King, Sacrifice, Servant (3:13–17)
When Jesus came up out of the water at the Jordan, the heavens opened, and a voice from heaven spoke. This heavenly voice combines three Old Testament texts into a single declaration of who Jesus truly is.
The first is Psalm 2:7. This psalm is a coronation psalm, almost certainly composed for a Davidic king’s enthronement, perhaps even Solomon. When a new son of David took the throne, the Lord declared him his royal son:
“You are my Son; today I have begotten you.” (Ps 2:7)
The voice at the Jordan echoes that declaration. A new son of David has arrived, and the Father publicly acknowledges him. Davidic sonship in this context is not primarily a claim of divinity. This language signifies a royal installation, declaring a special relationship between God and his king.
But notice that Psalm 2 says nothing about a “beloved” son. That word comes from elsewhere. The LXX of Genesis 22:2 renders the divine command to Abraham as “Take your beloved son Isaac, whom you love.” The Hebrew יָחִיד (“only/unique”) becomes ἀγαπητός in Greek, the same word used in Matthew 3:17. The baptismal voice fuses the royal language of Psalm 2 with the sacrificial weight of the binding of Isaac. The one declared to be the king at the Jordan is simultaneously the son whose death the Father will not prevent. Abraham told Isaac that the Lord would provide for himself a sacrifice, and then an angel stayed Abraham’s hand. Jesus is the sacrifice the Lord has finally provided.
The second half of the declaration draws on Isaiah 42:1:
Behold my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my Spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations.
The synonymous phrasing with “well pleased” makes the allusion certain, and the Spirit descending on Jesus corresponds to the Spirit placed upon the servant in that same verse. The Servant Songs do not end well. They end at Isaiah 53, where the servant is pierced for transgressions, crushed for iniquities, and bears the grief of the people.
When Jesus is baptized, the voice from heaven quotes and alludes to the OT to declare him as king, sacrifice, and servant. All three identities are combined in a single sentence, and Matthew will spend the rest of his Gospel exploring each one. The king will give his life as a ransom for many. The beloved Son will not be spared. The servant will bear the iniquities of the people to the very end, and when he is risen from the dead, he will rule as David’s son at God’s right hand as king over heaven and earth.
Do Not Presume (3:7–10)
“And do not presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father,’ for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children for Abraham” (Matt 3:9).
Presumption quietly destroys genuine faith.
The religious leaders standing at the Jordan weren’t bad people. They were the best people. They were the most devout, the most knowledgeable, and the most committed to God’s law. And that was precisely the problem. Their very devotion had become an obstacle to repentance.
They had Abraham as their father. They had the Temple. They had the Torah. They had centuries of tradition, daily prayers, and meticulous observance. Surely all of this mattered to God? Surely God wouldn’t judge them the same way he would judge those tax collectors and sinners?
Presumption whispers different lies to each of us. It says, “I’m already good enough.” It says, “God knows my heart.” It tells us, “I’ve been faithful for years,” or “My family has always been religious,” or “I do more than most people.” It’s not that these things are necessarily untrue. The problem is that they become shields against the Spirit’s convicting work.
But there’s another type of presumption that’s just as dangerous. We assume we know exactly what God’s Word says and precisely what God’s will is. We’ve read the Bible. We’ve studied theology. We know the answers. As a result, we stop listening. We stop asking questions. We stop being surprised by Scripture or challenged by the Spirit.
The Pharisees and Sadducees knew their Scriptures inside out. They could quote the Law and the Prophets easily. Their interpretations were well established, and their theological views were firm. But when John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness calling for repentance, they couldn’t hear him. Their confidence in what they believed God’s Word said kept them from hearing what God was really communicating through his prophet.
The danger for the religious is confusing proximity with transformation. We know the right words, sing the right songs, and perform the proper rituals. But has our knowledge about God truly led to a real relationship with God? Have our religious practices yielded the fruits of genuine repentance: humility, mercy, justice, and love?
Presumption is especially dangerous because it feels like faith. After all, isn’t confidence in God a good thing? Yes, but there’s a difference between trusting in God’s grace and relying on our religious record. There’s a difference between trusting God’s Word and assuming we’ve mastered it. One leads to gratitude and ongoing growth. The other leads to complacency and spiritual pride.
So ask yourself: What am I presuming about my relationship with God? What religious credentials do I depend on instead of truly repenting? Where have I stopped listening because I think I already know what God is saying? What would it look like today to bear fruit worthy of repentance rather than relying on yesterday’s fruit?
The kingdom is at hand. The ax is at the root. But God’s kindness is also close, prepared to turn stones into children of Abraham and to change religious people into true disciples.