The Abundance of Heaven

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church 

11 January 2026

 

John 2.1-11

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee,
            and Jesus was there.

That is how this story begins.
            Not with a sermon.
            Not with a confrontation in the temple.
            Not with a declaration of doctrine.

It begins with a wedding.
            With people gathered to celebrate love and community,
            to eat and drink together,
            to mark a new beginning in the midst of ordinary life.

John’s Gospel opens not by drawing us away from the world,
            but by immersing us in it.

The Word becomes flesh and pitches a tent among us,
            and the first place that presence is revealed
            is not a sacred precinct but a village celebration.

This matters because it tells us something essential
            about where God chooses to be found
            and how God chooses to act.

This wedding is not a decorative backdrop for a spiritual lesson.
            It is the place where the first sign happens.
The place where glory is revealed.
            The place where the trajectory of Jesus’ ministry begins to take shape.

Weddings in the ancient world were communal events that lasted several days.
            Hospitality was not a courtesy; it was an obligation.
            To host well was a matter of honour, and failure was public.

Which is why the crisis at the heart of this story is not trivial.
            Because the wine runs out.

And this isn’t merely an inconvenience.
            It’s a moment of potential shame.
The celebration risks turning into embarrassment.
            The promise of joy begins to unravel.

And perhaps that is why this story resonates so strongly.
            Because it names a human experience that is deeply familiar.

The moment when what we have turns out not to be enough.
            When resources run low.
            When expectations outstrip capacity.
When the appearance of abundance gives way to anxiety.

Not enough wine.

            Not enough money.

Not enough time.

            Not enough energy.

Not enough volunteers.

            Not enough hope.

John doesn’t tell us why the wine runs out.
            He doesn’t invite us to assign blame.
He simply names the lack.
            And that lack becomes the site of revelation.

Notice too that Jesus doesn’t notice the problem at first.
            It’s his mother who sees what is happening and names it.
            She says, ‘They have no wine’.

She doesn’t theologise the problem.
            She doesn’t offer solutions.
She simply tells the truth about the situation.

And Jesus’ response is unsettling.
            ‘What concern is that to you and to me?’
            ‘My hour has not yet come.’

What’s he getting at here?

In John’s Gospel, the ‘hour’ is always the moment
            when love is revealed most fully through self-giving.

That moment still lies ahead in the gospel narrative.
            And yet, something happens here.
Not the fullness, but a sign.
            Not the end, but a beginning.

Rather than arguing, Jesus’ mother turns to the servants and says,
            ‘Do whatever he tells you.’

Those words are deceptively simple.
            They’re not a guarantee of success.
They’re an invitation to trust.
            An invitation to act without knowing how things will turn out.

And the servants duly respond.
            They fill six stone jars with water.

These jars aren’t neutral containers.
            John tells us they are used for the Jewish rites of purification.
They belong to a system of religious practice
            concerned with ritual cleanliness,
                        with boundary-keeping,
                        with the maintenance of purity.

Which means that what happens next is not just a miracle.
            It’s a reorientation.

The jars associated with ritual purity
            become the very vessels of transformation.

The water associated with cleansing
            becomes wine associated with joy.

The practices designed to maintain religious order
            are repurposed to sustain communal celebration.

This is not an attack on piety.
            It’s a reframing of it.

John is not suggesting that ritual is meaningless
            or that spiritual discipline should be discarded.

But he is showing us that when piety becomes an end in itself,
            detached from compassion and justice,
            it no longer serves the life God intends.

As Jesus turns water of ritual purity into wine of shared joy,
            we see a shift in emphasis.

From religious maintenance to transformative compassion.
            From personal observance to the flourishing of the community as a whole.

This is not a rejection of holiness.
            It is a deeper expression of it.

The servants draw from the jars and take the liquid to the steward.
            Somewhere between obedience and offering,
                        the water becomes wine.

And not just wine, but good wine.
            Wine of such quality that the steward is astonished.

Everyone else serves the good wine first,
            and then the inferior wine after the guests have had too much to drink.

But the steward remarks with astonishment
            that the bridegroom has kept the good wine until now.

This moment is often sentimentalised,
            but it is profoundly political and theological.

It disrupts the assumption that decline is inevitable.
            It resists the narrative that says the best is always behind us.

In the presence of Jesus, the future presses into the present.
            Abundance is not deferred to some distant fulfilment.
It appears here and now,
            in the midst of ordinary life.

But notice something else.
            The steward doesn’t know where the wine comes from.
            And neither do the guests know.

The credit goes elsewhere.
            And the sign is almost hidden.

Only the servants know.
            Only the disciples see and believe.

This tells us something important
            about how God’s reign takes shape in the world.

It doesn’t always arrive with recognition or applause.
            It often comes quietly, through acts of service,
            through faithful participation,
            through transformation that sustains life
                        without drawing attention to itself.

John tells us that this was the first of Jesus’ signs,
            and that through it he revealed glory,
            and his disciples believed.

Glory here is not spectacle.
            It’s not dominance.
            It’s not religious display.

It is rather the revelation of God’s life-giving presence
            at work in the world.

And belief here is not intellectual assent. It is trust.
            It’s the beginning of a way of life shaped by that revelation.

This is where the story presses into our own discipleship.

It would be easy to read this as a private miracle.
            A domestic intervention.
            Jesus quietly fixing a social embarrassment.
But John will not let us stop there.

The transformation of water into wine
            is not only about individual generosity.
It is about the shape of God’s reign.

It is about the movement from a religious system
            focused on purity and boundary-keeping
to a community shaped by compassion, abundance, and shared joy.

And that movement has consequences.

If the first sign takes place not in a temple but at a wedding,
            then the life of faith cannot be confined
            to private or communal spirituality alone.

If the jars of purification are repurposed for celebration,
            then piety cannot remain detached
            from the material conditions of people’s lives.

As Jesus turns from ritual purity to transformative compassion,
            so we are called to complement piety
            with kingdom-focused social action that brings heaven to earth.

That is not an optional extra.
            It is woven into the fabric of the gospel.

Personal prayer, communal worship,
            and shared devotion matter deeply.
They shape us.
            They attune us to God’s presence.

But if they are not accompanied by a commitment to justice,
            to dignity, and to the flourishing of communities,
            then they fall short of the vision revealed at Cana.

This story invites us to ask not only how we practise faith,
            but who benefits from it.

Who is protected from shame?

Who is sustained in moments of scarcity?

Who gets to keep celebrating?

The abundance Jesus brings is not hoarded.
            It circulates. It is shared.
            It sustains a whole community.

That has implications for how we understand the church.

The church is not called to be a container of religious purity,
            carefully guarding its boundaries.

It is called to be a site of transformation,
            where the resources we have are offered, repurposed,
            and multiplied for the sake of life.

That kind of church does not withdraw from the world.
            It stays at the table.
It pays attention to where the wine is running low.
            It refuses to accept scarcity as inevitable.
It trusts that obedience, even when costly,
            can become the site of unexpected abundance.

For a community like Bloomsbury, this is not abstract theology.
            It is lived reality.

We are a church shaped by worship and by public engagement.
            By prayer and by organising.
            By scripture and by solidarity.

At this point, it is worth naming a habit of mind
            that many churches, often unintentionally, fall into.

When we talk about our life together,
            we frequently begin with what is missing.
What we no longer have.
            What has declined.
            What resources feel stretched.
            What energy feels depleted.

That way of speaking is understandable.
            It is often rooted in honesty and care.
But it can quietly shape our imagination
            in ways that limit our faith.

Sam Wells describes an alternative approach,
            sometimes called Asset Based Church Development.
It is a way of seeing that deliberately begins
            not with what is lacking,
            but with what is already present.
Not with absence, but with gift.

The theological conviction beneath this approach is simple but profound.
            God has already given the resources needed for faithfulness now.

Not necessarily for every future we can imagine.
            Not for every ambition we might carry.
But for the calling that is actually before us, at this moment, in this place.

Seen through that lens, the wedding at Cana looks slightly different.

The problem is real. The wine has run out.
            But Jesus doesn’t conjure something from nothing.

He begins with what is already there.
            Stone jars. Water.
            Servants willing to act.
            A community still gathered.
Ordinary elements, easily overlooked.

The transformation does not bypass those assets.
            It works through them.

The water does not become wine in spite of what is present,
            but because of it.

The jars are not a failure of the old system.
            They are repurposed.

The servants are not powerful figures.
            They are faithful participants.

And the abundance that emerges
            is rooted in what the community already has to hand.

This is not a story about scarcity being magically erased.
            It is a story about gift being recognised and reimagined.

That matters deeply for how we think about church.

If we begin only with what we lack,
            we will always be tempted to believe
            that faithfulness depends on acquiring something else.

More people. More money.
            More certainty. More energy.
            More influence.

But the theology revealed at Cana suggests something different.
            It suggests that God is already at work
            with the resources that are already present.

The question is not whether we have enough,
            but whether we trust that what we have
            can be offered, filled, and transformed.

That applies not only to the church as a whole,
            but to each of us as individuals.

So often we approach God with an internal list of deficiencies.
            Not spiritual enough. Not brave enough.
            Not organised enough. Not resilient enough.

The gospel doesn’t deny our limitations.
            But it refuses to let them have the final word.

God does not wait for us to become something else
            before calling us to faithfulness.
God works with who we are, where we are,
            and what we already carry.

At Cana, no one is asked to create wine.
            They are asked to fill jars with water.

The miracle belongs to God.
            The obedience belongs to the community.

Asset based faith is not complacent.
            It doesn’t deny struggle.

It simply begins from a different place.
            From gratitude rather than anxiety.
            From trust rather than fear.

And when we begin there, something shifts.
            We stop asking only what we have lost,
            and start asking what we have been given.

We stop measuring ourselves against an imagined past or an ideal future,
            and begin attending to the calling of the present moment.

That is where transformation begins.

The temptation is always to treat spirituality as private
            and activism as optional.

But the wedding at Cana refuses that separation.

Here, holiness looks like joy sustained.
            Faithfulness looks like embarrassment avoided.
Glory looks like a community able to keep celebrating
            because someone acted.

The servants don’t perform a miracle.
            They don’t understand the full significance of what they are doing. \

They simply do what they are told.
            and in doing so, they participate in the revelation of God’s reign.

That is a profound model of discipleship.

We are not asked to control outcomes.
            We are asked to be faithful with what is in front of us.

To fill the jars. To carry the water.
            To trust that transformation is possible
            even when we cannot yet see it.

And the best wine comes later.
            Not because history inevitably improves,
            but because God’s future is already pressing into the present
            wherever love takes shape.

This is realised hope.
            Not postponed salvation.

This isn’t a promise that everything will be fixed elsewhere.
            But a conviction that the life God desires for the world
            is already being enacted,
                        sign by sign, act by act,
                        community by community.

At the end of the story, the wedding continues.
            The celebration goes on.
The crisis passes.
            Most people never know how close it came to disaster.

Grace often works like that.
            Quietly. Generously. Without recognition.

And perhaps that is the final invitation of this text.
            To trust that when we align personal devotion with public compassion,
when we allow our piety to be reshaped
            by the demands of love and justice,
heaven edges closer to earth.

May we be a people who notice where the wine is running low.

May we be a people who are willing to fill the jars.

May we be a people who trust that abundance is possible.

And may we discover, again and again,
        that the glory of God is revealed not in separation from the world,
        but in the transformation of it.

Amen.

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.