Whose Neighbour Can I Become?

Reflections from Ordo Amoris to Modern Politics

In our online home group this week, we found ourselves circling back to one of the most familiar stories in the Gospels—the parable of the Good Samaritan. Our conversation about the parable began, as always, with the question: “Who is my neighbour?” But a fascinating thread emerged as we read it alongside recent debates among Catholics about the concept of ordo amoris, the “order of love”, and some striking remarks from contemporary political figures.

J D Vance, for example, recently argued:

“As an American leader, but also just as an American citizen, your compassion belongs first to your fellow citizens. That doesn’t mean you hate people from outside of your own borders, but there’s this old-school [concept]—and I think it’s a very Christian concept, by the way—that you love your family, and then you love your neighbor, and then you love your community, and then you love your fellow citizens in your own country, and then, after that, you can focus and prioritize the rest of the world.”

On the face of it, this sounds orderly, reasonable even. Love in stages. Prioritisation. But as we discussed in our group, it also struck a discordant note: does Christian love ever really fit into neat hierarchies like this?

Here’s where ordo amoris can help us think differently. Augustine’s idea of rightly ordered love reminds us that what we love shapes who we become and what we do. Love that is rightly ordered doesn’t mean “love in measured stages” according to convenience or nationality. Rather, it means orienting our affections toward the highest goods - justice, mercy, compassion - so that our love flows outward from its proper foundation. Misordered love leads to fear, exclusion, and indifference.

As we talked together in the group, we explored a helpful image for thinking about how ordo amoris really works. It begins with God, the source and fulfilment of love. Our relationship with God is not detached from the world but the centre from which love radiates.

Imagine, then, dropping a stone into a still lake. The point of contact is intense; the ripples closest in are the strongest. But they do not stop there. They move outward across the whole surface, touching places far beyond the point where the stone first entered.

Seen this way, the order of love isn’t a hierarchy of priorities or a narrowing of concern. It isn’t “first this group, then that group later, if there’s anything left.” Instead, love begins where we stand and ripples outward into the world. The Samaritan didn’t limit his compassion to those within his social circle. He responded to the person set before him. Love, rightly ordered, flows outward to whoever is in need, not only those who resemble us or belong to our own community segment of the lake.

It reminds me of that line from Bruce Cockburn’s Christmas song Cry of a Tiny Babe:
“Like a stone on the surface of a still river,
driving the ripples on forever,
redemption ripped through the surface of time
in the cry of a tiny babe.”

Love that begins in God becomes love that moves. It touches neighbour after neighbour, widening outward without losing depth or intensity. It isn’t staged or rationed. It is dynamic, expansive, and ever in motion.

Reading the Good Samaritan through this lens, the question shifts: it becomes less about “Who counts as my neighbour?” and more about “Whose neighbour can I become?” The Samaritan doesn’t ask whether the wounded man is “deserving” or “belongs” to his circle. He simply acts. He enters the vulnerability of another’s life. He becomes a neighbour.

This reorientation matters when we consider debates like Vance’s. A politics of staged compassion: family first, citizens second, the rest of the world later, might reflect a kind of love, but it risks narrowing our moral imagination. What if, instead, we asked: Whose neighbour can I become today? What if our affections, rightly ordered, moved us to care across borders, across enmity, across comfort zones? What if global responsibility wasn’t an afterthought, but an extension of our ethical formation?

Of course, this doesn’t mean ignoring the needs of those closest to us. Families, local communities, and nations matter. Our neighbours matter. But rightly ordered love asks us to measure our hearts by the capacity to act in mercy, not by arbitrary borders or hierarchies of obligation. The Samaritan shows us that neighbourliness is active and risky. It is not a question of calculation, but of initiation: stepping into need, offering help, bearing the cost of compassion.

In a world of intense debate over immigration, national interest, and civic duty, this question, whose neighbour can I become? offers a different starting point. It moves the conversation from defensiveness and limitation toward practical love, shared humanity, and moral courage. It reminds us that Christian ethics is not merely about who qualifies for our care, but about who we are willing to enter alongside, even when it challenges us, even when it crosses borders we would rather not cross.

Our home group ended with a quiet reflection: if the parable is an invitation, it is to a life of moral imagination and action. The Good Samaritan does not ask, “Who is my neighbour?” He simply becomes one. And in the messy, complicated, globalised world we inhabit today, that might be exactly the kind of question we need to take seriously: Whose neighbour can I become?

The Fire of Hope

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Advent 1 – 30 November 2025

Daniel 3.1,8–3
John 18.36–37

Light one candle for hope. Light one candle for hope…

I want to begin this morning by inviting you into a moment of imagination.

Picture a city under imperial control,
            a place where the rulers’ demands are absolute.

Their authority touches every corner of life
            —commerce, law, education, even faith.

Now imagine yourself as one of a small group of outsiders in this city,
            exiles far from home, under pressure to abandon your identity,
                        your convictions, your God,
            and bow before a statue erected by the king himself.

That is the world of Daniel 3.

The story is famous, of course: Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego,
            three young men in exile in Babylon, refuse to worship a golden statue.

They are thrown into a furnace so hot it consumes the guards who bring them,
            and yet when the king looks in,
            he sees four figures walking unharmed in the flames.

The outcome is miraculous, and the king’s proclamation follows:
            no one is to speak against the God who has saved them.

And today, on this First Sunday of Advent,
            that story comes to us as a challenge.

It is not just a tale of ancient heroism.
            It is an invitation to reflect on what it means
            to live faithfully in a world shaped by power, empire, and expectation.

It is a story that begins Advent
            not with quiet reflection on the coming of the Christ-child,
but with the furnace:
            the pressures and perils of life in the world as it is,
            and the hope that comes with living in the reign of God even amidst the fire.

Refusal in the Face of Empire

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are young exiles,
            stripped of their old names, relocated to Babylon,
            and placed in the court of the king.

Their very identities are challenged.
            The king erects a golden statue and commands all to bow,
            promising death for those who refuse.

They are caught between survival and faithfulness,
            between compliance and conscience.

Their response is striking: they refuse.
            They do not negotiate, they do not hedge,
            they do not offer a compromise.

They tell the king:
            “Even if God does not deliver us,
            we will not serve your gods or worship the golden statue.”

Their courage is rooted not in certainty of rescue,
            but in certainty of allegiance.
They are willing to face the furnace rather than betray God.

This refusal is a stark act of witness.
            And here is the first Advent word for us:
            sometimes, preparation for the coming of Christ
            begins not with comfort but with resistance.
It begins by naming the idols of our age.

The empire that demanded bowing in Babylon might be subtle in our context:
            pressure to value profit over people, power over justice,
            security over neighbourly care, tradition over truth.
These are the statues of our world.

And Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego ask us:
            to which kingdom will we give our allegiance?

Here at Bloomsbury Central Baptist,
            in the life of our church and in the work of justice that we engage in,
            we are invited to ask that same question.

Will we bow to the idols of economic expediency,
            social conformity, or political pragmatism?

Or will we risk witness for the kingdom of God,
            even when it is difficult, unpopular, or dangerous?

Standing Together in the Furnace

One striking feature of the story
            is not only the courage of the three young men individually,
            but the power of their solidarity.

They do not face the furnace alone;
            they are together, a community of witness.

Their courage is amplified by their relationship to one another.
            Each relies on the others’ fidelity to God,
            and together they model a refusal to compromise.

This reminds us that faithfulness is not a solitary journey.

The fires we encounter in life—social, political, or personal—
            can be overwhelming, but shared courage sustains us.

The furnace of Babylon is less intimidating
            when we walk alongside others committed to truth, justice, and God’s purposes.

In our church, our networks, and in our organizing work,
            we learn the same lesson:
            courage is contagious when grounded in community.

Standing together, even when outcomes are uncertain,
            emboldens each of us to act faithfully.

Advent invites us to nurture this communal courage.

We prepare not only our hearts for Christ’s coming
            but also our communities,
so that when the flames of injustice, fear, or oppression rise around us,
            we are not alone.

Together, we bear witness to the reign of God,
            supporting one another through the trials,
and reminding each other that presence and hope
            come not only from God
            but also from the shared commitment of God’s people.

The Presence of God in the Furnace

The story does not shy away from danger.
            The furnace is prepared. The flames are so intense
            that they consume the guards who deliver the three men.

The threat is real. The stakes are high.
            And yet, in the heart of the furnace, something unexpected happens:
            a fourth figure appears, walking alongside them,
                        and the fire harms them not at all.

The narrative is not naïve.
            The three young men do not assume safety.
            They acknowledge the possibility of death.

Their courage is not founded on certainty of deliverance,
            but on the presence of God with them in the flames.

This is a crucial Advent truth:
            God’s presence does not remove the fires,
            but it changes the nature of our engagement with them.

We are never alone, even when the trials before us are overwhelming.

Think for a moment about the “furnaces”
            in our city, in our lives, and in our world.

The flames of injustice burn hot:
            economic inequality, the precarity of housing,
            the marginalisation of refugees, the climate crisis,
            and the violence that fractures communities.

The fires are real.

We may face them with fear, uncertainty, or even despair.
            But the God who walks in the furnace,
            who is present with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego,
            walks with us too.

Advent invites us to pay attention to this presence.

It calls us to stand courageously in the midst of suffering,
            knowing that God’s kingdom is breaking in,
                        not as an escape from the world,
                        but as the power to transform it.

This is not a promise that all suffering will vanish,
            but that in the furnace, God is there, shaping us, sustaining us,
            and empowering us to bear witness to justice and love.

Reversal, Hope, and the Coming of God’s Reign

The story reaches its climax with the king’s astonishment.
            The three emerge from the furnace unharmed.
            And the king declares: no one may speak against their God.

The improbable has become witness.
            Power has been exposed, empire has been humbled,
            and the reign of God has been revealed.

This reversal resonates deeply with the Gospel reading from John.

Jesus tells Pilate,
            “My kingdom is not of this world.
            If my kingdom were of this world, my followers would be fighting…
            but as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”

Jesus’ kingdom is not a conventional empire.
            It does not wield coercion, intimidation, or violence as its instruments.

Its power is expressed through fidelity, truth, justice, and love.
            Its victory is revealed in witness, not in domination.

Advent invites us into this paradox.
            We live between “already” and “not yet.”

God’s kingdom has come in Christ and yet is unfolding.
            The three in the furnace are a vivid reminder
                        that faithful witness can transform
                        even the most unyielding structures of power.

The kingdom is present when we refuse to bow to idols,
            when we act with courage in the face of injustice,
and when we embody hope
            in a world that seems to have lost its way.

For us, as a church community, this has tangible implications.

Our interfaith initiatives, our work with local communities,
            our advocacy for housing justice, our engagement with climate action,
            all are expressions of God’s kingdom breaking in.

They are, in effect, acts of walking into the furnace
            alongside the oppressed, the marginalised, and the vulnerable,
            trusting that God is present with us.

Living Advent in the Furnace

So what does Advent ask of us this year?

What does it mean to prepare for the coming of Christ
            in the midst of our own Babylonian realities?

First, it asks us to name the statues in our world.
            Where are we tempted to bow to the values of empire
                        rather than the values of God’s reign?
            What idols demand our loyalty and obedience,
                        quietly or overtly?

Second, it asks us to enter the furnaces of our city and our world.
            The furnace is not metaphorical for comfort.
            It is real, it is present, it is hard.
To stand with those experiencing homelessness,
            to walk with refugees, to challenge systems of injustice,
            to speak truth to power—these are the furnaces of our day.

Third, Advent reminds us that God is present, breaking into our world.
            We do not face these challenges alone.
God walks with us in the flames, shaping our courage,
            guiding our witness, sustaining our hope,
            and calling us to fidelity even when the outcome is uncertain.

Finally, Advent calls us to hope-filled action.
            The story of the furnace ends in reversal.
Power is upended. Faithfulness is vindicated.
            The kingdom of God is revealed.

And so, we, too, are called to participate in this transformation,
            through prayer, through advocacy, through acts of justice and mercy.

The coming of Christ is not simply a past or future event;
            it is lived every day when we choose allegiance to God’s reign,
            and when we bear witness to truth and justice in our world.

Advent as Active Waiting”

Advent is often described as a season of waiting,
            but the kind of waiting the scriptures invite is never passive.
            It is active, attentive, and expectant.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego waited,
            not in idleness, but in faithfulness and courage,
            fully present in the midst of danger.

They were alert to God’s presence even in the flames,
            ready to act faithfully,
and open to the possibility
            that God’s kingdom could break through at any moment.

This is the Advent challenge for us today.

We do not wait merely for a baby in Bethlehem,
            or even for the distant consummation of God’s reign.

We wait with eyes open
            to the injustices, oppressions, and inequalities that surround us,
            ready to participate in God’s work of justice and mercy.

Our waiting is active:
            it takes the shape of advocacy, compassion,
            solidarity, and bold witness.

It is a waiting that transforms, shapes, and strengthens us
            for the kingdom work we are called to do here and now.

In this way, Advent is deeply political, deeply practical, and deeply faithful.
            It calls us to embody hope in action,
            to live as those who trust that God’s reign is real,
                        even when the fires of the world are hot,
                        even when the empires of greed and oppression seem overwhelming.

Advent is a season that trains us to wait with courage,
            to hope with integrity, and to act with faithfulness.

Conclusion

So this Advent, we stand with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.
            We face the flames of our world,
            aware of the challenges, the pressures, and the dangers.

And yet, we do so with courage,
            knowing that God is present.

We refuse to bow to idols, we witness to truth,
            we act with justice, and we live in hope.

As Jesus told Pilate, the kingdom of God is not about worldly power,
            but about truth, allegiance, and faithful witness.

This is the message of Advent:
            that even in the darkness, even in the furnace,
            God is present, God is active, and God’s kingdom is coming.

Let us pray together:

God of Advent fire, you walk with us in the furnace of our city.
            Grant us courage to refuse idolatry,
                        wisdom to witness your truth,
                        and hope to live your reign now.

Strengthen us for the work of justice,
            embolden us for the acts of mercy,
and remind us that the kingdom of God begins with us,
            here and today. Amen.

And may the God who walks with us in the fire,
            who upends power, and who calls forth justice,
            sustain you, guide you, and bless you this Advent season.
Amen.

Exiles, Hope, Peace and the Call to Live Now

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
23rd November 2025

Jeremiah 29.1, 4–14; John 14.27

Let us pray.
Loving God, giver of life and justice,
            you plant us in your world and invite us to flourish in the midst of change.
Give us ears to hear your word today,
            eyes to see your presence in the places we least expect,
            and courage to live your hope now. Amen.

A letter sent into exile

Jeremiah’s letter is written to a people whose world has fallen apart.

The Babylonians have destroyed Jerusalem, ransacked the temple,
            and marched the leaders, priests, and artisans of Judah into captivity.

All the symbols of divine favour — land, king, temple —
            have been swept away.

The people are left asking the hardest question of all:
            Where is God now?

Into that despair comes a letter from home.
            But it’s not the sort of message they were hoping for.

It doesn’t promise an immediate rescue or call them to armed revolt.
            It’s not a manifesto for quick restoration or a rousing cry of national pride.
Instead, Jeremiah tells them to settle down.
            To build houses and plant gardens.
            To have children, and live ordinary lives.

It’s extraordinary.

At the very moment when the exiles want to flee,
            Jeremiah tells them to stay.

When they want to keep their bags packed,
            he says, “Unpack.”

When they want to curse Babylon,
            he says, “Pray for it.”

But hear this, what we have here is not passive acceptance of injustice.
            It is rather a profound act of theological resistance.

Jeremiah is saying that Babylon does not have the last word on their lives.
            That the empire cannot erase God’s purpose.
He is telling the exiles that they can live faithfully, even in exile.
            That God’s covenant has not been cancelled by geography.

So when Jeremiah says,
            “Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile,”
he is reminding them — and us — that God’s sovereignty
            extends even into the places of displacement.

The exiles thought their faith could only survive in Jerusalem.
            But Jeremiah says, “No — you can worship, serve, and live justly
            even here, in exile in Babylon, even now.”

And then we reach that beloved verse:
            “For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord
            — plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.”

We often quote this as a personal comfort, and rightly so,
            but it’s not a promise of easy success or guaranteed happiness.

It’s a declaration that God’s purposes endure even in exile.

The ‘plans’ it speaks of are not about individual prosperity;
            they are about collective restoration.

God’s future emerges not by escaping Babylon,
            but by being faithful within it.

So, Jeremiah’s letter invites us to discover
            that exile is not the end of the story.

Sometimes, exile is the place where God teaches us how to live again.

Hope that shapes action

Hope, in Jeremiah’s world, is not a warm feeling or a wistful wish.
            It is a concrete way of living.

Jeremiah doesn’t say, “Wait patiently and everything will get better.”
            He says, “Start living as if the future God has promised is already true.”

Build. Plant. Marry. Multiply. Pray.
            These are words of movement, creation, and care.

They root hope in daily life,
            in the soil beneath your feet.

Jeremiah’s instruction is not to retreat into pious isolation
            or hide away until it’s all over,
but to engage fully in the life of the city,
            even when the city feels foreign and strange.

This kind of hope is deeply political.
            It resists despair, but it also resists illusion.

It acknowledges suffering and injustice
            but refuses to let them define the limits of possibility.

Jeremiah’s vision undermines empire’s power
            by insisting that real life — meaningful, flourishing, God-shaped life —
            can happen even under imperial domination.

For us, this means that Christian hope
            is never detached from the public realm.

It’s not an inward spiritual comfort that leaves the world unchanged.
            It’s an embodied commitment to live differently
            in the midst of the world as it is.

When we, as the church in Bloomsbury,
            work with others for housing justice, or campaign for fair pay,
            or welcome those whom society or church excludes,
            we are living Jeremiah’s vision.

We are saying that Babylon does not have the final say over human flourishing.

And notice something subtle:
            Jeremiah doesn’t call the exiles to convert Babylon,
            or to make it more like Jerusalem.
He calls them to seek its welfare.

That’s a remarkable phrase.
            It means our wellbeing is tied up with the wellbeing of our neighbours
            whether or not they share our faith.

For a church like ours, rooted in this diverse city, this is vital.

The flourishing of London,
            the wellbeing of those who live and work around us,
                        migrants, artists, students, workers,
                        the unhoused, the lonely, the asylum seeker and the refugee,
            is bound up with our own.

When the city thrives, we thrive.
            And when the city suffers, we suffer too.

Jeremiah’s letter calls us to that deep solidarity,
            the recognition that God’s shalom is not a private possession
            but a shared ecosystem of justice and compassion.

Living faithfully in a culture of displacement

There’s a deep resonance between the exiles of Babylon
            and our experience as the church today.

We, too, live in a kind of exile,
            not a physical one, but cultural, moral, and spiritual exile.

Once, the church was at the centre of society’s story.
            Its voice was heard, its rituals respected, its buildings filled.

But now we find ourselves at the margins,
            in a post-Christendom world
            where the church is often ignored, misunderstood, or treated as irrelevant.

Some Christians lament this, longing for a return to what was.
            But perhaps, like Jeremiah, we should see this not as disaster but as invitation.

Exile can be painful, but it can also be purifying.
            It strips away our illusions about power and privilege
            and invites us to rediscover what faithfulness really means.

In exile, the people of Judah had to learn to live without the temple,
            without the trappings of authority.

They had to learn to trust that God was still with them.
            And perhaps the same is true for us.

We are being called to let go of nostalgia,
            to stop yearning for a “Christian nation”
                        that never truly embodied Christ’s way,
            and instead to live faithfully in the world as it is.

Our calling is not to recover influence but to model integrity.
            In a consumerist, distracted, and often unjust culture,
            we are to show what life looks like
            when shaped by generosity, forgiveness, humility, and courage.

Our exile can be holy.
            It can teach us to rely less on status and more on grace.
It can free us to act in solidarity
            with those who have always lived on the margins.
It can remind us that God’s presence is not confined to our sanctuaries,
            but pulses through the streets of the city,
            through the lives of those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

And so, like Jeremiah’s exiles,
            we are called to seek the welfare of the city,
to pray for our neighbours, to work for justice,
            to cultivate beauty in unlikely places.

Because even in Babylon, the Spirit still moves.
            Even in exile, God is near.

The peace of Christ and the promise to the church

In John’s Gospel, Jesus offers his disciples a gift
            that seems almost impossible in the moment:

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.
            I do not give to you as the world gives.”

He speaks these words on the night of betrayal.
            He knows the cross is coming.
His friends will scatter.
            The movement they have built will appear crushed.
Yet he speaks of peace.

This peace is not about calm circumstances or the absence of conflict.
            It’s not the peace that comes from being safe or successful.

It’s the peace that arises from knowing that God’s love cannot be defeated.
            It’s the deep, resilient peace that holds us steady
            when everything around us is shaking.

When Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,”
            he’s not telling us to suppress fear or pretend we’re fine.
He’s inviting us to trust that even in the darkest moments,
            we are held by a love that will not let us go.

This is the same peace Jeremiah’s exiles needed,
            the confidence that God was still at work, even in a foreign land.

The peace of Christ empowers us to live faithfully in the midst of uncertainty,
            to act for justice even when the results are slow,
            to speak truth even when the world mocks or resists it.

And notice: Jesus contrasts his peace with the world’s peace.

The world’s peace is fragile, maintained by violence,
            enforced by control, dependent on winning.

Christ’s peace is creative, vulnerable, and enduring.
            It doesn’t depend on circumstances;
            it depends on presence; the presence of the God who dwells with us.

That’s the peace we are invited to receive.
            And it is this peace that equips us to live hopefully in exile,
            without bitterness, without fear.

Living as exiles — agents of hope

So what does this mean for us, here and now,
            in this church, in this city?

What does it mean for us to live as resident aliens
            in our own city of exile here in London?

Well, firstly I think it is no excuse for passivity.
            Rather, it’s a summons to creative action.

Jeremiah calls the exiles to build and plant,
            to create life in the midst of loss.

For us, that means committing ourselves to this place,
            to this city, this congregation, this work.

It means building relationships that sustain us,
            planting seeds of compassion and justice that may outlast us.

When we partner with Citizens UK,
            when we host interfaith gatherings,
when we welcome refugees,
            when we offer hospitality in our building,
we are living as exiles
            who believe that Babylon is not beyond redemption.

It also means seeking the welfare of the city,
            and not just in prayer but also in action.

Our calling is not to withdraw into purity or comfort,
            but to engage the messy, beautiful, broken life of London
            with courage and love.

To challenge systems that exploit the poor,
            to speak out for the voiceless,
            to hold hope when others despair.

And we must also resist the false prophets of our age,
            those who offer easy answers,
            who preach prosperity without justice
            or spirituality without solidarity.

Jeremiah warns against voices that deny the reality of exile
            or promise shortcuts to restoration.

True faith faces the world as it is
            and still chooses to act with compassion and courage.

Finally, Jeremiah calls us to seek God with all our hearts,
            to look for the divine not only in worship
            but in the daily work of living.

Because even in exile, God can be found.

When hope feels fragile

Jeremiah’s letter has a quiet tenderness that I find deeply human.
            He doesn’t tell the exiles to cheer up.

He acknowledges their pain. He honours their loss.
            And then he tells them to live anyway.

That’s what real hope looks like.
            It’s not denial; it’s defiance.
It’s the stubborn insistence that life is still worth living, even in Babylon.

There are times when we all experience exile,
            when our prayers seem unanswered, when our energy runs low,
            when our efforts for justice feel like droplets in a vast sea of indifference.

When inclusion feels like an uphill struggle,
            and compassion seems in short supply.

In those moments, we remember that the call to build and plant
            is not conditional on success.
It’s rooted in faithfulness.

God doesn’t ask us to fix everything;
            God asks us to keep sowing seeds of hope,
            trusting that they will bear fruit in God’s time.

And we remember, too, that the God who calls us to plant gardens
            also calls us to bear the cross.

The peace of Christ doesn’t remove us from struggle;
            it accompanies us through it.

It steadies us, renews us, and reminds us
            that the resurrection life is already breaking through,
            quietly, persistently, in acts of love and justice
            that may seem small but are never wasted.

When hope feels fragile, when the night feels long,
            we hold fast to the promise:

“You will seek me and find me when you search for me with all your heart.”

That’s not a demand for perfection,
            it’s an assurance that God is already seeking us, even as we seek God.

Conclusion – Hope, peace, action

So, my friends, what do we take from this letter to the exiles
            and the words of Jesus?

First, that exile is not the end of faith,
            it is often where faith begins again.
When the familiar structures fall away,
            we discover a God who is not confined to our comfort zones.

Second, that hope is not waiting for the world to change,
            but living as if it already has.
We build, plant, and work for justice
            not because success is guaranteed,
            but because this is what it means to be faithful people of God.

Third, that the peace of Christ is not a promise of ease,
            but a promise of presence.
It is the deep assurance that, even in exile,
            we are held by love, guided by purpose, and empowered to act.

And finally, that our wellbeing is bound up with the welfare of our city.
            The kingdom of God is not something we bring down from heaven;
            it’s something we uncover, nurture, and live into,
                        here, in the heart of London, among our neighbours and friends.

So go, and build houses. Plant gardens. Seek the good of the city.
            For in its welfare, you will find your welfare.

And may the peace of Christ, not as the world gives, but as love gives,
            be with you now and always.

Amen.

Following the Lamb: Power, Mission, and the Way of Love

A Sermon for Mill Hill East Church

16 November 2025

Reframing Revelation

Whenever we open the Book of Revelation, the room changes a little.
            Some people lean in, curious; others brace themselves.

For many, Revelation is the strangest book in the Bible,
            full of beasts and battles, seals and trumpets, fire and judgment.

It’s often treated as a kind of coded timetable
            for how the world will end,
            or a puzzle predicting current events.

But what if Revelation isn’t a secret calendar for the future,
            but a spiritual lens for the present?
What if it’s less about escaping history,
            and more about unveiling what’s really true within it?

You see, the word apocalypse doesn’t mean “disaster.”
            It means “unveiling.”

Revelation is the pulling back of the curtain,
            to show the world as it truly is:
a world in which God reigns, the slain Lamb is Lord,
            and the empires of violence and fear do not have the final word.

You see, John, the writer of Revelation, wasn’t predicting our century.
            He was writing to seven small churches in first-century Asia Minor:
                        Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, and the rest
            each struggling to survive under the shadow of the Roman Empire.

Rome shaped every part of their world:
            the economy, the laws,
            the stories people told, about who mattered and why.

And their question wasn’t “When will the world end?”
            Their question was “How do we stay faithful
            when the empire defines everything?”

So John wrote a pastoral letter disguised as a prophetic vision.
            He offered not a forecast but a perspective,
            a way of seeing that reveals the hidden truth behind the world’s appearances.

When we read it rightly, Revelation doesn’t terrify us; it clarifies us.

It pulls back the propaganda of empire — then and now —
            and helps the church live truthfully and courageously
            in the world God still loves.

That’s why I read Revelation as both ancient and urgent.

It is rooted in the struggles of its first hearers,
            but it speaks directly to ours,
because the empires may change,
            but the temptations remain the same:
to worship power, to compromise truth,
            to trade faithfulness for comfort.

And into that world, both theirs and ours,
            Revelation declares that the true power at the heart of the universe
            is not empire, not violence, not fear.
It is the self-giving love of the Lamb of God.

The Vision of the Scroll and the Lamb

And so in chapter five, John is taken into the throne room of heaven.

At the centre, he sees God seated on the throne,
            holding a scroll sealed with seven seals.

It is the scroll of history:
            the meaning and purpose of creation,
            the unfolding of redemption.

But no one can open it.
            No one in heaven or on earth is worthy even to look inside.

And so John weeps, because if no one can open the scroll,
            history remains locked, meaningless, without hope.

Then one of the elders says something unexpected,
            “Do not weep! The Lion of Judah has triumphed.”

And John looks up, expecting to see a lion,
            the traditional Jewish symbol of strength and victory.
But instead he sees a lamb,
            standing as though it had been slaughtered.

The conquering lion of mythic history
            is revealed to be none other than the slain lamb of God.

It turns out that the victory of God is revealed not in domination,
            but in love that suffers and redeems.

This is the shocking heart of Revelation’s theology:
            The centre of power in the universe is not a throne of force,
            but a cross of mercy.
God reigns, not through coercion, but through compassion.

The Christology of Revelation: The Politics of the Cross

In John’s world, this was a direct challenge
            to Rome’s theology of empire.

Rome proclaimed that peace came through victory
            Pax Romana achieved by the sword.
And John dares to say the opposite,
            that true peace comes through the Lamb who was slain.

Rome declared that Caesar was Lord.
            John proclaims: Jesus is Lord, and that the Lamb of God reigns even now.

Revelation is therefore a political book,
            because it unmasks the lies that empires tell,
            whether ancient Rome or any modern system that says:
“Might makes right.”
            “Profit is peace.”
            or “Security justifies violence.”

Against all this, John’s vision whispers, and sometimes shouts, a different truth:
            The Lamb who was slain is worthy.
            The power that saves the world looks like surrender.
            The throne of heaven is occupied by love.

That’s not weakness;
            it’s divine strength redefined.

The Church’s Mission: Following the Lamb

But Revelation doesn’t stop with worship;
            it sends us into witness.

John tells us that Christ has made us a kingdom and priests,
            mediators of God’s presence in the world.

Our mission, then, is not to conquer but to embody the Lamb’s way.
            To follow the Lamb wherever he goes, even into costly compassion.

And this means that we are called to live differently:
            We are called to choose mercy over revenge,
            generosity over greed, truth over convenience.

We are those who build communities of hope and healing
            in a world still addicted to competition and fear.

In that sense, Revelation is not escapist at all.
            It’s deeply incarnational.
It doesn’t call us out of the world;
            it calls us to live in the world
            as signs of the new creation already breaking in.

Every act of justice, every word of peace, every prayer for healing
            is a participation in the Lamb’s mission.
Friends, this is what it means to live apocalyptically,
            to live as if the veil has been lifted,
            and to act as if God’s kingdom really is at hand.

The Worship of Heaven: Hope Restored

The vision of heaven ends in worship.
            The living creatures and elders fall down before the Lamb,
            singing a new song:

“You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals,
            for you were slain,
and by your blood you ransomed people for God
            from every tribe and language and people and nation.”

And then the angels join in,
            “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain,
to receive power and wealth and wisdom
            and strength and honour and glory and praise!”

This is not escapist worship. It is defiant worship.
            It names what’s true, even when the world denies it.
It says: love is stronger than death;
            grace is greater than empire;
            God’s future is not cancelled by human fear.

What John gives us in this heavenly scene
            is not an escape from reality, but a reorientation toward it.

Worship in Revelation is not about leaving the world behind;
            it is about seeing the world truthfully,
            from heaven’s point of view.

Every image John paints,
            the throne, the elders, the living creatures, the unending song,
            is a challenge to the false worship of empire.

Rome’s cities were full of temples, processions, and imperial hymns.
            Caesar was hailed as “lord” and “saviour,”
                        his image printed on every coin,
            his name sung in the marketplace.

Worship of the emperor wasn’t just religion;
            it was public order.

It told people who mattered and who didn’t,
            who held power and who must obey.

And into that world, John dares to imagine a different liturgy.
            The throne of heaven is not occupied by Caesar but by the Creator.
            The one who receives honour is not the conqueror but the crucified.
The song of the empire which sang the refrain: “Who is like the beast?”
            is drowned out by the song of heaven as angels sing: “Worthy is the Lamb.”

This is why worship is at the heart of resistance.
            Every time the church gathers to sing, to pray, to break bread,
                        it rehearses another story.
            It trains our imagination to see the Lamb at the centre,
                        not the emperor on the throne.

Worship, in that sense, is deeply political.
            Not because it belongs to a party,
            but because it shapes a people who refuse to be shaped by empire.

In worship we are re-formed,
            our desires, our loyalties, our vision of what is possible.

And the more we see the world through the Lamb’s eyes,
            the more we can live as witnesses to his peace and justice in the midst of it.

Revelation’s worship scenes are not interruptions in the action,
            they are the action.
They remind us that the world is changed not by fear, but by wonder;
            not by coercion, but by praise.

The song of heaven becomes the engine of history,
            the soundtrack of God’s new creation breaking in even now.

This is why Revelation ends not with destruction, but with a vision of renewal,
            the New Jerusalem, the river of life, the healing of the nations.
The Lamb who was slain is the one who makes all things new.

Bringing it Home: The Lamb’s Way in Our Time

So what does this mean for us here, in Mill Hill East, in 2025?

It means that Revelation is not about guessing the end,
            but about living in the middle: faithfully, truthfully, compassionately.

It means recognising that the powers of empire still exist,
            not in marble palaces, but in economic systems, in media narratives,
            and in ideologies that promise peace without justice
                        and prosperity without love.

When Revelation speaks of “Babylon” and “the beast,”
            it’s tempting to imagine something safely distant,
            some long-gone empire or future tyrant.

But John’s genius is to describe empire in symbols that travel through time.
            Babylon is every system that worships wealth and crushes the poor.
            The beast is every ideology that demands allegiance to fear.
            And the false prophet is every voice that baptises injustice with pious words.

That’s why Revelation still matters.
            Because empire is not just a political structure; it’s a spirituality.
            It is the worship of what isn’t God.

It thrives wherever power is worshipped,
            wherever human life is treated as expendable,
            wherever creation is exploited for profit,
            wherever truth itself becomes a casualty of propaganda.

We see it when refugees are dehumanised in the name of security,
            when the poor are blamed for their poverty,
            when the earth is plundered as though it were disposable,
            when the language of faith is twisted to justify violence.

Revelation doesn’t ask us to decode these things into prophecy charts.
It asks us to see, and to see clearly,
            to see courageously, to see compassionately.
Because once we see empire for what it is,
            we can begin to live differently within it.

And this is where mission comes in.

To follow the Lamb is not simply to critique empire;
            it is to embody an alternative.
The church’s calling is to be a living contradiction to the world’s logic,
            a community where power is shared,
                        where wealth is held lightly,
            where strangers are welcomed,
                        and where forgiveness is stronger than fear.

When John says the Lamb has made us “a kingdom of priests,”
            he means precisely this:
that the church’s worship and the church’s justice are the same act.

Every Eucharist, every shared meal,
            every act of mercy is a small rebellion against Babylon,
            a proclamation that another kingdom is already among us.

So if Revelation feels political, that’s because it is.

But it’s not the politics of party or ideology;
            it’s the politics of love.
It’s the vision of a world reordered around the Lamb
            who reigns through self-giving grace.

This is what it means to live apocalyptically,
            to see through the glitter of empire
and to live as if the kingdom of God were already here,
            because in Christ, it is.

And it means that the church’s mission, your mission,
            is to reveal a different way of being human:
the way of the Lamb.

Whenever you choose understanding over prejudice,
            generosity over greed, truth over fear,
you bear witness that the Lamb still reigns.

That is Revelation’s Christology in action:
            not speculative prophecy, but practical discipleship.

Conclusion

So today, as we join that heavenly chorus,
            remember what John saw:

At the centre of everything, of heaven and earth, of history and hope,
            stands a Lamb, still bearing his wounds, still reigning in love.

The future of the world is not in the hands of the powerful,
            but in the hands of the crucified and risen Christ.

And because that’s true, we can live with courage,
            serve with hope, and love without fear.

To the one who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb,
            be blessing and honour and glory and power,
            for ever and ever.
Amen.