A Conversation After Dark

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church 

25 January 2026

John 3.1-21

What if being born from above is less about certainty, and more about surrender? Meet Nicodemus, who offers some reflections on faith that thinks deeply, and the risk of letting the Spirit work beyond the safety of our ideas.

I went to meet Jesus at night.

People remember that about me. They always do. 

As though that single detail tells the whole story.
            As though it explains everything. 

I suppose it is true that I came when the streets were quieter,
            when the crowds had thinned
            and the eyes that watched him so closely were turned elsewhere. 

But it was not only fear that brought me under cover of darkness.
            It was honesty.
Night was the only time I could admit to myself
            that something in me was restless, unsettled,
            no longer satisfied with the answers that had carried me this far.

I was a Pharisee. A teacher of Israel.
            I had devoted my life to the study of the law,
            to the careful interpretation of scripture,
            to the shaping of a faithful community under occupation and pressure.

I believed, truly believed, that faith mattered.
            That ideas mattered.
            That getting things right mattered.

And yet.

Something about him disturbed me.
            Not because he was wrong,
            but because he seemed to be right in a way I could not quite grasp.

He did not speak as one anxious to defend an argument.
            He spoke as though truth was alive.
As though God was not merely to be understood, but encountered.

I had seen the signs. Others had too.
            Acts of healing. Acts of disruption.
            Water turned into wine, abundance where there should have been scarcity.
These were not tricks. They weren’t spectacles.
            They were signs of something deeper, something breaking open.

So I came to him at night, carrying the best words I had.

“Rabbi,” I said, “we know that you are a teacher who has come from God,
            for no one can do these signs apart from the presence of God.”

I thought that was a good place to begin.
            Respectful. Accurate. Honest.

He did not take the compliment.

Instead, he looked straight at me and said,
            Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God
            without being born from above.”

I remember feeling as though the ground shifted beneath my feet.

Born from above.

Born again.

The words landed strangely.
            I had spent my life thinking about faith as formation,
            as discipline, as obedience shaped over time.
Birth was not something you earned or mastered.
            Birth happened to you.
            Birth was messy, uncontrollable, deeply embodied.

So I did what I always did when confronted with something unsettling.
            I tried to make it manageable.

“How can anyone be born after having grown old?” I asked.
            “Surely they cannot enter the womb a second time?”

I knew how foolish it sounded even as I said it.
            But sometimes foolishness is a defence.
Sometimes it is easier to misunderstand deliberately
            than to allow yourself to be undone.

But he didn’t laugh at me.

“Very truly,” he said again,
            “no one can enter the kingdom of God
            without being born of water and Spirit.”

Water and Spirit.

I knew those words. Of course I did.

Water that cleanses.
            Water that marks beginnings.
Spirit that hovered over the deep at creation.
            Spirit breathed into dry bones.
            Spirit poured out by the prophets as a promise of renewal.

I had learned to speak of these things with care, with distance.
            As texts to be interpreted, symbols to be analysed.
But he was speaking of them as realities to be entered.

“What is born of the flesh is flesh,” he said,
            “and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.”

And then he spoke of the wind.

“You hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.
            So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

I did not like that image.

Wind does not respect boundaries.
            It does not submit to schedules or hierarchies.
It cannot be summoned or dismissed.
            It moves as it will. 

I had spent my life building structures to hold faith steady,
            to keep it faithful, to protect it from chaos.

He was telling me that God's Spirit
            could not be contained within any of them.

“How can these things be?” I asked.

I wasn’t being rhetorical. I genuinely did not know.

He looked at me, and there was sadness there, I think,
            though also something like patience.

“Are you a teacher of Israel,” he asked,
            “and yet you do not understand these things?”

I wanted to protest. To explain myself.
            To list my credentials, my years of study, my devotion.
But I knew, even then, that he was not questioning my sincerity.
            He was questioning my sight.

I knew many things.
            I could argue, interpret, debate.
But I was beginning to realise that knowing is not the same as seeing.

He spoke then of testimony,
            of earthly things and heavenly things,
            of truths that are offered and refused.
And then he reached into our shared story.

“Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,” he said,
            “so must the Son of Man be lifted up,
            that whoever trusts in him may have eternal life.”

I remembered that story. Of course I did.
            The people bitten, dying, afraid.
The strange instruction.
            Look, and live.
            Not understand, not explain… just look. Just trust.

And then he said words that have echoed through my life ever since.

            “God so loved the world.”

Not judged. Not tolerated. Loved.

Loved the world in its mess, its violence, its contradictions.
            Loved it enough to give, not to condemn.

I had been taught to think of God's holiness as separation.
            But Jesus was speaking of holiness as self-giving love.

“God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world,” he said,
            “but so that the world might be saved.”

Saved.

Not extracted. Not escaped from.
            But healed. Restored.
            Brought back into life.

And yet he did not deny that there is judgment.

“The light has come into the world,” he said,
            “and people loved darkness rather than light.”

That was the moment I realised he was speaking directly to me.

I had come at night.

Not because I didn’t care, but because I did.
            Not because I was hostile, but because I was afraid
            of what full exposure might require of me.

Light reveals. Light shows things as they are.
            Light demands response.

There is something else I have never said out loud,
            something that is harder to explain
            than the words we exchanged. 

It was not only what he said that unsettled me.
            It was what happened inside me as he spoke. 

I felt it first as a loosening,
            as though something tightly bound
            had begun, quietly, to give way. 

I had come prepared to think, to analyse,
            to weigh his answers against my questions.

I was not prepared to feel. 

Yet as the conversation unfolded,
            I became aware of my own breathing,
            of the night air on my skin,
            of a strange vulnerability rising in me. 

It was as though the carefully ordered rooms of my inner life
            had been entered without permission,
            not violently, but gently, insistently. 

I realised then how little space I had made for God beyond my thoughts. 

My prayers had been precise, disciplined, well-formed,
            but rarely expectant.

I had spoken about God far more than I had waited for God. 

In his presence, I sensed that faith
            was not only something to be held or defended,
            but something that could be allowed to happen to me. 

There, in the darkness, I understood for the first time
            that the Spirit does not only teach or correct.
The Spirit stirs, unsettles, softens, opens. 

And that kind of opening is frightening,
            because once it begins, you cannot be certain what will follow. 

I wanted to step back, to reassert control, to return to safer ground.
            But something in me knew that if I did, I would remain unchanged. 

To be born from above, I began to see, is to consent to this inner exposure,
            to allow God to meet us not only at the level of belief,
            but at the depth of longing, fear, and hope we so carefully guard.

I had always thought of judgment as something God does to us.
            But he spoke of it as something that happens when light meets truth.
            When reality can no longer be avoided.

“Those who do what is true come to the light,” he said,
            “so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.”

I left that night with more questions than answers.

I didn’t suddenly abandon my role.
            I didn’t become his follower overnight.

Transformation, I have learned, rarely happens that way.
            But something had shifted.
            A crack had opened.

Later, when others spoke against him,
            I found myself speaking, cautiously at first,
            asking whether the law truly allowed us to judge without hearing.
It was a small thing, but it mattered.

And later still, when he was lifted up,
            not in glory but in shame,
executed by the empire, discarded as a threat,
            I stepped into the open at last.

I helped take down his body.
            I brought spices, far more than were necessary.
An act of grief. An act of honour.
            Perhaps an act of repentance.

People still say I came to see Jesus at night.
            But they do not always notice that I did not stay there.

I tell you this because I suspect I am not alone.

There are many like me.
            People who care deeply about faith.
People who think carefully,
            who question honestly, who resist easy answers.
People who have built a faith of the mind,
            strong and rigorous and deeply valuable.

But sometimes that very strength becomes a shelter.
            A way of staying in control.
            A way of keeping the Spirit at arm’s length.

I had to learn that faith is not only about what we think,
            but about what we are willing to receive.
Not only about interpretation, but about transformation.
            Not only about conviction, but about vulnerability.

To be born from above is not to abandon thought,
            but to allow it to be joined by trust.
To allow the Spirit to work not just on our ideas,
            but on our hearts, our bodies, our fears, and our desires.

And that is why water matters.

Baptism is not an abstract symbol.
            It is not merely a statement of belief.
It is a surrender.
            A willingness to be immersed, to be held, to be changed.
            To admit that life is received before it is chosen.

I did not understand at first why he spoke of water.
            I thought of purification, of ritual washings,
            of the careful ways we mark the boundary
                        between what is clean and what is not. 

Water, for me, had always been about control.
            About order.
            About ensuring that what entered the presence of God was properly prepared. 

But as the days passed and his words returned to me, again and again,
            I began to sense that he was speaking of a different kind of water altogether. 

Not water that we manage, but water that holds us.
            Water that overwhelms our careful distinctions. 

Water that does not ask permission
            before it touches every part of us. 

I began to realise how rarely I had allowed myself
            to be that vulnerable before God. 

I had stood ankle-deep, perhaps,
            content to feel refreshed without being undone. 

But he was speaking of immersion. Of going under.
            Of letting the old ways of securing myself be loosened,
            even washed away. 

To be born of water and Spirit, I began to see,
            is to allow God to meet us not at the level of explanation,
                        but at the level of the body,
            where control is relinquished and trust must take its place. 

There is a moment, when you are submerged,
            when you can do nothing for yourself. 

You must be held.
            You must rely on another to raise you up. 

That moment terrified me when I first imagined it.
            And yet, it also began to feel like relief. 

What if faith is not finally about standing upright and certain,
            but about allowing ourselves to be carried? 

What if new life begins not with assertion, but with surrender?
            If that is what he meant by birth from above,
            then baptism is not an ending or a conclusion, but a threshold. 

A willingness to step into water deep enough to change us,
            trusting that the Spirit who calls us there will also bring us up into life.

If I could speak to my younger self,
            standing in that dimly lit street, rehearsing careful words,
            I would say this.

Do not be afraid of the light.

It does not come to shame you, but to free you.
            It does not come to strip you of dignity, but to give you life.

God’s Spirit moves where it will.
            You cannot control it. But you can consent to it.

And when you do, you may discover that being born from above
            is not an escape from the world you know,
            but a deeper way of inhabiting it. 

Seeing it more clearly.
            Loving it more truthfully.
            Living within it with courage shaped by hope rather than fear.

I went to meet Jesus at night.

But the light kept working in me.

And it will in you, if you let it.

Amen.

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.