The Letter Before the First Day

When Marcus Chen graduated from medical school in 2019, his father handed him a sealed envelope. Inside was a letter dated twelve years earlier — written the day Marcus, then age fourteen, first said he wanted to be a doctor. The letter read: "You are my son. I am already proud of you. Not because of what you will accomplish, but because of who you are." Marcus has said in interviews that he carried that letter through every organic chemistry exam, every sleepless residency shift, every moment he wanted to quit. The pride came first. The work came after.

This is exactly what happens at the Jordan River in Mark 1:9-11. Jesus walks into the water, and as He comes up, the heavens tear open — the Greek word is schizo, a violent ripping — and the voice of the Almighty thunders: "You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased." Notice the timing. Jesus has not yet healed a single leper. He has not yet calmed any storm or preached the Sermon on the Mount. He has not yet gone to the cross. Before any of it, the Father declares His identity and His delight.

God does not wait for our performance to name us His own. Like that letter tucked into a young man's pocket years before he earned his degree, the Father's love is spoken over us before we have done a thing to deserve it. We do not work our way into belonging. We are claimed, and then we go.