The Rev’d Ivica Gregurec

Baptism of Jesus. 18 January 2026.

Readings: Isaiah 42:1-9; Psalm 29; Acts 10:34-43; Matthew 3:13-17

Today the Church leads us to water.

Not the still, decorative water of a painting, but the living, moving water
of the Jordan – and also, to this font. On this feast we remember that
Jesus does not begin his public ministry with a sermon or a miracle, but
with an immersion.

Jesus comes to John, Matthew tells us, even though John resists. “I
need to be baptised by you.” There is something deeply revealing in that
phrase. Jesus does not grasp at holiness; he consents to it unfolding
through relationship, obedience, and vulnerability. He steps into the
same waters as everyone else.

This is the scandal and the beauty of Christian faith: God does not
remain untouched by the human condition. The incarnation is not only
about God taking flesh at Christmas; it is about God entering fully into
human life – into history, risk, ambiguity, and change. At the Jordan, God
gets wet.

Isaiah gives us language to understand what is happening. “Here is my
servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights.” God’s
chosen one is not a conqueror but a servant; not loud, but faithful; not
crushing the bruised reed, but protecting what is fragile. The Messiah is
revealed not by dominance, but by solidarity.

That matters for how we understand baptism – especially today.

Many of us who were baptised as children came to the font not knowing,
not choosing, not achieving. And that is precisely why baptism is grace.
In this sacrament, the Church proclaims that God’s love always comes
first. Before we can respond to God, God has already committed to us.
Psalm 29 tells us that the voice of the Lord is heard over the waters. In
Scripture, water is always a place of danger and possibility – creation
and chaos, death and birth held together. And it is there, not after the
waters are tamed, that God speaks. The voice that once called the world
into being now calls people into belonging.

At Jesus’ baptism, the heavens open, the Spirit descends like a dove,
and a voice says, “You are my Son, the Beloved.” This is not a private
mystical experience. It is a public declaration of identity. Before Jesus
heals or teaches or suffers, he is named Beloved.
And in baptism, that same naming is shared.

Today we are reminded that we are baptised into Christ’s life, death, and
resurrection. We are baptised into a story larger than ourselves, a
community wider than our family, a hope deeper than circumstances.
The water we use is ordinary, but the promise is not.

This is where our Anglican and incarnational instinct serves us well. We
believe God works through matter. Grace does not float above reality; it
meets us in physical things – water poured, oil traced, bread broken,
wine shared. The sacraments insist that the material world matters to
God. Bodies matter. People matter. The future matters.

The reading from Acts pushes this even further. Peter declares that God
shows no partiality – that the Spirit is not restricted by nation, status, or
expectation. Baptism is never a badge of privilege; it is an initiation into
God’s expansive mercy. To be baptised is to be drawn into a life that
resists exclusion and practices hospitality.

This, of course, challenge the way our world assigns value. We live in a
culture that often measures worth by productivity, success, or visibility.
Baptism quietly but firmly contradicts that logic. It tells us that being
beloved is not earned. At the moment of baptism, we are no more or
less precious than we ever are.

Baptism also calls us, the Church, to responsibility. This is not a
sentimental moment. When we baptise, we promise – implicitly and
explicitly – to help create a world where all can grow into the fullness of
life God desires. That includes how we speak about others, how we
respond to injustice, how we care for the vulnerable and the earth itself.
To pass through the waters is to be aligned with God’s purposes in the
world.

And finally, this feast reminds us who God is. The God revealed at the
Jordan is not distant or severe, but relational. A God who delights. A
God who sends the Spirit not to dominate but to empower. A God who
speaks belovedness into a fragile world.

As with baptism, in communion, Christ meets us not as an idea, but as a
gift. The one who stood in the Jordan now gives himself to us again –
bread for our hunger, wine for our thirst.

Today, heaven opens – not only over Jesus, but over all who dare to
step again into the waters of grace.
And the voice still speaks:
You are my beloved.
And that changes everything.
Amen.