Light the Darkness Cannot Overcome

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

 

John 1.1-18
Psalm 130.5-8

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

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

Advent 4 is one of them.

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

Yet we are not there quite yet.

The light is beginning to rise,
            but the shadows have not fully retreated.

We live caught between longing and fulfilment,
            between yearning for redemption
            and recognising redemption already at work.

It is a holy tension.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is also a message for the church.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Advent is honest about this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so we wait.

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

This is our calling as a church.

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

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

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

So here we are at the hinge of time.

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

And so we pray:

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

The Living Water of God's Abundant Welcome

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Advent 3 - 14 December 2025

Isaiah 55.1-13
John 4.13-14

Good morning. On this Third Sunday of Advent
            we gather in a city facing tension, division, and fear.

Saturday’s march in London made claims to the Christian story
            in ways that sought to speak for British identity and national heritage,
            and to create a certain version of “our country”.

But for countless people: our neighbours, our friends,
            asylum‑seekers, migrants,
            Jewish people, Muslims, people of colour, and many more,
the echoes of fear still linger this morning.

I recognise that some who get swept up in this rhetoric
            are anxious about economic insecurity, social fragmentation, and rapid change.
But the kind of rhetoric that marched in our streets yesterday
            leaves others of us with a range of emotions from despair to grief.

And so today our Advent waiting does not feel distant or abstract.
            It feels urgent.

The invitation of the prophet remains as pressing and as beautiful now as then.
            Isaiah says: “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters.”

And in John’s Gospel, Jesus echoes that promise:
            “If anyone drinks of the water that I will give, they will never be thirsty.”

These words of universal invitation come to us today not as escapist spirituality,
            but as living hope, as challenge,
            as a call to courage, compassion, justice and welcome.

This sermon is offered because I believe our faith summons us
            to a hope bigger than fear,
a hope rooted in God’s abundance, God’s word made flesh,
            and God’s transforming presence in the world.

The church should not take its cues from extremist movements,
            our starting point is always the revelation of God in Jesus Christ,
            made known to us through the scriptures by the Spirit.
Our response should always be rooted in God’s vision of shalom.

And so I want to begin by returning to the message of the prophet,
            “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters.”

This invitation is radically inclusive.
            There is no small print. No qualifications. No membership card.
            The only admission requirement to God’s kingdom is thirst.

When Isaiah spoke those words,
            his hearers were people shaped by exile, loss,
            economic hardship, and displacement.

Scarcity was the condition of their lives.
            Houses destroyed. Dreams shattered.
            The world rearranged around them.

Perhaps you know something of that pain today.
            Perhaps you feel it in your own bones, or you see it in the lives of others;
friends living precariously, people longing for welcome,
            those for whom “belonging” feels like a distant promise.

The dominant voices around us,
            in politics, on social media, through banners or slogans,
            often demand that we protect, exclude, and guard what is “ours”.

That logic says: we have limited resources.
            We must decide who belongs and who does not.
            We must guard identity, defend heritage, seal borders.

That logic does not seek to heal. It seeks to preserve.

But the word of Isaiah says something entirely different.
            It declares abundance.
Water for the thirsty. Bread for the hungry.
            Welcome for those who have no money, no status, no place at the table.

This is not sentimentality.
            This is counter-imperial theology.
            It is a subversive logic that refuses scarcity as the final word.

And then Isaiah adds another weighty claim.
            God’s word, he says, like rain and snow, does not return empty.
It accomplishes the purpose for which it was sent.
            When God speaks, something happens.
            Life blossoms. Deserts bloom. Drought ends.

That is a powerful claim in ordinary times.
            But it becomes urgent when our world is torn
            by narratives of fear, hostility, and exclusion.

When hateful slogans are chanted in the streets
            and religious symbols are misused to justify prejudice,
            we must resist the temptation to stay silent.

Because God’s word is not quiet by default,
            it moves. It challenges. It renews.

In the Gospel of John we encounter Jesus standing at a well.
            An ordinary place. Not a temple courtyard. Not a hall of power.
            Just a dusty well where people come for water.

And Jesus speaks to a foreign woman there, and offers her living water.
            Water that does not run dry.
            Water that satisfies her deepest thirst.

This living water that Jesus speaks of is not reserved for insiders,
            for those with certificates of belonging.

It flows for everyone. For those seen and unseen.
            For those welcome, and those pushed to the margins.
            For those acclaimed by society, and those disregarded.

This week we have seen Christian identity
            claimed by those who marched under banners of exclusion.
            Some worshipping twisted slogans, and appeals to nationalism.

But the Gospel reminds us that the water Jesus offers flows to all humanity,
            regardless of passport, skin colour, language, religion, or status.

If we follow Christ, we cannot remain silent.
            If we follow the One who offers living water, we must speak truth.
We must act. We must welcome.

Isaiah’s invitation is not only to drink and be satisfied;
            it is a summons to discern how we live in the world.

The prophet speaks to people who have experienced exile, oppression,
            and the arbitrary power of rulers.

This is precisely the world that can look familiar to us
            in the wake of marches, slogans, and fear-driven politics.

The thirst Isaiah calls us to acknowledge
            is not only our personal longing for God’s comfort;
                        it is the thirst of the city itself,
            the thirst for justice, for honesty, for dignity, and for mercy.

In a society where fear is leveraged to divide communities,
            where identity is weaponised against neighbours,
            and where power seeks to intimidate the vulnerable,
God’s living water calls us to resist all forms of spiritual and social dehydration.

Jesus offered this living water at the well of Samaria,
            as he reached across boundaries of gender, ethnicity, and status.
He spoke to a woman whom society had marginalised
            and whose community would have preferred she remain invisible.

He did not ask her to qualify for grace, to prove her worthiness,
            or to demonstrate allegiance to the powerful.

He simply invited her to drink, to engage,
            to experience the transformation of God’s presence in her life.

In the same way, the church is called to practice inclusion that is active, not passive.
            To see, hear, and welcome
            those whom others seek to silence, exclude, or demean.

This active welcome is not sentimental.

It is inherently political because it challenges the logic of exclusion and scarcity.
            In a world where fear drives narratives
                        about “our city,” “our people,” and “our country,”
            the Christian response is to insist that living water is for all.

That God’s provision does not run out.
            That grace, hospitality, and solidarity are abundant,
            not limited to the privileged or the powerful.

When we make space for those whom society would push to the margins,
            we enact the kingdom’s logic in tangible ways.

We resist the co-option of religion for fear,
            and we witness that love and justice
            are stronger than slogans or intimidation.

We are called to drink deeply ourselves, yes,
            but also to become conduits of that water for others.

To stand with those who feel threatened, marginalised, or afraid.
            To speak truth when the powerful misrepresent faith to justify exclusion.

To intervene in subtle and overt ways when injustice manifests,
            whether through casual prejudice, hostile policies,
            or public demonstrations that sow fear.

The living water Jesus offers transforms us
            so that we become bearers of hope, dignity, and welcome.

It allows us to see beyond fear and scarcity,
            to recognise the God-given worth of every person,
            and to act courageously in ways that promote peace and justice.

In this season of Advent, when we await the Christ-child,
            the challenge is clear: to align our thirst with God’s purpose.

To let our longing for justice, for healing, and for reconciliation
            shape how we move through the city,
            how we engage with our neighbours,
            and how we make room at the table for the stranger,
                        the outsider, and the oppressed.

God’s invitation is radical, countercultural, and transformative.
            It demands that we confront fear, reject the idolatry of exclusion,
            and participate actively in God’s mission of abundant life for all.

And so we come to the simplicity, and the challenge, of the Nativity.

We sometimes sanitise this story.
            We place it in a cosy manger,
            with warm lamps, sweet music, and sentimental angels.

But that sanitised version is not the Bible’s version.

The real story is raw.
            The real story involves displacement.

A pregnant mother and a fiancé forced to travel
            because the empire demanded a census and control.

We know the story:
            Mary likely gave birth in the lower room of a family home,
            among extended family, with women providing support,
            because the guest room was already full.

It’s a story of hospitality and solidarity within the community,
            not rejection by it.

A story of vulnerability, of human fragility.
            and ordinary people giving care to those who are vulnerable
            in the face of powerful forces set to do them harm.

And in that story the powerful find no place.
            The empire claims control.
            The census demands numbers.
            The rulers tax and count.

But the Word becomes flesh not in a palace,
            not in a hall of power,
but in a borrowed room in a little town,
            among people whose names never make the headlines.

Oppression comes from empire, with its census, displacement,
            fear, militarised power, and Herod’s violence.

But solidarity comes from ordinary people making space in cramped conditions,
            offering us a powerful counter-image to the hostile rhetoric in public life today.

The little child of God belongs to the poor,
            to the refugees, the outsiders, the marginalised.

The Christ child belongs to every womb that trembles with uncertainty,
            to every heart that wonders if they belong,
            to every human being whose dignity has been questioned.

So when we hear the Christmas story this year,
            in the days after a march claiming to recover “our heritage” and “our identity”,
            let us remember who that baby was, and who that baby still is.

Not the symbol of empire.
            Not the flag of a nation.
            Not the banner of exclusion.

But the sign of God’s belonging and God’s welcome.
            The sign that God chooses the vulnerable, the displaced,
            the stranger, and the outsider.
The sign that no human border, no human slogan,
            no human barricade can contain the love God pours out.

This is the theology of the manger.
            This is Advent hope.

And if this is true, then our call is to live it.
            Not only on Sundays.
            Not only in sermons or hymns.
But in everyday life. In our streets. In our workplaces.
            In our neighbourhoods. In our city.

We are called to radical hospitality.
            To offer water and welcome to those who thirst.
To offer dignity to those who have been denied it.
            To stand with those who feel threatened, marginalised, and afraid.
To make our church a sanctuary not just in name, but in practice.

This Advent, as every Advent,
            Christ’s call to abundant welcome becomes a political act.

Christ comes to our world as we open our doors, our hearts, and our resources.
            As we challenge prejudice.
            As we stand beside those the world would rather ignore.
            As we speak truth in public spaces.

When we offer living water,
            we are claiming that God’s resources are not limited.

That love, justice, dignity, belonging
            are not scarcity goods to be rationed.
            They are abundant gifts. Gifts poured out for all.

We might be a small congregation.
            We might have limited resources.
But we are part of the church universal, the household of God,
            where the feast is open, where the table is large,
            and where there is a place for everyone.

We do not need to hoard. We do not need to fence.
            We do not need to fear the outsider.
We only need to remember that the Word became flesh among the vulnerable.
            That God’s welcome is wider than any ethnic identity,
            any nationality, any passport.

So this Advent, I invite you to imagine differently.

To imagine a London transformed,
            not a closed city, not a city of fear, suspicion and division.

But a city of living abundant water,
            a city of welcome, a city of belonging.

A city where the table is open,
            where strangers become neighbours,
                        where fear is met with courage,
            where justice meets mercy,
                        and where love becomes action.

Imagine a city shaped not by slogans of identity
            but by hospitality, solidarity, compassion,
            justice, and dignity for every person.

This Sunday, as we gather for worship, liturgy, song, and prayer,
            and as we celebrate the coming of Jesus,
we affirm that God’s invitation still stands:
            “Come, all you who are thirsty.”

We do not wait passively.
            We come. We listen.
            We drink. We act. We welcome.

Because the living water Christ offers is not for some.
            It is for all.

Because God’s word will not return empty.

Because the manger was never meant for empires.
            It was meant for the world.

May we, this congregation, this city, this people, live into that promise.

Amen.

Covenant, Belonging, and the Future of Baptist Identity

Among Baptists in recent decades there has been a renewed interest in the language of covenant as a way of describing how we belong together. The impulse is understandable. Covenant is a deeply scriptural category, and it carries a sense of relationship, commitment and mutual responsibility that resonates with our congregational instincts. Yet I find myself increasingly unsure that covenant provides the most helpful framework for describing what binds us together across our Union, particularly when the conversation shifts from churches to ministers, and from relationships to doctrinal boundaries.

My concerns are not with covenant in Scripture, but with how covenant functions when imported into denominational or ministerial life. The biblical covenants reveal a God who remains faithful even when human beings fail. They reveal a relationship that begins in grace rather than contract. The origin point is always divine initiative, rooted in a commitment that is neither conditional nor easily dissolved. When covenant is used in Baptist discourse without that frame of reference, it can subtly shift into something rather different. Instead of naming a relationship of grace, it can begin to police the boundaries of compliance. Instead of inviting us to bear with one another in faithfulness, it can become a mechanism for identifying transgression.

This is why I have grown uneasy with suggestions that particular convictions or pastoral decisions might be said to break covenant between ministers. When covenant becomes a tool for determining who is inside or outside acceptable boundaries, it loses its relational centre. It moves away from the biblical character of covenantal life and gravitates toward the language of control. In such moments covenant ceases to describe a shared journey of faith and begins to resemble a code of conduct.

Some have suggested that this difficulty could be resolved through the introduction of a statement of faith or doctrinal rule, which would provide explicit content for the covenantal relationship. I can understand the instinct behind this proposal. It comes from a desire for clarity, depth of engagement with Scripture, and a shared theological vocabulary. These are good instincts. Yet my own experience of life within the Baptist family leads me in a different direction.

The Baptist tradition has held me through seasons of change. I no longer believe everything I believed as a child, and I am grateful for that. I grew through exposure to new ideas, new experiences of the Spirit, and new encounters with Scripture. In each phase of that journey, I remained within a community that allowed space for growth. I did not need to sign a covenant to remain in relationship with the church that nurtured me, any more than I would need a covenant to remain in relationship with my sister. Belonging was given, not earned. It was family, not contract. If Baptist identity had been defined by a fixed doctrinal statement, I suspect that the older version of myself would have been judged unacceptable by the younger. That is not a sign of theological looseness, but a sign that life in Christ is dynamic.

This is why I remain hesitant about adding doctrinal clauses to the Baptist Union Declaration of Principle. The Declaration is far from perfect, yet it captures something essential about our identity. It states enough to orient us without attempting to fix us. It gathers us around Christ, Scripture, baptism for believers and congregational discernment, while leaving space for the Spirit to lead us into deeper truth. Most importantly, it does not constrain the work of God in the lives of those who, like me, grow and change through the years.

For safeguarding Christian orthodoxy, I look not primarily to additional doctrinal definitions but to the promises made in baptism. In baptism we confess Christ, commit ourselves to following, and receive the life of the Spirit. The shape of Christian life and belief flows from that moment. Everything else is secondary. If there is to be a defining boundary for Baptist belonging, it is found there.

I am therefore cautious about attempts to harden the edges of our identity through covenantal or doctrinal language. Baptist life at its best is relational, participatory and open to the transforming presence of God. It is a family gathered around Christ rather than a society held together by contract. It thrives on shared biblical engagement and mutual discernment, not on boundary maintenance.

The challenge facing us is not the absence of doctrinal clarity, but the loss of deeper, communal engagement with Scripture. Baptists have historically read, argued, prayed and discerned together. When we retreat from that practice, everything else begins to wobble. Recovery begins not with new rules but with renewed attention to the living Word.

Covenant in Scripture always points us back to the God who holds us despite our failures. If we are to use the word at all, it must be anchored in that reality. It must remind us that our belonging is a gift of grace, not a badge of doctrinal conformity. And if it cannot do that in our present conversations, then perhaps it is time to look again for language that better reflects who we are called to be.

When Sin is Bigger Than We Think

Moving From Policing Bodies to Resisting Powers

For generations, much of Western Christianity has been shaped by a particular way of thinking about sin. We have been trained to imagine sin primarily as a matter of individual behaviour: the choices a person makes, their private moral conduct, especially around sex and sexuality. The result has been predictable and tragic. Churches have spent extraordinary energy policing people’s bodies while neglecting the forces and systems that break bodies, diminish lives, and destroy communities.

The consequences are visible in the ways Christianity has been weaponised against LGBTQ people. Homophobia and transphobia have flourished under the banner of moral righteousness, while the deeper and more destructive sins of racism, economic injustice, ecological devastation, and the violence of empire have gone unnamed and unopposed. Our moral lens has become so narrow that it misses the scale of the sin that scripture is most concerned about.

The Bible’s grammar of sin is corporate before it is personal

The dominant biblical witness does not begin with individuals breaking rules. It begins with whole societies ordered around injustice.

The prophets preach not against private immorality but against public wrongdoing:

“Woe to those who make unjust laws, to those who issue oppressive decrees, to deprive the poor of their rights and withhold justice from the oppressed” (Isaiah 10.1–2).

Biblical Israel’s relationship with God stands or falls on whether the community protects the widow, the stranger, and the orphan. Sin is revealed in systems, laws, and economic arrangements. A righteous society is one in which the vulnerable live securely.

Even the New Testament does not allow us to retreat into the private sphere. When Paul speaks of “the rulers, the authorities, the powers of this present darkness” (Ephesians 6.12), he is naming the social, political, and economic structures that organise the world away from God’s justice. To be saved is to be liberated not only from the guilt of individual wrongdoing but from the grip of these dehumanising powers.

Jesus confronts systems of exclusion

When Jesus challenges the Sabbath laws, welcomes the ritually unclean, stands with the marginalised, and overturns the tables of the temple economy, he is not urging people simply to be nicer. He is confronting the mechanisms that define who belongs and who does not, who is deemed pure and who is cast out. His ministry consistently restores people whom a moralistic religious system has condemned.

The cross is not the punishment of an individual transgressor. It is the public execution of a political dissident. The resurrection is not simply forgiveness for sinners; it is God’s dramatic declaration that the powers of violence, domination, and empire will not have the final word.

A Pauline ethic: freedom for the sake of love

Christians are often quick to quote Paul when sexual ethics are being policed, and slow to listen when Paul calls the whole conversation into question.

In 1 Corinthians, Paul declares, “All things are permissible for me, but not all things are helpful.”
This is not a licence for chaos; it is a refusal to reduce Christian ethics to rule-keeping. Paul insists that Christian freedom is shaped by love, by what builds up the community, and by what brings life rather than harm.

This is a very different moral framework than the one many churches have inherited. Rather than beginning with prohibition, it begins with relationship. The question is not “Is it allowed?” but “Does it heal? Does it liberate? Does it reflect the life of Christ?”

Sin is real at the personal level — but it is not where the battle is won

We all know that there are personal actions that diminish humanity. Greed, cruelty, deceit, betrayal — these are not illusions. But they do not come from nowhere. They are shaped by cultures that reward domination, economies that sanctify exploitation, and national identities that feed on fear of the outsider.

To focus only on individual wrongdoing while ignoring the structures that generate it is like treating smoke and ignoring the fire.

A person’s sexual orientation or gender identity is not sinful. But the church’s participation in systems of exclusion, its willingness to wound people made in the image of God, and its refusal to challenge the social forces that deal death — these are sins that require repentance.

The calling of the people of God today

The great biblical hope is not the escape of individuals to heaven, but the transformation of the world into justice. The people of God are called to stand together against the powers that deform and destroy life:

• To resist racism, nationalism, and imperialism
• To challenge economic systems that profit from poverty
• To confront environmental destruction fuelled by endless consumption
• To dismantle patriarchal systems that silence and endanger women and queer people
• To build communities where all have dignity, safety, and belonging

This is holiness. This is discipleship. This is what it means to follow Jesus.

We will never understand sin rightly until we see it as something bigger than personal failure. And we will never understand grace rightly until we realise it empowers us not simply to behave better, but to stand together against the injustice of the world and to enact the alternative: the reign of God.

If Christianity is to have a future worth offering to the world, this is the path. Less policing of bodies; more resistance to the powers. Less obsession with individual purity; more solidarity with the crucified peoples of the earth. Less fear of one another; more courage to love.

The world is crying out for a church that takes sin seriously — not by shrinking the category to sexual respectability, but by widening the category to everything that crushes human life.

It is time to repent of a small gospel and live a bigger one.

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?