I want you to imagine that you’re an elderly Jew. (Take a moment; that might require a bit of realignment.) You’re an elderly Jew, and it’s the last part of the first century. You live in Jerusalem (which is now in ruins). All of your life, you have studied the Scriptures. For you, of course, the Scriptures consist entirely of what we would refer to as the Old Testament or the Hebrew Bible.

You’re an elderly Jew; you live in Jerusalem, and you know your Bible. And you’ve been hearing rumors, rumors about a new movement, rumors about some Jews who claim that the Messiah — the anointed one of God, the long-awaited heir of David’s line— has already come, some fifty years before. You don’t know much about whom these folks are or what they claim, but just on the face of it, you are very, very doubtful.

Just about ten years ago, there was a bloody uprising that ended when the Romans destroyed Jerusalem. The Temple, the center of Jewish life, had been torn down. No, you are very, very skeptical. This did not seem to be the history that could possibly follow the arrival of the Messiah, the heir of King David, the great warrior. You know your Bible, and in it, God is depicted as all powerful, and God uses God’s power against humanity. He slays thousands; his vengeance is awesome; he wipes out civilizations. Your God is — the God of the Tsunami.

You’ve learned that a local Jew has written down the story of this supposed Messiah. How could anyone believe the Messiah has come when the power of Rome, the power of violence, and domination, and coercion, and empire, has destroyed Israel? What kind of power could this alleged Messiah possibly wield? It seems patently ridiculous.

But you’re curious, so you pick up the book (Matthew, we now call it). It begins with a genealogy, establishing this Jesus as a descendent of David. A good Jewish start. Then there’s a story of a miraculous birth and a visit by the Magi. Then you read about John the Baptist. "Now we’re cooking," you think. "This guy’s baptizing people and hollering about a God who will slash and burn and take no prisoners."

But you’re still looking for the central character, this "Jesus." So far, he’s only appeared as a baby. "When do I get to see who he is and what he’s about?" you think. "Ah, here it is." He shows up to be baptized. And John says, "I shouldn’t baptize you; you should baptize me!" but Jesus says, "No, this is proper for us to fulfill all righteousness."

Righteousness. This guy’s about fulfilling righteousness. OK. You know about righteousness. You know that it isn’t about rigidly following the law, and it isn’t about a rigid moralism. Righteousness, you know, is about being in right relationship with God. "Hum," you think, "so this guy’s about right relationship with God. OK."

Then you read that when he came up from the water, the heavens were opened. "Ok," you think, "so he’s about a new connection between God and humanity. At least these people, these ‘Christians’ as they’re called, haven’t set their goals too low."

Then you read that the Spirit of God descended on him like a dove. That’s a puzzler. You’ve never heard of the Spirit of God referred to as a dove before (the stories of Jesus’ baptism are the only place), but it reminds you of the very beginning of the Bible, when God’s spirit hovered over the waters. "Ok," you think, "So he’s somehow about new creation, God’s creativity."

"But let’s get to the power," you think. "I want to see how this guy could possibly be the Messiah arising out of our tradition of a kick-butt God when we just got our butts kicked."

Then you read what God says after the dove of new creation lands on Jesus’ head. And you look away from the book for a minute, at nothing in particular. And then you begin to chuckle. And then you begin to laugh. "Of course, of course," you think. "That’s how it is. Fascinating! Just fascinating!" Then you stop laughing and for a long while you again stare at nothing in particular. Finally you think, timidly, fearfully, "Could that be right? Could that be right?" It’s a frightening thought because you know your Bible, and if that is right, you know that everything, everything, has changed.

What you read was what God said about Jesus: "This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased." You recognize it as an echo, a paraphrase, a poetic resonance, not of just a line in the Bible, but of a theme. For, while it is true that in your Bible God is often depicted as the distant, ruthless God of the tsunami, woven into the text, peaking out behind the stories, slipping quietly into the lists of rules, is the God of compassion and mercy and presence and self-sacrifice. And when the dove lands on Jesus’ head and God says, "This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased," you recognize from Isaiah, "Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him." (Isa. 42:1 (part of the first reading for the day)). This is Isaiah’s "Suffering Servant." This is the place where the God, not of the tsunami, but the God of gentle caring and justice and sacrifice most fully shows himself. Isaiah says about him:

He will bring forth justice to the nations. He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice. He will not fail or be discouraged till he has established justice in the earth . . . . Thus says God, the LORD, who created the heavens and stretched them out, who spread forth the earth and what comes from it, who gives breath to the people upon it and spirit to those who walk in it: "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, to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness. I am the LORD, that is my name; my glory I give to no other, nor my praise to graven images. Behold, the former things have come to pass, and new things I now declare. (Isa. 42: 2-9a)

The powerful God, the God who "created the heavens and stretched them out, who spread forth the earth and what comes from it," will not use tsunami power, but will act with compassion for justice and righteousness, will be with the victims of tsunamis, will suffer with us.

"Could that be right?" you think. "Could God be like that? What would happen to a guy like that? Could that kind of power of compassion ever prevail?" And then you think, "If God is like that, what am I called to be like?"

Ok, I want you to stop being an old Jew in first century Palestine. It’s almost two thousand years later, and you’re sitting in St. John’s. It’s a Sunday morning. It is the Sunday morning on which we celebrate the Baptism of our Lord, one of the traditional baptismal days.

And so, in a moment, we are going to say the Baptismal Covenant. It will be your opportunity to answer for yourself some very old questions:

Could that be right?

Could God be like that?

What would happen to a guy like that?

Could that kind of power of compassion ever prevail?

And finally, and maybe most importantly: If God is like that, what am I called to be like?