You are my beloved… with you I am well pleased.
Did you hear those words this weekend at Mass? We celebrated the Baptism of the Lord, after all. We listened to Luke’s telling of how Jesus went to John to be baptized, how upon rising out of the water those words blasted out of heaven.
You are my beloved.
Every year, the Baptism of the Lord feels significant to me. Sure, it’s the official end of the Christmas season. It’s a hinge moment in our liturgical journey. But more than that, it feels like a spiritual birthday. The text — the story — is important.
Here’s why: Those of us steeped in the Ignatian tradition, those of us familiar with the practice of imaginative prayer, know that it’s not only Jesus who hears those words. It’s not only Jesus who is plunged into the depths of the Jordan River. It’s not only Jesus who emerges dripping and cold, a voice echoing in his ears.
It’s not only Jesus who is God’s beloved. We — you, me, that guy you work with, the lady who cut you off in the parking lot, that annoying kid across the street — are all God’s beloved. In our prayer, we join Jesus at the river; we hear God’s voice.
We know God speaks directly to us.
Our belovedness is intrinsic to who we are and yet so easily forgotten, shrugged off or ignored. That’s why the Baptism of the Lord, the readings that accompany it and our practice of imaginative prayer are so important. We place ourselves in the scene and hear once more God declare — without reservation or disclaimers — that we are indeed God’s own beloved.
We do this every year. And that’s an important insight. Because while God never changes, always delighting in us, in naming us beloved, we do. We change.
Time has passed since last we visited this story, this text. Perhaps a whole year. And in that time, our own stories have continued to unfold. There has been good; there has been less than good. We’ve done things we’re proud of and perhaps some things that make us squirm.
And so, when you join Jesus at the Jordan River with an ear out for a holy voice, do so not as some caricature of yourself, some version of you that stands outside space and time, some static, perfect you. Do it as the you who has experienced the last year, the last six months, the last however many days since you previously visited this piece of Scripture.
Do it as the you who has muddled through the nitty-gritty details of your actual life. The one who is carrying both heavy burdens and hidden hopes. And take comfort in knowing that God’s voice remains the same: You are [always] my beloved. With you I [remain] well pleased.