Go and Do Likewise: Mercy in Action, Faith in Focus

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

9th March 2025

Luke 10.25-42
 
Who Is My Neighbour?
There are some questions that shape
            not only our personal faith
            but also our response to the world around us.
 
And the question at the heart of our Gospel reading today
            is one such question: Who is my neighbour?
 
This is not just an ancient query
            from a first-century lawyer testing Jesus,
it’s a question that defines our moral and theological responsibility
            in an age of global crisis.
 
Who is our neighbour
            in a world where war devastates communities?
 
Who is our neighbour
            when nations are torn apart by violence, displacement, and injustice?
 
Who is our neighbour
            when the suffering of those far from us feels distant from our daily lives?
 
The thing is, as we gather for worship,
            we bring with us the concerns of our world.
 
The war in Ukraine continues to cause immense human suffering,
            displacing millions, tearing apart families,
            and reshaping the geopolitical landscape.
 
Meanwhile, in Palestine, the ongoing occupation, military assaults,
            and humanitarian crisis raise urgent ethical and theological questions
            about justice, peace, and the value of human life.
 
In both these conflicts—and in so many other places around the world—
            lives are being destroyed, people are being displaced,
            and entire communities are crying out for justice and mercy.
 
In the face of such suffering,
            it is easy to retreat into self-interest, to look away, to feel overwhelmed.
 
It is tempting for us to ask the question
            that the lawyer in our passage asked Jesus:
            Who is my neighbour?
 
And often, when we ask it,
            we are really looking for an excuse to limit our responsibility.
 
We want Jesus to reply to us, that:
            "Your neighbour is only the person who looks like you,
                        who speaks your language, shares your culture,
                        and lives within your borders."
 
But as we will see in today’s Gospel passage,
            Jesus refuses to give an answer that allows for such exclusions.
 
Instead, he tells a story that turns the question on its head,
            shifting the focus from "Who is my neighbour?"
            to "How can I be a neighbour?"
 
And that is where we must begin today
            —not by asking who is worthy of our care,
but by asking how we can respond with compassion
            to those in need, regardless of their nationality, race, or creed.
 
The world does not need more boundaries between people;
            what it needs is more Good Samaritans.
 
The world does not need more excuses for inaction;
            it needs more of us to embody the radical, barrier-breaking love
            that Jesus calls us to live out.
 
So as we turn to consider our reading today from Luke’s gospel,
            let’s listen carefully to scripture,
for this passage has much to say to us
            about how we respond to the crises of our world today.
 
It challenges us to see the humanity of those who suffer,
            to extend compassion even when it is costly,
and to be the kind of neighbours
            that the Kingdom of God demands.
 
The Lawyer's Inquiry and Jesus' Response
The passage begins with a lawyer—a religious expert—
            coming to Jesus with a question:
"Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?"
 
At first, it seems like a sincere question,
            one that any faithful person might ask.
 
But Luke tells us that the lawyer is not merely seeking wisdom
            —he is testing Jesus.
 
Perhaps he wants to see if Jesus
            will affirm his own theological assumptions.
 
Perhaps he wants Jesus to offer an answer
            that reinforces his sense of moral superiority.
 
But Jesus, as he so often does, responds with a question of his own:
            "What is written in the Law? What do you read there?"
 
The lawyer then gives a perfect lawyer’s answer,
            quoting what Jesus himself elsewhere describes
            as the greatest commandments:
 
"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart,
            and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind;
            and your neighbour as yourself."
 
Jesus affirms his response:
            "You have answered correctly; do this, and you will live."
 
But the lawyer is still not satisfied.
            Luke tells us that he wants to "justify himself."
 
And so he asks the question that will launch Jesus
            into one of the most radical and disruptive parables in the entire Gospel:
"And who is my neighbour?"
 
It’s a question that echoes down through history,
            especially in times of crisis.
 
The lawyer is looking for a boundary,
            a limit to his obligation.
 
He is not asking, "How can I be a better neighbour?"
            but "Whom am I required to love, and whom can I ignore?"
 
And this is a question that continues to shape
            political and ethical debates today.
 
In recent years, we have seen the resurgence of nationalist ideologies
            that define compassion in the narrowest possible terms.
 
The phrase "America First" became the guiding principle
            of a U.S. administration that slashed the USAID budget,
reducing funds for humanitarian aid, disaster relief,
            and development projects in some of the most vulnerable parts of the world.
 
The British government recently followed suit,
            further cutting its international aid budget
            from an original 0.7% to now 0.3% of national income,
despite the devastating impact this will have
            on global hunger, health care, and education.
 
These policies, in effect, redefine the question:
            Who is my neighbour?
 
The answer they give is clear:
            Our own citizens. Our own people.
                        Those within our borders.
            Everyone else must fend for themselves.
 
But Jesus refuses to allow
            such a narrow definition of neighbourliness.
 
When the lawyer asks, "Who is my neighbour?"
            he is hoping for a legalistic loophole
            —a justification for limiting love.
 
Instead, Jesus tells a story that shatters all barriers,
            a story that makes clear that our neighbour
                        is not just the person who shares our nationality, ethnicity, or faith,
            but the person in need—the suffering stranger, the wounded traveller,
                        the one whom the world is all too willing to pass by.
 
As we hear Jesus’ response, we must ask ourselves:
            Are we seeking to justify ourselves?
            Are we looking for reasons to limit our compassion?
 
Or are we willing to let Jesus redefine what it means to be a neighbour
            in a world that desperately needs mercy?
 
The Parable of the Good Samaritan
And so we come to the famous parable of the Good Samaritan.
 
In response to the lawyer’s question, “Who is my neighbour?”
            Jesus doesn’t provide a direct answer.
 
Instead, he tells a story—a story that upends expectations,
            exposes the limits of human compassion,
            and calls us to something higher.
 
He says that a man was travelling from Jerusalem to Jericho,
            a road notorious for its danger.
Some of us here today visited that road
            when we went to Palestine a couple of years ago.
 
Whilst these days it’s a main road and an easy drive,
            in the first century it was a rocky, winding path,
well known for ambushes by robbers
            who hid in the caves along the way.
 
It was on this road that Jesus says a man fell among thieves.
            He was stripped, beaten, and left for dead.
 
And then we meet the famous three characters of the parable.
 
First a priest came along
            —one who was supposed to represent the very best of Israel’s faith.
 
Seeing the man, he passed by on the other side.
 
Perhaps he was afraid the man was already dead
            and did not want to risk defilement.
 
Perhaps he was on his way to perform temple duties
            and thought that stopping would make him unclean.
 
Perhaps he simply did not want to be bothered.
 
Then a Levite came
            —a member of the priestly class,
            one responsible for the upkeep of worship in the temple.
 
He too saw the man and walked past.
 
Two men who knew the Law, who understood the command
            to love God and love neighbour, yet neither acted.
 
Then Jesus introduces the most unexpected character:
            a Samaritan.
 
To Jesus’ audience, this was shocking.
 
Jews and Samaritans had a long history of mutual suspicion and hostility.
            They worshipped differently. They interpreted Scripture differently.
They saw each other as outsiders, even enemies.
 
If anyone had an excuse to walk by, surely it was the Samaritan.
            But Jesus says the Samaritan was moved with compassion.
 
He saw the man. He stopped.
            He bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine—a costly act of care.
 
He placed him on his own animal,
            walked beside him, and took him to an inn to recover.
 
He even paid for his stay,
            promising to cover any additional costs.
 
Mercy is the defining factor.
 
The Samaritan did not ask whether the wounded man was “one of his own.”
            He did not question whether the man deserved his help.
He did not stop to calculate the cost.
            He simply saw suffering and acted with compassion.
 
Mercy as Our Guiding Principle
When Jesus finishes the parable,
            he turns the question back on the lawyer:
 
“Which of these three do you think was a neighbour
            to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”
 
The lawyer cannot even bring himself to say “the Samaritan”.
            Instead, he answers:
            “The one who showed him mercy.”
 
And Jesus says: “Go and do likewise.”
 
This is the challenge of the Gospel:
            to let mercy shape our behaviour.
 
It’s not enough to believe the right things,
            to hold the correct theology, or to pray the right prayers.
 
To reiterate the point, the question Jesus puts before us is not,
            “Who is my neighbour?” but rather, “How can I be a neighbour?”
 
And here the answer is clear: by showing mercy.
 
This principle has profound implications
            for how we respond to our global neighbours today.
 

When we see refugees fleeing war,
do we pass by on the other side, or do we act with mercy?
 
When we hear of families starving in Gaza, Sudan, or Yemen,
do we let compassion move us to action?
 
When people are displaced by war—whether in Ukraine, Palestine, or Syria
do we allow fear, nationalism, or economic concerns to dictate our response,
or do we let mercy guide us?
 
Governments may cut international aid in the name of financial prudence.
            Political leaders may build walls instead of bridges.
Nations may act out of self-interest rather than solidarity.
 
But as followers of Jesus,
            we are called to something radically different.
 
Chistian mercy, you see, is not just a feeling—it is an action.
 
It is seeing suffering and refusing to look away.
            It is crossing the barriers society has built
                        and offering costly love.
It is allowing compassion to disrupt our plans,
            our resources, and our sense of security.
 
At the end of the parable, Jesus says to the lawyer —and to us—
            “Go and do likewise.”
Not just think likewise. Not just pray likewise.
            Go and do likewise.
 
Martha and Mary: A Lesson in Priorities
And then immediately following the parable of the Good Samaritan,
            Luke presents us with another story
—this time, set in a home rather than on a dangerous road.
 
Jesus visits the house of two sisters, Martha and Mary,
            and their interaction with him offers another layer
            to the question of discipleship.
 
Martha does exactly what society expects of her.
            She welcomes Jesus into her home,
                        busies herself with the practicalities of hospitality,
            and ensures that everything is in order.
 
She is doing good, necessary work.
 
But while she is distracted by her preparations,
            her sister Mary does something unexpected:
            she sits before Jesus, listening to his teaching.
 
In frustration, Martha turns to Jesus and says,
            “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?
            Tell her to help me!”
 
Jesus responds gently but firmly:
 
“Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things;
            but there is need of only one thing.
Mary has chosen the better part,
            which will not be taken away from her.”
 
At first, this might seem like a rebuke of action
            in favour of contemplation.
 
But that would be a misunderstanding.
            Jesus is not criticising Martha’s service
            —he is rather calling attention to her distraction.
 
The problem is not that Martha is busy,
            but that she is anxious and preoccupied,
missing the opportunity to be present with Jesus.
 
Her work is important,
            but she has lost sight of why she is doing it.
 
This passage is not about choosing between action and contemplation
            —it is about recognising that both are essential,
            but one must flow from the other.
 
Service without spiritual grounding can become empty busyness.
            And contemplation without action can become passive religiosity.
 
The key is integration.
 
Integrating Action and Contemplation
Placed together, the stories of the Good Samaritan and Martha and Mary give us a full picture of discipleship.
 
The Good Samaritan teaches us
            that faith must express itself in mercy and action
—in crossing boundaries, showing compassion,
            and meeting the needs of our neighbour.
 
The story of Martha and Mary reminds us
            that action must be rooted in deep attentiveness to Jesus.
 
Without that, we risk becoming so caught up in doing
            that we lose sight of who we are doing it for.
 
As we consider our response to the needs of our world
            —the wars, the injustices, the suffering—
we must resist the temptation to become
            either Martha without Mary
                        (so consumed by activism that we lose spiritual depth)
            or Mary without Martha
                        (so focused on prayer and study that we fail to act).
 
Instead, we are called to be both:
To sit before Jesus,
            allowing our hearts to be shaped by divine compassion.
 
And then to go and do likewise,
            pouring out that compassion in tangible acts of justice and mercy.
 
This is the rhythm of true discipleship:
            firstly, being with Christ,
            and then being Christ’s hands in the world.
 
So as we leave this place today,
            let’s not ask, Who is my neighbour? as if love had limits.
 
Instead, let’s ask, How can I be a neighbour?
 
And may we, in all things, choose the better part,
            allowing mercy, justice, and the presence of Christ to guide our every step.
 
Amen.
 

Unveiled faces: Seeing Christ, Being Transformed

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

2 March 2025

Luke 9:28-45

1. What Are We Hiding Behind?
We all wear masks.
            In fact, look around you… we’re wearing them right now.
 
I’m not talking about the cloth or disposable kind
            we became so familiar with a few years ago,
but the kind that help us blend in, hide our struggles,
            or present a version of ourselves we think others want to see.
 
We wear them at work,
            as we pretend we have everything under control
            even when we feel out of our depth.
 
We wear them in our friendships,
            smiling when inside we’re carrying grief or doubt.
 
We even wear them in church,
            where we fear that being fully honest about our struggles,
            our questions, or our failures might make us feel out of place.
 
But the truth is, we are not alone in this.
            The desire to hide, to control how others see us,
            to retreat from vulnerability, is deeply human.
 
Our masks keep us from revealing, from unveiling,
            who we truly are.
 
And today’s story of the Transfiguration
            gives us a glimpse of what happens when the masks start to come off,
            —but also how quickly we, like Peter, try to make safe
            that moment of vulnerability, to keep it contained.
 
The disciples had followed Jesus for months, perhaps even years,
            and yet they hadn’t yet fully seen him for who he was.
 
But when they did
            —when the dazzling light upon the mountain revealed the truth
            —it turned out that they didn’t know what to do with it.
 
You see, the Transfiguration wasn’t just about Jesus being revealed
            —it was about the disciples being called to see differently.
To remove their masks.
            To step beyond fear. And to listen.
 
And the question for us, as we hear this story again, is this:
            what are we still hiding behind?
            And are we ready to see clearly?
 
Yesterday, here in this space, was a conference
            held by one of the Anonymous Groups.
 
It was a meeting of people who gather with their metaphorical masks removed,
            with their brokenness on display in a space made safe
            because everyone else there has their brokenness on display too.
 
I sometimes winder what it would be like
            if church was more like an Anonymous meeting.
 
“My name is Simon, and I’m broken…”
 
But back to our story from Luke’s gospel.
 
2. The Transfiguration: A Glimpse of Glory
The journey to the mountain began like any other.
            Jesus took Peter, James, and John with him,
            just as he had done so many times before.
 
Perhaps the disciples thought this would be another moment of quiet prayer,
            another retreat from the crowds, another time to rest.
But what happened next was beyond anything they could have imagined.
 
As Jesus prayed, something changed.
            His face shone like the sun, his clothes became dazzling white
            —suddenly, he was transfigured before them.
 
And if that weren’t enough, Moses and Elijah then appeared,
            standing beside him, speaking with him.
 
For any devout Jew in the first century,
            this was clearly a moment of unspeakable significance.
 
They saw Moses, the great lawgiver, and Elijah, the prophet of fire
            —both figures who had encountered God on mountaintops I their own time—
            now standing with Jesus, as if to say,
                        He is the fulfilment of all that we proclaimed.
            He is the one in whom the law and the prophets find their meaning.
 
The disciples were stunned. Overwhelmed.
            And then Peter, never one to be silent in an awkward moment,
                        blurted out, “Master, it is good for us to be here!
            Let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”
 
It’s an instinct we can all understand.
            When something extraordinary happens, we want to hold onto it.
 
When we glimpse the divine, when the masks slip,
            when honesty and integrity enter the room.
We want to capture that moment,
            to keep it safe, to make it last.
 
Peter was doing what we all do when we experience something powerful
            —he wanted to hold on to it, to manage it,
            to build something permanent around it.
 
But before he can even finish speaking,
            a cloud descends and covers them.
 
And this isn’t just any cloud—it is the cloud of divine presence,
            the same cloud that led the Israelites through the wilderness,
            the same cloud that filled the temple when God’s glory was revealed.
 
And from the cloud comes a voice:
            “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”
 
Not This is my Son, worship him from a distance.
            Not This is my Son, build a shrine in his honour.
            Not This is my Son, preserve this moment forever.
But listen to him.
            This is my Son, listen to him.
 
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over.
            The cloud lifted, Moses and Elijah were gone,
            and the disciples could see only Jesus—just as before.
 
The dazzling light faded, the mountain was still,
            and they were left with a simple but life-altering question:
            Now that we have seen, what will we do?
 
The transfiguration isn’t just about a revelation of Jesus’ glory.
            It’s a moment of decision.
A moment where the disciples were confronted
            with the truth of their humanity, of their brokenness.
And now they must choose how they will respond.
 
And the same is true for us.
 
When we see Christ more clearly, and understand ourselves more deeply,
            —when we catch glimpses of God’s presence in ways we didn’t expect,
                        in ways that lay us bare
                        and expose our inner being to the light of God’s love.
            —do we try to hold onto the moment,
                        or do we allow ourselves to be changed by it?
 
When God calls us to listen, are we paying attention?
 
3. The Descent from the Mountain: Facing Reality
If the story had ended on the mountain, it would be a beautiful vision
            —Jesus in dazzling glory, the voice of God,
            the great figures of the faith standing alongside him.
 
But the story doesn’t end there.
            Because it can’t end there.
 
Jesus doesn’t stay on the mountaintop.
            He doesn’t bask in the glow of divine revelation
                        or take up residence in the shrines
                        that his disciples build to prolong the moment.
 
Instead, he turns and leads his disciples back down
            —back into the world, back into the messiness of life,
            back into the suffering and struggle that awaits.
 
And almost immediately,
            the contrast between the two scenes is stark.
 
At the foot of the mountain, a desperate father cries out,
            begging Jesus to heal his son, a boy who is tormented by seizures.
 
Quickly the glory of the mountain feels far away.
 
And this is the rhythm of discipleship:
            moments of revelation, followed by the call to action.
 
The disciples have seen Jesus transfigured in light,
            but now they must follow him into the darkness of human suffering.
 
They have heard the voice from the cloud,
            but now they must listen as Jesus speaks to the brokenhearted.
 
They have stood in awe,
            but now they must serve.
 
Peter had wanted to stay on the mountain,
            to contain the experience, to make it something permanent.
 
But Jesus is showing them that true discipleship
            is not about staying where things feel safe and holy
            —it is about going where healing is needed.
 
And here, at the bottom of the mountain, just hours later, the disciples falter.
            They have tried to heal the boy and failed.
 
Perhaps they were still caught up in the memory of the Transfiguration,
            still dazzled by what they had seen.
 
Perhaps they assumed that having witnessed such glory,
            they would now have power at their command.
 
But faith is not about basking in past revelations
            —it is about trusting God in the present,
            even when the moment is hard.
 
Jesus sighs: “You faithless and perverse generation,
            how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?”
 
It’s a painful moment,
            one in which we see both his frustration
            and his deep longing for his followers to understand.
 
They are still looking for glory in the wrong places.
            They are still trying to grasp power without first embracing humility.
They are still hoping for a Messiah who will shine in victory
            rather than walk the road to suffering.
 
But Jesus doesn’t turn away from them.
            He doesn’t return to the mountaintop and leave them behind.
 
Instead, he acts.
            He rebukes the unclean spirit, heals the boy,
            and returns him to his father.
 
The work of God is done
            not in the brilliance of the mountaintop,
            but in the struggle of everyday life.
 
And then, Jesus turns to his disciples
            and says something they don’t understand:
“Let these words sink into your ears:
            The Son of Man is going to be betrayed into human hands.”
 
It is a reminder that the Transfiguration was never about power and status
            —it was about the road ahead,
            a road that leads not to a throne but to a cross.
 
The disciples had seen his glory,
            but now they must prepare to see his suffering.
 
They had seen the light,
            but now they must walk into the shadows.
 
And so must we.
 
It is tempting to want to keep faith in the safe places
            —within church walls, in moments of beauty and clarity,
                        in experiences that feel holy and uplifting.
 
But the call of Christ is not to stay in those places.
            It is to go where healing is needed,
                        where injustice must be confronted,
                        where love must be lived out.
 
The Transfiguration is not just about seeing Christ in glory.
            It is about following him into reality.
 
4. Transformation as Discipleship
Peter, James, and John had seen Jesus transfigured,
            but their real transformation was still to come.
 
That transformation would take time.
            It would take failure—Peter would deny Jesus,
                        James and John would argue about power,
            all of them would flee when the cross came into view.
 
But eventually, they would understand.
            Eventually, they would see that the Transfiguration
                        was not an escape from reality
                        but an invitation to see reality differently.
 
And so it is with us.
 
Too often, we treat faith as something to inspire us,
            rather than something that changes us.
 
We sing about love,
            but struggle to embody it in difficult situations.
 
We proclaim justice,
            but hesitate when it demands something of us.
 
We want to see Christ in glory,
            but are less eager to see him in the poor, the suffering, the rejected.
 
But listening to Jesus means being willing to be changed
            —to let go of our assumptions, to step beyond our fears,
            to embrace the radical call of love and justice.
 
It means recognising that moments of revelation
            are not meant to be contained but carried with us into the world.
 
This is why the Transfiguration matters.
            Not because it gives us a fleeting glimpse of Jesus in glory,
            but because it challenges us to be transformed ourselves.
 
As Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 3:18:
"And we all, with unveiled faces, beholding the glory of the Lord,
            are being transformed into the same image
            from one degree of glory to another."
 
This is discipleship
            —not standing still, not staying where it feels safe,
            but being changed. Being transfigured. Becoming un-masked.
Learning to see Christ more clearly, not only on the mountaintop,
            but in the world around us.
 
5. What Masks Do We Need to Remove?
We began by thinking about the masks we wear
            —the ways we hide our true selves,
            the ways we try to manage how others see us.
 
Some of these masks are worn out of fear, some out of habit,
            some because we have been taught
            that certain parts of who we are must remain hidden.
 
But if the Transfiguration shows us anything,
            it is that real transformation happens when we stop hiding.
When we dare to let the truth be seen.
 
So what are the masks we need to remove?
 
Perhaps it’s the mask of certainty
            —the one that makes us afraid to admit
            when we have doubts or questions about faith.
 
Perhaps it’s the mask of strength
            —the one that stops us from admitting when we are struggling,
            from allowing others to see our weakness and offer support.
 
Perhaps it’s the mask of control
            —the one that keeps us from trusting God fully,
            from stepping into the unknown with faith rather than fear.
 
Perhaps it’s the mask that hides our true identity,
            - as we hide who we have been created to be because of fear
            at how others will receive us and react to us.
 
As individuals, we wear masks.
            But churches do, too.
 
Churches can hide behind the mask of tradition,
            avoiding the difficult work of change.
 
They can hide behind the mask of respectability,
            preferring to keep things polite rather than confront injustice,
            by building meaningful relationships across difference.
 
They can hide behind the mask of spiritual busyness,
            filling every moment with activity
            but never allowing themselves to stop and truly listen to Christ.
 
And yet the voice from heaven says to us:
            ‘This is my son, listen to him.’
 
And the call of the Transfiguration is to take off the masks.
            To allow ourselves to be seen. To allow ourselves to be changed.
 
6. A Call to Unveiled Faith
So the journey of faith is not about staying on the mountaintop.
            It is about coming down.
It is about following Christ into the world,
            into the places where healing is needed,
            into the struggles of daily life.
 
And the call for us today is the same as it was for those first disciples:
 
To listen to Christ
            —not just when it is easy, but when it challenges us.
To remove our masks
            —to stop hiding behind fear, pride, or pretence.
To embrace transformation
            —to allow the light of Christ to change us,
            so that we can reflect that light in the world.
 
All this because true faith is not about clinging to moments of revelation
            —it is about carrying those moments into the reality of our lives.
 
It is about living with unveiled faces,
            about stepping into the world as people who have been transformed
            and who are willing to be agents of transformation for others.
 
So may we listen.
            May we be changed.
And may we, with unveiled faces, reflect the light of Christ in all we do.
 
Amen.
 

Forgiven and Free

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

23 February 2025

 
Luke 7.36-50

Some stories carry well across the millennia
            from the first century to the present day,
whilst others less so,
            because the cultural norms of 21^st century London
            are so far removed from those of first century Jerusalem.
 
Today’s reading is one of those that, I think, doesn’t carry so well
            – we don’t have the same taboos about gender, hair, and human contact
            that were operative when this story is set.
 
We have our own versions of them, of course,
            but they are different.
 
So this story, from a modern point of view,
            can seem rather alien to us.
 
But at its heart, this passage confronts us
            with two different responses to Jesus:
one of judgment, the other of love.
 
And it asks us to consider which posture we adopt
            when we come into the presence of Christ.
 
Are we like Simon the Pharisee,
            who thinks he knows who is worthy of Jesus and who is not?
 
Or are we like the woman,
            who understands that grace cannot be earned, only received
            —and that when it is, the only possible response is overwhelming love?
 
The story begins with Jesus invited to dinner
            at the house of Simon, a Pharisee.
 
This in itself is notable—Pharisees were often suspicious of Jesus,
            and elsewhere we see them questioning his authority
            and the company he kept.
 
But Simon is willing to host him,
            perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps to test him.
 
In first-century Jewish culture,
            such meals were often semi-public events,
held in an open courtyard
            where uninvited guests could linger at the edges,
            listening in on the conversation.
 
Into this setting comes an unexpected visitor:
            a woman from the city, known simply as “a sinner.”
 
Luke does not tell us the specifics of her sin,
            only that her reputation precedes her.
She is not invited. She is not welcome.
            But she comes anyway, bringing with her an alabaster jar of perfume.
 
Then, in a deeply emotional and scandalous act,
            she kneels before Jesus, weeping.
 
Her tears fall, and she lets down her hair
            —a shocking act in that culture,
            as women were expected to keep their hair covered in public.
 
She uses her hair to wipe him clean,
            then kisses him again and again,
            before pouring out the expensive perfume in an extravagant act of devotion.
 
The room is filled with the scent of the perfume,
            but also with tension.
The watching guests, especially Simon, are shocked.
 
This is not how a religious teacher should allow himself to be treated,
            especially by a woman of such reputation.
 
But Jesus does not recoil. He doesn’t pull away.
            Instead, he allows her to express her love,
            accepting her act of worship without hesitation.
 
And it’s at this moment that Jesus chooses to teach a lesson
            —not just to the woman, but to Simon,
            and to all who would seek to judge who is worthy of grace.
 
As this scene unfolds, Simon the Pharisee watches in silence,
            but his thoughts are loud.
 
He is not moved by the woman’s act of devotion.
            Instead, he is offended—perhaps even disgusted.
 
In his mind, Jesus’ response, or lack of response,
            confirms something troubling:
            This man cannot be a true prophet.
 
If Jesus had the kind of divine insight that prophets were supposed to have,
            Simon reasons, he would know exactly
            what kind of woman was touching him.
And if he knew, he certainly wouldn’t allow it.
 
Simon doesn’t say these things aloud,
            but Jesus knows his heart.
 
He sees the judgment in Simon’s eyes,
            the self-righteousness in his attitude,
            and the blindness in his understanding of grace.
 
Simon believes he has God all figured out.
            He believes he knows how holiness works,
                        how righteousness should be maintained,
            and—most crucially—who is in and who is out.
 
And in his mind, this woman is most certainly out.
 
But Jesus turns the tables on him.
            Instead of rebuking the woman, Jesus addresses Simon directly,
            saying, “Simon, I have something to say to you.”
 
Simon, perhaps still smug in his assumptions,
            replies, “Say it, Teacher.”
 
He does not yet realise that Jesus is about to expose
            the very thing he is trying to conceal
            —the hardness of his own heart.
 
Jesus tells a short parable about two people
            who owe money to a creditor
            —one a large amount, the other a small sum.
 
When neither can repay, the creditor forgives both debts.
 
Then Jesus asks Simon a simple question:
            Which of them will love the creditor more?
 
Simon answers correctly:
            “I suppose the one for whom he cancelled the greater debt.”
 
But he has walked straight into Jesus’ lesson.
            Simon understands the logic of the parable,
            but he has failed to see its truth playing out in front of him.
 
The woman has been forgiven much, and so she loves much.
            But Simon, who does not see himself as needing much forgiveness,
            does not understand love at all.
 
Having drawn Simon into the parable of the two debtors,
            Jesus now turns the spotlight directly onto him.
 
Simon has acknowledged that the one forgiven the greater debt will love more,
            but he hasn’t yet realised what this means for him.
 
As Jesus shifts his gaze from Simon to the woman,
            he continues speaking to Simon.
 
“Do you see this woman?” he asks.
 
It’s a striking question because, of course, Simon has seen her
            —but only in a certain way.
He’s seen her reputation, her past, her unworthiness.
            But has he truly seen her? Has he recognised her act of love?
            Has he understood her deep gratitude for the grace she has received?
 
Jesus then delivers a direct contrast
            between Simon’s actions as host
            and the woman’s response to him.
 
In first-century Jewish culture, hospitality was a sacred duty.
            A guest arriving at one’s house
                        would normally be offered water to wash their feet,
            a kiss of greeting, and oil to refresh their skin
            —small but meaningful acts of welcome and honour.
 
Simon had done none of these things.
            Whether from negligence, indifference, or quiet disdain,
            he had treated Jesus with a cool, distant politeness,
            rather than with warmth or reverence.
 
In contrast, the woman has poured herself out in love.
            She has given what she can
            —her tears, her hair, her kisses, her costly perfume.
 
While Simon has withheld even the smallest gestures of welcome,
            she has lavished Jesus with extravagant devotion.
 
And her actions, Jesus declares, are a sign of something deeper:
            “Her sins, which were many, have been forgiven;
                        hence she has shown great love.
            But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.”
 
Then, for the first time, Jesus speaks directly to the woman.
            Up until this point, she has remained silent,
            expressing herself only through her actions.
Now, Jesus affirms her before everyone:
            “Your sins are forgiven.”
 
The other guests murmur among themselves:
            “Who is this who even forgives sins?”
 
They are scandalised. Only God can forgive sins.
            Yet Jesus is doing just that—not with a ritual sacrifice,
                        not through the temple system,
                        but in a personal, intimate encounter.
 
Finally, Jesus turns to the woman once more,
            speaking words that change everything:
“Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
 
She came to Jesus broken, burdened by her past,
            and uncertain of how she would be received.
 
She leaves forgiven, restored, and at peace.
 
In this moment, Jesus does more than challenge Simon’s judgmental attitude
            —he redefines what it means to belong in the kingdom of God.
 
It is not the righteous, the respectable, or the religious
            who automatically understand grace.
 
It is those who know their need of it.
            And when grace is received, love overflows.
 
This encounter between Jesus, Simon, and the woman
            offers those of us reading it some lessons
            about grace, love, and the nature of true discipleship.
 
Three key themes emerge from the passage:
            extravagant worship, judgment versus compassion,
            and the relationship between forgiveness and love.
 
1. Extravagant Worship
The woman’s actions are bold, vulnerable, and deeply expressive.
            She does not care what others think
            —she pours out her love for Jesus in a way that is raw and unrestrained.
 
Her worship is costly, not just because of the expensive perfume
            but because of the social risk she takes
            in showing such devotion so publicly.
 
In contrast, Simon, the religious leader, remains distant.
            He keeps Jesus at arm’s length,
            offering no true sign of hospitality or reverence.
 
His faith is respectable, but it is also cold.
            The woman, by contrast, is fully present, pouring herself out in love.
 
I think the challenge here for us is to ask:
            What does our worship look like?
 
Do we come before Jesus with hearts open,
            willing to express our love fully?
Or do we hold back, afraid of what others might think
            or unwilling to fully surrender ourselves?
 
Sometimes churches get caught up in worship wars,
            people like this kind of worship or that,
            traditional or contemporary, organ or guitar or drums or piano…
 
Well, I’ve worshipped in very traditional contexts,
            and in very contemporary contexts.
 
And friends, hear this:
            it’s not about the style.
            It’s about your attitude of heart, my attitude of heart.
 
If you can’t worship because of this or that annoying you,
            look inward rather than outward for the answer.
 
True worship is never about mere performance or duty
            —it is about offering ourselves fully to the one who has shown us grace.
 
2. Judgment vs. Compassion
Simon’s silent judgment of the woman—and of Jesus—
            reveals a common human tendency:
we assume we know who is worthy and who is not.
 
Simon the Pharisee looks at the woman and sees only her past.
            Jesus looks at her and sees her love, her faith, and her transformed heart.
 
How often do we, like Simon, judge others without seeing them fully?
            How often do we assume that some people are beyond redemption
            while failing to recognise our own need for grace?
 
This passage reminds us that the measure we use to judge others
            is the measure by which we, too, will be judged.
 
If we view others through a lens of condemnation,
            we miss the opportunity to participate in God’s grace.
 
If we see them through Christ’s eyes,
            we will respond with love and compassion.
 
3. Forgiveness and Love
At the heart of this passage is the simple but radical truth
            that forgiveness fuels love.
 
Jesus’ parable of the two debtors makes it clear:
            those who are forgiven much, love much.
 
The woman knows the depth of her need,
            and in receiving grace, she responds with overwhelming love.
 
Simon, on the other hand, does not believe he has much to be forgiven for
            —and as a result, his love is small.
 
This is not to say that we should sin more
            in order to experience greater grace.
 
Rather, it is an invitation to honestly acknowledge our own brokenness.
            When we fully grasp the depth of God’s mercy toward us,
            we are freed to love in ways that we never imagined possible.
 
The question this passage leaves us with
            is not just whether we have received forgiveness,
            but whether that forgiveness has changed us.
 
Do we love in response to grace?
            Do we extend that same grace to others?
Or do we, like Simon, hold people at a distance,
            measuring their worth by their past
            rather than by God’s transforming love?
 
The woman in this story did not earn her forgiveness
            —she simply received it.
 
And because she received it, she was set free to love extravagantly.
            May we do the same.
 
Contemporary Application
And so we have this ancient account of grace
            speaking down the millennia to our lives today.
 
Challenging us to consider how we respond to Jesus,
            how we see others,
and how we understand the nature of forgiveness and love in our own context.
 
Who Are We in the Story?
Every time we read scripture,
            we are invited to find ourselves within the narrative.
So, I wonder, where do we see ourselves in this passage?

Are we Simon?
Do we sit in judgment over others,
            making assumptions about their worthiness?
Do we believe we have little need for forgiveness,
            keeping Jesus at a polite but safe distance?
 
It is easy to fall into Simon’s mindset,
            especially if we have spent years in religious spaces,
becoming comfortable with a faith
            that feels respectable but lacks passion.
 
Are we the woman?
Do we recognise our deep need for grace?
            Have we encountered the kind of forgiveness
            that moves us to respond with love?
 
Some of us may carry a heavy burden of guilt or shame,
            wondering if we are truly welcome in Jesus’ presence.
 
This passage reminds us that Christ does not turn us away
            —he receives us, accepts us, and speaks words of peace over us.
 
Are we the other guests?
The people watching this scene unfold murmur among themselves,
            questioning Jesus’ authority to forgive sins.
 
Do we find ourselves on the sidelines,
            unsure about the radical nature of grace,
struggling to believe that it could extend even to those
            we might consider undeserving?
 
Wherever we see ourselves, this passage invites us to step deeper into grace
            —to move from judgment to love, from distance to intimacy,
            from self-righteousness to humility.
 
The Scandal of Grace
One of the striking things about this story
            is how shocking Jesus’ response would have been.
 
The people of his time—especially the religious leaders—
            expected him to affirm their moral boundaries,
            to uphold the distinctions between the righteous and the sinners.
 
But Jesus does the opposite.
            He allows a woman with a bad reputation to touch him.
 
He accepts her offering without hesitation.
             And then he publicly forgives her, declaring that her faith has saved her.
 
This is still scandalous today.
 
We live in a world that loves to categorise people,
            deciding who is in and who is out,
            who is acceptable and who is not.
 
Social media thrives on outrage,
            exposing and condemning those who fall short.
 
Even within the church, it is tempting to create unspoken hierarchies of sin,
            deciding who is truly welcome and who must first prove themselves worthy.
 
But Jesus refuses to play by those rules.
 
He shows us that grace is not something we earn
            —it is something we receive.
 
And when we truly receive it, it transforms us.
 
If we find grace scandalous,
            it is because we have not yet understood
            the depths of our own need for it.
 
The Relationship Between Forgiveness and Love
Jesus’ parable of the two debtors
            teaches us that the depth of our love
            is tied to our awareness of our forgiveness.
 
If we believe we have little to be forgiven for,
            our love will be small.
 
But if we truly grasp the magnitude of grace,
            our response will be one of extravagant love.
 
This has implications for how we live as followers of Christ.
 
It means:
 
We cannot receive grace without extending it.
If we have been forgiven much, we must forgive much.
 
This applies to our personal relationships, our communities,
            and even the way we engage with the wider world.
 
Do we reflect the mercy we have received?
            Or do we hold grudges, withhold forgiveness,
            and insist on keeping others at arm’s length?
 
Love is the evidence of grace at work.
The woman in this story does not speak a word,
            yet her love for Jesus is unmistakable.
 
Our lives should bear the same witness.
 
If we claim to be people of grace,
            our love should be visible in how we treat others
            —especially those whom society deems unworthy.
 
True worship flows from gratitude.
This woman’s act of devotion was not calculated or restrained
            —it was an outpouring of gratitude
            for the grace she had received.
 
If our worship feels routine or lifeless,
            perhaps we need to be reminded of the depth of our forgiveness.
 
The more we remember what Christ has done for us,
            the more our hearts will overflow with love.
 
“Go in Peace” – Living as People of Grace
Jesus’ final words to the woman are not just a declaration of forgiveness;
            they are an invitation into a new way of life:
            “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
 
This is not just about inner peace—it is about wholeness,
            about living in the freedom that grace brings.
 
As we reflect on this passage today, we are challenged to ask ourselves:
Are we living as people who have truly received grace?
Do we extend that same grace to others?
Are we known for judgment, or are we known for love?
 
Jesus calls us not just to receive grace,
            but to be transformed by it.
 
And as we are transformed, we are sent out
            —to love much, to forgive much, and to go in peace.
 
Prayer:
Gracious God, we thank you for the example of the woman who showed extravagant love to your Son. Help us to break free from judgment and to embrace a faith that is bold and authentic. May we offer you our whole selves in worship and extend your grace to others. In Jesus' name, we pray. Amen.
 

Embracing the Unexpected Messiah

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Sunday 16 February 2025

Luke 7.18-35

Introduction
There is something deeply human
            about John the Baptist’s question to Jesus in today’s passage:
 
“Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” (Luke 7:19).
 
Here is John, the great prophet,
            the one who had proclaimed the coming of the Messiah,
                        who had baptized Jesus,
            who had declared, “Behold, the Lamb of God” (John 1:29)
                        —and yet, now, in prison, he finds himself uncertain.
 
He is left wondering whether he was right after all.
 
But John’s doubts—or at least his desire for reassurance—are understandable.
 
He had preached a message of repentance and judgment,
            warning of the coming wrath,
            calling people to prepare the way for the Lord.
 
But Jesus wasn’t quite fitting the mould.
 
Instead of fire and fury, Jesus was healing the sick,
            restoring sight to the blind, welcoming sinners,
            and preaching good news to the poor.
 
Instead of overthrowing the oppressors,
            he was moving among the outcasts.
 
Instead of breaking John out of Herod’s prison,
            he was dining with tax collectors and sinners.
 
It is easy to sympathise with John.
 
He, like so many in Israel, had expectations of what the Messiah would do
            —and Jesus was not fulfilling those expectations
                        in the way they had imagined.
 
I think this raises a crucial question for us:
            How do we respond when God does not act as we expect?
 
Do we, like John, find ourselves asking, “Are you really the one?”
            And if so, how does Jesus respond?
 
This story of John’s moment of doubt
            invites us to reconsider our expectations of Christ,
and to hear his answer not in a theoretical explanation,
            but in the reality of what he is doing in the world.
 
It challenges us to open our eyes and see the presence of the Messiah
            —not necessarily in the places of power and dominance
                        where we might instinctively look,
            but in the work of healing, restoration, and grace
                        that continues to unfold before us.
 
I. John's Question: A Moment of Doubt or Clarification?
John the Baptist is one of the characters in the gospels
            who, in my opinion, doesn’t always get the attention he deserves.
 
He is mentioned in all four gospels,
            and is consistently associated with the start of Jesus’ ministry.
 
But the effect of this is that he is often demoted
            to being a prophetic fore-runner to Jesus.
A kind of messianic warm-up-act.
 
Whereas the reality seems to be that his ministry was complementary to Jesus’s,
            with the actions and teaching of Jesus
            arising out from the prophecies and baptisms of John.
 
And so in today’s passage we meet John the Baptist,
            in a passage not often read in church.
And here we find him towards the end of his life,
            but still unwavering in his prophetic calling.
 
This is the man who had been the very definition
            of the voice crying out in the wilderness,
channelling the prophet Isaiah in his call to ‘prepare the way of the Lord’,
            challenging people to repentance and baptism,
            and warning of the coming judgment.
 
John, we are told, had recognized some of Jesus’ uniqueness from the very beginning,
            so much so that even in the slightly surreal nativity story
            we’re told that in his mother’s womb he leapt at Mary’s greeting (Luke 1:41).
 
He had baptized Jesus in the Jordan,
            witnessing the heavens open, and hearing the voice from heaven declare,
            “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased” (Luke 3:22).
 
And yet, now, John is in prison.
 
Herod Antipas, the ruler of Galilee,
            had locked him away for speaking truth to power,
for condemning Herod’s immorality
            in marrying his brother’s ex-wife Herodias (Luke 3:19-20).
 
Sitting in the darkness of his cell, John must have wondered:
            If Jesus is the Messiah, why is this happening?
 
Where was the axe
            that he proclaimed had been laid at the root of the trees (Luke 3:9)?
 
Where was the winnowing fork
            that he had claimed would clear the threshing floor
            and burn the chaff with unquenchable fire (Luke 3:17)?
 
Had he misunderstood?
            Had he prepared the way for someone else?
 
This is where John’s question comes from:
            “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?”
            (Luke 7:19).
 
It is a question of uncertainty, but not necessarily of complete disbelief.
            John is not rejecting Jesus—he is seeking clarity.
 
He had proclaimed a Messiah of judgment,
            but Jesus was bringing mercy.
 
He had expected a political upheaval,
            but Jesus was healing the sick.
 
John’s question is not a loss of faith
            but an honest grappling with the ways in which God’s work
            is unfolding differently than expected.
 
I suspect that many of us can relate to John’s experience.
 
We, too, can find ourselves in situations
            where the faith we once held with certainty now feels uncertain.
 
When life does not go as we had hoped,
            when justice seems delayed, when prayers seem unanswered,
            we might find ourselves wondering: Is God really at work?
 
Like John, we might long for reassurance.
 
And in Jesus’ response, we find both an answer and an invitation
            —to look again, to see where the kingdom is breaking in,
and to recognise that God’s ways
            are often different from our own expectations.
 
II. Jesus' Response: Demonstrating the Kingdom's Power
So John’s disciples repeat his question to Jesus:
            “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?”
            (Luke 7:19).
 
It is a direct and urgent inquiry
            —one that Jesus could have answered with a simple yes or no.
 
But instead of a straightforward response,
            Jesus points to the evidence of his ministry:
 
“Go and tell John what you have seen and heard:
            the blind receive their sight; the lame walk;
those with a skin disease are cleansed;
            the deaf hear; the dead are raised;
the poor have good news brought to them.”
 
In this answer, Jesus is quoting from Isaiah,
            echoing prophecies about the coming of God’s reign (Isaiah 35:5-6; 61:1).
 
He is saying, in effect: Look at what is happening.
            The signs of the kingdom are all around you.
 
Rather than engaging in a theoretical debate about his identity,
            Jesus invites John—and us—to discern the truth
            in the lived reality of his actions.
 
This response is significant.
 
It tells us that Jesus’ identity as the Messiah
            is not proven through titles, declarations, or political revolutions
            but through the tangible transformation of lives.
 
The power of God’s kingdom is being revealed
            not through conquest but through healing.
It is seen in restoration, in liberation,
            in the lifting up of those on the margins.
 
Jesus’ final words in this response
            —"blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me” (Luke 7:23)—a
            re particularly striking.
 
He acknowledges that he is not what many expected.
            His way is not the way of earthly power
            or immediate political deliverance.
 
John may have anticipated a Messiah
            who would overthrow the Romans
            and bring judgment upon the wicked.
 
But instead, Jesus brings healing to the broken
            and good news to the poor.
 
And his message to John is clear:
            Do not be offended or discouraged
                        because I do not fit into your expectations.
            See what I am actually doing,
                        and trust that this is the work of God.
 
There is a challenge here for us, too.
 
How often do we, like John, expect God to act in a particular way,
            only to find that God is working differently than we imagined?
 
How often do we look for signs of power and control,
            when the true signs of the kingdom are acts of love, mercy, and justice?
 
Jesus’ response invites us to re-examine our assumptions
            and to recognise that God’s work is often unfolding
                        in ways that may surprise us
            —but which are no less real, no less powerful, and no less transformative.
 
III. Challenging Preconceptions: The Nature of True Greatness
After sending John’s disciples back with his response,
            Jesus turns to the crowd
            and asks them a series of rhetorical questions about John:
 
“What did you go out into the wilderness to look at?
            A reed shaken by the wind? ²⁵ 
What, then, did you go out to see?
            Someone dressed in soft robes?
Look, those who put on fine clothing and live in luxury are in royal palaces.
 
 ²⁶ What, then, did you go out to see? A prophet?
            Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet.” (Luke 7:24-26)
 
Jesus is asking them to reflect
            on why they were drawn to John in the first place.
 
Did they expect someone weak and indecisive,
            like a reed bending in the wind?
Of course not—John was no wavering figure,
            shifting with public opinion.
 
Did they expect someone powerful and wealthy, dressed in royal robes?
            No—those kinds of figures live in palaces, like Herod,
            the very man who imprisoned John.
 
Instead, they had gone to see a prophet
            —a fiery voice of truth who stood outside the centres of power,
            calling people to repentance.
 
And yet, Jesus says, John was even more than a prophet.
 
He was the messenger foretold in Scripture,
            the one sent to prepare the way for the Lord (Malachi 3:1).
 
Among those born of women, Jesus declares,
            no one is greater than John.
 
That is a staggering statement
            —John stands above all the prophets of Israel,
            the very pinnacle of human faithfulness.
 
But then Jesus says something even more surprising:
            “Yet the one who is least in the kingdom of God is greater than he.”
            (Luke 7:28)
 
His point here is not that John himself is diminished,
            but rather that the kingdom of God redefines greatness.
 
The old categories of status, achievement,
            and even prophetic authority are being overturned.
 
In Jesus, the kingdom is breaking into the world in a new way,
            and those who participate in this unfolding reality
                        —who embrace the ways of grace, healing, and radical inclusion—
            are part of something even greater
                        than the prophetic tradition that came before.
 
This is a challenge to our assumptions about what matters most.
 
We live in a world that often equates greatness
            with power, success, wealth, and influence.
 
Even within religious circles,
            we can be tempted to admire the most prominent leaders,
            the most eloquent speakers, the biggest churches.
 
But Jesus upends all of that.
 
True greatness is not found in status or recognition;
            it is found in participation in God’s kingdom
—a kingdom where the last are first,
            where the outcasts are welcomed,
            where love is the measure of all things.
 
The challenge for us is to recognise
            where we are holding onto worldly ideas of greatness
            and to allow Jesus to redefine them.
 
If John, the greatest of the prophets,
            was pointing beyond himself to something greater,
then we, too, must learn to set aside our own expectations
            and trust that God’s ways are often different
                        —and far more beautiful—
            than we could ever have imagined.
 
IV. Recognising the Messiah in Our Midst
Jesus’ words to the crowd about John the Baptist
            lead to a deeper question:
 
Do we recognise the Messiah when he is right in front of us?
 
In Luke 7:29-30, we see two contrasting responses to Jesus’ ministry.
 
Luke tells us that
“And all the people who heard this, including the tax collectors,
            acknowledged the justice of God, 
            having been baptized with John’s baptism.
 ³⁰ But the Pharisees and the experts in the law,
            not having been baptized by him,
            rejected God’s purpose for themselves.”
 
The division is clear
            —those on the margins, those aware of their own need for grace,
                        receive Jesus with joy.
 
But those who see themselves as already righteous, already knowledgeable,
            struggle to accept what God is doing.
 
Jesus then compares this generation
            to children playing in the marketplace (Luke 7:31-32).
 
They call out to one another:
            " We played the flute for you, and you did not dance;

•                 we wailed, and you did not weep."

                we wailed, and you did not weep."
 
In other words, no response was ever good enough.
 
They rejected John because he was too austere,
            too ascetic, too radical.
 
And then they rejected Jesus because he was too welcoming,
            too open, too willing to feast with sinners.
 
They dismissed both, not because of any real flaw in them,
            but because they were unwilling to accept what God was doing
            in ways they did not expect.
 
This is a warning for us.
 
It is easy to miss the presence of Christ when
            we have already decided what he should look like.
 
If we expect Jesus only in the places of power,
            we will not see him among the poor.
 
If we expect him only in the halls of influence,
            we will not recognise him in the company of the outcast.
 
If we expect him only in the grandeur of religious tradition,
            we may miss his presence in the simple acts
            of kindness, justice, and mercy happening around us.
 
Jesus challenges us to open our eyes.
            Where is the kingdom breaking in today?
 
Who are the people and places that reveal God’s presence,
            even if they do not fit our expectations?
 
Are we willing to embrace a Messiah
            who does not always come in the ways we imagine?
 
As Jesus concludes,
            “wisdom is vindicated by all her children” (Luke 7:35).
 
That is, in the end, the truth of Jesus’ identity
            is revealed not in words alone
            but in the fruit of his ministry.
 
The blind see. The lame walk. The poor hear good news.
            The kingdom is here—if only we have the eyes to see it.
 
Conclusion: Embracing the Unexpected
So, as we conclude…
 
John the Baptist’s question
            —“Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?”—
            is one that echoes through the ages.
 
It is not just John’s question; it is our question too.
 
In times of uncertainty, suffering, or disappointment,
            we may find ourselves wondering
            if Jesus is really who we thought he was.
 
If God is truly at work,
            why do things not look the way we expected?
 
Jesus’ response to John and to us
            is both a reassurance and a challenge.
 
Jesus does not fit neatly into human expectations.
            He does not conform to the world’s ideas of power and greatness.
 
Instead, he brings healing, restoration, and good news to the poor.
 
He turns our assumptions upside down,
            revealing a kingdom where the least are greatest,
                        where justice is done not through conquest but through compassion,
            and where the presence of God is found
                        not in the palaces of the powerful
                        but in the lives of the broken and the outcast.
 
The challenge for us today is to open our eyes
            and recognise the Messiah in our midst.
 
Where is Christ at work in ways we have not expected?
 
Where is the kingdom breaking in, not through dominance,
            but through acts of mercy, justice, and grace?
 
Are we willing to let go of our preconceived ideas
            and embrace the way of Jesus
            —the way of love that is often surprising but always life-giving?
 
John asked, “Are you the one?”
            And Jesus replied, “Look and see.”
 
May we, too, have the eyes to see, the hearts to believe,
            and the courage to follow the Messiah
            who is always more than we imagined,
                        yet exactly what we need.
 
 
Prayer: Gracious God, open our eyes to see your work in unexpected places.
            Grant us the humility to embrace your ways,
            even when they challenge our preconceptions.
May we, like John, seek understanding,
            and like Jesus, extend grace and healing to all. Amen.