The Rev. Dr. Brandon Perrine
Epiphany 2A
John 1:29-42
January 18, 2026
The next day [John] saw Jesus coming toward him and declared, “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! This is he of whom I said, ‘After me comes a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.’ I myself did not know him, but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.” And John testified, “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. 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.’ And I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Chosen One.”
The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” They said to him, “Rabbi” (which translated means Teacher), “where are you staying?” He said to them, “Come and see.” They came and saw where he was staying, and they remained with him that day. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. One of the two who heard John speak and followed him was Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother. He first found his brother Simon and said to him, “We have found the Messiah” (which is translated Anointed). He brought Simon to Jesus, who looked at him and said, “You are Simon son of John. You are to be called Cephas” (which is translated Peter).
~o~
When I read this text again last week, I was struck by just how much of it centers around identity—around the characters identifying one another. John the Baptist identifies Jesus as the Lamb of God, as one who, despite being younger, actually preexisted John, as one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit, as the Chosen One. Two of John’s disciples identify Jesus as Rabbi and later as Messiah. One of those disciples is identified as Andrew, the brother of Simon Peter. And Jesus identifies Simon Peter as the son of John and also as Cephas—the Rock. What we don’t see in this text is self-identification.
There are no “I am” statements here, no moments of self-revelation. Just the revelations of others about the characters in the story—lots of “you are” statements. And because these are the assessments of others, we might disagree with them. The people about whom these assessments were made might also disagree with them. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe the historical Jesus wouldn’t have thought himself “the Lamb of God” or preexistent from eternity with the Creator. Maybe Peter would have preferred to be “the Water” instead of “the Rock.” We can’t know for sure. But it does raise an interesting question for us today: Who will define us—ourselves or others?
In order for us to define ourselves—to say who we are—we have to know who we are. That requires self-reflection. It requires paying attention to our inner lives, doing some soul-searching, being honest with ourselves about what we believe, what we value, and what calls us forward. If we don’t do that work, our understanding of who we are will be shaped mostly by what others say about us instead of by what we know to be true.
Now, that doesn’t mean other people never get it right. In the text, John observes God’s Spirit descending on Jesus. John hears God tell him that Jesus is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit. From that, John draws conclusions. Sometimes people really do see something in us that we haven’t yet seen in ourselves. Sometimes they name gifts we haven’t claimed. Sometimes they speak truth. But sometimes they don’t.
In high school, I was a very competitive musician. I auditioned for regional and state honor bands, performed at solo and ensemble competitions, and later competed for college music scholarships. There was a young woman, Kirstin, who was always there, competing against me. Over time, I developed a dislike for her. I determined that she was arrogant and snotty. But I usually beat her, so that made me happy.
Then came college orientation. I was horrified to see her across the room with her parents. I immediately pointed her out to my parents and explained—very confidently—why I didn’t like her. I later found out that she did the same. Strangely, though, we became friends—close friends. Eventually we shared our old misgivings about one another. We’d both been wrong. Sometimes people get it wrong. Sometimes we get one another wrong on an individual level. And sometimes we get one another wrong on collective levels.
With the relatively recent rise of Christian Nationalism, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read through comments online that appear to lump all the Christian faithful into one big unflattering pile. But sweeping statements are rarely accurate. The same thing goes for political labels, economic class, ethnicity, or geography. People are often eager to tell us who we are—based on categories that barely scratch the surface. That’s why it’s so very important that we know for ourselves.
Last Sunday at Peace Table, we were discussing the kinds of messages people receive from others. Most agreed they’re often not very positive. The groups created posters we could hang in our windows of messages we wish people heard more often, things like: You matter, just the way you are; weird is wonderful; you are worthy; you are free to be yourself; you are not alone; and you can sit with us. Powerful messages of unconditional positive regard. Not unlike what we hear in baptism.
In baptism, we remind one another that in heaven’s eyes—and in the eyes of this community of faith—you are beloved. You belong. You are a delight. But until those words sink deep into our bones—until we really believe them—there’s always the risk that we’ll end up believing someone else when they tell us who we are.
Jesus seems to know, though. He knows who he is and he goes a step further, showing himself to others—embodying compassion, standing with the marginalized, telling the truth, walking the path of costly love. His identity isn’t proven by titles—it’s revealed through relationship. And maybe that’s the invitation for us too.
When we’ve done the work of self-reflection, when we know who we are at our core, then we can live from that place with confidence—more rooted, more resilient, less shaken by labels that don’t fit. And that matters for the world we’re trying to build together too, because we live in a society that is constantly mislabeling others in harmful ways. Immigrants are called “invaders.” Trans kids are dead-named and called “confused.” Poor people are called “lazy.” Whole communities are reduced to stereotypes and sound bites. And those labels are used to justify cruelty—to excuse policies that harm and make injustice feel normal—even righteous.
Friends, when we claim our true identity, our baptismal identity, as beloved children of God, it’s not just a comforting spiritual truth. It’s an act of resistance. When we say, “No, that’s not who we are—not who they are”, we’re pushing back against a world that profits from dehumanization.
Knowing who we are changes how we show up. It shapes who we stand with, what we refuse to tolerate, and what kind of church we choose to be. Because a church made up of people who know they are beloved, doesn’t need to dominate; doesn’t need to exclude; doesn’t need to fear difference. Knowing who we are frees us to love more boldly, to welcome more fully, and to stand more clearly on the side of justice.
And each of you—each of us—really are worth knowing.
May it be so. Amen.
