t know any of that.
            Andrew simply brings the person he loves most.

In a world obsessed with results,
            this story shows us the quiet, uncalculated beauty
            of sharing the love of God with those closest to us.

The Gospel spreads relationship by relationship,
            not campaign by campaign.

Jesus Looks at Peter: Being Seen by God

When Peter arrives, Jesus looks at him and says:
            You are Simon… you will be called Peter.

Jesus sees who he is and who he will become.

And this is perhaps the most tender truth in the passage:
            Jesus sees us long before we know how to see ourselves.

Jesus sees potential that we cannot yet imagine.
            Jesus calls us forward into an identity
            that we do not yet know how to inhabit.

Peter does not become “Peter” that day.
            It takes years, mistakes, denial,
            forgiveness, failure, and resurrection.

Discipleship is a long, winding journey, not a single decision.

But Jesus names the future in him, planting a seed that will grow in time.

Perhaps Jesus is naming something in us too.
Calling forth a courage we have not yet found.
            Calling forth hope where we fear there is none.
Calling forth faith where we feel fragile.
            Calling forth leadership where we feel inadequate.
Calling forth compassion where we feel tired.
            Calling forth generosity where we feel anxious.

Jesus sees who we are — and who we can become.

Jesus Finds Philip: A Call from the Outside In

The next day, Jesus finds Philip.
            Andrew and Peter were brought to Jesus by someone they knew.
            Philip is called directly by Jesus.

This reminds us: there is no single pattern to calling.
            Some come through family.
Some through friendship.
            Some through community.
Some are called quietly and directly in the stillness of their own soul.

God calls each of us in a way we can hear.

And Philip responds simply.
            No drama. No story. No hesitation.
            Just a yes arising from a heart ready to receive.

But what Philip does next is the heart of the story.

Philip and Nathanael: Witness as Relationship, Not Argument

Because Philip finds Nathanael and announces:
            We have found the one Moses wrote about… Jesus of Nazareth.

But Nathanael is sceptical, asking:
            Can anything good come out of Nazareth?

We all know that scepticism.
            The quick dismissal.
The prejudice.
            The deeply ingrained assumptions.
The weary suspicion of anything religious.

Nathanael sounds like many people in our own lives.
            People who have been wounded by religion.
People who are cynical about institutions.
            People who feel faith is for other people, not for them.
People who have already made up their minds.

And how does Philip respond?

He does not argue.
            He does not defend Nazareth.
He does not criticise Nathanael’s cynicism.
            He simply says: Come and see.

It is the same invitation Jesus gave.
            And Philip trusts the power of encounter
            more than the power of argument.

This is a profound insight:
            The Gospel is not advanced by winning debates
            but by offering hospitality.

“Come and see” is all we can ever honestly say.
            Come and see how God is at work in my life.
Come and see what community looks like.
            Come and see what grace feels like.
Come and see what hope tastes like.
            Come and see how justice is made visible among us.
Come and see the God who welcomes without condition.

We cannot prove God.
But we can invite others into the presence where God is known.

Jesus Meets Nathanael: Being Known Is the Heart of Faith

When Nathanael approaches, Jesus greets him:
            Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.

Jesus sees Nathanael’s honesty, his bluntness, his straightforwardness.
            Nathanael has not hidden his scepticism, and Jesus respects that.

God’s welcome doesn’t require us to hide our doubts.
            God honours honest wrestling.

Nathanael, surprised, asks:
            How do you know me?

And Jesus answers:
            I saw you under the fig tree.

No one knows exactly what that moment meant for Nathanael,
            but somehow it cuts through his scepticism.

He realises that he is known — profoundly, intimately, personally —
            by the God who stands before him.

And so the sceptic becomes the believer:
            Rabbi, you are the Son of God.

Faith awakens when we know we are seen.

To be known and loved at the same time
            — that is the heart of discipleship.

Greater Things Than These: A Promise of Transformation

Jesus then tells him:
            You will see greater things than these.

Discipleship begins with the smallest step
            — but it leads to a horizon we cannot yet imagine.

Greater things:
            Moments of grace.
Encounters of justice.
            Restored communities.
Unexpected courage.
            A glimpse of heaven breaking into earth.
A life that becomes a blessing to others.

Discipleship is not static.
            It moves, grows, stretches, transforms.
            It leads us deeper into the heart of God.

What Does “Come and See” Mean for Us Today?

This story is not a relic of the past. It is a living invitation.

Come and see is for us as well. It means:
– Let yourself be drawn into the presence of Christ.
            – Take the next step, even if you don’t know where it will lead.
– Be honest about your seeking.
            – Invite others with gentleness and freedom.
– Trust that God is already at work in their lives.
            – Let God see you — the real you — without fear.
– Discover that your life holds more potential than you dare imagine.

We live in a world hungry for authentic invitation.
            Hungry for welcome without judgement.
Hungry for community that heals.
            Hungry for justice that is lived and not only proclaimed.
Hungry for a faith that listens more than it speaks.

Our calling as a church is to echo Jesus’ words in everything we do:
            Come and see.

Being a “Come and See” Church

So how might Bloomsbury embody this invitation?

By being a place where questions are welcomed, not feared.
            By being a community that listens more than it talks.
By offering hospitality without agenda.
            By letting people belong before they believe.
By creating space where people can be truly seen and known.
            By living a faith shaped by justice, compassion, and courage.
By standing with the marginalised in ways that reveal Christ’s heart.
            By inviting others not to a programme but to a journey.

A “come and see” church trusts that God is already at work in every life.
            We do not do God’s work for God.
We simply join it.

The Invitation for Us This New Year

As this year begins, can we hear again the question of Jesus:
            What are you seeking?

And can we hear his gentle, gracious invitation:
            Come and see.

Come with your longing.
            Come with your uncertainty.
Come with your hope.
            Come with your wounds.
Come with your desire to grow, to change, to follow, to belong.

Come and see what God may make of your life.
            Come and see what God may make of our life together.

A Year Shaped by Invitation

May this be a year of renewed discipleship.
            A year of deepening faith.
A year of growing justice.
            A year of holy hospitality.
A year of invitation.

Jesus says, Come and see.
            And so we come.
            And we invite others.
And together, we discover the greater things God has prepared.

Amen.

A Voice in the Wilderness

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

28 December 2025

John 1.19–34

Redeeming God, help us see Christ clearly and bear witness to his love. Amen.

There is something striking about today’s reading from the gospel of John.

Only eighteen verses earlier we were soaring in the theological heights of the prologue:
            in the beginning, Word and Light and Life.
            The creation of everything through the Word.
            The light the darkness cannot overcome.
It is cosmic, breathtaking, transcendent.

And then suddenly the gospel narrative lands
            — in the dust of the wilderness, in the Jordan Valley,
surrounded not by angels or cherubim
            but by questioners, critics, priests,
            Levites, people wanting answers.

The shift is jarring.
            From cosmic Christology to ordinary human conversation.

Perhaps this is intentional.
            Perhaps the gospel is telling us that the eternal Word
            becomes known not only in the breathtaking sweep of divine truth
            but in the gritty moments of human encounter.
God is not just found in heaven;
            God meets us on the riverbank,
            in the waters of baptism.

The religious leaders arrive and ask John the Baptist the question
            that echoes through human existence: Who are you?

The question is more than biographical.
            It is messianic, political, existential.

Everyone at the time is looking for the one who will fix things,
            who will rescue Israel from occupation,
            who will restore justice,
            who will heal what is broken.

And John’s answer is clear: I am not the Messiah.
            They ask again in another way. Are you Elijah? No.
            Are you the Prophet? No.
His identity begins with everything he refuses to claim.

This is fascinating.
            How many of us begin self-definition not with who we are
            but with who we are not?

John resists every opportunity for self-aggrandisement.
            He refuses the mantle of significance, of power, of messianic status.

And only after this stripping back does he finally speak of who he is:
            I am a voice crying in the wilderness,
            “Make straight the way of the Lord.”

Not a hero. Not a saviour.
            Not a figure who commands armies or carries status.
But a voice.

A voice crying in the wilderness.
            It is such a humble phrase and yet so powerful.
Because a voice is enough.
            A voice can make a way.
            A voice can call the world back to love.
A voice can break open complacency.
            A voice can awaken hope.
            A voice can shine a light into despair.
A voice can prepare the way for God.

And where is this voice positioned?
            Not in the temple. Not in the palace. Not among the elite.
            But in the wilderness.

The wilderness is never simply a geographical location in the biblical imagination.
            It is the place of struggle, of wandering,
            of vulnerability, of dislocation.
It is where the people have no illusions of power
            and no safety except in God.
It is where the illusions of success and control fall away.

And perhaps that is why the voice is heard there
            — because it is in our wildernesses that we are ready to listen.

John’s baptism is also disturbing to the religious leaders.

Baptism, at that time, was not new.
            Ritual washing for purity was a regular religious practice.
But John’s baptism is not about purity for acceptance.
            It is not about performing religion correctly so that God might approve.
His baptism is about turning the heart, about reorientation,
            about a radical change of direction.
It is a washing not into religion but into readiness.

To be baptised by John is not to be made respectable.
            It is to be made expectant.

So the questioning from the authorities continues
            because they do not understand.

Who gives you the authority to do this?
            Who do you think you are?

And John responds not with self-justification, not defensively, not angrily,
            but with humility and startling clarity:

I baptise with water
            — but among you stands one whom you do not know,
                        the one who is coming after me;
            I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.

If the first part of John’s witness is knowing who he is not,
            the second part is knowing who Jesus is.

He does not draw attention to himself.
            He points beyond himself.
            His whole life is an arrow of witness.

And then the next day the gospel reaches a moment of monumental simplicity
            and world-changing power.

Jesus approaches, and John declares,
            “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.”

The phrase is familiar to us,
            perhaps so familiar we barely feel its force anymore.

But imagine hearing it for the first time.
            The Lamb of God — the one who reveals God
            not through triumph but through self-giving love.

The one who breaks the power of sin
            not through violence but through compassion.

The one who redeems the world not by dominating but by serving.

Behold the Lamb of God.
            With that proclamation, John steps from centre stage.
His mission is complete. His humility is total. His joy is fulfilled.
            He has done the one thing he has been called to do:
            point others to Christ.

What does this mean for us here today
            — here at Bloomsbury, in the centre of London,
            in a complicated city, in a complicated world?

First, it teaches us something crucial about the nature of the church.

The church does not need to be powerful to be faithful.
            It does not need to be dazzling to be significant.
            It does not need to dominate to change lives.

It is enough to be a voice.
            A voice that cries out against injustice,
                        that calls people back to compassion,
            that speaks peace in a world addicted to conflict,
                        that invites connection in a culture of isolation,
            that names hope where despair claims to have the final word.

John does not ask for attention; he simply tells the truth.
            Our task is to tell the truth of God’s love, God’s justice,
            God’s welcome, and God’s calling to every human being to flourish.

We sometimes imagine that unless the church is big,
            wealthy, loud, influential, and culturally dominant,
            it cannot transform the world.

But the gospel does not support that fantasy.
            The gospel gives us John: a voice in the wilderness.
            And that is enough.

Second, today’s gospel reminds us that Christian identity
            is rooted not first in who we are
            but in whom we bear witness to.

John begins by refusing to allow others to define him
            according to their expectations.

He refuses to inhabit identities rooted in power, nostalgia,
            prophetic glamour or religious status.

He locates himself instead in service to God’s work.
            And perhaps we must do the same.

We live in a society that encourages us to construct identity
            through achievement, performance, consumer choices,
            social rank, wealth, image, and productivity.

But we are invited to define ourselves in another way
            — as people who belong to Christ,
            who follow his way of compassion and justice,
            who live not merely for ourselves but for the sake of the world.

Our identity is not self-manufactured.
            It is received through love.

Third, we discover that being witnesses means pointing beyond ourselves.
            And this is not easy.
Institutions, organisations, and individuals
            are always tempted toward self-promotion.
But the gospel calls us away from that.

When we serve our neighbour, when we take action for justice,
            when we welcome the stranger, when we work for reconciliation,
            when we show mercy
— we do not point to ourselves as the solution.
            We point to the Lamb of God whose love reshapes the world.

So our community organising, our interfaith partnerships,
            our LGBTQ inclusion, our work with refugees,
            our night shelter for people who are homeless, our advocacy
— these are not projects that show how wonderful Bloomsbury Baptist Church is.
            They are signs pointing to Jesus.
            They say: look, here is what the love of God looks like.
            Come and see.

But bearing witness to Christ does not only happen
            through public action or social engagement.
It also begins in the quietness of the heart.

Before John ever proclaimed anything to the crowds,
            he first learned to listen.
A voice can only speak the truth if it has first listened deeply.

We live in a culture of constant noise and constant reaction.
            It is easy to move from one demand to the next,
            always busy, always distracted, even when doing good things.

Yet the gospel calls us not only to action but to attention.
            If we are to point others to Christ,
            we must first allow Christ to speak to us.

Personal prayer is not an escape from the world.
            It is preparation for it.

In prayer we remember who we are and whose we are.
            In prayer we allow the Spirit to reshape our hearts.
In prayer we learn again to trust that love is stronger than fear,
            that grace is deeper than guilt,
            that hope is more real than despair.

In prayer we learn to recognise the Lamb of God in our midst,
            so that when we go back into the world,
            we do not lose sight of him.

So I want to encourage each of us to claim time this week
            — not out of duty or guilt, but out of desire —
to sit in stillness before God,
            even if only for a few minutes at a time.

You might choose to hold a name before God,
            or a place of conflict, or someone who is suffering.
You might hold before God your own struggles, confusions or joys.
            You might simply take a line from our reading
            and carry it with you through the day:
“Behold the Lamb of God.”
            Let that phrase become breath, prayer and grounding.

Because when we learn to behold Christ in stillness,
            we become more ready to behold him in our neighbour.

And then our witness does not come only from conviction but from overflow
            — from hearts that have already encountered love
            and are eager to share it.

And then fourthly, this passage reminds us
            that Christ is not a distant hope but a present reality.

John speaks in the present tense:
            “Among you stands one whom you do not know.”

The presence of Christ is here, now, in our midst
            — in our worship, in our relationships, in our work for justice,
            in our struggle for peace, in our ordinary days and difficult days.

Faith is not about waiting for Jesus to arrive
            but learning to recognise him already at work.

Every time joy breaks through sorrow, Christ is there.
            Every time forgiveness interrupts resentment, Christ is there.
Every time courage rises against fear, Christ is there.
            Every time community overcomes loneliness, Christ is there.
Every time hope refuses to die, Christ is there.

Our task is not to bring Christ into the world.
            Christ is already here.
Our task is to notice him and to help others notice too.

Finally, we must return to that crucial word in today’s reading: wilderness.
            It is where the voice speaks.
            It is where people are transformed.
            It is where Christ is revealed.

Which means that the wilderness is not something to be escaped;
            it is something God enters.
And God meets us there.

There are wildernesses everywhere in our city
            — in those who feel forgotten,
                        in those who are grieving,
            in those whose mental health is fragile,
            in those who feel excluded because of race, sexuality, disability,
                        immigration status, poverty, or trauma.

There is wilderness in the life of those weighed down by guilt,
            or overwhelmed by expectations,
            or carrying private sadness they cannot explain.

There are wildernesses far away
            — regions torn by war, famine, occupation, exploitation —
but there are also wildernesses close at hand,
            sometimes hidden behind bright smiles.

And the gospel tells us that Christ comes to those places.
            Not only to the strong, the successful, the well-adjusted, and the comfortable.
            Christ comes first to the wilderness.

Which means that if we want to be where Christ is,
            we must not run from the world’s pain.

We must not protect ourselves with polite distance.
            We must not hide from the cries of the suffering.
We must not retreat into a domesticated religion
            that exists only to make us feel good.

The place where Christ stands is where people hurt.
            The place where Christ stands is where people hope against all hope.
The place where Christ stands is where humanity
            is most fragile and most beloved.

John’s voice continues to echo: Make straight the way of the Lord.
            Prepare. Turn toward the light.
                        Turn toward the Lamb of God.
            Turn toward the One who takes away the sin of the world
                        — not only personal sin, but collective sin, structural sin,
            the sin that perpetuates violence, exclusion, injustice,
                        inequality and greed.

Turn toward the One who heals the world
            not by punishment but by love.

So today we are invited to hear John's call
            not only for long-ago listeners but for ourselves.

We are invited to recognise Christ in our midst.
            We are invited to be witnesses.
            We are invited to be voices.

We may not be famous. We may not be powerful.
            We may not be the ones the world listens to first.

But God has always done extraordinary things
            through ordinary voices in ordinary wildernesses.

So may we speak.

May we speak love where there is hatred.
            May we speak courage where there is fear.
May we speak truth where there is falsehood.
            May we speak mercy where there is cruelty.
May we speak hope where there is despair.
            May we speak Christ into every corner of the wilderness.

And as we do, may others hear — not us, but the One we point to.

Behold the Lamb of God.
Behold the One who takes away the sin of the world.
Behold the One whose love makes all things new.

Amen.

 

Light the Darkness Cannot Overcome

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
Advent 4 - 21^st December 2025

 

John 1.1-18
Psalm 130.5-8

My soul waits for the Lord, and in God's word I put my hope.

There are some moments in the biblical year
            that feel like standing at the hinge of time.

The fourth Sunday of Advent is one of them.

We are so very close to Christmas
            that we can almost hear the rustling of both angels' wings
            and wrapping paper.

Yet we are not there quite yet.
            Today is the shortest day, and the longest night,
And whilst the light is beginning to rise,
            the shadows have in no way fully retreated.

And so we live caught between longing and fulfilment,
            between yearning for redemption
                        and recognising redemption already at work.

It is a holy tension.
            The psalmist gives us the language for that tension.
            "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in God's word I hope."

The psalm comes from a place that is not comfortable or romantic.
            It speaks from the depths. From anguish.
            From fear that something is broken.
            From the sense that things are not as they should be.

It is the cry of someone who knows something about despair
            yet refuses to surrender to it.
Someone who chooses hope even when hope costs something.

Waiting here is not passive.
            Waiting is an act of commitment, an act that engages the whole being.
            Waiting is faith that refuses to be silenced.

Advent is the season that gives permission for this kind of waiting.
            It does not demand that we pretend to be cheerful.
            It does not insist that we smooth over the pain of the world.

Advent looks the darkness in the face and says:
            we will wait here, because we believe the light is coming.

Advent sits with the grief of the Holy Land.
            Advent cries with refugees on cold borders.
Advent aches with families worried about bills and debt and homelessness.
            Advent weeps for the devastation of our planet.

Advent does not avert its gaze from the shadows.
            Advent holds its place and waits, heart and soul and body, for the coming of God.

And then, into that aching, yearning darkness, the Gospel of John begins.
            Not with shepherds and stars and a manger.
            Not with Mary and Joseph.

John begins with a prologue that sounds like the creation of the universe.
            "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God,
            and the Word was God."

And before we have time to catch our breath,
            the prologue moves from the cosmic to the miraculous.
"The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth."

It is almost too much to hold in our minds.
            The Word who spoke creation into existence
                        does not remain distant or abstract.
            The Word enters the story. The Word becomes human.
                        The Word takes on skin and bones and breath.
            The Word does not hover in a cloud of glory
                        but lives and walks and eats and suffers.
            The Word comes into the world not as an idea but as a person.
                        Not as a symbol but as flesh.

And something crucial happens here.
            The incarnation reveals what God is like.
If we want to know God, we look to Jesus.
            God is not remote, not untouchable, not indifferent to the world.
            God is present. God is embodied. God is relational.
            God is love that moves toward the world rather than away from it.

The psalmist waits with longing for redemption.
            The Gospel declares that redemption has begun to arrive.
The psalmist hopes in God's word.
            The Gospel reveals that the Word has taken on human life.

The truth of the incarnation is both deeply comforting and deeply disruptive.
            It comforts us, because it tells us
                        that God has not abandoned the world to its chaos.
            It disrupts us, because it tells us
                        that if God has come to the world in flesh,
                        then everything is now touched with holiness.

Nothing can be dismissed as unworthy of divine concern.
            Flesh is holy. Human life in all its vulnerability is holy.
A newborn baby is holy.
            But so also are those the world treats as disposable.

The Word becoming flesh announces that bodies matter.
            The bodies of the hungry matter.
            The bodies of the marginalised matter.
            The bodies of the wounded matter.
The bodies of those in Gaza and the West Bank matter.
            The bodies of those in Israel matter.
The bodies of those on the streets of London matter.
            The bodies of those who feel they do not belong matter.

And this is not just sentiment.
            The incarnation is a declaration that if God chooses
                        to stand in solidarity with human lives,
            then nothing is beneath the concern of heaven.

There is also a message for the church.

If the Word has become flesh,
            then we who follow Christ cannot live faith as an idea alone.

Faith is not a theory. Faith is not a hobby.
            Faith is not a personal preference.
Faith is flesh and blood. Faith is embodied.
            Faith takes place in real relationships.

Faith demands that we notice suffering and do something about it.
            Faith demands that we step toward the pain of the world
            rather than turn away from it.

Faith demands that we love, not in generalities, but in actions.

When the church becomes abstract,
            when it becomes detached from human lives,
            it stops looking like Jesus.

And yet, even as we hear the call to embody faith,
            we must acknowledge how difficult it can be to live as bearers of light.

The darkness in our world is not abstract;
            it is real and often overwhelming.

We see it in communities divided by inequality,
            in families struggling with illness or loss,
            in the relentless pace of injustice and indifference.
Sometimes it can feel as if the darkness is stronger than the light.

Advent, however, reminds us
            that even the smallest flicker of light
            can pierce the deepest darkness.
The Word became flesh not in grand palaces,
            but in the vulnerability of a child.

The glory of God did not overwhelm the world with dazzling brilliance,
            but entered quietly, gently, into the rhythm of ordinary life.
In that quiet, ordinary presence,
            the darkness could not extinguish the light.

This gives us both courage and direction.
            In our neighbourhoods, in our workplaces, in our church community,
            we are called to be small lights that shine persistently.

Acts of kindness, moments of listening,
            gestures of solidarity, campaigning for justice, welcoming the stranger
            – these are the ways the light of the Word continues to shine.

None of these acts are flashy,
            but each one counters the darkness,
            each one embodies hope,
and each one witnesses to the God who is already at work in the world.

We are not powerless. We are not spectators.
            The incarnation calls us to participate.

The psalmist waits with hope,
            but we wait as those who already carry the light.

In the act of waiting and acting, we join in the work of God,
            so that darkness is met not with despair
            but with patient, relentless light.

I want you to imagine a quiet street in London on a winter evening.
            The snow has started to fall, thick and soft,
            muffling the usual sounds of traffic.

The sky is dark, the street is dark,
            and the houses are dark behind their curtains.

And yet, at the corner, there is a single streetlamp,
            its yellow glow spilling across the snow.

The light is small.
            It cannot illuminate the entire street.
            It cannot stop the cold.
            It cannot prevent the snow from falling.

But it does what it can.
            It gives direction to someone walking home.
It casts shadows that make the world look alive.
            It is a signal: there is care here, there is attention, there is light.

In the same way, our lives, our church,
            our acts of justice and compassion are like that streetlamp.

We cannot eradicate all darkness.
            We cannot solve every problem or heal every wound.
But in the small, faithful ways we live and serve, we shine.

A kind word to a neighbour,
            a phone call to someone who is lonely,
            our campaigning for clean water or housing justice,
            the spaces we make for people to feel welcomed and valued
                        – all these are lights.

And together, as a community,
            those small lights meet the darkness
            and announce that the Word has come,
            and the darkness has not overcome it.

This is the hope of Advent:
            that light is already breaking in,
            that even a little light matters,
and that each of us is invited to carry it into the world.

John's Gospel tells us near the beginning
            that the first calling of those who meet the Word
            is to witness to the light.
To reveal what we have seen and heard.

Witnessing is not forcing belief on others.
            It is not winning arguments.
Witnessing is simply saying through our actions and our community:
            this is what the light looks like.
            This is what love looks like.
            This is what justice looks like.
            This is what hope looks like when it is embodied.
This is what compassion looks like when it becomes flesh
            in the lives of those who follow Jesus.

What would Bloomsbury look like if we fully lived that calling?
            If we were a community that others could look to and say,
            "If you want to see what the light looks like, look there."

I think we already know the answer.
            We see it whenever we choose generosity over indifference.
We see it in our campaigning and our organising.
            We see it in our advocacy for those who are pushed to the margins.
We see it in choosing to be a place
            where LGBTQ people are cherished and celebrated.
We see it in bearing witness to the pain of Palestine
            and insisting that every life has equal value.
We see it in offering welcome to students, seekers, doubters,
            the grieving, the hopeful and the curious.
We see it whenever we dare to love one another
            as if Christ were loving through us.

And yet, we also know that faithfulness is not always easy.
            The prologue to John says, "The light shines in the darkness,
            and the darkness has not overcome it."

The grammar is important.
            It does not say the darkness never tries.
            It does not say the darkness is imaginary.
It says the darkness does not win.
            Darkness never has the final word.

But until the final word of love is spoken,
            we still live in a world where love is resisted,
            and justice is delayed, and violence is real.

Advent is honest about this.

The psalmist waits through the night longing for dawn.
            The church waits for the fullness of redemption.
Yet we wait not with despair, but with confidence.

"With the Lord is steadfast love, and with the Lord is full redemption."
            As Psalm 130 puts it
Full redemption. Not partial.
            Not symbolic. Not theoretical. Full.
It is a promise that what God starts, God completes.

John uses different language to say the same thing.
            "From Christ's fullness we have all received grace upon grace."

It is a cascading abundance.
            It is the relentless generosity of God
            spilled into the world through Jesus.

Grace upon grace.
            Grace that heals shame. Grace that dismantles fear.
            Grace that unravels hatred. Grace that restores dignity.
            Grace that sets people free.
Grace that reaches those who believe themselves beyond reach.
            Grace that will not give up.

Put the psalm and the Gospel together and you hear a single message.
            Wait in hope, because the One who is coming is already here.
Wait in confidence, because the One who is coming
            is full of redemption and grace.
Wait actively, because the One who is coming
            demands a witness in our lives and in our world.

Advent is more than preparing to celebrate the birth of Jesus long ago.
            Advent invites us to prepare for Christ who continues to enter the world.

Christ comes every time fear is met with courage,
            every time loneliness is met with welcome,
            every time hatred is answered with love,
            every time injustice is confronted with collective power.
Christ comes when we act in faith.
            The Word continues to become flesh in us.

And so we wait.

Not waiting for escape from the world,
            but waiting for the transformation of the world.
Not waiting for God to fix everything while we remain passive,
            but waiting as those who already embody hope.
Waiting like people who believe
            that we have a part to play in the inbreaking of grace.

This is our calling as a church.

To open our lives and our community
            so that the Word continues to dwell among us.
To be a place where it is safe to long, safe to weep,
            safe to hope and safe to doubt.
To be a place where justice and compassion
            are not abstract ideas but lived truths.
To be a place where bodies matter
            whatever their colour, gender, or other identity,
            and where no one is disposable.
To be a place where light shines in the darkness
            and where the darkness does not overcome it.

The world is yearning.
            The psalmist understands it. The Gospel meets it.
Humanity is crying out from the depths,
            from war and injustice, from fear and division,
            from isolation and anxiety.

And God answers not with distance but with incarnation.
            Not with condemnation but with grace.
            Not with withdrawal but with solidarity.

So here we are at the hinge of time.

We are so close to the day of celebration that we can almost hear the angels.
            Yet as Advent insists, we do not rush.
We stay in the waiting.
            We wait for Christmas, yet we also wait for the fullness of redemption.
We wait with hope, because the Word who became flesh walks with us.
            The world is not abandoned.
            God is not absent. Light is already shining.

And so we pray:

Come, Christ who is our light.
            Come into the shadows of this world.
Come into the depths of our fear and our longing.
            Come into our community, our city and our world.
Come with grace upon grace until every life is honoured,
            every injustice confronted, every tear wiped away
            and every person knows they are loved.
Make your home among us once again.
            And make us your witnesses. Amen.