My Morning Minister

Mark's Gospel opens with maximum velocity—no birth narrative, no genealogy, just "The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ" and then John shows up in the wilderness dressed like someone who's given up on social acceptance. The wilderness, of course, is where Israel met God after Egypt, where prophets went to hear clearly, where civilization's noise couldn't drown out the still, small voice. John positions himself outside the system—geographically, sartorially, dietarily—and somehow this makes him credible. People come from Jerusalem, from the Judean countryside, to confess their sins in a river, which is either collective madness or collective recognition that the religious establishment has failed to provide what souls actually need.

Then Jesus arrives and wrecks John's theological framework by asking to be baptized. John's baptism is explicitly for repentance, for the forgiveness of sins—and Jesus, sinless by all accounts, gets in line. John tries to stop him: "I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?" It's a reasonable objection. If Jesus is who John says he is, this ritual makes no sense. But Jesus insists—"it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness"—which is a cryptic non-answer that basically means: Get in the water, John, this is bigger than your categories.

What Jesus is doing is inaugurating a pattern that will define his entire ministry: solidarity with the human condition, starting from the bottom. He doesn't begin with a miracle or a sermon from a mount; he begins by identifying with humanity's need for cleansing, for new beginnings, for symbolic death and resurrection. The incarnation doesn't just mean God takes on flesh—it means God takes on the whole human predicament, including our religious rituals and our uncertain grasping toward grace.

Here's the moment that splits history: when Jesus comes up from the water, Mark says the heavens were "torn apart"—not gently opened, but torn, ripped, the same Greek word used later when the temple curtain tears at the crucifixion. The barrier between heaven and earth gets violently breached, and the Spirit descends, and the voice speaks: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

Stop here. Jesus hasn't done anything yet. No miracles, no teachings, no disciples, no healings. He's just gotten wet in a river. And God says: I'm pleased with you. The pleasure precedes the performance, the belovedness before the accomplishment. This is the scandal of grace in miniature: you don't earn what you already have. Identity comes first, then vocation. Being, then doing.

If the Gospel has one message, it's this: you are beloved before you are useful, before you are righteous, before you get your act together. The water, the torn sky, the descending dove—it's God saying that love is the premise, not the reward.