Promises

“The Lord shall give strength to his people; the Lord shall give his people the blessing of peace.”

Those words from today’s psalm might have been written three thousand years ago, but they make a promise that’s just as necessary today as it was back then.

Strength and the blessing of peace.

That’s the psalmist. And then there’s Isaiah, who promises the coming of one who “will bring forth justice to the nations,” will “open the eyes that are blind,” and “bring out…from the prison those who sit in darkness.”

Strength and peace and justice, clear vision and renewed freedom. Ancient promises. But promises that in this moment feel elusive, almost beyond hoping for.

Just now, I wouldn’t mind hearing a voice from heaven, a voice of power, and a promise of justice.

It’s natural to cry out for help when times are hard. We want the heavens to open and the Spirit of God to descend like a dove. We want the voice of the Lord to thunder, to shake the wilderness, and to fix all the troubles of the world.

But when the heavens do open in today’s Gospel, when the Spirit descends and a voice from heaven speaks, it doesn’t mark an ending, a neat resolution of all that’s come before. It marks a beginning. In Jesus’s Baptism, we learn who he is. The voice from heaven declares: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Jesus comes out of the water and he begins his ministry—a ministry that will take him through the wilderness, along dusty roads in Galilee, to Jerusalem, and to the Cross.

Today, as we remember Jesus’s Baptism, we also remember our own.

Whether your Baptism is an event you remember clearly, or not at all—whether it was accompanied by a voice from heaven, or by squalling babies and bickering relatives—the Church teaches that in that moment, something real happened. You were joined to the Body of Christ. You were marked as Christ’s own forever. You became part of something larger than yourself. And in that moment, you took on something of Jesus’s own mission and ministry.

Our liturgy sums up the Baptismal life with the Baptismal Covenant. In that Covenant, we proclaim what we believe. And then we declare what we intend to do.

“Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of the bread, and in the prayers?”

“Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?”

“Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?”

“Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?”

“Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?”

To seek to follow Christ is to answer those questions with a promise and a prayer: “I will, with God’s help.”

Let’s go back to the Prophet Isaiah for a moment—because Isaiah’s promise doesn’t end with comfort, but with calling. If we are the Body of Christ, then perhaps Isaiah’s call is a call to us. Perhaps, when Isaiah speaks of a servant who will bring forth justice to the nations, who will open eyes that are blind and free those who sit in darkness—perhaps he’s not only pointing ahead to Jesus, but speaking to us, too. To the Body of Christ, still walking in this weary world. Perhaps we have inherited that servant’s call. Perhaps we’re sent to carry that light. Perhaps we’re entrusted with that work.

This doesn’t mean we each have to do everything. But it does mean that none of us is called to do nothing. Some are called to speak. Some to march. Some to write. Some to pray with fierce honesty and hope. Some are called to examine what they’ve tolerated for too long. Some are called to listen—really listen—to the pain of others.

And in a time when cruelty is too often rewarded, when truth feels slippery, and when our public life seems more interested in power than peace—it matters that we remember who we are. And whose we are. We are the Body of Christ. Joined in Baptism. Claimed in love.

To be joined to the Body of Christ isn’t just to share in Christ’s blessing. It is to share in his calling—and sometimes, his suffering. The baptized life is a cruciform life. Not because God delights in our pain. But because the shape of love in a broken world often looks like a cross. To stand with the vulnerable is to share their wounds. To strive for justice is to be resisted. To bring peace is to disturb the powers that profit from violence.

The road of faith doesn’t always lead to ease. Often it leads right into the storm. But God’s promise still holds. “The Lord shall give strength to his people; the Lord shall give his people the blessing of peace.” Not peace as avoidance. Not peace as mere comfort. But peace as the deep, defiant gift that comes when we live like we remember our Baptism. A peace that comes when we live like we belong to each other, and to God. Because we do.

The heavens opened. The Spirit descended. A voice spoke. And Jesus was sent.

Jesus was sent, and so are we. Remember your Baptism. Live like it matters. Trust that God will give you strength, and the blessing of peace. And go.

About the cover image: a portion of White Doves at the Blue Mosque by Peretz Partensky via Wikimedia Commons