5th Sunday in Ordinary Time @ Ss. Francis and Clare Parish, Birch Run

5th Sunday in Ordinary Time

The Identity Crisis of the Believer

There is a profound difference between a flashlight that is turned off and one that is turned on. Externally, they look exactly the same. They have the same casing, the same bulb, the same weight in your hand, and the same batteries inside. But one is fulfilling its purpose, and the other is merely potential. One is useful; the other, in the dark, is indistinguishable from a paperweight.

We often think of our Christian faith as something we have—like a possession, a membership card to a club, or a set of beliefs we keep tucked away in our back pockets. We treat it as something private, something we can turn on or off depending on the company we are in or the situation we face. When the culture is hostile, we switch it off to blend in. When we are safe in church, we switch it on.

But in today’s Gospel, Jesus does not speak about what we have. He speaks about what we are. He does not say, "You have the salt of wisdom." He does not say, "You hold the light of truth." He says, "You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world."

This is a statement of ontology—a statement of being. It is an identity. Salt that doesn't taste like salt isn't just "lesser" salt; Jesus says it is "good for nothing." A light that is hidden under a bushel basket is a contradiction in terms—light is meant to be seen. If it isn't seen, it isn't functioning as light. If we are not flavoring the world with the Gospel, and if we are not illuminating the darkness with our deeds, we are facing a spiritual identity crisis. We are the flashlight turned off, wondering why the world remains so dark.

The Definition of Light: True Fasting

To understand what Jesus means by "light," we must look back to the First Reading from the Prophet Isaiah. It is easy to sentimentalize "light" as a warm, fuzzy feeling, a halo, or a vague sense of spiritual superiority. But Isaiah is jarringly practical. He gives us the definition of the light that breaks forth like the dawn.

Context is vital here. In the verses immediately preceding this reading, the people of Israel are complaining. They are fasting and praying, yet God isn't answering. They ask, "Why do we fast, and you do not see it?" Isaiah answers by telling them their religion is bifurcated; they act pious in the temple but exploit their workers and ignore the poor in the street.

Isaiah writes the prescription for true light: "Share your bread with the hungry, shelter the oppressed and the homeless; clothe the naked when you see them, and do not turn your back on your own" (Isaiah 58:7).

The prophet connects spiritual illumination directly to social action. He tells the people of Israel that their religious observances are empty—mere darkness—if they are disconnected from mercy. When we engage in these corporal works of mercy—when we step out of our comfort zones to care for the marginalized—that is when "light shall rise for you in the darkness, and the gloom shall become for you like midday" (Isaiah 58:10). The light Jesus speaks of in the Gospel is fueled by the oil of charity described in Isaiah. It is not an intellectual light; it is a behavioral one.

The Flavor of the Cross: Strength in Weakness

If Isaiah defines the light, Saint Paul in the Second Reading defines the salt. Paul is writing to the Corinthians, a community enamored with status, philosophy, and eloquence. They wanted a faith that was impressive, sophisticated, and culturally dominant. They wanted a "celebrity" Christianity.

Paul corrects them gently but firmly. He reminds them that he did not come with "sublimity of words or of wisdom" (1 Cor 2:1). He wasn't trying to out-debate the Greek philosophers or impress the wealthy merchants. He admits he came to them "in weakness and fear and much trembling" (1 Cor 2:3). This is startling! The great Apostle Paul, trembling?

But this is exactly where the "salt" is found. He says, "I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified" (1 Cor 2:2).

The distinctive flavor of the Christian life is the Cross. It is the willingness to embrace weakness, to serve without seeking recognition, and to rely on the "power of God" rather than human cleverness. Salt stings when applied to a wound, just as the truth of the Gospel can sting a world comfortable in its sin. But salt also preserves. In the ancient world, salt was the only way to stop meat from rotting. When we live out the paradox of the Cross—finding strength in weakness and life in self-sacrifice—we become the preserving agent in a decaying culture. We stop the rot of selfishness.

A City Set on a Mountain

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus combines these images. He is speaking these words immediately after the Beatitudes. He looks at his disciples—poor, uneducated fishermen, reviled tax collectors, and former zealots—and hands them the responsibility for the entire cosmos.

"A city set on a mountain cannot be hidden," He declares (Matthew 5:14).

This destroys the notion of "private religion." In the ancient Near East, cities on hills were built of white limestone. In the midday sun, they gleamed; at night, their oil lamps created a glow visible for miles across the desert. There was no way to hide such a city. It was a navigational point for everyone around.

Jesus warns us against the "bushel basket." A bushel was a measuring container for grain. Placing a lamp under it would not only hide the light but would likely extinguish the flame due to lack of oxygen—or worse, set the basket on fire. Hiding our faith usually leads to the same result: our faith suffocates for lack of air, or it causes destruction because we are living a lie.

Jesus says, "Just so, your light must shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father" (Matthew 5:16). Note the purpose: the light is not so that others may see us and say, "How holy they are!" It is so that they see the deeds and glorify God. We are not the source of the light; we are the window. If the glass is dirty, the light cannot pass through. If the glass is painted over by our ego, our fear, or our un-repented sin, the room stays dark, no matter how bright the sun is outside.

Removing the Bushel Baskets

This week, we are called to do an inventory of the "bushel baskets" in our lives. We all have them—the deliberate ways we dampen our light to avoid making waves.

• Is it Fear? The fear of being canceled, mocked, or looked down upon for your moral stances? Do you laugh at things that aren't funny or nod along to lies because you fear the social awkwardness of truth?
• Is it Compartmentalization? The routine of going to Mass on Sunday but operating in your business dealings with the exact same ruthlessness and lack of ethics as those who have no faith?
• Is it "Politeness"? The mistaken idea that faith is too personal to share, leading us to stay silent when a coworker is grieving and needs a word of hope, or when a friend is confused and needs a word of truth?

We must kick over these baskets. The world is too dark, and the night is too cold, for us to be undercover Christians.

The Practicality of Salt

To be salt, we must be distinctive. Salt that tastes like the food it seasons is useless; it must maintain its own sharp property to affect the food. If we have the same anxieties, the same greed, the same addiction to outrage, and the same unforgiving hearts as the rest of the world, we have lost our flavor. We are just "world," not "salt of the earth."

This week, choose one situation where you usually "blend in" and choose to stand out—not with arrogance, but with the specific flavor of Christ.

• If your workplace is toxic with gossip, be the salt that stops the decay by refusing to participate, effectively killing the conversation that tears others down.
• If your family is divided by old arguments, be the salt that heals by offering forgiveness first, even if you were the one wronged.
• If you see a need in your community—a neighbor who is elderly and lonely, a family struggling to buy groceries—remember Isaiah. Do not turn your back on your own. Share your bread.

Glorifying the Father

We are not called to be the sun; we are called to be the moon, reflecting the light of the Son. We are not the meal; we are the salt that makes the meal edible.

When we leave this church today, the dismissal is not an ending; it is a deployment. We enter mission territory. The candles on the altar will remain here, burning down in the sanctuary, but the light of Christ must walk out the door within you. Let us not hide it. Let us not dilute it. Let us live with such radical charity and such humble reliance on the Cross that when people look at our lives, they cannot help but look up and give glory to our Father who is in heaven.

4th Sunday in Ordinary Time @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Architecture of the Heart: Building on the Beatitudes

The Ladder of Success vs. The Mountain of Grace

If you scroll through the "Best Sellers" list on Amazon today, you will notice a distinct pattern. The titles scream promises of ascent and dominance: How to Win Friends and Influence People, The 48 Laws of Power, Think and Grow Rich.

We are a culture obsessed with the "upgrade." From childhood, we are conditioned to believe that life is a ladder, and the only direction that matters is up. We want the faster phone, the higher salary, and the accolades that prove we have "made it." In this worldview, to be "blessed" is to be powerful. To be "happy" is to be self-sufficient. To be "successful" is to stand at the top of the mountain, looking down on everyone else.

But in today’s Gospel, Jesus climbs a mountain, too. However, He creates a stark contrast to our cultural expectations. He sits down—the posture of a teacher—and looks at a crowd of people who, by every standard of the Roman Empire and the religious elite, were failing. They were the sick, the grieving, the poor, and the overlooked.

To this motley crew of "nobodies," Jesus drops a nuclear bomb on the world's value system. He looks at the weak and calls them "Blessed." He looks at the grieving and calls them "Happy."

If you have ever felt exhausted by the pressure to be perfect, or if you’ve wondered why God seems to prefer the small over the spectacular, then today’s readings are a homecoming for your soul. Today, the Church invites us to stop climbing the ladder of success and instead sit at the feet of the Master to learn the architecture of the Kingdom.

The Wisdom of the Weak

The readings for this Fourth Sunday of Ordinary Time (Year A) form a consistent, revolutionary argument: God’s GPS works differently than ours. The path to glory is not found in accumulation, but in emptiness.

Zephaniah and the "Anawim" We begin with the prophet Zephaniah. He speaks to a people facing imminent judgment. Their political structures are crumbling, and their armies are failing. The natural human reaction in crisis is to double down on strength—to build bigger walls and stockpile weapons.

But Zephaniah gives advice that sounds terrible to a military strategist: "Seek the LORD, all you humble of the earth... seek justice, seek humility." He prophesies that God will leave behind a "remnant." In Hebrew, this refers to the anawim—the "poor ones" of Yahweh. These people have no political clout or wealth to protect them. Their only defense is God.

Zephaniah tells us that a society built on arrogance will collapse, but the "humble and lowly" who take refuge in the Lord will stand firm. To the world, a humble remnant looks like the leftovers of a defeat. To God, they are the solid foundation upon which a holy nation is built.

The Foolishness of God (1 Corinthians) St. Paul takes this theme and makes it personal. He writes to the church in Corinth, a community obsessed with status and impressive wisdom. Paul holds up a mirror to them: "Consider your own calling... Not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful."

It sounds like an insult, but it is a revelation of grace. Paul explains that God intentionally chooses the "foolish" and "weak" to shame the wise and strong. He does it "so that no human being might boast before God."

When a billionaire builds a hospital, the world praises the billionaire. But when a broken person forgives their enemy, or a "weak" person endures suffering with joy, the world has no explanation for it other than God. Our weakness is the very stage upon which His power is best performed. As Paul concludes, "Whoever boasts, should boast in the Lord."

The Beatitudes: The Constitution of the Kingdom This brings us to the summit: The Gospel of Matthew and the Beatitudes. These are not just sentimental poetry; they are the "Constitution" of the Kingdom of Heaven.

• "Blessed are the poor in spirit": This is the foundation. It isn't just about money; it is the realization that "I am not God. I cannot save myself." The world says, "Fill yourself up." Jesus says, "Empty yourself out," because only empty hands can receive the Kingdom.

• "Blessed are the meek": In an age where the loudest voice wins, Jesus says the gentle—those who have power but choose not to weaponize it—will inherit the earth.

• "Blessed are they who mourn": The world tells us to drug our pain. Jesus says there is sacredness in facing the brokenness of the world and weeping over it, for that is where the Comforter is found.

Jesus is telling us that the Kingdom of Heaven belongs not to the "self-made man," but to the "God-made man."

Moving from Boasting to Blessing

It is easy to nod along in church, but how do we live this out on Monday? If the world boasts in strength and we are called to boast in the Lord, we must change our daily habits.

1. The Morning Offering of Poverty We usually start our days by reviewing our "To-Do" lists, armoring ourselves to conquer the day. Tomorrow, try a "Can't-Do" list. Before you get out of bed, practice being "poor in spirit." Pray: "Lord, I cannot be a patient parent today without You. I cannot be an honest worker today without You. I am poor, and I need Your wealth." This admission of poverty is the key that unlocks the treasury of Heaven. When we admit we are small, God has room to be big.

2. The Challenge of Meekness Identify one area this week where you usually try to "win"—perhaps a political argument or a dispute with a spouse. The world says: "Assert dominance." The Beatitude says: "Blessed are the meek." Challenge yourself to choose the "lowly" path. Bite your tongue. Listen when you want to interrupt. Choose to lose the argument to win the person. It is terrifying to drop our defenses, but that is where the "inheritance" of the earth is found.

3. Shift Your "Boasting" St. Paul reminds us that we love to boast to validate our existence. This week, try "grace-bragging." When someone compliments you, point it back to the Source. "I worked hard, but honestly, I was blessed to have the energy to do it." Or, when you feel "foolish," treat it as a reminder of your calling. Say, "This weakness reminds me I'm not God, and that's good news."

Conclusion The world screams at you to be "more"—more wealthy, more powerful. It tells you that if you are weak, you are finished. But Jesus whispers a different truth: in your "less," you find His "all."

Do not be afraid to be the remnant. Do not be afraid to be the "foolish" ones who trust in God rather than power. Today, let us stop seeking the world’s heavy crowns and start seeking the blessing that only comes to the humble—for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

3rd Sunday of Ordinary Time @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Light in the Shadows: Answering the Call to Shine

The Fear of the Dark

Have you ever been in a place of total darkness? I’m not talking about the cozy dimness of a bedroom at night, but that thick, heavy darkness—perhaps in a cave or during a massive power outage—where you can’t even see your own hand in front of your face. In that kind of dark, we lose our sense of direction, our confidence, and often our peace. We become paralyzed.

Our world today often feels like it is shrouded in a different kind of darkness: the darkness of division, the "gloom" of mental health struggles, and the "shadow" of uncertainty about the future. We find ourselves groping for something solid. Today, on Word of God Sunday, the Scriptures offer us a flashlight. But more than that, they offer us a Sun. Today’s readings remind us that we don't have to live in the dark anymore, because the Word of God is the light that has dawned upon us.

Light, Unity, and an Urgent Call

The readings for Year A weave together a powerful narrative of transition—from shadow to light, and from isolation to community.

1. The Dawn of Hope (Isaiah 8:23–9:3) The Prophet Isaiah speaks to a people who were literally living in the "shadow of death." The land of Zebulun and Naphtali—the northern regions of Israel—had been the first to be invaded and crushed by the Assyrian empire. They were a defeated, humiliated, and "darkened" people.

But Isaiah makes a startling prophecy: "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone." He promises that God will smash the "yoke" that burdens them. This isn't just a political promise; it is a spiritual one. It tells us that no matter how deep the shadow over our lives—grief, sin, or despair—God’s Word is the definitive end of that night.

2. A Call to Unity (1 Corinthians 1:10–13, 17) How does this light stay lit in the world? Through the Church. But St. Paul, writing to the Corinthians, identifies a major "short circuit" in the lamp: division. The community was arguing over whose "brand" of Christianity was better—some followed Paul, some Apollos, some Peter.

Paul’s message is blunt: "Is Christ divided?" When we allow ourselves to be fractured by petty arguments or tribalism, we dim the light of the Gospel. On this Word of God Sunday, Paul reminds us that the Word is not meant to be a weapon to use against each other, but the "mind of Christ" that unites us. The Word calls us to be "perfectly united in the same mind and in the same purpose."

3. The Proclamation and the Choice (Matthew 4:12–23) In the Gospel, we see Isaiah’s prophecy come to life. Jesus begins his ministry exactly where Isaiah said he would: in the "District of the Gentiles," the land of Zebulun and Naphtali. He begins with a clear, urgent command: "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."

Then, we witness the "Call of the First Disciples." As Jesus walks by the Sea of Galilee, he sees Peter and Andrew. He doesn't give them a theological lecture. He says, "Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men." What is most striking is the speed of their response. The text says, "At once they left their nets and followed him." Later, James and John leave not just their nets, but their father and their boat. Why such urgency? Because when the Light finally dawns, you don't stay in the shadows mending old nets. You follow the Light into a new world.

The Power of the Living Word

Pope Francis established this Sunday to remind us that the Bible is not a collection of "once upon a time" stories. It is a living encounter.

In Year A, the theme is clear: The Word of God is the Light that demands a response. When Jesus speaks, the "land of gloom" becomes a place of rejoicing. When Jesus calls, the "fishermen" become "apostles." This transformation happens because the Word of God is not just information; it is invitation.

The Scriptures are the primary way Jesus continues to walk along the "shoreline" of our lives—our workplaces, our kitchens, our social media feeds—and says, "Follow me." If we feel stuck in a cycle of "mending nets" (those habits and worries that keep us tied down), the Word of God is the power that cuts the rope and sets us free to walk toward the dawn.

Walking in the Light

As we celebrate this Word of God Sunday, we are called to move from being passive listeners to active followers. Here are three ways to do that this week:

• "Unpack" the Sunday Gospel: Most of us hear the Gospel on Sunday and forget it by the time we hit the parking lot. This week, I challenge you to take the Gospel of Matthew (Chapter 4) and read it again on Tuesday and Thursday. Ask yourself: "If Jesus walked into my workplace or my home today and said 'Follow me,' what is the one 'net' I would be most afraid to leave behind?" Identify that net and ask for the grace to let go of it.
• Heal a Division: St. Paul pleaded for unity. In your family, your workplace, or even within this parish, is there a shadow cast by an old grudge or a spirit of "us vs. them"? In honor of the Word that unites us, make the first move to reconcile. Send a text, make a call, or offer a prayer for someone you’ve been "divided" from. Let the Light of Christ shine through your forgiveness.
• Proclaim the Light: Jesus went about "proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom." You are called to do the same. This week, find a way to share a "Word" with someone else. It doesn't have to be a sermon. It can be sharing a favorite scripture verse on social media, or simply telling a friend who is struggling, "I was reading the Bible today, and I was reminded that God’s light is stronger than this darkness."

Conclusion

"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light." Brothers and sisters, that prophecy is fulfilled today in our hearing. We are no longer a people of gloom; we are a people of the Word. We are no longer defined by our "nets" or our past mistakes; we are defined by the One who calls us by name.

As we approach the Eucharist today—the Word made Flesh—let us ask for the courage of Peter, Andrew, James, and John. When we hear His voice today, may we not harden our hearts, but "at once" leave behind what is passing away to follow the Light that never fades.

The kingdom of heaven is at hand. The Light is here. Let us follow Him.

2nd Sunday of Ordinary Time @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Art of Pointing: Becoming a Signpost in a Selfie World

The Airport Arrival

Have you ever stood at the "Arrivals" gate of a busy international airport? It is a fascinating place to people-watch. There is a specific kind of electric energy there. You see hundreds of people streaming out of the sliding glass doors—tired travelers, families wrestling with strollers, and tourists looking confused. Amidst that chaotic river of humanity, there are the people waiting.

They are scanning the crowd. They are on their tiptoes. They are looking for one specific face. And the moment they see that face—the moment a father sees his son returning home, or a friend sees a loved one—the reaction is almost always the same.

They point.

They might wave their arms frantically or nudge the person standing next to them and shout, "There! That’s him! That’s the one!" In that moment of recognition, the person pointing ceases to care about themselves. They don’t care if they look silly. Their entire existence, in that split second, is defined by identifying the beloved and making sure others see him too. "I am here," they seem to say, "because he is there."

We live in a culture that has largely lost this art of pointing away from itself. We live in the age of the "selfie," where the camera is constantly turned inward. We curate our lives to say, "Behold me. Look at my achievements. Look at my opinion." The primary pronoun of our age is "I." But today, the Church invites us to flip the camera. We are invited to stand in the dusty sandals of John the Baptist and recover the holy art of pointing away from ourselves. We are invited to learn how to say, with our very lives, "Behold Him."

The Witness of the Baptist

In today’s Gospel, we encounter John the Baptist at the peak of his influence. It is important to remember how famous John was at this moment. Crowds trekked into the wilderness just to hear his voice. He had disciples and social capital. In our modern world, this is the moment where a consultant would tell John to "leverage his brand."

But notice what happens the moment Jesus walks into his peripheral vision. John does not try to share the stage. He immediately becomes a signpost. He points a finger and declares, "Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world."

There is a profound humility in this text. Twice in this passage, John admits, "I did not know him." Despite being relatives, John admits he did not truly grasp the depth of Jesus’ identity until he saw the Spirit descend like a dove. John had to learn to see with spiritual eyes. He had to wait for God’s revelation.

This theme of selfless identity threads through all our readings. In the first reading, Isaiah speaks of a Servant formed from the womb, not for his own glory, but to be a "light to the nations." The servant’s identity is entirely wrapped up in being a beacon for others. Similarly, in the second reading, St. Paul reminds the Corinthians that they are "called to be holy"—not for their own sake, but in union with all those everywhere who call upon the name of the Lord.

The scriptural message is clear: Our holiness and our identity are never private possessions. We are saved personally, but we are not saved privately. We are saved to be witnesses. John the Baptist understands that a lamp is useless if it draws attention to the lampstand rather than the light. When he says, "Behold the Lamb," he is essentially saying, "My work is done. Follow Him."

We have now entered "Ordinary Time." The Christmas decorations are down, and we wear green—the color of growth. John the Baptist reminds us that our "ordinary" task is to spot Jesus in the crowd of our busy lives and point Him out to a world that is searching for hope.

The Living Index Finger

How do we do this in 2026? We do it by becoming a "living index finger," pointing to Christ through the distinct quality of our lives. Here are three ways to practice the "Art of Pointing" this week.

1. Point through Radical Humility

The next time you receive a compliment or achieve a success, try to deflect the glory. This doesn't mean putting yourself down; it means acknowledging the Source. John said, "A man is coming after me who ranks ahead of me." When you are praised at work or in your family, can you graciously accept it while acknowledging that your talents are a gift? When we act with humility in a world of arrogance, we become a signpost that points to the Humble King.

2. Point through the "Lamb" Identity

John calls Jesus the "Lamb"—the one who takes away sin. We point to the Lamb when we imitate His mercy. The world operates on the logic of the wolf: hit back harder, hold grudges, and seek revenge. We point to Jesus when we choose to forgive the unforgivable. When you refuse to gossip or when you swallow your pride to reconcile a broken relationship, you are showing the world a different way to live. You are taking away sin rather than recycling it.

3. Point by Seeing the Invisible

John said, "I saw the Spirit come down." He was looking for God where others just saw a crowd. This week, make a conscious effort to see Jesus in the "invisible" people—the grocery clerk, the lonely neighbor, the person you usually ignore. If you treat them with the reverence due to a Child of God, you are witnessing. You are telling them, "I see the image of God in you."

The Challenge 

This week, catch yourself when you start to turn the camera inward. When you feel the urge to say, "Look at me," stop and look for where God is working in someone else. Let our prayer be the words of our Psalm: "Here am I, Lord; I come to do your will."

May we go out into this ordinary week and, through our kindness and our mercy, show the world the extraordinary love of the Lamb of God.

Baptism of the Lord @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Voice Over the Waters: Finding Identity in the Mud

The Human Search for Validation

There is a profound moment in every great mentorship, parenting relationship, or apprenticeship that signifies a permanent shift. It is that moment when the teacher looks at the student, or the father looks at the child, and says, "You are ready. I am proud of you." We spend a massive portion of our lives seeking this validation. We wait for a boss to notice our overtime, for a parent to finally offer a "well done," or for the world to validate our existence through likes, status, or success. We crave the stamp of approval that tells us we matter and that we belong.

Today, on the banks of the Jordan River, we witness the ultimate moment of validation. But it happens in a way that weaves together every thread of Scripture into a single, stunning tapestry of love. The King of Kings does not receive His coronation in a palace or a temple. He receives it standing waist-deep in a muddy river, surrounded by crowds of broken people confessing their sins. He finds His glory not by rising above us, but by stepping down into the water beside us.

The Humility of the Son: Matthew 3

In the Gospel from St. Matthew, we see a collision of two different understandings of holiness. John the Baptist, the fiery prophet of the desert, is the one who has been preparing the way. He knows exactly who Jesus is. When he sees his cousin approaching the water, John is baffled. He tries to stop Him, saying, "I need to be baptized by you, and yet you are coming to me?"

John’s logic is flawless from a human perspective. Baptism, as John preached it, was a sign of repentance—a ritual for sinners washing away the grime of their past. Jesus is the sinless one; He has no grime to wash. In John’s mind, the greater should never bow to the lesser. The clean should not muddy themselves with the unclean. But Jesus replies with words that change the course of salvation history: "Allow it now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness."

In Matthew’s Gospel, "righteousness" isn't just about following rules; it’s about doing God’s will perfectly. Jesus is saying that God’s will is for Him to stand in total solidarity with us. By stepping into those waters, Jesus is not confessing His own sin; He is physically taking on ours. He is stepping into the "line" of humanity. He is saying, "I am not ashamed to stand where you stand."

The Majesty of the Voice: Psalm 29

To understand the weight of what happens next, we have to look at our Responsorial Psalm, Psalm 29. This is one of the oldest hymns in the Bible, a song of awe and sheer power. It describes the "Voice of the Lord" as something that thunders over the vast waters—a voice so mighty it breaks the cedars of Lebanon and shakes the wilderness of Kadesh. For centuries, the people of Israel sang this Psalm to acknowledge that God is the King of the storm, the one who is enthroned above the flood.

So, when the heavens "tear open" in the Gospel, the people standing on the banks might have expected that terrifying thunder. They might have expected a warrior King to descend and strike down the Roman occupiers. But look at how the prophecy of Isaiah in our first reading completely transforms that expectation.

The Gentleness of the Servant: Isaiah 42

Isaiah tells us that when God’s Chosen Servant comes, He will not be a shouting warlord. "Not crying out, not shouting, not making his voice heard in the street." Instead of a storm that breaks the cedars, He is a gentle presence who "a bruised reed he shall not break, and a smoldering wick he shall not quench."

The "Voice over the waters" from the Psalm does speak in the Gospel, but it doesn't speak in anger. It speaks in intimate, fatherly love: "This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased." The power of the storm is channeled into a declaration of identity. Notice the timing: This declaration of love comes before Jesus has performed a single miracle. He hasn’t healed a leper, walked on water, or raised the dead. He has simply stood in the river with His people. The Father’s love is not a reward for performance; it is a declaration of essence.

The Universal Reach of Grace: Acts 10

This revelation completely changes the perspective of the early Church, as we see in the second reading from the Acts of the Apostles. Peter, a man who grew up believing that God’s favor was a narrow gate reserved for a specific few, stands in the house of Cornelius—a Gentile, a Roman centurion—and realizes the radical truth: "In truth, I see that God shows no partiality."

Peter realizes that because Jesus stood in the water with everyone, the "peace" God promised is available to everyone who fears Him and acts uprightly. The Baptism of the Lord broke the dam of exclusivity, allowing God's grace to flow from the Jordan to "every nation." As Peter notes, Jesus was "anointed with the Holy Spirit and power," and He used that power not to dominate, but to "go about doing good and healing all those oppressed."

Call to Action: Living the Baptismal Identity

As we officially conclude the Christmas season and look toward the stretch of Ordinary Time, the Baptism of the Lord serves as our own commission. What does this mean for us in 2026?

1. Claim Your Pre-Performance Identity First, you must recognize that your identity is already settled. If you have been baptized, the same words spoken over Jesus were spoken over you. You are a beloved child of the Father. Most of us spend our weeks trying to become someone—trying to prove we are smart enough, wealthy enough, or "good" enough. But the Jordan reminds us that God’s pleasure in us precedes our work for Him. This week, when you wake up, before you check your emails or your bank account, say it out loud: "I am God’s beloved." Let that truth be the "mighty voice" that silences the storms of your own self-doubt.

2. Seek Out the Bruised Reeds Second, we are called to imitate the "Gentle Servant" of Isaiah. Our world in 2026 is often harsh; we are quick to "cancel" or break those who are already bruised. Isaiah tells us that Jesus doesn't snap the bruised reed. Look around your office, your home, or your neighborhood this week. Who is the "bruised reed"? Is it the coworker who just went through a divorce? Is it the teenager who feels like they don't fit in? Is it the neighbor whose "wick" is smoldering with loneliness? The Christian call is to stand in the mud with them.

3. Show No Partiality Finally, challenge your own partiality. In Acts, Peter had to let go of his prejudices to see that God was working in the house of a Roman. Who have you decided is "outside" of God’s reach? Jesus entered the water for the entire human race. This week, reach out to someone who is different from you—politically, socially, or religiously—and offer a gesture of peace.

The heavens are still open. The Spirit is still descending. The Voice is still speaking. Let us go forth not as people trying to earn God’s love, but as people who are so filled with the Father’s "well-pleased" love that we cannot help but pour it out on a thirsty world.