First Sunday after the Epiphany
The Baptism of our Lord
Year A
RCL
The Voice on the Waters
By +Brian Ernest Brown, CWC
There is a striking contrast in our readings today between two different kinds of power. It’s a contrast that challenges almost everything our world tells us about what it means to be strong, what it means to be successful, and what it means to have authority.
On one hand, we have Psalm 29. It’s a magnificent, cinematic display of raw, cosmic power. The Psalmist describes the voice of God as a thunderstorm rolling over the landscape. It crashes over the mighty waters, it shatters the massive cedar trees of Lebanon, it splits the air with flames of fire, and it literally shakes the wilderness. It’s the kind of power that demands attention because it shakes the very ground we stand on.
We understand that kind of power. It’s the power of the loudest voice in the room, the power of leverage, the power that forces its way through the world.
But then, we open the book of Isaiah, and we find a completely different kind of voice.
Isaiah introduces us to God’s servant, the chosen one in whom God delights. And how does this servant bring justice to the world? Isaiah says: “He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench.”
Think about that imagery. A bruised reed is incredibly fragile—one clumsy step or sharp gust of wind, and it snaps. A dimly burning wick is a flickering candle on its very last bit of oil, where even a heavy breath will blow it out.
If the power in Psalm 29 is a hurricane, the power of the Servant in Isaiah is a gentle, cupped hand protecting a flickering flame. It’s a power characterized not by force, but by a fierce, protective tenderness.
This brings us right to the banks of the Jordan River in our Gospel.
Jesus shows up to be baptized by John. And John is understandably deeply uncomfortable with this. He looks at Jesus and says, “Wait, I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” John knows who Jesus is. He expects the Psalm 29 version of God, the one who comes with a winnowing fork to clear the threshing floor, the one whose voice breaks the cedars. He expects the king to act like a king. But Jesus insists. He says, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”
In the ancient world, “righteousness” wasn’t just about moral perfection; it was about covenant faithfulness. It meant setting things right. And Jesus sets things right not by standing on a pedestal above us, but by stepping down into the muddy water of human reality with us. He joins the crowd of messy, broken, everyday people waiting in line at the riverbank. He identifies with the bruised reeds and the dimly burning wicks.
And the moment He steps out of that water, the two kinds of power meet. The heavens open, the Holy Spirit descends like a dove, and that cosmic voice from Psalm 29 thunders through the sky. But it doesn’t shout words of destruction or judgment. It says:
“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
In our reading from Acts, Peter has a massive lightbulb moment about this exact reality. He stands up in the house of Cornelius, a Roman centurion, an outsider, a Gentile, and says, “I truly understand that God shows no partiality.”
Peter realized that Jesus didn’t come just for the elite, the put-together, or a select few. The message of peace through Jesus Christ is for everyone. Jesus went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed, because God’s power isn’t about hoarding glory; it’s about breaking chains, opening blind eyes, and bringing people out of the dark.
So, what does this mean for us on a regular Tuesday, or a difficult Thursday, when we are just trying to navigate our lives?
First, it means something incredibly liberating about our own identity. When Jesus was baptized, the Father declared Him beloved before Jesus had performed a single miracle, preached a single sermon, or healed a single person. His belovedness wasn’t earned; it was His baseline identity. Through our own baptism, that is our baseline identity, too. Before you achieve anything today, before you fix your problems, before you get your act together, you are already the beloved child in whom God delights.
Second, it changes how we look at the “bruised reeds” in our own lives.
Maybe you feel like a bruised reed today. Maybe you feel like a dimly burning wick, exhausted, burnt out, running on the absolute last drop of your emotional or spiritual oil. If that’s you, look at how Jesus approaches you. He doesn’t come to snap you or blow you out. He doesn’t judge you for being fragile. He takes you by the hand, keeps you, and gently fans that spark back into a flame.
And finally, it challenges how we treat the bruised reeds around us. In our families, our workplaces, and our communities, it is so easy to react with the loud, shattering power of the world. But as followers of Jesus, we are called to carry His specific kind of strength, the strength that listens, the strength that protects the vulnerable, and the strength that brings justice through gentleness.
The same God who sits enthroned above the flood is the one who takes you by the hand in the quiet valleys. Let’s pray for the grace to trust that gentle hand today, and to be that same protective presence for a world that so desperately needs it.
Amen.