Here, at Our Lady of Silence Abbey, the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord feels like a threshold. Christmas has softened into memory; the lights of Epiphany still glimmer; and now the Church asks us to stand by the waters of the Jordan and watch something quietly decisive take place.
Jesus steps into the river not because he needs cleansing, but because he chooses nearness. He enters the water already heavy with the confessions, fears, and hopes of others. The One without sin takes his place among those who know they are unfinished. In doing so, he blesses not only the water, but the human condition itself — muddied, uncertain, yet profoundly loved.
From the rhythm of monastic life, this moment speaks with particular clarity. Baptism is not spectacle. It happens without applause. A voice is heard, yes, but only by those attentive enough to listen: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” God does not shout approval after achievement. He speaks love at the beginning, before the road has even begun.
This is a truth the world easily forgets. We are trained to earn our worth, to justify our place, to prove ourselves useful. But in baptism, Jesus reveals another logic — one rooted not in performance but in belonging. Before he teaches, before he heals, before he suffers, he is named as beloved. That naming comes first.
Silence helps us hear this. In the Abbey, where days are shaped by prayer, work, and stillness, we learn how much noise can drown out the most essential words. The Feast of the Baptism of the Lord invites us back to the quiet place where identity is received, not constructed. It asks us whether we still remember our own baptism — not as a past ritual, but as a present truth.
To be baptised is to be sent. Jesus emerges from the Jordan and is immediately driven into the wilderness. Love does not spare him difficulty; it sustains him through it. Likewise, our baptism does not remove struggle or doubt, but it anchors us when they come. We are not carried through life by certainty, but by the knowledge that we are held.
At Our Lady of Silence Abbey, this feast reminds us why silence matters. Not as escape, but as attentiveness. Only in stillness can we hear the voice that names us beloved. Only in humility can we recognise that God meets us not when we are impressive, but when we step honestly into the water.
As the Christmas season draws to a close, the Baptism of the Lord opens the ordinary time of discipleship. The light remains, but now it travels with us — into daily faithfulness, into hidden obedience, into lives quietly offered. Like the river itself, grace flows on, carrying us forward, if we are willing to enter it.