Rev. Rob Jones
January 11, 2026

Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations. 2 He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; 3 a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice. 4 He will not grow faint or be crushed until he has established justice in the earth; and the coastlands wait for his teaching. 5Thus says God, the LORD, who created the heavens and stretched them out, who spread out the earth and what comes from it, who gives breath to the people upon it and spirit to those who walk in it: 6 I am the LORD, I have called you in righteousness, I have taken you by the hand and kept you; I have given you as a covenant to the people, a light to the nations, 7 to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness. 8 I am the LORD, that is my name; my glory I give to no other, nor my praise to idols. 9 See, the former things have come to pass, and new things I now declare; before they spring forth, I tell you of them.

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. 14John would have prevented him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” 15But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.” Then he consented. 16And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. 17And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

For decades, an old church had stood at the center of the town. The stone walls that held up the great bells and stained-glass windows were weathered, and the stained-glass windows dimmed by dust and time. Still, people came; they had grown used to the cracks in the walls and the old flickering lights. They said, “That’s just how it is. It’s an old building. It will always be this way.”

One day, a master architect visited the town. She stopped in the old church to have a look around and admire the architecture. As she walked slowly through the sanctuary, her eyes traced every crack, every faded color, every place where the stone had begun to crumble. She did not criticize the building; in fact, as she stood in the center aisle and looked up into the darkened rafters, she whispered, “This is beautiful. This is worth saving.”

Soon, she gathered the town and said, “I want to restore this cathedral—not to erase its history, but to fulfill it. I see what its original architects meant it to be: filled with light, strong enough to shelter generations yet to come. But I must warn you, the restoration must begin in a way that may surprise you.”

The people assumed she would start with the largest cracks in the walls or the broken steps out front. Instead, she went to a small, almost forgotten side door on the north side of the church. It was narrow and unimpressive, a door people never used. With the town watching, she carefully removed the door, rebuilt its frame, strengthened and sealed it, and then began to rehang it with great care. 

Some in the crowd were puzzled, even annoyed. “Why start there?” one man muttered. “We never even use that door.” “We need a new roof,” another woman said. “The bell tower is crumbling. And she’s playing with a side door?”

The architect heard their complaints but kept working. She straightened the frame, fixed the hinges, sealed the cracks, and finally swung the door open. For the first time in years, it moved smoothly—no creak, no resistance.

Then she invited the people to follow her.

When they stepped through that small north door, they gasped. It opened onto a narrow courtyard that faced the rising sun—something most of them had never noticed because the door had been jammed for so long. The early light poured in over the roofline, flooding through that doorway and spilling into the dark corners of the church.

Where there had been shadows, there was now gold light on stone. Dust that had floated unseen now sparkled in the beam. Colors in the old stained-glass windows, long dulled, suddenly came alive when the sunlight found them from this new angle.

An elderly woman who had worshiped there her whole life whispered, “I never knew it could look like this.”

The architect smiled and said, “If I began with the roof or the tower, you might think this was only about repair—about fixing what is broken. But restoration begins with light. When light finds its way in, everything else can be seen for what it truly is. This small door may seem unimportant, but it is how the light will lead us into everything else that must be renewed.”

Over the next months and years, the architect mended the cracks, strengthened the tower, and repaired the roof. But the people always remembered: the new life of their old cathedral began the day they watched the light pour in through a small, overlooked door.

If we think about it, on this Baptism of the Lord Sunday, the Jordan River was a kind of small side door.

When Jesus comes to John in the wilderness, it doesn’t look like the place where God would begin a world-changing restoration. It looks too ordinary, too humble—a muddy river, an eccentric prophet, a crowd of sinners. People might have expected God to start at the “bell tower” of power, in the marble courts of emperors or the polished halls of the Temple. Instead, God begins at the water.

Like that little north door of the cathedral, the baptism of Jesus looks small and almost unnecessary. John even protests: “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” This is backwards. This isn’t where we would start. But Jesus says, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”

And when he comes up from the water—when that simple, almost hidden doorway is opened—heaven itself breaks open. The Spirit descends like a dove, and a voice says, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Light pours in through the Jordan, and from that moment, everything else—Jesus’ teaching, his healing, his cross, and his resurrection—will be seen in that light.

Isaiah spoke of a servant on whom God’s Spirit rests, one who will not break a bruised reed or quench a dimly burning wick, but who will faithfully bring forth justice. He will be a covenant to the people, a light to the nations, opening blind eyes and setting prisoners free. That mission does not begin with a throne; it begins with a baptism. It begins with God opening a door and saying, “Look—this is my servant, this is my Son, this is how my new work in the world begins.”

You see, if God’s great restoration of the world can begin with a muddy river and a quiet baptism, then it can surely begin here—with us.

The same Spirit who hovered over the waters in creation, who descended like a dove on Jesus at the Jordan, has been poured out on you. In your baptism, God has already opened a small north door in your life. The question is: will you let the light keep coming in?

This week, each time you touch water—washing your hands, stepping into the shower, pouring a glass to drink—pause and whisper, “I am God’s beloved. I am called to be light.” Let that remembrance shape how you speak, how you listen, and how you move through the world.

Don’t wait for a grand stage or a perfect moment. Ask God each morning, “Where is the quiet doorway today—the overlooked person, the simple act of kindness, the hidden place where your light wants to enter?” Then be willing to walk through it, even if it seems insignificant. A visit, a phone call, an apology, an act of generosity—these are often the hinges on which God’s restoration swings.

Friends, the world may look at the Church and see only an old cathedral—cracked, dim, familiar in all the wrong ways. But God sees what we were meant to be: a people filled with light, strong enough in grace to shelter generations yet to come.