Preached on Sunday, January 11, 2026, the Baptism of our Lord, at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, Little Rock.

John would have prevented Jesus…but then, he consented. (Matthew 3:14a, 15b)

Why would John have prevented Jesus? What’s that all about?

At first glance, John’s reaction makes perfect sense. John is out there at the Jordan doing what prophets do: calling people to repentance, plunging them into the waters as a sign of turning in a new direction. People come to John because they know something is wrong. They come because they need forgiveness. They come because they want a new beginning.

But Jesus does not fit that description.

We are baptized for the forgiveness of sins. We are baptized to be washed clean, to be changed. But Jesus does not need any of that. There is no sin to confess, no guilt to be scrubbed away, no repentance required. So when Jesus steps into the river and asks for Baptism, John quite rightly resists Him. John would have prevented him.

Every year on this Sunday, when we remember the Baptism of our Lord, the preacher gets up and tries to explain it all away. We reach for neat theological explanations, tidy formulas, and clean answers that let us move on comfortably. We try to tie a bow on the Baptism of our Lord so that it makes sense.

But Matthew’s Gospel doesn’t let us off the hook. John is right. This is strange. It is strange that Jesus would submit to a baptism meant for sinners. It is strange that the Holy One would step into muddy water alongside everyone else. And if we are honest, it is not just this moment that is strange. Everything about this Jesus is strange. His Baptism is only the beginning. 

It’s strange that He was born in a borrowed stable instead of a palace. It’s strange that the Son of God grew up a Boy as boys do. It’s strange that He wandered the Galilean countryside preaching good news to the poor and woe to the comfortable. It’s strange that He touched the unclean and ate with the wrong people. It’s strange that He refused power when it was offered and embraced weakness instead. It’s strange that He loved others, neighbor and enemy alike. It’s strange that He turned toward Jerusalem knowing exactly what awaited Him there. It’s strange that He accepted the cross without resistance, like a lamb led to the slaughter. It’s strange that He died, and stranger still that His body lay cold and still in a tomb. And it’s stranger than anything else that death did not get the last word, that He got up on the third day.

From beginning to end, the whole story is strange. And if we had our way, we might try to prevent it, too.

And why is that? Because Jesus does not fit neatly into our expectations. He disrupts our categories. He refuses to stay in the boxes we build for him. And when He gets too close—when He steps into the waters of our lives—we often find ourselves resisting. We may not say it out loud, but something in us says, “No. This isn’t how I imagined it. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t right.”

But then comes the quiet, astonishing turn in the story: “Then John consented.”

John does not suddenly understand everything. He does not get a full theological explanation. He does not resolve all his questions. But he does consent. He yields. He lets Jesus be Who Jesus insists on being.

There is something deeply important here for us. Our relationship with Christ involves consent, not because Christ is powerless without our agreement—that would render Christ powerless, an impossibility!—but because there’s something about Christ that isn’t natural to us. He is foreign to our instincts, unsettling to our assumptions, disruptive to our sense of control. To receive Him, something in us must change. In Christ, our “no” must become a “yes.”

If somewhere inside of you there is a “no” waiting to become a “yes”—if part of you wants to prevent Jesus from stepping too deeply into your life—you are in very good company. You stand with John the Baptist and with the rest of us. And that is why we keep coming back here, week after week, year after year. We come not because we have resolved all our doubts, but because this is the place where God patiently works on our resistance. This is the place where our clenched fists are slowly opened. This is the place where our “no” is met, again and again, with God’s merciful “yes.”

Here, we lay aside what we think we know. Here, we allow ourselves to be surprised by Christ yet again. Here, in Word and Sacrament, our resistance is not crushed but gently and lovingly unwoven. Here like John at the Jordan, we find ourselves consenting—not because everything suddenly makes sense, but because we have begun to trust the One standing in the water right in front of us, Who says to you and to me, “let it be so.” Amen.