What righteousness demands

This Sunday’s Gospel of Matthew for the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord recounts a moment of radical humility: Jesus, sinless yet baptised among sinners, steps into the River Jordan at John the Baptist’s insistence. “It is fitting,” Jesus says, “to do all that righteousness demands.”

The heavens open, the Spirit descends, and a voice declares Him beloved.

No thunderbolt. No coercion. No geopolitical chess.

Just an act of submission that reframes the world.

Earlier this week, however, real rivers ran red with a very different kind of power play. On January 3, 2026, the United States carried out a military operation in Venezuela that resulted in the capture of President Nicolás Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, and their removal to New York to face federal charges.

More than 150 US military aircraft and special operations forces were involved in what the Pentagon called a precision mission linked to narcotics and terrorism indictments. Maduro has pleaded not guilty in a US court, calling himself a “prisoner of war”.

To be clear: this was a military intervention with airstrikes and ground forces, not a peaceful arrest delegation. No official numbers of dead have been reported, but according to news reports, Venezuelan officials estimate than more than 80 people were killed in the attack, including 32 members of the Cuban military and intelligence agencies as reported by the government of Cuba.

The intervention has shaken international norms. The UN Human Rights Office declared that the action undermines international law by violating Venezuela’s territorial integrity and political independence, warning that such unilateral force sets a dangerous precedent.

In Caracas, the interim government under Vice President Delcy Rodríguez claims legitimacy and vows a strong response, including orders to arrest anyone seen as assisting US forces. The Venezuelan state of emergency persists.

Decades of crisis

So where exactly does Jesus’ baptism fit into a real-life story about bombs and geopolitical brinkmanship?

Simply: Matthew’s Gospel reminds us that true authority is born of humility and submission to a higher righteousness. Jesus did not prove His mission through force; He chose the water, the same water that cleansed and bound Him to the very people He came to serve. It’s a template for moral authority that stands in stark contrast to the brute exercise of power.

Today’s world does not wait for such clarity. Across the globe, the architecture of power appears increasingly impatient with the slow work of diplomacy, internal reform, and sovereignty.

In Venezuela, decades of crisis—economic collapse, political repression, and mass migration—have created conditions ripe for external intervention. The United States argues that Maduro’s indictment for drug trafficking and alleged ties to cartel networks justifies action. Critics counter that international law permits military force only in self-defence or with UN approval, neither of which clearly applies here.

This isn’t a debate over fine points of doctrine. It’s a contest over the legitimacy of power itself.

If righteousness demands entering the water with the marginalised, then what does it mean to bypass the people of Venezuela—to decide their fate in war rooms and airbases? If a nation claims moral high ground, does that justify overturning the sovereignty of a State and imposing justice by force?

The Gospel’s answer is uncomfortable: righteousness does not begin with conquest nor coercion. It begins with solidarity—with listening, with humility, with taking on the burdens of others rather than dictating terms to them. As the world watches our closest South American neighbour reeling, and diplomatic condemnations mount, we are reminded that true transformation comes not from domination but from deep, shared commitment to justice.

The waters of the River Jordan weren’t weapons; they were a baptism of identification with the oppressed.

And if history is to judge us, it will be by how we aligned strength with wisdom—and whether we knew the difference between force and righteousness.