A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
15 March 2026,
Fourth Sunday in Lent
We live in a world filled with
leaders of every kind.
Some rule with an iron fist,
demanding
obedience and silencing dissent.
Some charm the public with
populist slogans,
offering simple
solutions to complex problems,
while
consolidating power in ways that serve themselves
more than the
common good.
Others operate as technocrats,
relying on expertise and efficiency,
yet often detached
from the real lives of the people they govern.
And in some parts of the
world, outright dictators still claim authority
over every aspect
of daily life,
using fear and
force to maintain control.
When we read the story of Jesus
before Pilate,
it is impossible not to hear
echoes of these dynamics.
Pilate represents the
pragmatism and self-interest of worldly power.
The crowd chooses Barabbas,
the insurrectionist who
embodies the familiar logic of rebellion and force.
And yet Jesus introduces a
different way of ruling,
a kingship not built on
domination, fear, or expedience,
but on truth, humility, and
self-giving love.
In Lent, we are invited to
reflect on the kinds of leaders we follow,
the powers we trust,
and the kind of kingdom we
want to belong to,
not just in politics, but in every part of life.
But first, let’s turn to the
story in 1 Samuel 8,
where we find a people
wrestling with the same, age-old question:
what kind of leadership do we
want?
The Israelites had come to the
prophet Samuel with a bold request:
“Appoint for us a king to
govern us like other nations.”
Their desire is simple and
human.
They want what every
surrounding nation has.
They want a ruler who will lead
armies into battle,
defeat their enemies, project
strength,
and ensure the security of
their people.
At first glance, this seems
reasonable.
After all, every nation has
its king, so why should Israel be different?
They are looking for stability,
for protection,
for someone to guide them
through a dangerous world.
But Samuel, the faithful
prophet,
sees more clearly than the
people themselves.
He warns them about what kings
actually do.
He tells them that kingship
comes at a cost.
Kings will take their sons for the army,
sending them into battle,
risking their lives.
A king will take their daughters for labour,
and their fields, vineyards,
and the best of the land
to fill the king’s coffers and
maintain their court.
Kings rule through extraction
and control.
The very systems that promise
protection
are the same systems that
demand everything in return.
Samuel’s words are clear:
a king will not simply serve
the people.
He will consolidate power,
extract resources, and enforce
authority.
And yet the people insist.
They do not want a prophet’s
counsel.
They want power, they want security,
they want a king like the
nations around them.
They choose the politics of empire.
The human desire for
domination,
for a ruler who promises
order,
is stronger than their fear of
oppression.
It is a depressing fact that sometimes
people don’t vote in their own
interest!
This moment in Israel’s history
is more than a story of one
people;
it is a window into the human
heart.
Even in our time, we want
leaders who make life predictable.
We want structures of power
that promise safety.
And all too often, we do not pause to ask what such power costs.
The Israelites’ insistence
reveals a tension
that runs through human
history:
the tension between our desire for control and our need for justice.
With this background in mind,
the scene in John 18
becomes all the more striking.
Jesus, who has been teaching
and healing,
now stands before the Roman
governor, Pontius Pilate.
The religious authorities have
brought him here
because only Rome can
authorize execution.
And the question they ask is
simple:
“Are you the king of the
Jews?”
On the surface, it seems like a
straightforward political question.
But in the ears of an empire,
the word “king” carries
weighty significance.
To Pilate, a king is a man who
commands armies,
enforces rule, crushes rivals,
and threatens the authority of
Rome.
The word is inseparable from
rebellion,
political upheaval, and
potential violence.
When Pilate asks Jesus this
question,
he is not curious about
theology.
He is asking about danger.
Are you a revolutionary?
Are you a threat to the Pax
Romana, the fragile peace of Rome?
The empire knows exactly what
kings are.
And they do not tolerate
rivals.
They do not welcome dissent
that could destabilize their rule.
Pilate, as governor, has
inherited a system
that measures kings in terms
of military might,
coercion, and political
threat.
That is the lens through which
he views Jesus.
And yet Jesus does not answer
in the way Pilate expects.
Jesus refuses to play the game.
He doesn’t confirm the
accusation,
but nor does he deny it in the
terms Pilate understands.
Instead, he offers a statement
that unsettles the governor
and shifts the conversation
entirely:
“My kingdom is not from this world.”
At first hearing, this may
sound like Jesus is speaking of something distant,
something purely spiritual,
detached from politics and daily life.
But in John’s Gospel, the
phrase has a more precise meaning.
It doesn’t deny that the
kingdom is present in the world;
rather it denies that the
kingdom operates by the systems of domination
that define
worldly power.
If Jesus’ kingdom were like the
kingdoms Samuel warned about,
if it depended on coercion or
violence, he says,
his followers would be
fighting to defend it.
But they are not.
The logic of empire, the logic
of kings who extract and control,
does not govern the kingdom
Jesus proclaims.
Jesus’ kingdom operates
differently.
It operates through truth and
witness,
through a demonstration of
love and justice that does not rely on force.
The kings Samuel warned about
rule through coercion.
They demand obedience,
loyalty, and resources,
often at the expense of those
they govern.
Jesus, in contrast, calls
people to allegiance
not through fear but through
the witness of truth.
And here the encounter with
Pilate reaches its profound moment.
Jesus continues: “For this I
was born… to testify to the truth.”
This is not an abstract
philosophical truth.
It is the truth about God’s
character, about God’s purposes,
about the way the world really
works.
It is the revelation of reality
that exposes the lies
upon which systems of
domination are built.
Where empires thrive on
deception, manipulation, and control,
Jesus offers clarity.
He reveals the hidden
structures of power
and shows a way of life that
belongs not to coercion but to fidelity,
not to violence but to
witness, not to domination but to love.
Pilate’s response is a weary,
almost cynical question:
“What is truth?”
And he doesn’t even wait for an answer.
In Pilate, we see the
pragmatism of empire.
Stability matters more than
justice.
Order is more important than
fidelity to truth.
Truth is inconvenient.
It challenges authority,
exposes hypocrisy, and demands action.
Pilate is not interested in
these things.
He represents the systems that
Samuel warned about
and that Jesus
critiques:
structures that prioritise
survival, appearances, and control
over the
courageous pursuit of God’s way.
And yet even in Pilate’s
pragmatism, there is recognition.
He declares that he finds no
guilt in Jesus.
He knows, at some level, that
Jesus is innocent.
But innocence is not enough.
The machinery of power must keep moving.
The political system, the
crowd, and the customs of the time
push Pilate to act against his
own judgment.
Truth alone cannot override the
pressures of empire.
So he allows the crowd to
choose,
and they release
Barabbas, the known rebel,
and hand Jesus over for
crucifixion.
Here, the tragic irony is
complete.
The human instinct to protect
the familiar,
to embrace the logic of
domination,
leads to the rejection of the king who embodies truth and justice.
In reflecting on these two
readings together,
the contrast is stark.
Israel demanded a king like the
nations,
and the people of Jerusalem
chose a leader
who promised the familiar
comforts of rebellion and force.
And yet the king who stands
before Pilate
offers something radically
different.
He invites us into a kingdom
that does not follow the
patterns of coercion, control, and extraction.
He calls us to a life shaped by witness, truth, and sacrificial love.
In both passages, we see the
human tendency
to seek security and power at
any cost.
In both passages, God offers something unexpected:
a vision of kingship rooted
not in fear and domination,
but in faithfulness, truth,
and grace.
This is where Lent brings us,
in the middle of the
wilderness of human desire and political ambition.
Lent reminds us that following
Christ
often means standing apart
from the logic of the world.
It means embracing a kingship that is humble,
vulnerable, and
countercultural.
It means choosing the truth,
even when it is inconvenient,
uncomfortable, and costly.
And it invites the church to
consider:
which kingdom do we belong to?
The kingdom of extraction, coercion, and fear?
Or the kingdom of truth, love,
and witness?
When Pilate offers the crowd a
choice,
the moment feels, on the
surface, almost ceremonial.
He presents these two
prisoners:
Jesus, the one who stands
accused but is innocent,
and Barabbas, a known
insurrectionist.
Barabbas is not a criminal in
the narrow sense;
rather he is someone who
embraces the familiar logic of violent rebellion,
he’s a freedom fighter who offered
the kind of leadership
that the people understand and
expect.
In that moment, the crowd’s
choice is revealing.
They choose Barabbas.
They reject the king who embodies humility, truth, and self-giving love,
and instead take the path of
strength, force, and control.
The echo of 1 Samuel 8 is
unmistakable.
Just as Israel demanded a king
like the nations,
so the people of Jerusalem,
confronted with the kingdom of God in Jesus,
turn toward the kind of power
they know,
power that promises security but depends on domination.
This choice is both tragic and
deeply instructive.
Human beings are drawn to the
familiar.
We are drawn to systems of authority that we can recognise and predict,
even if they exploit or
oppress.
Strength, force, and control
feel safe
because they are measurable,
visible, and immediate.
Love, sacrifice, and truth, by
contrast, demand something of us.
They require courage,
attentiveness,
and a willingness to step
outside the logic of the world.
In choosing Barabbas,
the crowd chooses the familiar
over the unfamiliar,
coercion over witness,
domination over the quiet but
transformative power of Christ’s kingship.
And yet, Jesus embodies a
completely different kind of kingship.
He does not respond with
domination or violence.
He does not demand allegiance
through coercion or fear.
Instead, he rules through truth, humility, sacrificial love,
and faithfulness even unto
death.
The king of the Gospel does not
take life; he gives it.
His reign is revealed not in
the force of arms
or the
accumulation of power,
but in the way he faces
suffering, injustice,
and betrayal with
steadfast love.
The cross, the ultimate moment
of weakness in human eyes,
becomes the supreme
manifestation of his kingship.
It is there, in the seeming defeat of Calvary,
that the world sees the power
of the kingdom that is not of this world.
The readings we have considered
this morning
confront us with a question
that is uncomfortably direct:
what kind of king do we want?
Do we want the kings that
Samuel warned us about,
kings who promise security,
order, and protection,
but demand everything in
return?
Or do we want the king who
stands before Pilate,
the one who embodies a kingdom
ruled not through fear or domination,
but through truth, integrity,
and self-giving love?
The choice is not hypothetical.
It is present in every aspect
of our lives.
Every day, we face moments
where we can choose coercion over compassion,
power over justice, expedience
over truth.
Following Jesus means making a
different choice,
choosing the kind of kingdom
that transforms rather than controls.
To belong to the kingdom of
Christ
is to live according to a
different logic than that of empire.
We do not advance the purposes
of God
through domination,
manipulation, or fear.
Rather, we bear witness to
truth, speak against injustice,
and embody love in tangible,
courageous ways.
This is the quiet power of the
kingdom,
the kind of power that does
not scream, but persists.
It is visible in the patient
work of reconciliation,
in standing alongside the
oppressed,
in acts of generosity that
cost us something.
It is the power that grows
quietly,
that transforms communities,
and that shapes the world
through fidelity rather than force.
And yet, it is not always easy.
The kingdom of God challenges
the very structures and systems
that we take for granted.
It calls us to reject familiar
forms of authority,
to see beyond the immediate
and the pragmatic,
to act in ways that seem
foolish or weak to those
who measure
success by domination.
Lent is a season that draws us
into that reflection.
It invites us to consider what
we value,
what we depend
upon,
and what kind of allegiance we
pledge.
It is a reminder that following
Christ
will often place us at odds
with the powers that surround us,
just as Jesus stood before
Pilate.
In the Roman governor’s palace,
two visions of power stand
face to face.
Pilate represents the kingdoms
of this world,
where authority is measured by
fear, violence, and control.
Jesus represents the kingdom of
God,
where authority is measured by
truth, love, and faithfulness.
Pilate believes he holds power.
He can release or condemn,
control the narrative, and maintain order.
But the gospel quietly reveals
the truth:
the one who seems powerless
is the one whose kingdom will endure long after empires
crumble.
The one who is bound and
mocked
is the one whose
reign shapes the hearts and lives
of countless
generations.
And the invitation remains open
to us, even now.
To follow Christ, to live as
citizens of this kingdom,
is to make a conscious choice
to belong to truth.
Everyone who belongs to the
truth listens to his voice.
And it’s a voice that calls us
to justice when the world
favours oppression,
to courage when the world
favours convenience,
and to love when the world
favours fear.
The king who stands before
Pilate is the one who shows us
that the power of God’s
kingdom is not in domination,
but in the faithful witness of
those who follow him.
And that is a kingdom worth
following,
worth embodying, and worth
living into every day.
As we leave this place today,
may we remember that Lent is a
journey into that kingdom.
May we learn to recognise the
subtle ways the world seduces us
with the familiar paths of
force and control.
And may we choose instead the
way of Christ,
the king who stands before
Pilate,
the king whose authority comes
from truth, humility, and love.
May our lives bear witness to
that kingdom,
even in small acts, even in
quiet courage,
even in the ways we resist the
easy, familiar path of domination.
And in doing so, may we join in
the reign
of the one whose kingdom will
never end,
and whose voice calls us to
belong, now and always.
Let us pray.
Lord of truth and mercy,
we stand before you in awe of
the king
who does not wield power like the world,
the one who bears witness to
justice, love, and humility.
Give us courage to follow where Christ leads,
to resist the easy paths of
domination and fear,
and to live lives shaped by
truth, compassion, and sacrificial love.
Let your Spirit strengthen us to speak boldly, act
faithfully,
and bear witness to your
kingdom in all we do.
May our hearts burn with the fire of your love
and our minds be alert to the
ways your justice calls us forward.
Through Christ, the King who reigns in truth and love,
we pray.
Amen.
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