The Baptism of Christ, Sunday 12th Jannuary, by Dn Lucy

Isaiah 43. 1–7
Acts 8. 14–17
Luke 3. 15–17, 21–22

There’s a very particular mix of excitement and anxiety that accompanies the privilege of choosing a name for a child. When I was pregnant with each of our children, my husband and I spent hours trying out different names, testing how they felt on our lips, wondering if they captured something of the essence of this new life growing within. The origins and meanings mattered deeply – we pored over baby name books, reflecting on the history and associations each name carried. We considered nicknames, initials, how each one might sound across a playground or at a graduation ceremony. We wanted names we loved the sound of, that would suit both a toddler and a High Court judge, names that were distinctively theirs but also marked them as belonging to our family. When our youngest daughter was born, we used every one of the legal days allowed before registering her birth, wanting to be absolutely sure we’d chosen well.

In all this care and attention over naming, we glimpse something profound about being named by God. Through the prophet Isaiah, God speaks to a people who had lost everything, who wondered if they still mattered, if they had been forgotten. To them – to us – God declares: “I have called you by name; you are mine”. This isn’t mere labelling; it’s knowing, claiming, loving. And if we, as human parents, put such thought into naming our children, how much more significant is it when the Creator of all names us?

The language God uses through Isaiah is deeply personal and tender: “You are precious in my sight and honoured and I love you”. But it’s also universal in scope – God promises to gather children from every direction, from the ends of the earth. This combination of intimate love and universal embrace points us forward to Jesus’ baptism and the early church.

Let’s turn to what happens at the Jordan. The people are filled with expectation, wondering if John might be the Messiah. Throughout Advent, we heard John insist “I am not the light” – his role was to testify to the light. Now we see that testimony reach its climax. “I baptise with water”, he says, “but one more powerful than I is coming. This one will baptise you with the Holy Spirit and with fire”.

The location itself is significant – this is where Israel first entered the promised land, where Elijah was taken up to heaven, where God’s promises were repeatedly fulfilled. When John appears at the Jordan, baptising with water and promising one who will baptise with fire, he’s deliberately evoking these memories of God’s transforming presence.

Then Jesus steps into those waters. The heavens open – echoing Isaiah’s plea “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down”. The Spirit descends like a dove, recalling both the Spirit hovering over creation’s waters and the dove that returned to Noah with an olive leaf, signifying that God’s promise of renewal was at hand. And a voice from heaven declares: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased”. In this moment, we witness one of the clearest revelations of the Trinity in scripture – Father, Son and Holy Spirit all present and active.

John’s words about winnowing and fire point to something profound about baptism. Like a farmer separating wheat from chaff, this isn’t just about cleaning us up – it’s about revealing and transforming who we truly are. The same wind that blows away the chaff reveals the precious grain beneath; the same fire that consumes what’s worthless refines what’s valuable.

When Isaiah speaks of passing through waters and fire, he addresses a people who knew real danger and devastation. Today, as we witness wildfires and floods around the globe, we must handle these metaphors with care and grief. Yet perhaps it’s precisely in such times that Isaiah’s words take on their deepest meaning. "When you pass through the waters... when you walk through fire" – notice Isaiah doesn’t say ‘if’ but ‘when’. God’s promise isn’t to prevent all suffering, but to be with us through it.

What might seem like threatening elements – water that could overwhelm, fire that could consume – become, in God’s hands, the very means of revealing and refining who we truly are. This is what baptism does – it both reveals our true identity as God’s beloved children and transforms us into who we’re meant to be. This moment at the Jordan transforms our understanding of Isaiah’s prophecy. When God says “I have called you by name; you are mine” and promises “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you”, we now see this wasn’t just about Israel’s protection. It was pointing forward to this moment when the beloved Son would step into the waters, making it possible for all of us to be named as God’s children.

That’s exactly what we see happening in Acts. When the Samaritans – historically estranged from the Jews – are baptised in the name of Jesus and receive the Holy Spirit, the vision of a united people under God begins to be fulfilled. Baptism in Jesus’s name becomes the means by which people from every nation are brought into God’s family, transcending historical divisions. Notice that both water and the Spirit are essential in this process, reflecting the pattern set by Jesus’ own baptism. The early Church understood baptism not merely as a ritual washing away of sins, but as a profound participation in Christ’s death and resurrection and as the reception of the Spirit promised through him.

This two–fold pattern of water and Spirit shows us something crucial about Christian identity. Baptism incorporates us into a new way of being human – one that is fundamentally about relationship and communion rather than our culture’s focus on individual distinction. Think about how different this is from our modern understanding of identity, where names often serve to mark our uniqueness or personal brand. In baptism, we’re given a name that marks us as belonging to a family, as participating in Christ’s own relationship with God through the Spirit.

As we remember Christ’s baptism today, may we also remember our own–not as a distant ritual but as the ongoing reality of who we are: named, claimed and beloved by God. Like a parent choosing a name with care, God has named us in baptism, drawing us into Christ’s intimacy with the Father through the Spirit. This new name – Christian – isn’t just a label; it reshapes our very existence, calling us to live as a family rooted in communion and love.

Each time we hear those words from the Jordan –“You are my Son, the Beloved”– may we recognise our own story in Christ’s. May we know, deep in our bones, that we too are called “Beloved” and sent into the world to bear witness to that love.

So let us live in the confidence that we are God’s cherished children. And let our lives proclaim the truth of our baptism: that we belong to One who names us, loves us, and promises to be with us always.