I grew up with a father who couldn’t communicate love or concern for me in a way that was meaningful. Whether he was unwilling to do so, I am still unsure. For most of my childhood, my father seemed indifferent to me. In the same way, he was a satellite orbiting my world. I knew he existed, but he was peripheral and seemingly untethered to my day-to-day needs.
Relationships with fathers can get complex. I’ve wrestled with what it means to extend grace to a parent whose dominant posture toward me was and is apathy. Through prayer, I have sought to forgive my father for his shortcomings, and I have looked to therapists to help me grieve the absence of a father-son relationship that seems out of reach to this day.
But despite all of my efforts to address my pain and longing, I would be lying if I didn’t admit to a chronic ache that continues to haunt me in my quiet moments. I ache not knowing whether my father was even on my side.
Still, I have experienced healing, most recently as I prepared to teach on Jesus’ baptism as it is recorded in the Gospel of Mark.
The Father’s Words for Jesus
Mark tells us that Jesus is immersed in the water, and as he comes up, he sees heaven being “torn open” (1:10). The Greek word used here is schizomenous, the present participle of schizo, which means “to tear or cleave open.” It is from this Greek root schizo that we get schizophrenia (i.e., “a torn mind”). It’s a violent word that completely altered my image of this pivotal moment in Jesus’ life.
I had always pictured this to be a quiet, sacred moment that revealed the unfathomable intimacy between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I had read into the text an easy, unthreatening tone. It is a sacred moment, to be sure. But the use of schizo implies this scene was anything but gentle and discreet.
We witness both beauty and heartache in this text. Before setting his face toward Jerusalem—and toward the cross—the Son is given an outpouring of love and affirmation from the Father. Before one deed is done, one teaching uttered, one miracle performed, the Father tears open the heavens and tells Jesus, “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased” (1:11).
While the action was forceful, the Gospels indicate that only Jesus and John see this vision. When John the Baptist told his version of this event, he said,
I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. And I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, “The man on whom you see the Spirit come down and remain is the one who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.” I have seen and I testify that this is God’s Chosen One. (John 1:32–34)
Yet he doesn’t mention a voice. Apparently only Jesus heard the Father.
The Father’s words to Jesus came after 400 years of divine silence—the intertestamental period—which generated a growing passion for God to act decisively on behalf of his people and to establish his kingdom. First-century Jews, like previous generations (see Isaiah 64:1), were desperate for God to tear into the status quo and set things right.
Here in Mark’s gospel, we see that yearning being fulfilled. In and through Jesus, God is drawing near in a way previously unknown and unanticipated, bringing words of life—words that I and millions who have lived in the shadow of fatherlessness have never heard.