by James Martin
“Please tell me you didn’t just realize that,” said George. “You do know that the West Bank means the West Bank of the Jordan River, don’t you?”
“Oh please,” I said, feigning intelligence. My knowledge was definitely of the human sort.
We visited the baptismal site on the way back from Galilee, en route to Jerusalem. On a blisteringly hot day, after another colossal breakfast at the Mount of Beatitudes hostel, we bade farewell to Sister Télesfora and made an early start. After four days in Galilee, we had seen almost all of what we wanted to see.
IT WAS A SPUR-OF-THE-MOMENT decision to visit the place (or at least one claimant to the place) where Jesus was baptized. Before George and I left Jerusalem, Father Doan told us that the Israeli government had recently “demilitarized” a plot of land across the river from the “Bethany beyond the Jordan” site, which had previously been opened only a few times a year. This area on the Israeli West Bank, called Qasr el-Yahud, had been captured from Jordan in the 1967 war. Until a few months before our visit, the site, located in the middle of a heavily mined area unfit for tourists, was essentially off-limits.
As George and I zipped down Route 90 toward Jerusalem, I kept my eyes peeled. Suddenly a sign materialized: BAPTISMAL SITE.
“Let’s go!” I said.
“Do you really want to?” he asked. “The last time I was here, we visited the Jordan River and it was pretty gross.” He described seeing a small stream of a sickly hue trailing through the desert.
I persisted. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to renew our baptismal vows at the Jordan River?” George offered an unconvincing shrug without taking his eyes off the road. But ever the generous travel companion, as soon as we saw the turnoff for the site, he turned left.
It didn’t look like the way to a holy site. A dusty path led downhill into a dry, yellow, lunar landscape devoid of greenery. We bumped over the heavily rutted road and pulled into the former military zone, now staffed by the Israeli Nature and Parks Authority. After we emerged from the car into the stunning heat, I spied a brand-new amphitheater, with long benches, located on the river bank. The lowermost bleachers of the amphitheater were underwater, to make baptisms easier.
On the opposite bank, in Jordan, stood a modest wooden pavilion; stairs led down to the water. There a baby was being baptized. The child cried the way so many about-to-be-baptized babies do, with an unmistakable combination of surprise and fury. Farther along the other bank were several lovely stone churches. The Jordanian side was far more developed than the Israeli side.
Then I saw the Jordan River. It was neon green, more like Mountain Dew than water.
“I told you it was gross,” said George. The river had reached perilously low levels thanks to irrigation projects upstream and was now reputed to be highly polluted.2
Gingerly, I climbed down the steps a few inches from the water. “Come on,” I said. “It’s the Jordan River! Let’s renew our baptismal promises.” I playfully splashed him.
“Ugh!” he said.
I had accidentally splashed him when his mouth was open! He spat out the green water. I apologized, but felt terrible. George retreated to the car to rinse out his mouth with bottled water. After blessing myself with the Jordan water and saying a hasty prayer, I returned to the car.
Fishing into my suitcase, I retrieved an unopened travel-size bottle of Listerine. “Here, rinse your mouth out with this. It should disinfect whatever you swallowed.” He used the whole bottle.
Now I was angry. “You didn’t have to use the whole thing!”
We glowered at one another, got into the car, which suddenly seemed smaller, and slammed the doors.
HOW HAD WE ARRIVED here? I don’t mean, how had we found the Jordan River? Instead, how had we reached the point where two close friends could have an argument, trade barbs, and grow sullen over a minor accident at a holy site?
Our anger didn’t last long. Soon George was joking about it, putting his own trenchant spin on Jesus’s words in the Gospel. “John baptized you with water,” he said in the car, “but I will baptize you with . . . cholera!”
Still, the question lingered: How had we arrived here? The answer is one that I’ve grown more comfortable talking about, the older I get: sin. Both George and I are still liable to sin.
When I was a boy, Sister Margaret Jude taught my Sunday school class about baptism. All of us are born carrying original sin, even babies, and baptism was necessary to remove our sin. Even then, I couldn’t fathom how babies could be sinful or, more to the point, be condemned for that sin if they died before baptism. But the church has softened its position on that latter point: in 2007, Pope Benedict XVI approved a Vatican report that supported “the strong grounds for hope that God will save infants when we have not been able to do for them what we would have wished to do, namely, to baptize them into the faith and life of the Church.” That’s what I’ve always believed too.
Still, original sin has always made sense to me, thanks to years of meditating on my own flawed humanity. No matter how often I pray, how many retreats I make, or how hard I try, I still sin. It is something that I bump up against daily. This is not to say that I’m a serial killer, a notorious sinner, or even a mean person. Rather, I’m aware of my sinfulness because, like everyone else, I sin. So I can say with the psalmist: “For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.”3 And I continually speak with others who also bump up against their sinfulness. As the old saying goes, original sin is the one verifiable Christian dogma.
The early church fathers called this “compunction,” the recognition of one’s sinful tendencies. The love of God pierces the heart (compunctio in Latin means “puncture”) and helps us to recognize our need for conversion. Every day our human nature humbles but does not humiliate us, gently and naturally. No effort or great penances are required for us to experience our limitations and taste our sinfulness, both of which lead us to recognize our constant need for God. Thus it is a grace to know one’s sinfulness.
At the Jordan I came face-to-face with sin, in a small way. This was one reason John came to baptize: to call the whole people of Israel to conversion, but also to invite individuals to recognize their need for God. The Gospels say that he was calling people to “the forgiveness of sins.”4
Which leads to a tantalizing question: Why does Jesus have to be baptized?
ONE TOOL THAT NEW Testament scholars use when sifting through what is authentic and what might be a later addition by the evangelists is the “criterion of embarrassment.” If something can be seen as potentially embarrassing to the early church, or to Jesus, then it is unlikely that it would have been added. As John Meier suggests, it is hard to imagine that the writers of the Gospels would have gone out of their way to insert something new into the story that would have embarrassed or “created difficulty” for the early church. “Rather, embarrassing material coming from Jesus would naturally be either suppressed or softened in later stages of the Gospel tradition.”5 In short, the more embarrassing an event or saying, the easier it is to argue for its historicity.
The example Meier uses to illustrate this criterion is the Baptism of Jesus. Though it’s a familiar story for modern-day Christians, in many ways it might have made little sense to the early church. Why would Jesus need to be baptized? If anything, shouldn’t the Son of God be doing the baptizing?
For the early church, eager to proclaim Jesus’s divinity to the world, the story would obviously have proved problematic. Reading backward, then, we can see that the evangelists seemed to be stuck with an event that would have been hard to explain to newcomers. There is little chance that they would have consciously made up something like this. In addition, the story is included in all three Synoptic Gospels and referred to in John, so it needs to be taken seriously.
To begin to answer the question of why Jesus presents himself at the Jordan, let’s look briefly at what John was doing.
Before Jesus stepped onto the public stage, John the Ba
ptist had a flourishing ministry, his own circle of disciples, and his own distinct style of preaching.6 Though his message varies slightly from Gospel to Gospel, John in essence preaches repentance, announces the arrival of the “reign of God,” and issues stern warnings to Israel. He uses vivid, even violent images (the ax aimed at the root of the tree, the winnowing fork that separates the wheat from the chaff, which then burns in unquenchable fire7) to underline the seriousness of his message and emphasize the imminence of God’s reign.
In John’s eyes, making a decision about the reign of God surpasses every other consideration. Jesus will largely follow John’s approach. This is one reason that Jesus will not hesitate to set aside what he considers “lesser” rules and customs; for him they are subservient to the coming of God’s reign, or kingdom.
Here’s a not-too-shocking confession: my image of John mainly comes from the movies. In prayer I imagine him wild-eyed and unrestrained, shouting not out of anger but urgency—and perhaps that is not far off the mark. In Franco Zeffirelli’s miniseries Jesus of Nazareth, Michael York portrays him as a fearsome prophet, hectoring the crowds. Charlton Heston is equally as belligerent in The Greatest Story Ever Told. And John appears much the same in The Last Temptation of Christ, in which André Gregory is an older but no less fierce prophet. Hollywood’s John is typically (and accurately) clad the way the Gospels describe: wearing clothing of “camel’s hair with a leather belt.”8 This too was symbolic, suggesting a conscious identification with the Prophet Elijah, whose return was said to presage the coming of the Messiah.9
Gerhard Lohfink suggests another powerful image used by John: the location of his baptizing. Wherever it was along Route 90, the site chosen by John was invested with meaning. By ministering not in cities or towns, but in the wilderness, and specifically where Israel once crossed the Jordan to enter into the Promised Land, John is indicating that Israel (that is, the Israel to whom he was preaching) needs a new exodus and a new entry into the Promised Land.10 And into a new reign, soon to be inaugurated.
But why baptism? The act apparently derived from Jewish purification rituals, though it may also have had a connection to the initiation rites of some Jewish sects. You can see evidence of this in the story of the Wedding Feast at Cana, in the Gospel of John, where six stone jars filled with water stand ready for the purification rites.11 Water in general would have connoted not only cleansing (as in a symbolic sign of repentance of sins) and life (as in the element necessary for plants and animals), but death as well, especially as it related to the great flood in the Book of Genesis. (The term baptizō simply means to dunk or immerse.)
Like his kinsman John, Jesus of Nazareth would also emphasize the radical nature of the kingdom of God, but he would do so largely through more poetic and nonviolent means, and through the signs and symbols about his message that were “spoken” most powerfully by miracles.12 Jesus’s words lent meaning to his actions, and his actions shed light on his words.
John Dominic Crossan suggests that Jesus also learned from John’s approach and ultimate execution what would and would not work. Crossan opines that John the Baptist was hoping that God would come as a warrior who would use force on behalf of Israel, and that John’s aim was to swell the ranks of repentant Jews through baptism until those ranks prompted the coming of the messianic age. Others add that Jesus also would have had a deep appreciation for John’s message: many biblical scholars posit that Jesus was for a time one of John’s followers.13
John, however, understood his place in “salvation history,” though he wouldn’t have used those words. He described himself as the “voice of one crying out in the wilderness” and the forerunner of the “one who is more powerful than I,” whose sandals he was not worthy to untie.14
That brings us back to our original question: Why does Jesus feel the need to be baptized? Let’s see what the Gospels have to say.
In Mark’s Gospel, John the Baptist simply does it—sans explanation. Jesus “came from Nazareth of Galilee” and, upon his baptism, Jesus saw the heavens “torn apart” and the Holy Spirit descending upon him “like a dove.” (The Greek is hōs peristeran, not a dove per se, but “as a dove” or “like a dove.”) The importance here lies not so much with the appearance of a bird, as portrayed in most classical paintings, as with the presence of the Holy Spirit. The tearing open of the heavens may have served for Mark’s audience as a sign of the opening of a new kind of divine-human communication. A voice from heaven then proclaims, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
After this, Jesus is driven into the desert immediately (euthus, a word we will see a great deal in Mark) to begin his period of testing, or temptation. Interestingly, Mark’s account of the baptism is told from Jesus’s perspective. Jesus sees and hears these things, but we’re not told explicitly if anyone else does. Mark’s account (unlike the other Gospels) intimates that Jesus had a private experience of God’s revelation.
Luke’s description is in parts more specific, but in others more confusing. His Gospel presents Jesus as already baptized. Jesus is praying with people in a crowd, who have also been baptized, when the heavens open and the Holy Spirit descends on him in a slightly different way: “in bodily form (somatikō) like a dove.” That is, the Holy Spirit appeared, physically, as a dove. Again, the voice comes from the heavens, presumably heard by the crowd. “You are my son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”15
But there’s an oddity in Luke’s version. John the Baptist doesn’t seem to be on the scene, for in the previous passage Luke says that John has been imprisoned by Herod. Who did the baptizing? We are not told.
The Gospel of John’s version features more storytelling. As in the Synoptics, the Baptist assumes a subordinate role to the man who may once have been his disciple. The day before the baptism, John says, in response to those who asked whether he was the Messiah: “I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal,” a menial task done for a master by a slave.
The next day, presumably at the Jordan River performing baptisms, John sees Jesus approaching and proclaims him as the “Lamb of God.” It is a phrase rich with meaning—most likely referring to the use of the lamb as a sacrifice, as a means to reaffirm Israel’s relationship with God, particularly during Passover.16 The term also prefigures Jesus’s sacrifice during his crucifixion, which occurs during the Passover. Despite John’s earlier protestations about his subordination, he performs the baptism.
Or seems to. We’re not told anything about the baptism itself, nor is there any mention of Jesus stepping into the Jordan River. John the Baptist describes the descent of the Spirit after the fact: “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove (hōs peristeran), and it remained on him.” Then John explains, “I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, ‘He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’”
In other words, God has somehow revealed to the Baptist that Jesus is the one he has been anticipating. The voice that in the Synoptics came from the heavens speaks to the Baptist directly. What John has awaited, God provides. Overall, the Gospel of John’s version subordinates the Baptist and also clearly identifies—early on and publicly—Jesus’s divine identity, rather unlike the Synoptics, where Jesus’s identity will be something of a secret.17
Only in Matthew is the big question raised. John the Baptist tries to prevent (in some translations “forbid”) the baptism, and he says bluntly to Jesus: “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” And only in Matthew does Jesus provide an answer of sorts: “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”
What does Jesus mean by “fulfilling all righteousness”? Does this answer John’s question—or ours? The Greek phrase is plērōsai pasan dikaiosunēn, which can be translated as fulfilling, bringing about, or completing “all righteousness,” a kind of accord with God’s will. It is an obscure answer that may
have confused both John the Baptist and the early readers of Matthew’s Gospel.
While some argue that Jesus’s words refer to the later tradition of Christian baptism or to a fulfillment of the Old Testament, Jesus may simply be referring to the kind of life to which John’s disciples have pledged themselves, one “producing good fruit,” as John says earlier in Matthew. Notice that John the Baptist says nothing about Jesus’s sinlessness. Nor does Jesus. Jesus freely presents himself to be baptized by John, though he is sinless; and John freely baptizes him, though he feels unworthy to do so.
Jesus somehow came to realize that baptism was what God the Father desired for him—to fulfill “all righteousness.” Perhaps this meant publicly aligning himself with John’s ministry. Perhaps before he began his own ministry, he wanted, in a sense, to pay tribute to that of his cousin, as a way of underlining his solidarity with the Baptist’s message. Jesus may also have wanted to perform a public ritual to inaugurate his own ministry.
But there is another possibility, which is that Jesus decided to enter even more deeply into the human condition. Though sinless, Jesus participates in the ritual that others are performing as well. He participates in this movement of repentance and conversion not because he needs it, but because it aligns him with those around him, with those anticipating the reign of God, with the community of believers. It’s an act of solidarity, a human act from the Son of God, who casts his lot with the people of the time. It has less to do with his original sin, which he does not carry, than identifying with those who carry that sin, as George and I experienced at the Jordan. The divine one is fully immersing himself, literally in this case, in our humanity.
It reminds me of a line from a biography of another radical, St. Francis of Assisi, the thirteenth-century saint whose own decisive act came when he walked away from the wealth of his father, a cloth merchant, and did so in a public way: by stripping naked in the public square in Assisi. The biographer Julien Green wrote that his dramatic gesture was a “juridical act,” according to medieval mentality. “From now on, Francis, with nothing to his name, was taking sides with the outcast and the disinherited.”18