The Baptism in the Jordan

A meditation

The water is so still that it holds the sky. Stand at the edge of it. The hills are pale and folded like cloth, the tree over your head is dark and full, and nothing is moving — not the water, not the man in the middle of it, not the three at the left who have come down to watch.

He is standing in the river with his hands together, and John has lifted the bowl above his head. The water is about to fall. It has not fallen yet.

Look up. Above him, level with the clouds, so still and white you could mistake it for one of them — the dove. It has come down as far as it can come. It hangs there in the air over his head, waiting for the water.

Then look at him. There is nothing on his face at all. Not fear, not effort, not even waiting. He has walked into a river to be washed like everyone else, and he is simply letting it happen — letting John, letting the water, letting the sky open. That is the whole of it. He has put himself into other hands and gone still.

Behind him a man is pulling his shirt off over his head. He is next. He does not know what he is next for.

You are in the line too. Stand in the shallows and let the water find your feet. You do not have to do anything — that is the hard part. The Spirit is already there, above you, as quiet as a cloud. It only wants you to stop moving long enough to be found.