The Jordan is a mighty river. We have heard about it in ancient stories and in great songs. The Jordan holds a central place in the geography of our imagination and our faith.
Not many of us have seen it, and, until just a few years ago, I hadn’t either. That trip to Israel with a group of Jewish leaders, Rabbi Schiftan, and fellow pastors was a transformative experience—the conversations, the encounters with Israelis and Palestinians, the food, and the very land itself—to stand on the Mount of Olives and take in the view of the old city and the temple mount, to walk on stone pavement from the first century, and to look across lake Kinneret, the Sea of Galilee. As to the Jordan, I was prepared for a little disappointment. I had heard it would be much less impressive than I imagined.
Folks who have stood on the banks of the Mississippi have looked at the Jordan and wondered what all the fuss was about, “So this is it, huh?” Of course that’s exactly what Naaman, the great commander of the army of the king of Aram said, when the prophet Elisha told him that to be healed he needed to go and wash in the Jordan seven times. “Are not the rivers of Damascus better than all the waters of Israel?” he declared angrily, and in those days the Jordan was still considerably larger than today. The people who measure this kind of thing tell us that the lower Jordan today only has about 5% of the flow it had back in the 50’s. Agriculture and other water usage are taking a heavy toll.
What Naaman couldn’t fully grasp was that river’s significance in the life and faith of Israel. For one, the Jordan is one of very few rivers in that dry region that actually flow year-round, turning the valley into a lush, fertile band in an otherwise rather dusty landscape. More importantly, the Jordan marks the border between Israel’s wilderness wanderings and the land of promise. It was in the plains of Moab, beyond the Jordan, in the wilderness, where Moses expounded one more time the covenant commandments before the people crossed the river to live as God’s people, according to God’s will, on God’s land. It was near Jericho, where the waters of the river parted before the ark of the covenant, and the people walked across. The Jordan is a mighty river in the imagination and faith of God’s people because crossing it means entering freedom and fulfillment. The Jordan marks the border between fleeing and resting, between wandering and settling, between wilderness and home.
Enslaved Africans and their descendants who fled the terror of the South didn’t have their geography mixed up when they clung to visions of the Ohio singing, Deep river, my home is over Jordan; deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground. Oh, don’t you want to go to that gospel feast, that promised land where all is peace? The river may be deep and wide, chilly and cold, but the Lord will make a way for God’s people to cross over into that promised land.
John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea and proclaimed, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near!” He reminded God’s people who they were and challenged them to reaffirm that they did indeed want to live as God’s people, according to God’s will and purpose, on God’s land. They came from Jerusalem and the surrounding region, and they headed down to the river to listen to John’s preaching and to be baptized by him, confessing their sins. One by one they stepped into the water. One by one they said what needed to be said. One by one he plunged them beneath the surface, into the silent depth of the old river. Their ancestors had crossed this river to enter the promised land and to live faithfully as God’s covenant people. Now they passed through these waters because they wanted to be worthy of being counted among God’s people, worthy to live in the coming kingdom of God. They prayed that the river would wash away their transgressions great and small, their shame, their fear—and that they would climb up the bank renewed and presentable.
“I baptize you with water for repentance,” the Baptist said, “but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” A mightier one would come, and he would bring the fire of judgment. Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan—and he came not to baptize, but to be baptized. He came like the rest of them had come, walking the same dusty roads and down the same rocky paths to the river’s edge, waiting in line in the heat of the day, and finally stepping into the water. John looked at Jesus, and he was convinced that the days of preparation and repentance were now over, and that the day of truth and fire had come. “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” he asked. It wouldn’t be the last surprise the Son of God presented.
And so Jesus got in the water with all who had come to the river for a bath of mercy and re-commitment, for a new beginning. We get into the river hoping that it will carry away all that weighs on us, our failures and our worries, our broken promises and our self-condemnation, all that keeps us from living lives that are faithful, real and whole. We get into the water, and Jesus gets in with us. He steps into the river and is baptized along with all who gather there, not because he needs to repent, but because he wants to be with us. This is what righteousness fulfilled looks like. Obedient to God’s will and purpose, Jesus is baptized in solidarity with us. He is Immanuel, God with us in our broken humanity. He gives himself to the murky water of our wrongs and regrets, trusting that the river of God’s grace will carry not only him but all of us with him. Stepping into the water with us, he gives himself to the path of humble servanthood, a path that would lead to the cross where the muddy tide of our sin would drown him. The brief scene at the river is like a sketch of his entire life and ministry. When Jesus rose from the water, newness erupted: the heavens were opened, the Spirit descended, and a voice from heaven declared, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”
When Jesus got in the water with us, something wonderful happened to that old river that marks the border between wilderness wandering and home. In his baptism, Jesus made our lot his own: he let himself be immersed in our alienation from God, our lives far away from the kingdom. And in our baptism, his beautiful, faithful life becomes ours in the forgiveness of our sins, in our reconciliation with God and with each other, and in our call to participate in his mission.
“Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights,” God spoke through the prophet Isaiah.
I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations. 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; he will faithfully bring forth justice. He will not grow faint or be crushed until he has established justice in the earth; and the coastlands wait for his teaching.[1]
John expected one more powerful than himself. What he didn’t expect was one who would faithfully bring forth justice by not breaking a bruised reed and not quenching a dimly burning wick—one who would show us the face of God through a life marked by humility, compassion, and astonishing faithfulness.
Some of you probably remember the day of your baptism, how cold the water was, and how you felt like a whole new person or not really all that different. Some of us, including myself, can’t recall that day or that moment because we were babies when we were baptized. Christians have fought long and hard over when and how to baptize people properly and it took us generations to realize that the church of God is big enough to hold a variety of traditions and practices.
No matter what particular form of baptism we undergo, in it we testify that God has claimed us as beloved sons and daughters. In our own bodies, we receive and proclaim the good news that our lives are made whole in the life and death of Christ and in the hope of our resurrection with him. Whether we were immersed in a river or had a little water poured over our head, when we were baptized we said our small yes to God’s river of redeeming grace in which the life of Jesus became our life, the story of Jesus our story, and the mission of Jesus our mission.
Tertullian was an early Christian theologian from Carthage in north Africa. Around the turn from the second to the third century, he wrote about baptism,
When we are going to enter the water, but a little before, in the presence of the congregation and under the hand of the president, we solemnly profess that we disown the devil, and his pomp, and his angels. Hereupon we are thrice immersed, making a somewhat ampler pledge than the Lord has appointed in the Gospel. Then when we are taken up (as new-born children), we taste first of all a mixture of milk and honey.
The nourishment the newly baptized were given was milk and honey—the sweet taste of the promised land, of freedom and fulfillment. Tertullian concluded that baptism paragraph telling his readers, “and from that day we refrain from the daily bath for a whole week.”[2]
Perhaps they did it to let the memory sink in, who knows, they clearly weren’t concerned about the fragrance of their witness. I wonder if somebody eventually suggested that it would be equally good to remember that we are baptized on the occasion of our daily bath—a daily reminder how in astonishing faithfulness Christ has made us his own.
[1] Isaiah 42:1-4
[2] Tertullian, De Corona Militis, ch. 3 http://www.tertullian.org/anf/anf03/anf03-10.htm#P1019_415012