A Year Held in His Hands| A New Year Sermon
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There’s something about John 17 that just… touches the heart in a quiet way. Like when you overhear someone you deeply love praying for you, and you realize—wait, they actually care that much. This chapter isn’t just a teaching, it’s like stepping into Jesus’ private prayer room. You can almost hear His voice trembling with love, maybe His eyes glistening under the dim light of the night as He lifts His face toward heaven.
He’s not preaching here. He’s praying. And not just any prayer — this is the prayer before the cross. The night before betrayal, before pain, before everything He came for reaches that final moment. And yet, instead of panic or self-pity, Jesus prays. Not for Himself only, but for His friends, and even for you and me.
When Jesus said, “The hour has come,” I always pause here. Because throughout the Gospel of John, we’ve heard Him say again and again — “My hour has not yet come.” Remember in Cana at the wedding (John 2)? He said it to His mother when she asked Him to do something about the wine. But now, in chapter 17, the hour has come. The waiting is over. The cross is right ahead.
And yet He doesn’t say, “Save me,” or “Stop this.” He says, “Glorify your Son.”
That hits deep. Because glory here doesn’t mean fame or applause. It means the cross. It means pain, humiliation, and yet — divine purpose shining through it. Jesus sees the cross not as defeat, but as the moment when the Father’s love will blaze the brightest.
Sometimes, I think about that in my own life. How often I pray, “God, make this easier,” instead of, “God, glorify Yourself through this.” That’s not easy to say, especially when you’re in pain. But Jesus shows that kind of surrender that only perfect love can give.
Eternal life. Most people think that means living forever. But Jesus defines it differently here. Eternal life isn’t just endless existence — it’s relationship. It’s knowing God.
Not just knowing about Him, like facts in a book. But knowing Him personally, intimately. Like you know your closest friend’s laugh, their habits, their voice in a crowd. That kind of knowing.
Sometimes, we fill our heads with theology and verses, but forget that the goal isn’t information — it’s intimacy. Eternal life starts the moment you begin to know Him, not after death.
And what a thought — that Jesus has authority to give that kind of life. He’s not a teacher showing us the path. He is the path.
Jesus looks back on His life and says, “I finished the work.” That sounds so peaceful, right? But the work isn’t over yet — the cross still waits. Still, He speaks in faith, as if it’s already done. That’s confidence in the Father’s plan.
And then He says something stunning: “Glorify Me with the glory I had before the world began.” That’s eternity speaking. The Son remembering His eternal place beside the Father, the glory of heaven before creation even existed.
It’s a reminder that Jesus wasn’t created; He’s always been. He left glory to walk among us, to live dusty days and weary nights. And now, He’s about to return home — mission completed.
This line feels personal. Jesus says He revealed the Father to the disciples — the ones given to Him. Think about that. These weren’t perfect people. Peter with his big mouth, Thomas with his doubts, John with his temper. But Jesus still says, “They are Yours.”
It makes me smile because it means God doesn’t give up on messy people. He reveals Himself to those who are willing to follow, even when they stumble.
We often think we found God, but here, it’s clear — God found us.
There’s something warm in this verse. Like Jesus is proud of His disciples. “They accepted the words.” They didn’t fully understand everything (honestly, they were confused half the time), but they received it.
Sometimes, God isn’t asking us to understand everything, but just to receive His word, trust His heart. Faith isn’t about having no questions — it’s about choosing to believe even when questions remain.
This one always feels heavy. Jesus prays specifically for His followers. Not because He doesn’t love the world — He died for it — but because this prayer is intimate. It’s like a family prayer before the battle.
He’s about to leave them in a world that will hate them, and His heart is full of care for them. Like a parent praying for their child before they leave home.
You can almost hear the ache in His voice: “Father, they’re Yours.”
There’s beauty in that mutual belonging — “All I have is Yours, and all You have is Mine.” It’s divine unity.
And then that prayer — “Protect them.” I love that. Because He didn’t pray, “Make life easy for them.” He prayed for protection. Not from trouble, but in it. Protection from falling, from fear, from losing faith.
Life doesn’t get soft just because we follow Jesus. But we are covered. There’s a spiritual shield around those who belong to Him.
That reference to Judas always feels sharp. It’s like a reminder that even being close to Jesus physically doesn’t guarantee faith in Him spiritually. Judas walked with Jesus, saw miracles, but his heart never surrendered.
It’s sobering — we can be near truth, and still not let it change us.
That line — “so they may have the full measure of My joy” — that just glows. Jesus prays for our joy, even while walking toward His death.
It shows the kind of joy that isn’t shaken by pain or fear. It’s not surface-level happiness. It’s deep, like roots in the soil of heaven.
And yes, the world hated them. Truth always stirs up reaction. When you carry God’s word, expect resistance. But also expect joy that can’t be stolen.
Jesus doesn’t ask for escape. He asks for endurance.
Sometimes we wish He’d just lift us out of hard places. But He says no, stay — because you have a purpose there. Light only shines where there’s darkness.
And He asks the Father to protect us — not from discomfort, but from the evil one. The real battle isn’t people, it’s spiritual. And Jesus covers us in prayer for that battle.
“Sanctify” means to set apart, to make holy. Not perfect, but dedicated.
Jesus wants His followers to be different — not weird or prideful — but marked by truth. God’s word isn’t just a book; it’s a cleansing power. It shapes how we think, how we see, how we love.
In a noisy world full of lies, His truth anchors us.
There’s a passing of mission here. Jesus says, “As You sent Me… I send them.”
He’s preparing them (and us) to continue His work. To love, to serve, to shine light in dark corners.
And when He says He sanctifies Himself — it means He’s dedicating Himself fully to the Father’s will, even to death. He sets Himself apart for our sake. That’s love.
Now the prayer widens — and this is where we enter the scene. Jesus prayed for future believers. For you, me, and everyone who would someday come to faith. That thought still gives me chills.
He prayed that we’d be one. United. But look around — Christians are divided in so many ways. Different denominations, opinions, arguments. And yet, this was His heart’s cry — unity.
Not uniformity, but unity in love, in truth, in mission.
This is amazing — He shares His glory. Not the glory of power, but the glory of love and presence.
Unity isn’t something we create; it’s something we receive. It comes when we walk in the presence of God together.
And the world, Jesus says, will believe when it sees that unity. Not when it hears arguments, but when it sees love that can’t be explained.
There’s tenderness in that request — “I want them with Me.”
This isn’t theology anymore. It’s love talking. He longs for us to be near Him, to see Him as He truly is. Heaven isn’t about mansions or streets of gold — it’s about being with Jesus. That’s home.
When I read this, I can almost hear His voice whisper — “I want you with Me.” That’s the heart of God.
And the prayer ends like a heartbeat — love.
He wants the same love the Father has for Him to live inside us. Imagine that. The love that moved heaven to earth, that carried Jesus through the cross — now living in us.
That’s the goal. Not just religion, not just morality — but divine love pulsing in human hearts.
Sometimes I read John 17 slowly, like sipping something warm after a long day. Every word feels soaked in love.
This isn’t a speech; it’s a farewell prayer. It’s Jesus’ heart exposed before His Father, before the cross. And through it, we see how deeply we’re known and loved.
He didn’t just die for us — He prayed for us. Long before you ever prayed your first prayer, He already had you in His.
I once read John 17 sitting in a small church at night, the lights half-dim, a faint smell of old wood and wax from the candles. I remember feeling this sudden stillness, like Jesus Himself was there whispering, “You are loved, even in your mess.”
I don’t know why that moment stayed with me. Maybe because I realized — His prayer still echoes. It didn’t end that night. It still rises for us today, through every tear, every trial.
Sometimes I think about how Jesus said, “I want them with Me.” And I picture Him looking across time, seeing my face, your face, every believer’s face — and still saying it. That kind of love, it’s overwhelming.
John 17 isn’t meant just to be studied; it’s meant to be lived.
Here’s a few simple ways this prayer breathes into everyday life:
Live knowing you are prayed for.
Jesus Himself prayed for your protection, your unity, your joy. You’re not forgotten.
Seek unity, not division.
Sometimes, we get caught up proving who’s right. But Jesus didn’t pray for that. He prayed we’d be one.
Pursue knowing God deeply.
Not just through books or sermons, but in daily conversation, honesty, and trust.
Remember — you are sent.
Just as the Father sent Jesus, He sends you. Into your workplace, your home, your community. You carry His light.
Keep your heart in love.
Let His love fill your words, your reactions, your choices. The world will see Him through that.
If I close my eyes, I can almost hear it. Maybe the wind was rustling through the olive trees that night. Maybe the moonlight touched His face as He prayed. The disciples were likely quiet, listening, confused, overwhelmed.
And there’s Jesus — praying with tears and tenderness:
“Father… I want them with Me.”
It’s not just history. It’s personal. It’s eternal.
John 17 is sometimes called The High Priestly Prayer. But to me, it feels more like The Love Prayer. Because everything in it — from beginning to end — is love expressed through intercession.
It’s Jesus saying, “I’ve done My part. Now keep them, Father. Love them. Unite them. Let them see My glory.”
If you ever feel forgotten, remember: You’re in that prayer. Jesus already prayed for you, and His words never fade.
And maybe that’s the most beautiful part — the Son of God, on the night before He was betrayed, wasn’t thinking of revenge or fear. He was thinking of you.
He prayed for your faith, your protection, your future.
He prayed for your joy.
And that, I think, is what makes John 17 not just scripture — but a letter of love written in prayer.
John 17 is Jesus’ heart opened wide — for His Father, for His friends, and for us. It’s love in its purest prayer form.
Even today, His voice still echoes: “Father, I want them with Me.”
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