In the passage we have just heard from Matthew, we are drawn into a profound moment—a voice from heaven. Was it a voice that thundered through the clouds, or one that spoke softly, like the dove that descended upon Jesus? Matthew does not tell us. Perhaps that is because what matters most is not how the voice sounded—even if we are curious about it—but what it said to the world: a word of affirmation, revealing Jesus as God’s beloved Son. Through him, the world will see God and come to know God. That affirmation carries a deep implication: when Jesus comes, God comes.
The affirmation is given by a voice from heaven. Speaking of voices, these past weeks have been filled with many voices responding to events in Venezuela. From the streets we have heard a mixture of praise, condemnation, and cries for peace. World leaders have issued appeals for fair processes, while others have voiced grave concern. Even as time passes, these voices continue to echo, and we hope that calls for peace, justice, and restraint may yet lead to some good.
But as Christians, we are reminded that our response is not only to listen to the many voices below, or to add our own. We are also called to pray—to bring these concerns before the One whose voice does not compete with others, but speaks from heaven with power and authority over all.
Returning now to the scene of Jesus’ baptism: we are told that Jesus alone sees the dove descending, while the voice—addressed not directly to Jesus as “You are my beloved Son,” but about him, “This is my beloved Son”—was likely heard by those around him. What may slip past us in this quiet, unassuming scene—much less attention-grabbing than the images we saw a moment ago—is the power that stands behind that voice.
This is something the lectionary readings do not want us to miss. And so they lead us to Psalm 29. Each year, when the Church commemorates the Baptism of the Lord, Psalm 29 is included in the lectionary—across Years A, B, and C—to remind us that behind the gentle scene at the Jordan stands the mighty voice of God.
And in that psalm, the psalmist proclaims:
“The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars…
The voice of the Lord flashes forth flames of fire.
The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness…
The voice of the Lord makes the deer give birth and strips the forests bare…” (Ps 29:5-9)
In Matthew 3 and in Psalm 29, it is the same voice that speaks—heard in one place as a word of affirmation, and in another revealed through the awesome power of the storm. At Jesus’ baptism, the voice declares, “This is my beloved Son, the Christ.” In the storm, it declares, as it were, “This is my cosmos.”
We cannot fully understand Jesus if we fail to see him in this larger, cosmic context.[i] And the reason we can trust his authority and power is that it flows from the One who affirms him—the God of the storm, who is also the Creator, who spoke all things into being.
The creation story may be an ancient one, familiar to us, and perhaps no longer attention-grabbing. But the voice itself is neither old nor weakened. It is strong enough to affirm Jesus in his calling, to send him into his saving work, and to raise him from death so that salvation might become a reality.
That same voice also speaks in your baptism and in mine—not with the same words, and not to turn us into someone “Jesusy”, but to claim us. In baptism, the Father names us as his beloved children and calls us his own.
Having said this, it does not mean that those who have not yet been baptized are merely believers and not children of God. Rather, the Church speaks this way to mark baptism as a public welcome into the community of faith, and as a commitment by the Church to nurture the baptized in their growth. This is especially evident in infant baptism, where the child is received as a member of the covenant family, and all who witness are called to share in the responsibility of raising that child in the Christian faith.
Baptism marks the start of a journey—a journey of growing faith. One sign of that growth is a deepening trust in God. This lectionary reading from Psalm 29 not only calls us to recognize the powerful voice of the Lord, but also, like the psalmist, to seek that voice as our source of strength and help. In the storm, the psalmist witnesses God’s uncontrollable power—in the wind that bends the trees, the roaring thunder, and the flashes of lightning. And yet, at the end of the psalm, he prays that this very strength might be given to God’s people as blessing and peace.
So this morning, as we are still in the opening month of this new year, let us not stop at being reminded of God’s claims in Scripture. Let us also recognize that the same God who has the strength to strip a dense forest gives us strength to walk through every season of our lives—times of joy and clarity, and dense seasons when clarity is hard to find and every step feels slow. Let us draw near to God in all that occupies our lives, trusting in Him who desires to come to his beloved children in every season with blessing and with peace.
And even at that, let’s not stop there. As we reflect on Jesus’ baptism, let us pause to consider its purpose—and ask: what does it mean for us? Because, although not to be ‘Jesusy,’ we are called to be little Christs, following our Lord’s example in how we live and love.
Matthew tells us very little about why Jesus wanted to be baptized. All we have is his statement in verse 15 that, in doing so, he and John would “fulfill all righteousness”—a phrase that is not easy to understand. But as the saying goes, actions speak louder than words. What Jesus does in being baptized tells us a lot.
First, John calls the people to “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” His baptism, according to Matthew, is not about forgiveness of sin, but about preparing oneself for God’s kingship. By being baptized, Jesus demonstrates solidarity with John’s mission: he is joining in the work of preparing people for God’s rule.
Second, by receiving baptism, Jesus also stands with those who responded to John’s call—those seeking a new beginning with God. In being baptized, he identifies with their weaknesses, their hopes, and their desire to please God. In uniting himself with them, he prepares to become their representative before God.
And what, then, does it mean to “fulfill all righteousness”? For Jesus, it cannot be about cleansing or forgiveness of sin, for he committed none. To fulfill all righteousness is perhaps best understood as Jesus’ willing obedience to God’s plan, as revealed in the Scriptures. When we read it this way, the lectionary once again helps guide our understanding.
The Old Testament reading brings us to Isaiah 42, where we hear repeated references to God’s chosen servant called to establish justice—not only for Israel, but for the whole earth. Justice here can mean right and faithful judgment, exercised without bias. But it can also point to justice in a broader, social sense: the fair ordering of life and the responsible sharing of resources. In Singapore’s context, while we may not all see this in exactly the same way, initiatives such as CDC support or SG60 vouchers may help us picture what distributive justice can look like in practice.
For the chosen servant—fulfilled in Jesus—establishing justice means extending God’s saving grace to the whole earth. This work begins publicly at his baptism, where God sends the Spirit upon him in the form of a dove. A brief clarification is helpful here. The Spirit coming to rest on Jesus at his baptism does not mean that he lacked the Spirit before this moment. Matthew has already told us that Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit. Rather, the descent of the dove serves as a visible sign that Jesus is now equipped and commissioned for the work God had entrusted to him.
I believe we’ve covered a fair bit of ground this morning: three readings, all centered on one voice, all pointing to one story—the story of God at work.
Before we conclude, let me share three reflections—as ways to carry this whole message with us.
Firstly, for Jesus, baptism marks a starting point—the beginning of the ministry God entrusted to him.
Not all Christians today see baptism this way. In some churches, especially in places like the U.S., baptism can be treated a bit like graduation: baptism class—checked. The baptism service—checked. Baptism certificate—checked. And that’s it: graduated.
Such a practice may be less common in Singapore churches. Many of us come forward for baptism or confirmation because we want to take our faith more seriously. But another pattern may be more familiar: we are baptized, we serve actively for a time, and then—after some years—we quietly step back. No announcement, no ceremony—just a kind of self-declared, quiet graduation.
Often, there are good and understandable reasons for taking this path. Consider, for example, someone who has been serving in the worship ministry. A friend who studied music once observed that musical styles tend to change about once every five years. So imagine serving for more than ten years—going through at least two rounds of musical shifts—and finding it increasingly difficult to keep up with newer trends. At that point, it may ve quite right to say, “Perhaps it’s time to call it a day.”
Or take another example: the children in church have grown up, and it may be time to pass the baton, allowing younger members to step forward and serve.
Reasons like these are valid, and they deserve our support. But what we are supporting is a switch, not a stop. Because baptism is a starting point—it marks the beginning of a continuous journey of growth and service.
Through baptism, we become members of God’s family—active members. And in any church community, there is no shortage of places where hands and feet are needed: in formal ministries and informal acts of care, in small groups and personal settings. Beyond the church walls, there are even more places where Christians can serve and bear witness.
So the invitation is this: remain involved and continue to serve—within the church and beyond it. That is our first reflection.
Secondly, Isaiah 42 invites us to reflect on how God’s servant brings justice to the whole earth. What is striking is how this servant does it: quietly, faithfully, gently—without raising his voice, drawing attention to himself, or acting aggressively.
These qualities don’t always match our modern sense of effectiveness. Today, getting things done often involves impressing others or exerting control.
Take “impressing,” for example. I collect classical music recordings, and over the years I’ve noticed a shift. Compared to the 1980s, when I first started buying them, appearance now seems to matter much more—especially for soloists. Album covers increasingly feature good-looking faces and impressive styling. Let’s be honest: if you put a face like this on the cover, won’t sell lah.
And then there is control. Situations like those in Venezuela show how power and control can produce results efficiently and decisively.
Let’s be clear about this: there is nothing wrong with impressing or exercising control when appropriate. But Isaiah shows us a different path. God’s servant brings justice not through noise, force, or domination, but through quiet faithfulness. I believe this way of serving reflects the character of God at work. Consider the Trinity: the Holy Spirit is mentioned far less often than God the Father or Jesus, because the Spirit’s role is always to shine the spotlight on Jesus. And Jesus—does he claim glory for himself? No. He came to make the Father known and accomplish God’s will —to bring justice and goodness to the world. In all that the Trinity does, the focus is on the good of creation.
In Isaiah, God’s servant serves gently and quietly—not self-advertising, not aggressive. And because we are also called to be God’s servants, our call is the same: to serve in ways that build rather than threaten.
Now to the third and final reflection. When Jesus comes to John to be baptized, John is taken aback. As Matthew tells us, John tries to stop him, essentially saying: “Jesus, you are the greater one. Who am I to baptize you? It should be the other way around—you should be baptizing me with the Holy Spirit and fire.”
Yet Jesus chooses to serve God by going low—humbling himself before someone lesser. This stands in contrast to how we often think today, where status, rights, and personal preference tend to guide who we serve and how we serve.
I used to hear my peers talk about their favourite singers or actors. Today, my younger friends who love K-pop talk instead about their “bias” and “biases.” Curious about this shift in terminology, I asked Perplexity what it meant. The answer I got: “The word conveys deeper emotional investment than ‘favourite,’ implying loyalty amid competition among group members.” We like to be the ones who choose—and our society not only encourages this, it keeps inventing ways to make choosing even more effective—and enjoyable.
When it comes to who we serve, and where we serve, we often take a similar approach. We choose selectively. But Jesus shows us a different way. He goes to someone lesser than himself. Jesus doesn’t choose who or what to serve based on who looks impressive or important, but simply follows where obedience and love call him. And in Isaiah, we are told that justice is to be brought forth—not selectively, but broadly, and to the ends of the earth. We are blessed in order to bless, not blessed in order to bless selectively.
So when we think about serving, we do well to take after our Lord’s example: to serve in obedience—honouring God, and humbly submitting ourselves to others.
As we draw this time to a close, I hope our reflection on Jesus’ baptism has reminded us that, like him, we are marked by baptism and shaped for service.
