Good morning, Our Saviour the Redeemer!  I’m so delighted to be here with you this morning.  It’s always lovely to come home.  Happy New Year, and a blessed feast of the baptism of our Lord to you as well.  

Now I want to tell you how much I appreciate your Rector.  Bahman is  faithful priest of this diocese and if he doesn’t mind, I’d describe him this way:  Bahman is the real deal – a fine and authentic person and priest.  He has been a tremendous support and I am grateful for both his ministry at for the diocese and here in your parish.  He is discerning, wise and kind and he loves God and he loves all of you.  And we are all blessed by his leadership.

And of course, every fine priest is supported by their equally fine lay leadership and I must thank your wardens: Bev and Jean for all that they do – well I know the hours and days and months of service that go into this ministry and I know that you must appreciate their offering of themselves for it as well. 

Thank you to Philip for his ministry of music.  I always thank the music director – I’m married to one!  But in all seriousness, we are grateful that you help us make a joyful noise unto the Lord.  

Thanks so much to Tricia for her work nurturing the next generation of Christians.  And thanks to my chaplain, Norm as well.  

But most of all, I give grateful thanks for all of you – for the ways in which you make the name of Jesus known here in Stoney Creek. Thank you for all that you do in Jesus’ name here.

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On this feast of the Baptism of the Lord, the Church invites us to stand once again on the banks of the Jordan River. Now I’ve never been to the Jordan – maybe one day I’ll be granted that grace, but in this story of John and Jesus, scripture tells us about the very place where Jesus is baptized in the Jordan: that it’s a place of dust and water, of waiting and longing, of old promises stirring and new beginnings about to break open. It is a threshold moment—one of those moments in the life of faith where heaven seems very close to earth, and where God’s voice is heard not in thunder or command, but in affirmation and love.

Now, for many of us, life does not often feel dramatic or momentous. Our days are filled with routines: commuting, school runs, work deadlines, caring for ageing parents, perhaps being an ageing parent (!) we prepare meals, we juggle calendars; we move through these mundane but important tasks day after day and faith can sometimes feel like just one more thing we fit in—important, yes, but easily overshadowed by the practical demands of life. And yet today’s readings insist that God meets us precisely in the ordinary; in water and words, in human vulnerability, and in quiet obedience.

Matthew tells us that Jesus comes from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be baptised. At first glance, this is maybe a bit confusing. John’s baptism is a baptism of repentance, and Jesus, as we know, is without sin. Even John recognises the tension: “I need to be baptised by you, and do you come to me?” But Jesus insists. He does not stand apart. He does not exempt himself. He steps into the same water as everyone else.

This is where the story begins to speak to us: now, as I say, I’ve never been to the Holy Land, but I’m told that the place on the Jordan River, where Jesus was baptized at Bethany Beyond the Jordan, as it flows into the Dead Sea, is about 1,400 ft below sea level, making the baptismal site itself the lowest geographic area on the planet.  Now let’s think about that for a minute because as far as symbols go, this one’s a beauty.

We have just celebrated the feast of the nativity of our Lord:  the Son of God, the third member of the Trinity, the three in one.  In symbolic terms, it doesn’t get higher than that.   And yet, almost the first thing Jesus does to inaugurate his public ministry is to find this place and ask to be baptized.

And there’s a very good reason for that:  you see, Jesus’ baptism is not about washing away sin; it is about solidarity. It was about choosing to stand fully with humanity—standing with its confusion, its brokenness, its longing for change. In that muddy river, in my minds’ eye, Jesus aligns himself with all who are yearning for God’s justice and mercy to be made real. He enters the water not to be made holy, but to make the water holy—to sanctify the ordinary stuff of human life.

And when he comes up out of the water, the heavens are opened. The Spirit descends like a dove. And a voice speaks: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”  But again, notice this with me.  He hears this voice:

Before Jesus has healed anyone.
Before he has preached a sermon.
Before he has challenged authorities or carried a cross.

Before all of that:  God names him beloved. Before.  

That matters deeply—not just for how we understand Jesus, but for how we understand ourselves.

Too often, we imagine that God’s love must be earned. That we are acceptable to God only once we have proved ourselves useful, faithful, successful, or morally upright. 

Our culture reinforces this constantly: we are valued for what we produce, how we perform, how well we measure up. Even in the Church, we can fall into the trap of thinking that our worth is tied to how much we volunteer, how often we attend, or how well we behave.

But the baptism of Jesus tells a different story.

God’s love comes first. Identity comes before activity. Belovedness comes before achievement.

It’s not that those things don’t matter – of course they do.  But we often put the cart before the horse as my Grandmother used to say.  Those things – good things – come as a response to God’s love.  We don’t earn God’s love, it just IS.  

Again, this is echoed beautifully in the words of Isaiah: “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights.” Notice again the order:  God delights in the servant before describing what the servant will do. 

And what is that calling? Not domination or control, but justice—gentle, patient, faithful justice. A justice that doesn’t crush the weak or silence the fragile. “A bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench.”

This is a vision of power shaped by compassion, of leadership rooted in tenderness. It is a portrait of God’s way in the world—and it is a portrait that Jesus embodies from the very beginning of his ministry.

When Jesus is baptised, he is not just affirmed; he is commissioned. The Spirit descends not simply to comfort him, but to send him. 

And that’s another thing for us to notice together:  that Baptism always holds these two together: belonging and becoming, grace and calling, love and responsibility.

That is true for us as well.

Most of us were baptised as infants, brought to the font before we could understand what was happening. Others came to baptism later, after a conscious journey of faith. But however, and whenever it happened, our baptisms speak the same truths: we are claimed by God, named as beloved, and sent into the world to participate in God’s work.

In Acts, Peter begins to understand just how wide and inclusive that work really is. “I truly understand that God shows no partiality,” he says, “but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him.” This is a turning point in the early Church—a moment when the boundaries of belonging are stretched beyond what felt safe or familiar.

God, it turns out, is always ahead of us.

And this perhaps the most important thing we need to notice together:  the Spirit who descends at Jesus’ baptism refuses to stay contained. That same Spirit moves through unexpected people, unfamiliar cultures, and surprising places. It challenges the Church whenever we are tempted to confuse our traditions with God’s intentions, or our comfort with faithfulness.  We really need to hear this folks.  

And I know that this can be both unsettling and hopeful. At times, we may feel small, stretched, uncertain about the future of the Church in a changing society. We may wonder whether what we offer still matters. But today’s readings remind us that the Church’s calling has never been about size or certainty, or about dominance. It has always been about faithfulness—about listening for God’s voice and following where the Spirit leads – bravely.

And that following begins with daily choices shaped by our baptismal identity.

To live as a baptised people is to remember who we are and whose we are. It is to resist the lie that our worth depends on our productivity or perfection. It is to hear, again and again, God’s voice speaking over us: “You are my beloved.”

From that place of security, we are freed to serve—not out of anxiety or obligation, but out of love. We are freed to seek justice without becoming harsh, to speak truth without losing compassion, to care for others without forgetting our own need for grace.

Look, Isaiah’s servant brings justice not by shouting in the streets, but by steadfast presence. That is good news for those of us who don’t feel called to the spotlight. God’s work is done just as much through quiet faithfulness as through public action—through teachers and carers, administrators and volunteers, parents and neighbours, people who show up day after day with patience and kindness and treat each other humanely.

And yet, baptism also invites us to courage.

Jesus’ baptism leads him directly into the wilderness—a place of testing and discernment. Being beloved does not spare him from struggle; it equips him to face it. The same is true for us. Our baptism does not remove difficulty from our lives, but it roots us in a deeper story—one in which God is present even in uncertainty and change.

As we renew our awareness of Jesus’ baptism today, we are invited to remember our own. To recall that moment—whether or not we can remember it consciously—when God claimed us, named us, and promised never to let us go.

In a world that often feels fractured and fearful, this is a radical truth. We are not defined by our failures or fears. We are not abandoned to figure everything out on our own. We belong to a God who enters the water with us, who speaks love over us, and who sends us out, again and again, to be bearers of light.

So may we leave Our Saviour the Redeemer – your beloved parish - today with renewed confidence—not in ourselves, but in the God who delights in us. May we listen for the Spirit’s gentle leading in our daily lives. And may we live as a baptised people: grounded in love, open to God’s surprising work, and committed to justice that heals rather than harms.

For the heavens are still opening.
The Spirit is still moving.
And God is still saying, to each and every one of us:

“You are my beloved. With you I am well pleased.”

+I speak to you in the name of God:  Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

+Susan