Some years ago, I was able to journey to the Holy Land on a pilgrimage. As we visited places that so much of our faith is built on, one moment stayed with me. I was standing on the banks of the River Jordan, a place so full of meaning. The sun was high, the water slow, the reeds rustling on the riverside. And leading the pilgrimage, the prior Bishop of Lynn, vested and ready to renew our baptismal vows.

Standing in such a sacred space, I was, I’m afraid to say, not struck by the stillness or the holiness of the place, but by the queue. A long, winding line of pilgrims and tourists alike, waiting to step into the water. Some came in prayer, some in curiosity, and some, it seemed, for the experience. One by one they entered the river, some were sprinkled by the Bishop, some took themselves all the way under, some just watched before making their way out again, past a small kiosk where they could (for a substantial fee) collect a video recording of the moment!

It was, if I’m honest, both deeply moving and faintly absurd. Holy encounter, packaged and processed onto DVD. Grace, with a receipt. And yet, as I have reflected on it, I wonder if that scene is not so very far removed from the tensions we encounter in today’s passage from Mark’s Gospel.

Here is John the Baptist, not standing in a carefully curated pilgrimage site with nice footpaths and steps with handrails, but in the wild of the wilderness. He is calling people not to an experience, not a souvenir video recording, but to a life to be transformed. And the people come. They come confessing their sins, stepping into the Jordan not as consumers, but as those longing to be made new.

AND THEN CAME JESUS

Then, this extraordinary moment, when the one without sin steps into the water alongside sinners. The one who has absolutely no need of repentance submits to a baptism of repentance. In that moment, Christ does not stand apart from humanity but enters fully into it. And as he comes up out of the water, the heavens are torn open. The Spirit descends like a dove. And a voice speaks: ‘You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.’ This is not spectacle. This is revelation.
And it is here that this Gospel begins to speak not only to the Church, but to our public life, to the places where faith and society meet. Because baptism is not a private act. It is not simply a personal spiritual milestone, nor a moment to be recorded and replayed. Baptism is a public declaration of identity. It is a statement about who we are, and whose we are.

In Christ’s baptism, we see a model of leadership that stands in stark contrast to so much of what our world celebrates. There is no grasping for power, no self-promotion, no carefully managed image. Instead, we see humility, solidarity, obedience. Jesus steps into the water not to elevate himself, but to stand with others. And that has profound implications for how we think about leadership in our own day, whether in our professional walks, in our community life, or indeed in the life and leadership of the Church.

CLAIMED AND COMMISSIONED

That day on the banks of the Jordan, I saw many people step into the water. Some left with a video and a receipt. Some, I hope and pray, with something deeper. But the true gift of baptism is not something we can collect at a kiosk, no matter how much we are willing to pay.

To be baptised is to be marked, not just inwardly, but outwardly. To be claimed by God inwardly, yes, but also to be commissioned outwardly for the world, to be messengers of the Good News of Christ. In a society that often reduces identity to what we achieve, what we own, or how we are perceived, baptism offers a different hope. It tells us that our deepest identity is not earned, but given freely. Not constructed, but received by grace alone.

Baptism is a gift freely given, it is a life to be lived, it is a calling to be embraced. It is a voice to be heard, again and again: ‘You are my child, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’