The Beloved in the Water

The Beloved Who Steps Into the Water

The End of the Silence

Let me invite you to imagine a moment that feels small, even ordinary, but is quietly rearranging the world. Think of it like a "glitch in the Matrix" or a sudden shift in the atmospheric pressure—the kind of feeling you get when you’ve been scrolling TikTok for forty minutes and suddenly realize your foot has gone to sleep and the world feels slightly surreal.

A man walking down a dusty road. A river that has been flowing for generations, oblivious to the history being made on its banks. A line of people—ordinary, messy, exhausted people—who have finally decided they are tired of pretending everything is fine. This is how the public life of Jesus begins.

To understand the weight of this moment, we have to understand the silence that preceded it. For four hundred years, Israel had lived without a prophet. Now, 400 years is a long time. It’s long enough for silence to become the status quo. It’s long enough for a culture to learn how to believe without actually expecting anything to happen. They still went through the motions. They still prayed the ancient prayers. They still read the scrolls. They still observed the festivals with that classic British-level stoicism—the spiritual equivalent of saying "not too bad" when your life is actually a dumpster fire.

But underneath the surface, hope had become cautious. Faith had become "careful."

No one had stood up and said, with any real authority, “This is what God is doing now.” Religion had become a legacy project rather than a living encounter. People had learned to manage their expectations, to keep their heads down, and to settle for a version of faith that didn't demand too much because it didn't promise too much. It was a "keep calm and carry on" spirituality that was functional but lacked fire.

Then, John appeared.

John did not come to offer platitudes. He didn't come to "reassure" people that they were doing a great job or that their "vibe" was immaculate. He came to tell the truth. “Repent,” he said. “Turn around.” His message was a jarring wake-up call to the human heart. He was pointing out that something was fundamentally broken—not just "out there" in the Roman occupation or the corrupt political systems, but "in here," in the internal architecture of our lives.

And then he added the kicker: God is close enough now that your response actually matters.

People flocked to the Jordan because they recognised themselves in those blunt, uncompromising words. They stepped into the river because they were sick of the "curated" life. They were tired of managing appearances and keeping up the religious "front." They wanted a clean break. They wanted to be ready for whatever God was about to do next. The river became a place of radical honesty—a place where the "filtered" version of life was washed away by the current.

The Deliberate Arrival

Matthew is incredibly careful in how he frames this entry. He uses specific language for Jesus’ arrival that echoes the arrival of John the Baptist and the Magi earlier in the story. Jesus “comes.” In the original text, this isn't the word for someone just wandering by or happening upon a scene because they took a wrong turn at Galilee. This is a word of intentionality.

Jesus comes from Galilee to the Jordan with one singular, clear intention: to be baptised by John. This is the first public act of his ministry. It is his "launch," his manifesto, and his mission statement all rolled into one. Everything else—every miracle, every sermon, every confrontation with power—will grow out of what happens here in the mud of the Jordan. And the way Jesus chooses to begin tells us everything we need to know about the kind of Messiah he is.

John the Baptist, however, immediately senses that something is "off." His baptism is not a neutral religious ceremony; it is a baptism of repentance. It is designed for people who have something to confess, people who are admitting they’ve lost their way. So when Jesus, the one John has been calling "greater than I," steps forward into the queue, John tries to shut it down.

“I need to be baptised by you,” John says, “and you come to me?”

This isn't just false humility or "imposter syndrome" on John’s part. John understands the theological logic of his own ministry. He knows his work is provisional; he’s the opening act, the one clearing the road for the real King. In John’s mind, the King shouldn't be standing in the line for the "sinners' bath." The King should be the one holding the towel, or better yet, the one judging the line. Why would the one he has been announcing submit to a ritual meant for the broken? It would be like the CEO of the company turning up to the intern's mandatory "how to use the photocopier" induction. It just doesn't scan.

Jesus answers with a quiet sentence that carries the weight of the entire cosmos:

“Let it be so now. It is fitting for us to fulfil all righteousness.”

That word “now” is doing a staggering amount of work. John had been preaching as if God’s final, cataclysmic act was about to happen in the next five minutes. He talked of fire, judgment, and the axe at the root of the trees. He expected the Kingdom to arrive in a display of overwhelming power. Jesus doesn't deny that a reckoning is coming, but he says there is something else that must happen first. There is a story still unfolding, a narrative of grace that requires a different kind of beginning.

“Righteousness” here doesn't mean private moral perfection or "being a good person." In the Hebrew tradition, righteousness (tsedaqah) is about God’s world being put right. It means the restoration of right relationship between God, humanity, and the earth. John had been calling people back into that relationship with a "turn around" (repentance). Jesus now steps into that same movement, not because he needs to "turn around," but because he is committing himself to carrying humanity the rest of the way home.

The God in the Queue

And he does so by standing with those who are confessing their sins. That is the shock of this moment. If we miss the scandal of this, we miss the Gospel entirely.

The Son of God does not begin his work by standing above broken people, shouting instructions from a safe distance. He does not start by issuing a white paper on social reform or a 10-step plan for spiritual enlightenment. He begins by standing among them. He joins the queue. And if there’s one thing we British people understand, it’s the sanctity of the queue. But this wasn't a queue for a new iPhone or a brunch spot in Shoreditch; it was a queue of people admitting they were a mess. Jesus gets his feet wet in the same water where everyone else has just washed off their failures.

We are used to leaders who stay behind "velvet ropes." The more successful or powerful someone becomes, the further they usually move from the "mess" of ordinary life. We expect our heroes to be insulated, protected, and distinct from the crowd. We see it in our politics, our corporate structures, and even our celebrity culture—power usually buys you distance.

But Jesus moves in the exact opposite direction. He chooses proximity. He chooses to be exactly where people are most honest about their need. Matthew wants us to see that the "Servant" Isaiah spoke of centuries earlier is finally here. Isaiah described a servant whom God would delight in—someone who wouldn't crush the weak or snuff out the flickering hope of the struggling. A Messiah who arrives not with "shock and awe," but with humility and closeness.

This tells us something profound about the heart of God. It tells us that God is not allergic to our mess. He isn't waiting for us to "level up" before he engages with us. He starts in the water.

When Jesus comes up out of the river, Matthew tells us that heaven opens. This isn't just a bit of poetic exaggeration to make the story sound more "epic." In biblical language, this is the terminology for revelation. It means that for a fleeting second, the curtain is pulled back. The barrier between the "seen" and the "unseen," between heaven and earth, is torn open.

Jesus sees the Spirit of God descending like a dove and coming upon him. Isaiah had promised that God would place his Spirit on his Servant. Now, it’s happening in real-time. Jesus is being "anointed"—not with oil in a palace, but with the Spirit in a river. He is being empowered for the work ahead, showing us that he is not acting as a lone ranger. The very life of God is now resting on him.

Then comes the voice from the clouds:

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

In Matthew’s account, the voice speaks about Jesus to the onlookers. It’s an acclamation. It’s God the Father announcing to the heavenly court and to anyone with ears to hear: “This is the one. Look at him.” These words draw together two massive themes from the Old Testament: the Kingly authority of Psalm 2 and the suffering servanthood of Isaiah 42. King and servant. Authority and humility. God is saying, “This is the one I have chosen. This is the one I delight in.”

And here is the crucial bit: God’s delight rests on Jesus at this moment. He is standing there, dripping wet, looking probably quite bedraggled, and having done nothing "productive" yet. He hasn't healed anyone. He hasn't fed the five thousand. He hasn't even done a TED Talk. He has simply chosen to stand in solidarity with his people. His "approval rating" from heaven is 100%, based entirely on who he is and his choice to be faithful, not on his "output."

The Identity Audit

To live in the light of Jesus' baptism, we have to recognize the "performances" we are currently running. As Millennials, we are perhaps the most "curated" generation in history. We have been raised to manage our brand, our career path, and our emotional output. Below is an audit to help you identify where the "performance" ends and where "the water" begins.

The Achievement Inventory

The Performance: When you feel a sense of "well-pleased-ness," is it usually attached to a specific result? (e.g., a productive day, smashing a fitness goal, or finally getting that 'Inbox Zero' which lasts for about four seconds).

The Jordan Truth: Jesus was "well-pleased" while standing dripping wet before doing a single day's work.

Audit Question: If you were stripped of your job title, your current fitness level, and your social status today, would you still believe you are "beloved"? What is the first thing your "ego" would try to use to prove you still matter?

The "I’m Fine" Assessment

The Performance: How many times in the last 48 hours have you said "I'm fine" or "Yeah, good thanks" when the truth was actually "I am incredibly overwhelmed and I think I might have accidentally agreed to three things I don't want to do"?

The Jordan Truth: The Jordan was a place for people who were tired of managing appearances.

Audit Question: Who is the one person in your life who actually knows how heavy the things you are carrying are? If that number is zero, what is the specific fear preventing you from stepping into "the water" with someone?

The Proximity Probe

The Performance: Do you find yourself creating "velvet ropes" in your life? (e.g., avoiding the "difficult"friend, staying in circles that only reflect your success, or ghosting people whose lives feel a bit too 'high-maintenance').

The Jordan Truth: Jesus chose proximity. He joined the queue with the people everyone else was judging.

Audit Question: Think of someone in your circle who is currently "messy." Is your first instinct to fix them, judge them, or be with them? How would your week change if you simply chose proximity instead of distance?

Breaking the Performance Culture

This shift matters because we live in a culture obsessed with the "earned" life. We are the generation of constant "optimisation." We have been conditioned to believe that love and belonging are the prizes we get for winning. We assume we are "approved of" when we hit our KPIs, get the promotion, or have the perfect Instagram aesthetic. We feel "merely tolerated" when we struggle or when we fail to meet the standard.

Even in our faith, we often quietly believe that God loves us more on our "good days" than on our bad ones. We think his pleasure is a fluctuating currency based on our morning routines and our moral consistency.

The Jordan tells a completely different story.

God’s pleasure comes first. It rests on a Son who has chosen faithfulness, not "achievement" in the way the world defines it. And if we are "in" Jesus, that same reality applies to us. This changes how we live on a wet Tuesday in November. It means we do not have to "dress up" our souls. We don't have to clean ourselves up before we are allowed to come near.

Repentance isn't about humiliation; it's about trust. It’s having the courage to say, “This is my life as it really is,” because we actually believe that grace is waiting for us in the water. God is interested in the person, not the "performance." He isn't impressed by the curated version of us that we present to the world. He wants the real one—even the version of you that hasn't washed its hair in three days and is currently surviving on caffeine and sheer spite.

Proximity as a Way of Life

If this is who Jesus is, it changes how we treat ourselves and how we treat each other. It means we can be gentler with ourselves. We don't have to have our faith "neatly packaged" or our doubts fully resolved. We can come with the mess, the questions, and the regrets, knowing that Jesus has already stepped into that water. He isn't shocked by your struggle; he’s already there waiting for you.

It also means we are called to be gentler with one another. In a world that loves to sort, label, and judge people from a safe digital distance, following Jesus means getting close.

It means listening more than we speak. It means making room for people’s real stories, not just their "LinkedIn" highlights. It means noticing the people who are "quietly drowning" in our everyday lives—the colleague carrying a secret grief, the neighbour who hasn't had a real conversation in days, the friend who looks like they have it all together but feels invisible.

The Spirit that came upon Jesus didn't come to make him "impressive" to the world; the Spirit came to sustain him in faithfulness. And that same Spirit is at work in us, helping us choose truth over pretence and love over fear.

A Roadmap for the Wilderness

Matthew tells us that immediately after this baptism—immediately after the voice from heaven says "I am well pleased"—Jesus is led into the wilderness to be tested. He will be tempted to choose "easier" paths, paths of power and ego. But the memory of the Jordan remains. The Father’s delight doesn't disappear just because the environment gets harsh.

And it doesn't disappear for us either. We often assume that when life gets difficult, God must be disappointed with us. We interpret struggle as a sign of failure. But the Jordan shows us that God’s delight rests on those who are learning to trust, even when the path is hard.

So, what does this change this week?

In our Prayer: We can drop the "religious" mask. "God, I'm feeling incredibly anxious about this meeting, and I'm struggling to feel Your presence." That is a Jordan prayer.

In our Mistakes: We stop the "damage control." When we mess up, we don't try to spin it or launch a PR campaign to save our reputation. We bring it into the light, knowing that the One who stands in the water with us is the One who heals us.

In our Community: We resist the urge to "fix" everyone around us and instead just be with them. Presence is a more faithful imitation of Jesus than unsolicited advice.

Isaiah said the Servant would be a "light to the nations." That light doesn't come from a position of superiority. It comes from the radical choice to stay close to God and close to people. Jesus’ baptism is the first public sign of that choice. He steps into the water. He stands with the broken. He receives the Spirit. He is named the Beloved. And that is exactly where our own story begins, too. Not with being impressive. Not with being perfect. But with being honest enough to step into the water where Jesus already stands. The Beloved has gone before us.

Are we ready to follow him in?

A Prayer for the Water’s Edge

God of the river and the road,

We come to you today feeling the weight of the "performance."

We are tired of the hustle, the curation, and the quiet fear that we are only as good as our last success.

Thank you that you don’t wait for us to be impressive before you call us "Beloved."

Thank you that you don’t stand on the bank giving us instructions, but that you step into the muddy water to stand beside us.

Grant us the courage to be honest.

Help us to drop the masks we wear at work, in our families, and even in our own mirrors.

Give us the grace to admit our need, believing that your delight is already resting on us.

As we step into our own "wilderness" this week—

Into the pressures of our jobs, the complexity of our relationships, and the noise of our culture—

Let the memory of the Jordan go with us.

Remind us that we don’t have to earn what you have already freely given.

Teach us to be gentle with ourselves, because you are gentle with us.

Teach us to be present with others, because you are present with us.

In the name of the Son who steps into the water,

Amen.