Sunday 11 January 2026 – The Baptism of the Lord

These three readings proclaim God's word; let us prepare to listen and receive the Eucharist.

You can listen to the audio by clicking the play button below:

Isaiah 42:1–4, 6–7

“A bruised reed he will not break…”

Isaiah 42 opens with a breath-taking declaration: “Behold my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights.” Before the servant does anything, before he speaks, heals, liberates, or teaches, God names him as beloved. The mission begins not with action, but with identity. It is God’s delight that becomes the servant’s foundation.

And from that foundation flows a calling: “I have put my Spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations.” But notice how the servant brings justice. Not with spectacle. Not with shouting. Not with domination. Isaiah paints a portrait of a servant whose strength is expressed through gentleness, whose authority is expressed through compassion, whose justice is expressed through healing rather than crushing.

Justice without violence

“He will not cry aloud or lift up his voice… a bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench.”

In the ancient world, a reed was a disposable thing. If it bent, you snapped it off and threw it away. A wick that barely flickered was useless; you extinguished it and replaced it.

But the servant does not discard the weak. He does not write off the wounded. He does not extinguish the exhausted. This is a justice that restores rather than replaces. A justice that lifts up rather than pushes aside. A justice that sees value where the world sees inconvenience.

Think of the teacher who notices the quiet child in the back of the classroom, the one who never raises a hand, the one whose confidence is a faintly burning wick. A single word of encouragement becomes oxygen. A spark becomes a flame. That is the servant’s justice.

Or think of the community worker who meets a young man caught in cycles of violence and poverty. Instead of labelling him as “broken,” she sees a bruised reed worth mending. She listens. She advocates. She walks with him. And slowly, the reed straightens. Isaiah insists this is what divine justice looks like.

Perseverance without harshness

“He will not grow faint or be discouraged till he has established justice in the earth.”

The servant’s gentleness is not weakness. His compassion is not passivity. His tenderness is not timidity. He is relentless in purpose, but never ruthless in method. There is a quiet strength here, a strength that refuses to give up on the world, even when the world gives up on itself. A strength that keeps going when the work is slow, when the wounds are deep, when the darkness feels thick.

This is the kind of perseverance that sustains people who labour for justice today: activists, caregivers, community leaders, and those who build systems that honour dignity and protect the vulnerable. The servant’s spirit is the spirit of those who keep showing up, even when the progress is measured in inches rather than miles.

Called, held, and sent

Then God speaks directly to the servant: “I have called you in righteousness; I will take you by the hand and keep you.”

The mission is not self-generated. The strength is not self-supplied. The courage is not self-manufactured. God takes the servant by the hand. This is the image of a parent guiding a child across a busy street: firm, steady, protective. The servant’s work is sustained not by his own resolve but by God’s companionship.

And then comes the breath-taking commission: “I will give you as a covenant for the people, a light for the nations.” Not give you a covenant. Not teach you a covenant. But give you as a covenant. The servant becomes the bridge, the promise, the living embodiment of God’s commitment to humanity. His very life becomes a sign of hope.

Liberation for those in darkness

Finally, Isaiah describes the servant’s mission in concrete terms:

• to open the eyes that are blind,

• to bring out prisoners from the dungeon,

• from the prison those who sit in darkness.

This is not metaphor alone. It is a vision of real liberation: spiritual, emotional, social, political. It is a vision of a world where those trapped in systems of oppression are set free, where those blinded by despair or injustice receive sight, where those forgotten in darkness are brought into the light.

Think of the person who has lived for years under the weight of shame, convinced they are unworthy of love. When someone finally sees them, truly sees them, their eyes begin to open.

Think of communities trapped in cycles of poverty or violence. When someone invests in them, listens to them, believes in them, the prison doors begin to loosen.

Isaiah’s servant is the one who steps into these places of darkness and says, “You are not forgotten. You are not beyond hope. You are not alone.”

Acts 10:34–38

“God shows no partiality…”

There are moments in Scripture when a single sentence marks a turning point in the entire story of God’s people. Acts 10 is one of those moments. Peter stands in the house of Cornelius: a Gentile, a Roman officer, someone Peter would once have avoided, and he says words that must have shocked even himself:

“Truly I understand that God shows no partiality.”

This is not a polite theological statement. It is a revelation that breaks open centuries of boundaries. It is the sound of a door unlocking, not just for Cornelius, but for the whole world.

God’s heart is wider than our categories

Peter had grown up with clear lines: who was “in,” who was “out,” who was clean, who was unclean. But standing before Cornelius, he realises that God has been dismantling those lines all along.

“In every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him.”

This is not a lowering of standards; it is an expansion of grace. God is not tribal. God is not territorial. God is not impressed by labels, passports, or pedigrees.

Think of a teacher who discovers that the student everyone dismissed, the one labelled “difficult,” “slow,” or “unmotivated” is brilliant once someone believes in them. The teacher’s eyes open, and suddenly the classroom looks different. The categories fall away.

Peter is having that moment. He realises that God’s love is not limited by human prejudice. And once he sees it, he cannot unsee it.

The Gospel is good news of peace

Peter continues: “Preaching good news of peace through Jesus Christ; he is Lord of all.” Peace is not the absence of conflict; it is the presence of wholeness. Peace is what happens when people who were divided discover they belong to the same God. Peace is what happens when fear gives way to trust, and suspicion gives way to compassion.

Jesus does not bring peace by force. He brings peace by presence, by entering the world’s wounds, not avoiding them.

There was once a story of a community worker in a neighbourhood torn by gang violence. Instead of choosing sides, she walked the streets at night, talking to young people from every group. She learned their names, their fears, their dreams. Over time, her presence softened tensions. People who would never speak to each other began to meet. Peace didn’t arrive in a single moment, but it grew, quietly, stubbornly, because someone refused to see enemies and instead saw children of God. That is the peace Jesus brings. That is the peace Peter proclaims.

Jesus anointed with the Spirit and power

Peter reminds his listeners of what they already know: “God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power.”

But notice how Jesus uses that power: “He went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed…” Not dominating. Not intimidating. Not building a platform. Not gathering influence. He simply went about doing good.

This is one of the most understated yet profound descriptions of Jesus’ ministry. It is the kind of line you could easily overlook, yet it captures the heart of God’s mission.

Doing good is not glamorous. It is not headline-grabbing. It is often unnoticed, uncelebrated, and unrecorded. But it is the shape of divine power.

Think of the neighbour who checks on the elderly man next door every morning. Think of the volunteer who quietly stocks the food bank shelves. Think of the nurse who sits with a patient long after her shift ends because no one else is there. These are not small acts. They are echoes of Christ’s own ministry.

Healing the oppressed

Peter says Jesus healed “all who were oppressed by the devil.” Oppression takes many forms: spiritual, emotional, social, economic. Jesus confronts all of them.

He heals the sick. He restores the outcast. He frees the possessed. He lifts the shamed. He dignifies the forgotten. Wherever darkness has settled, Jesus brings light. Wherever people are trapped, Jesus brings freedom.

There was once a man who had spent years in addiction. Everyone had given up on him: family, friends, even himself. But one day, a stranger at a recovery meeting sat beside him and said, “You’re not alone. I’ll walk with you.” That simple companionship became the turning point. He later said, “It was like someone opened a window in a room I thought I’d die in.”

That is what Jesus does. He opens windows in rooms we thought were prisons.

Matthew 3:13–17

“Let it be so now…”

The baptism of Jesus is one of the most quietly astonishing moments in Scripture. It begins not with a miracle, not with a sermon, not with a crowd, but with a request that confuses even John the Baptist.

Jesus comes to the Jordan “to be baptised by him.” John is stunned.

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

John’s reaction makes perfect sense. Baptism was for repentance, for sinners seeking a new beginning. Jesus has no sin to repent of. He has no past to wash away. He has no guilt to surrender. And yet he steps into the water.

Jesus stands with us before he saves us

Jesus’ baptism is not about his need; it is about ours. He enters the water to stand where we stand. He joins the line of sinners not because he belongs there, but because we do. Before he carries our sins to the cross, he carries our humanity into the Jordan.

This is the first great revelation of the passage: God does not save us from a distance. He steps into our story.

Think of a teacher who notices a child struggling with reading. Instead of correcting from afar, she sits beside him, opens the book, and reads with him: slowly, patiently, word by word. She enters his struggle so he can find his way through it.

Jesus does the same. He steps into the water so that no human experience: fear, shame, confusion, longing is foreign to him.

“Let it be so now”: the humility of God

John tries to stop him, but Jesus replies: “Let it be so now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfil all righteousness.” Righteousness here does not mean moral perfection; Jesus already has that. It means faithfulness to God’s saving plan. And that plan begins with humility.

Jesus does not begin his ministry with power but with surrender. Not with a throne but with water. Not with a crown but with obedience. This is the upside-down logic of the Kingdom.

There’s a story of a CEO who once spent a week working anonymously on the factory floor of his own company. He wanted to understand the pressures, frustrations, and hopes of the workers whose labour sustained the business. When he later made decisions, he did so not from a boardroom bubble but from lived solidarity.

Jesus’ humility is even deeper. He does not merely observe humanity; he enters it fully.

The heavens open when we step into God’s will

Matthew tells us: “When Jesus was baptised… the heavens were opened.” The heavens do not open before Jesus obeys, but as he obeys. Revelation follows surrender. Clarity follows trust. Many people long for God to speak, to guide, to reveal. But often the heavens open when we take the step we already know we must take.

A friend once stated about a moment in her life when she felt stuck, unsure of her vocation, unsure of her next step. She prayed for signs, for clarity, for certainty. Nothing came. Then one day she volunteered at a local shelter simply because she felt nudged to do something good. In that simple act of obedience, something shifted. She discovered gifts she didn’t know she had, and a path opened that eventually became her life’s work.

Sometimes the heavens open only after we step into the water.

The Spirit descends and rests

Matthew continues: “He saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and coming to rest on him.” The Spirit does not swoop in like a hawk or blaze like fire here. The Spirit comes gently, like a dove, resting, not rushing.

This is the Spirit of peace, of tenderness, of quiet strength. And notice: the Spirit rests on Jesus. Not momentarily. Not conditionally. But with abiding presence. This is the same Spirit given to us in baptism: steady, gentle, faithful.

The Father’s voice: identity before mission

Finally, the voice from heaven: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”

Before Jesus performs a miracle, preaches a sermon, calls a disciple, or heals a single person, the Father declares his delight. Identity comes before activity. Belovedness comes before mission.

Grace comes before work.

This is the heart of baptism: You are loved before you do anything.

There was once a parent who told their child every morning, “I love you, and there is nothing you can do today to change that.” The child grew up with a deep, unshakeable sense of worth, not because of achievements, but because of love freely given.

God speaks that same truth over us. Before we succeed or fail, before we rise or fall, before we prove anything; we are beloved.

Conclusion

The servant of Isaiah 42 shows us that God’s justice is not a storm that destroys but a dawn that heals. It is not a hammer but a hand. It is not a shout but a whisper that restores.

May we, too, become people in whom God delights; people who carry light into darkness, who lift the weary, who refuse to break the bruised, and who persevere in love until justice takes root in the earth.

Acts 10 is not just a story about Peter and Cornelius. It is a story about God breaking open our assumptions. It is a story about a Gospel that refuses to be confined. It is a story about a Christ who heals, restores, and reconciles.

And it is an invitation. An invitation to see as God sees. To love as Christ loves. To walk into the world with the same Spirit that anointed Jesus. To go about doing good, one quiet act at a time, until peace takes root in places we never expected.

In the Jordan, Jesus begins his ministry not with power but with presence. Not with glory but with solidarity. Not with distance but with nearness. And from the heavens comes the voice that still echoes over every child of God:

“You are my beloved… and I am pleased with you.”

May we live from that truth. May we walk in that humility. And may we step into the waters of our own calling, trusting that the heavens will open as we do.