This Sunday in the church year, we mark and celebrate Baptism of Our Lord Sunday. In light of Jesus’ baptism, it’s an opportunity to reflect on what the sacrament or rite of baptism is all about in our own lives. Baptism is as abundant with meaning and symbolism as the flowing waters that cover the earth. The imagery of baptism is varied and rich, and I return to reflect on these images again and again. Specifically, what I always find myself drawn to are the themes of welcome, acceptance, and belovedness that run like a current through baptism.

The lectionary texts for Sunday begin with Isaiah 43:1-7, a stunningly beautiful poetic and prophetic passage:

¹ But now thus says the Lord,
    he who created you, O Jacob,
    he who formed you, O Israel:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
    I have called you by name; you are mine.
² When you pass through the waters, I will be with you,
    and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
    and the flame shall not consume you.
³ For I am the Lord your God,
    the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.
I give Egypt as your ransom,
    Cush and Seba in exchange for you.
⁴ Because you are precious in my sight
    and honored and I love you,
I give people in return for you,
    nations in exchange for your life.
⁵ Do not fear, for I am with you;
    I will bring your offspring from the east,
    and from the west I will gather you;
⁶ I will say to the north, “Give them up,”
    and to the south, “Do not withhold;
bring my sons from far away
    and my daughters from the end of the earth—
⁷ everyone who is called by my name,
    whom I created for my glory,
    whom I formed and made.”

The One who created and shaped us has not abandoned God’s creation, but instead redeemed us and called us by name. In the biblical context, to know someone’s name was to be in a relationship with that person and, potentially, to be in a position to have power over that person. That God reveals God’s name to Moses in the burning bush as “I AM” – the One who was and is and will be – is not only a statement of power and might, and of being and action, but an act of vulnerability. As God calls us by our own name and God reveals God’s name to us, we find ourselves in an intimate relationship with the divine.

The prophet Isaiah reminds us that we, too, are accompanied by this relational God through the floods and fires of our lives not because of what we do, but because we are “precious” and “honored” in God’s sight and because God loves us. All of this is simply because God is who God is – because we were formed and made by God’s own hand, created with joy and delight for God’s glory. Knowing this love in which we were created and in which we are accompanied all the days of our lives, we needn’t dwell in fear.

That’s so beautiful and hopeful.

And I can’t hear these words without simultaneously hearing the song The Porter’s Gate and Audrey Assad wrote based on Isaiah to remind us about God’s promises and reassuring presence with us:

I find that scripture set to music helps me meditate on scripture and what these words mean so much better because the tune conveys the promises directly to my heart. Humming or singing along ingrains them in my soul in a way straight repetition or memorization cannot. And this isn’t a new practice!

The psalms, the prayer book of the scriptures, were accompanied – they were poetry set to music so that God’s people could worship, lament, and praise in a way that would inscribe God’s promises within their very being. And in the psalm selected for this week, Psalm 29, we hear about and are reminded of the power and majesty of God:

¹ Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings,
    ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.
² Ascribe to the Lord the glory of his name;
    worship the Lord in holy splendor.

³ The voice of the Lord is over the waters;
    the God of glory thunders,
    the Lord, over mighty waters.
⁴ The voice of the Lord is powerful;
    the voice of the Lord is full of majesty.

⁵ The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars;
    the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon.
⁶ He makes Lebanon skip like a calf
    and Sirion like a young wild ox.

⁷ The voice of the Lord flashes forth flames of fire.
⁸ The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness;
    the Lord shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.

⁹ The voice of the Lord causes the oaks to whirl
    and strips the forest bare,
    and in his temple all say, “Glory!”

¹⁰ The Lord sits enthroned over the flood;
    the Lord sits enthroned as king forever.
¹¹ May the Lord give strength to his people!
    May the Lord bless his people with peace!

The voice of the Lord, so powerful as to “shake the wilderness,” is the same voice that tenderly tells us over and over that God has made us in God’s own image, called us by name, and delights in us. That same voice speaks of kinship and belonging, not only with God, but with one another and all creation – every being drawing its very life and breath from the love and imagination of God.

These words in Isaiah and the psalm give us a framework as we hear about Jesus’ baptism in Luke 3:15-17, 21-22:

¹⁵ As the people were filled with expectation and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, ¹⁶ John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water, but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the strap of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. ¹⁷ His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

²¹ Now when all the people were baptized and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, ²² and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

Everyone was filled with expectation and questioning who John was.

They were also wondering who this Jesus might be.

Maybe as the crowd asked these questions what was left unspoken was a question of their own identity.

We often go through life feeling the pressing weight of others’ expectations (or what we perceive their expectations to be) and the question of who we really are.

“You are my Child, my Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

At the heart of this text is Jesus’ identity as God’s beloved Son. Yet this scene also ripples outward, painting a beautiful image, reminding us of our identity as beloved children of God. A sprinkle or a dunk in a baptismal pool or river paired with these spoken promises of God anchors us in our unwavering identity as one deeply cherished by God – in all our beauty and messy learnings.

Jesus hears these words before setting off on a three year journey of preaching, teaching, and healing. Before he faces the cross and resurrection. Before he is both known and loved and known and feared by the crowds. Before anyone says a word positive or negative about who he is and what he is up to. Before does anything, he is rooted in his identity as God’s child, with whom God is pleased.

Before we do (or don’t do!) anything, or get tangled up in expectations, God delights in us. God smiles at us. God looks on us with love. God speaks tenderly to us.

It’s this news that enables us to use our gifts and passions, along with our individual personality quirks and life experiences, to risk loving others and giving ourselves to attempt making and doing beautiful things in an imperfect world. This is possible because we are loved from the start of it all. And we have nothing to fear.

It makes me ask, what changes would we make if we really trusted that we were loved and welcomed by God no matter what?

Would you attempt or begin anything new?

What attitudes, speech, or actions might you cease knowing not only your own belovedness but also your neighbors’ belovedness? What about knowing the stranger’s belovedness? Or even your enemies’ belovedness?

When we know that we are deeply loved, it causes a fundamental shift in how we view ourselves and others. We begin to practice grace and compassion for ourselves and for those around us. When our identity is secure, we strangely don’t need to worry so much about everybody else’s identity beyond the fact that they, too, are loved by God. It enables us to relax our grip.

Think about floating in a pool – it’s truly difficult to want to do anything but soak in the sun and drift comfortably on the surface of the water on a hot summer’s day. The storied waters of baptism tell us we are held, suspended and floating, safe and secure, in the overflowing waters of divine welcome, acceptance, love, and care. Why wouldn’t we want to soak that in?

© Annabelle P. Markey