Tag: Faith

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🔎 Lens: The One You Don’t Recognize

John the Baptist has been preaching repentance, baptizing in the Jordan, preparing the way. He knows the Messiah is coming. He’s been waiting for him.

And then Jesus shows up—and John says something startling: “I did not know him.”

Not once, but twice in this passage. “I did not know him… I did not know him.”

John is Jesus’s cousin. They share family history. Elizabeth leapt in the womb when Mary arrived (Luke 1:41). These two have known of each other their whole lives.

But John confesses: proximity doesn’t equal recognition.

Pope Benedict XVI, reflecting on this passage, notes that John’s mission wasn’t just to announce the Messiah—it was to recognize him. “The Baptist had to learn to recognize Jesus… God had to reveal to him who Jesus was.”

The sign wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle: the Spirit descending like a dove and remaining. John had to be told what to look for. Without that revelation, he could have baptized Jesus and missed him entirely.

St. Augustine puts it this way: “John knew Christ, and yet he did not know him… He knew him according to the flesh, but did not yet know him as the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.”

The Catechism (CCC 608) identifies Jesus as “the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world”—the definitive sacrificial offering. But this isn’t obvious from looking at him. He doesn’t arrive with credentials. He doesn’t announce himself with power.

He looks like everyone else standing in the river.

Here’s the uncomfortable part: you can be standing right next to Christ and not recognize him.

Not because you’re not paying attention. But because recognition requires revelation—something given, not achieved. John needed God to show him what he was looking at.

We assume we’d recognize Jesus if he showed up. But would we? Or would we baptize him and move on to the next person in line?

Reflection Prompts

1. John confesses, “I did not know him.” Where in your life might Christ be present—in a person, a moment, an invitation—and you’re not recognizing him because he doesn’t look like you expected?
2. “Behold, the Lamb of God.” John’s job was to point, not to possess or control. Where are you trying to manage Christ instead of simply pointing others toward him?
3. The Spirit descended and remained. Not a flash, not a single moment—remained. What does it mean that Christ’s presence is steady, not sporadic? How does that challenge the way you look for God?
4. John needed revelation to recognize what was right in front of him. What are you asking God to help you see, not just know about?

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🔎 Lens: Before You Do Anything

Jesus didn’t need baptism. John knew it. “I need to be baptized by you, and yet you are coming to me?”

But Jesus insists: “Allow it now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.”

Pope Francis, in his 2020 homily on this feast, notes something critical: Jesus begins his public ministry not with a miracle, not with teaching, not with gathering disciples—but by joining sinners in the waters of repentance.

He doesn’t start from a position of superiority. He starts from solidarity.

The Father’s voice comes before Jesus does anything. “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.” Not will be pleased once Jesus performs, achieves, proves himself. Is pleased. Present tense. Prior to action.

St. Gregory Nazianzen reminds us that Christ’s baptism sanctifies the waters—he doesn’t receive cleansing; he gives it. But he still steps into the river. He still submits to the ritual meant for sinners.

The Catechism (CCC 536) says Christ’s baptism “prefigures our own baptism” and manifests “the mystery of the first regeneration: our Baptism.”

Here’s the uncomfortable truth tucked inside this feast: Your belovedness precedes your productivity.

The Father doesn’t say “This is my Son who will heal the sick, feed the multitudes, raise the dead, and die on a cross—therefore I’m pleased.” He says “This is my beloved Son” while Jesus is standing waist-deep in the Jordan, having done nothing yet.

We live in Herod’s court, in the scribes’ calculations, in the world’s ledger: Prove yourself first. Then you’ll be loved.

But the Kingdom works backward: Loved first. Then sent.

Reflection Prompts

1. Where in your life are you still trying to earn what you’ve already been given? What would change if you believed you were beloved before you did anything?
2. Jesus joined sinners in the river—not to distance himself, but to stand with them. Where are you avoiding solidarity because you’re afraid it’ll compromise your standing?
3. The Father speaks before Jesus begins his mission. What does it mean that your identity is established before your activity? How does that shift the way you approach this week?
4. John hesitated—”I need to be baptized by you.” Jesus said, “Allow it now.” Where is God asking you to “allow” something that feels backward or unnecessary?

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🔎 Lens: See, Set out, Workship

The Magi weren’t just following a star. They were following a question that required them to leave everything familiar behind.

Pope Francis, in his 2019 Epiphany homily, identifies three verbs that define their journey: see, set out, worship.

First, they saw. Not just with their eyes—they recognized significance in what they observed. The star wasn’t just astronomical data. It was an invitation written across the heavens.

But seeing wasn’t enough. They set out. This is where most of us falter. As Francis notes, “There are many who see but do not set out, as if the fact of being in possession of the truth were enough… comfortable in their own presumed religious knowledge.”

The scribes in Jerusalem saw too. They knew Micah 5:2 by heart. They told Herod exactly where the Messiah would be born. But they didn’t go. They stayed in the palace, close to power, close to certainty, close to what they already understood.

The Magi had no Scripture, no prophecy, no theological training. But they had something the scribes lacked: the willingness to risk the journey.

St. John Chrysostom observed that the Magi’s journey wasn’t just geographical—it was a complete disruption of their certainty. They left behind safety, credibility, the assumption that their existing knowledge was sufficient.

Finally, they worshipped. Not polite reverence. The Greek word—proskynēsan—means total, undignified submission. Faces in the dirt. Surrender.

And they brought gifts that cost them something. Not leftovers. Not surplus. Gold, frankincense, myrrh—what was most precious.

Pope Francis presses the uncomfortable truth: “To believe means… primarily a relationship, an encounter.” You can know the doctrine. You can attend Mass. You can quote the Catechism. And still miss the encounter.

We live in Herod’s palace more often than we’d like to admit. We see—we know the doctrine, the answers, where Christ should be—but we don’t set out. Familiarity masquerades as faithfulness. Proximity to truth doesn’t guarantee response to truth.

The Magi went home by another route. They couldn’t return the way they came.

Neither can you, if you actually fall on your face before Him.

Reflection Prompts

1. Where in your life are you close to the truth but not responding to the truth? Where have you stayed in Jerusalem when the star is pointing to Bethlehem?
2. The Magi brought gifts that cost them something. What would it look like to bring Christ something that actually requires sacrifice—not just what’s convenient or leftover?
3. The Magi didn’t just see the star—they set out toward it. What have you seen (recognized as true, important, an invitation from God) but haven’t actually moved toward?
4. Worship meant prostration—undignified, total surrender. Where in your life are you offering Christ polite reverence instead of actual submission?

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