Baptism of the Lord

Isaiah 42.1-9 – Psalm 29 – Acts 10:34–43- Matthew 3:13-17

The Very Rev’d Bertrand Oliver, Dean and Rector

The season after Epiphany can feel a little like a liturgical time-machine. We only have fifty-two Sundays in the year to tell the truth of Jesus’ life, so the calendar occasionally “fast-forwards” to make sure we don’t miss what matters.

Last Sunday, at Epiphany, Jesus was still a newborn—received by outsiders, recognised by unexpected visitors. Today, at the Baptism of the Lord, he is about thirty, fully grown: sharing our earthly life, our emotions and desires, our needs and disappointments. And now—at the edge of the Jordan—his public ministry begins.

And here is the heart of the feast, the heart of the Gospel, maybe the heart of our faith: before Jesus teaches, before he heals, before he performs a sign, before he gathers disciples, before he goes to the cross—God names him.

“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

That’s not simply a compliment. It’s an unveiling of identity. And it’s a declaration that belovedness comes before achievement. Before anyone has a chance to measure Jesus by success, popularity, religious performance, or political usefulness, God says: Beloved.

Psalm 29 gives us the soundscape for this moment: the voice of the Lord over the waters. The psalm is thunder and majesty—cedars splintering, wilderness shaking—yet it ends in peace: “The Lord will give strength to his people; the Lord will bless his people with peace.” The same voice that shakes creation also blesses and steadies God’s people. Over the waters, God speaks strength. Over the waters, God speaks peace. Over the waters, God speaks belovedness.

To understand the shock of Jesus stepping forward, we need John the Baptist in view. John stands at the hinge between the old and the new—rooted in Israel’s prophetic tradition, yet pointing beyond himself to the One who is coming. The Gospels describe him as fiercely honest, uncompromising, and strangely compelling. He is the one who says he is not worthy to untie the sandal of the coming Messiah.

We can imagine the scene: John, unmistakably eccentric, standing in the Jordan—calling people into the water, calling them into truth. Water already had deep meaning in Jewish life: purification practices, ritual washings, the mikveh as a sign of cleansing and new beginning. John gathers crowds who are hungry for a fresh start—people weary of compromise, weary of oppression, weary of religion that has become too cosy with power.

People come from many corners of society: the respectable and the suspicious, the religious and the searching, those who have harmed others and those who have been harmed. They come because they want to turn around—to repent—to live differently.

And then Jesus comes.

John is perplexed. This is not what he expects. If anyone should be baptising, surely it is Jesus. If anyone should stand apart, surely it is the Holy One. John protests—because he senses, rightly, that the order of things has been reversed.

But Jesus insists.

Why? Not to tick a religious box. Not to perform a public relations gesture. Jesus insists because this is how God’s saving work begins: by stepping into the human line, not standing above it. Jesus does not begin with distance. He begins with solidarity. He stands among those who are confessing their need, longing for a new life, asking God for mercy—and he refuses to be separated from them.

And then, as Jesus rises from the water, something is revealed.

The heavens open. The Spirit descends like a dove. The voice speaks: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

This is not just a private mystical moment for Jesus. It is a public declaration: the one who stands in the river is the one who will carry God’s life into the world. And notice what the voice does: it ties Jesus to Scripture—especially to Isaiah.

“Here is my servant, whom I uphold; my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my Spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations.”

Isaiah’s servant is gentle, steady, persistent: not shouting, not crushing the bruised reed, not snuffing out the dimly burning wick. And yet the servant is not passive—this is justice with backbone, hope with endurance: “He will not grow faint or be crushed until he has established justice in the earth.”

So the baptism reveals Jesus as Beloved and Anointed—and those two belong together. Belovedness is not an escape from the world; it is the ground from which he enters it. The Spirit does not come to give Jesus a spiritual glow; the Spirit comes to launch a mission.

That’s why the reading from Acts matters so much today. It’s not an interesting footnote; it’s the baptismal shockwave spreading outward.
In Acts we overhear Peter speaking in the house of Cornelius—a Roman centurion, a Gentile, an outsider to the covenant as Israel had understood it. Cornelius is devout, generous, prayerful.

And Peter has been changed by a vision that tells him that God is doing something new—something that breaks boundaries his community had treated as fixed and holy.

Peter says, plainly: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality.” And he proclaims the story of Jesus beginning with this very moment—Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan, the Spirit’s anointing, Jesus going about doing good, his death and resurrection, and the forgiveness offered “to everyone who believes.”

Do you hear what’s happening? The Beloved Son steps into the water—and the circle keeps widening. The Gospel does not remain safely inside the borders of “people like us.” It goes to Cornelius and his household. It goes where Peter never expected to go. The Spirit outruns the church’s assumptions. Baptism becomes not a reward for the already-approved, but a sign that God is making a new people where walls used to be.

Which brings us—very naturally—to ourselves.

On this day when we celebrate the baptism of Jesus, it is customary to think about our own baptism: the promises we made, or the promises made for us when we could not yet speak them. And in a moment, we will renew those promises again.

But we should be honest about what we are doing. Baptism is not simply the prelude to a party. It is not an insurance policy for the next world. Baptism is God’s claim upon our whole life.

“To continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers.”
“To persevere in resisting evil, and whenever we fall into sin, to repent and return to the Lord.”
“To proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ.”
“To seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbour as ourselves.”
“To strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being.”
And, as we increasingly name it in our own time: to honour the integrity of God’s creation.

That is demanding. The life of the baptised is not for the faint-hearted. Baptism names a pattern of dying and rising—a daily turning from the world’s cruelty and cynicism toward the world’s healing and hope.

And we do not have to look far to see how costly this can be. This week in Minneapolis, the killing of Renee Nicole Good during a U.S. immigration enforcement operation has shaken a community and sparked protests and grief well beyond that city.

Whatever one’s politics, Christians should recognise something here that is painfully baptismal: the struggle over human dignity; the fear that turns neighbours into threats; the temptation to meet force with force; the longing for accountability and for peace. In moments like that, the baptismal promises stop being “church words” and become real choices about how we will live—how we will speak truth, protect the vulnerable, refuse dehumanisation, and practise courage without hatred.

But the baptismal life is not only demanding. It is also joyful. Because baptism tells the truth that the world tries to deny: that God is at work. That the Spirit still moves. That love is not naïve—it is strong. That even when evil looks loud and confident, it is not ultimate.
And baptism gives us hope because it places our life inside Christ’s life: even in the face of death, we live toward resurrection. Even when darkness seems to gather, the voice over the waters still speaks blessing. The Lord gives strength to his people; the Lord blesses his people with peace.

So today, as we renew our baptismal vows, hear again what is true before you do anything else: you are beloved. Not because you have been perfect. Not because you have earned it. Not because you have proven your worth. But because God, in Christ, has chosen to stand with humanity in the waters—and to draw humanity into God’s own life.

And then, from that belovedness, we are sent.

All are invited. All are claimed. All are called. And together—with the Spirit, with the Beloved Son—we are empowered to unmask and undo the logic of empire—not through violence or oppression, but through the power of love: a generous, demanding, transformative love for God’s creation and for every neighbour.

Amen.