Year A: The Baptism of the Lord

Year A: The Baptism of the Lord

11th January, 2026

Scripture: Matthew 3:13-17

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Jesus stands in the Jordan River, and before He preaches a single sermon, before He works a single miracle, before He hangs on any cross, the heavens tear open, and the Father speaks: "This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased." Identity precedes activity. Belovedness precedes accomplishment.

And here's what's extraordinary: Jesus goes into those waters not to be cleansed—He who is without sin—but to stand in solidarity with us, to sanctify the very waters that will become our gateway into this same identity. His baptism is the door through which our baptisms will have meaning.

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Let's be clear about what's happening here. John the Baptist is reluctant. Matthew tells us John tried to prevent Jesus: "I need to be baptized by you, and yet you are coming to me?" John knows this is awkward. His baptism is a baptism of repentance, and Jesus has nothing to repent. But Jesus insists: "Allow it now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness."

What does this mean? Jesus is entering into the complete human condition—not its sinfulness, but its brokenness, its need, its longing for redemption. As Isaiah prophesied in our first reading, "Here is my servant whom I uphold, my chosen one with whom I am pleased." The Servant comes not to stand above the people but among them, not to condemn the bruised reed but to bind it up.

The early Church Father, St. John Chrysostom, preached that when Jesus descends into the Jordan, He sanctifies all waters for all future baptisms. The Creator enters creation. The Light falls into the depths. And what rises from those waters is not just a wet rabbi from Nazareth, but the inauguration of a new creation.

Notice what happens next: "The heavens were opened." This is the language of rupture, of divine invasion. Since the Fall, heaven and earth had been separated. But now the separation is torn—not gently parted but opened—and the Spirit descends like a dove.

Why a dove? Because at creation, the Spirit hovered over the waters of chaos and brought forth life. Now, at this new creation, the Spirit hovers over these waters and brings forth new life. Every baptism since has been an echo of this moment—the Spirit hovering, heaven opening, identity bestowed. And then the voice: "This is my beloved Son."

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Our identity is not built on what we accomplish, but on whose we are. We are God's beloved. Not when we're holier, not when we've conquered that sin, not when we've finally gotten our life together.  In our brokenness and our beauty, in our doubt and our desire—we are claimed by the Father who spoke over those waters.

Our baptism—whether we remember it or not—was the moment heaven opened over our life. The Spirit descended. The Father spoke our name. And that word can never be unspoken. That seal can never be broken. We may forget it, ignore it, run from it—but God does not have amnesia about His children.

But here's the second thing: this identity carries a mission. Notice that immediately after His baptism, Jesus is driven into the desert to be tempted, and then He begins His public ministry. Belovedness is not an excuse for passivity. It's the only foundation strong enough for the mission God gives each of us.

You don't earn God's love by serving the poor, by forgiving your enemy, by standing up for truth in your workplace, by being patient with your difficult teenager, by remaining faithful in your struggling marriage. You do these things because you are already loved. You act from fullness, not for it. From security, not for it.

 

Just as Jesus entered the waters of solidarity with sinners, we are called to that same descent. Christian faith is not a balloon that lifts us above the messiness of human life. It's a baptism that plunges us into it—into the suffering of our neighbor, into the confusion of the culture, into the broken places where Christ is most present because the need is greatest.

Who are the people you'd rather not stand beside in the waters? The political opponent, the family member who hurt you, the person whose lifestyle you find troubling, the refugee, the addict, the person whose poverty makes you uncomfortable. Jesus stood in the Jordan with prostitutes and tax collectors, not because He approved of everything they did, but because He loved who they were. And He invites us into the same risky, costly solidarity.

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As we now enter into this great mystery of the Eucharist, let us remember: the same Jesus who entered the Jordan enters into bread and wine, descends into these humble elements to meet us, to feed us, to remind us once again that we are His beloved. Heaven opens here. The Spirit descends here. The Father speaks here.

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_ Excertfrom Baptism of christ Year A, Sean Alexander.

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To aid our reflection on the Sunday readings each week we are reproducing, with permission, content from St. Bueno's Outreach. If you would like to know more about them or access their guided prayer resources, 'Prego', you can contact them via their website.​​​