Heaven Torn Open: Mark 1:9-13

He came from Nazareth—a village so insignificant that men joked nothing good could emerge from its dusty streets. Yet here he stood at the Jordan's edge, waiting in line with tax collectors and prostitutes, with shepherds who smelled of sheep and soldiers who smelled of Rome.

John's hand trembled as he lowered Jesus beneath the surface. The water closed over that face, dark and cool, and for a moment the world held its breath.

Then Jesus rose, river water streaming from his hair, and the sky cracked open.

Not parted gently like curtains. Torn. Ripped like fabric that would never be mended. The Spirit descended—not floating but driving downward like a dove plummeting toward its nest—and landed on him. And a voice rolled across the water, shaking the air itself: "You are my Son, whom I love. With you I am well pleased."

The crowds heard thunder. John saw everything.

And then, before the water had dried on his skin, the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness. Not led. Drove—the same word used for casting out demons. For forty days he wandered among the scorpions and jackals, the rocks too hot to touch by midday, the nights cold enough to crack teeth. Satan came to him there, in that place where hunger becomes madness and isolation becomes a voice. Angels attended him—but Mark does not tell us how. Only that he survived. Only that when he emerged, the battle had already begun.