A Year Held in His Hands| A New Year Sermon
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There’s a kind of quiet heaviness in John 18, don’t you think? Like the moment right before a storm breaks loose. You can almost feel it — the air thick, the shadows long. Jesus has just finished praying that deep, intimate prayer in John 17… and now, we move straight into the night where everything changes. This chapter, it’s where the betrayal happens, the arrest, Peter’s denial… and Jesus standing before the world that came to destroy Him.
It’s dark, but in that darkness, the light doesn’t go out — it shines. Let’s walk through it together, verse by verse, slow and real.
“When Jesus had spoken these words, he went forth with his disciples over the brook Kidron, where there was a garden, into the which he entered, and his disciples. And Judas also, which betrayed him, knew the place: for Jesus ofttimes resorted thither with his disciples.”
I can picture it… the moonlight over the olive trees, the smell of the earth damp and cool, the sound of sandals on the soft soil. That little garden, Gethsemane, was a place of quiet before — a place of prayer, maybe laughter once. But tonight, it’s a place of pain.
Jesus knew what was coming. And Judas too knew that place. That’s the thing that hits me — Judas knew the spot because Jesus had often gone there. He used a sacred place of friendship and prayer to betray Him. Isn’t that heartbreaking? Sometimes, pain comes from the people who know your peaceful places best.
“Judas then, having received a band of men and officers from the chief priests and Pharisees, cometh thither with lanterns and torches and weapons.”
Can you imagine the glow of those torches in the night? The flickering light bouncing off the armor, the sound of clinking swords. It’s strange — they came with weapons to arrest the One who healed with a touch and taught peace.
And then — Jesus steps forward. He doesn’t hide. He says, “Whom seek ye?”
They answer, “Jesus of Nazareth.”
And He says, “I am he.”
And just that — those three words — were enough that the soldiers drew back and fell to the ground. Power, right there in His name. Like creation trembles when it hears its Creator speak. Even in chains, Jesus was the authority in that moment.
That part always moves me. Because it’s not fear that drives Him. It’s love. A quiet, knowing love that walks right into the pain for the sake of the world.
Jesus asks again, “Whom seek ye?” and when they repeat, He says, “I told you that I am he: if therefore ye seek me, let these go their way.”
That line — “let these go” — it’s like He’s shielding them. Even in the moment of betrayal, He’s protecting His disciples. He’s taking the fall, literally. It’s love in motion. That’s the Shepherd heart of Jesus — He’s always standing in the gap for His sheep.
And John adds that this fulfilled His earlier words, “Of those whom You gave Me I have lost none.” Even in arrest, prophecy moves forward with gentle precision. Nothing is random.
“Then Simon Peter having a sword drew it, and smote the high priest’s servant, and cut off his right ear. The servant’s name was Malchus.”
Oh Peter… so impulsive, so human. I like Peter, I really do. Because he’s fiery, loyal, messy — a lot like us. He didn’t understand yet that this wasn’t a fight of flesh and blood. So he swung the sword.
And Jesus — calm, steady — says, “Put up thy sword into the sheath: the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?”
That line. The cup. It’s surrender, not defeat. It’s like saying, “I trust the Father even when it hurts.”
Sometimes in life, God gives us a “cup” we don’t want — something bitter, unfair, painful — and yet there’s purpose in it. Jesus didn’t fight it. He received it. That’s… deep.
“Then the band and the captain and officers of the Jews took Jesus, and bound him.”
That phrase — they bound Him — it’s so small, but it’s huge. The One who created the stars is tied up by His own creation. It almost feels unbearable to imagine. And they lead Him to Annas first, the father-in-law of Caiaphas.
John adds that Caiaphas was the one who had said earlier that it’s better one man die for the people. Irony drips from that — because he was right, though he didn’t know the full truth of what he said.
Peter and “another disciple” (probably John himself) followed Jesus into the courtyard of the high priest. John gets in, but Peter waits outside. Then a servant girl — just a young woman — says to Peter, “You’re not one of this man’s disciples, are you?”
And Peter says, “I am not.”
Oof. That sting. First denial.
And the cold night air. The fire crackling, the smell of smoke. Peter standing there, warming his hands, pretending not to care. You can almost see his face lit by the orange glow, eyes darting nervously. Fear makes us do strange things, doesn’t it? Sometimes the same mouth that once said “I’ll never deny you” ends up saying “I don’t know him.”
Meanwhile, Jesus is questioned by Annas about His disciples and His teaching. And Jesus answers with simple honesty — “I have spoken openly to the world. I always taught in synagogues and in the temple; I said nothing in secret.”
That’s integrity. No deceit, no manipulation. He’s saying, “If you want truth, it’s already out there. Why question Me like this?”
And then one of the officers strikes Him on the face. That moment… man, it’s hard to even read. To imagine the holy face of Jesus, hit by a man’s hand. Yet Jesus doesn’t retaliate. He simply says, “If I have spoken evil, bear witness of the evil; but if well, why smitest thou me?”
That calm truthfulness — it’s powerful.
They send Him bound to Caiaphas next. And the night continues to unravel.
Peter’s still there, warming himself. Another person asks, “Aren’t you one of His disciples?” He denies again.
Then one of the servants — a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off — says, “Didn’t I see you in the garden with Him?”
And Peter denies again.
And then… the rooster crowed.
That sound. Can you imagine it cutting through the early morning chill? Peter’s heart must’ve sunk like a stone. The words of Jesus echoing — “Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.”
Sometimes we fail in the same place we once promised faithfulness. But even in that failure, grace lingers. Jesus knew Peter’s weakness — and He loved him still.
Now it’s morning. The priests bring Jesus to the Roman governor, Pilate. But — this detail always feels bitterly ironic — they themselves don’t go into the judgment hall because they don’t want to be “defiled” before Passover.
They’re worried about ceremonial cleanliness while plotting the death of the innocent Son of God.
Pilate comes out, kind of confused. “What accusation do you bring against this man?”
They say, “If He weren’t a criminal, we wouldn’t have handed Him over.”
Pilate basically says, “Then judge Him by your own law.” But they respond, “It’s not lawful for us to put anyone to death.”
And John points out — that this fulfills Jesus’ prophecy about what kind of death He would die. The cross, Roman execution — not stoning, Jewish law. Even this detail fits perfectly into divine plan.
Pilate calls Jesus inside and asks, “Are you the King of the Jews?”
Jesus answers gently, almost like turning the question around — “Do you say this of yourself, or did others tell you about Me?”
Pilate seems irritated, like, “Am I a Jew? Your own people delivered You to me. What have You done?”
And Jesus says something so timeless:
“My kingdom is not of this world: if my kingdom were of this world, then would my servants fight... but now is my kingdom not from hence.”
That hits deep. His kingdom isn’t built on swords or politics or power plays. It’s spiritual — eternal — born of truth.
Pilate then asks, “So you are a king?”
And Jesus replies, “You say that I am a king. For this cause was I born, and for this cause came I into the world — that I should bear witness unto the truth. Everyone that is of the truth heareth my voice.”
And then Pilate says that haunting question:
“What is truth?”
Ah, that line still echoes through centuries. He’s standing right in front of Truth Himself, and he doesn’t recognize it. It’s almost tragic — the question so many still ask but don’t wait to hear the answer.
Pilate tries to release Jesus, offering the crowd the Passover custom — to free one prisoner. He says, “Do you want me to release to you the King of the Jews?”
But the crowd shouts, “Not this man, but Barabbas!”
And John adds, “Now Barabbas was a robber.”
That’s how the chapter ends — with the world choosing a criminal over the Savior. It’s symbolic, isn’t it? Humanity often chooses sin, rebellion, selfishness — and Jesus takes the place of the guilty one. He’s literally the substitute.
When I read John 18, I always feel a strange mix — sorrow and awe. The way Jesus moves through betrayal, violence, denial… and yet remains calm, strong, steady in purpose. He doesn’t lose Himself in the chaos.
I think about that garden scene often. The smell of the olive trees, the tension in the air, Judas’s footsteps crunching gravel. And still — Jesus walks toward the cross like He’s walking home.
And Peter — poor Peter. I’ve seen myself in him so many times. Quick to speak, quick to promise, slow to endure. But what comforts me is knowing that Jesus already knew Peter’s failure before it happened — and already planned his restoration. That’s grace.
There’s something deeply personal here too — about how Jesus faces the darkness. He doesn’t fight like we expect. He doesn’t call down angels. He stands in truth, in quiet dignity. Because His fight isn’t about survival, it’s about salvation.
The “cup” He spoke of — it’s the weight of sin, the pain of separation, the sorrow of betrayal. Yet He drinks it all for love. For us.
And maybe the most haunting thing — Pilate’s question: “What is truth?” The irony that Truth was standing right there, and he couldn’t see it. Makes me wonder — how often do I do that too? Miss the voice of God right in front of me because I’m too distracted by the noise of the world.
John 18 isn’t just a story of betrayal and arrest. It’s the chapter that shows how Jesus stands unshaken in the face of evil. It’s where love doesn’t flinch.
He’s betrayed by a friend, denied by a follower, mocked by rulers — yet He never denies us. Never backs down from love.
And maybe that’s the heart of it:
Even when the world binds Him, His love remains unbound.
When I read it slowly, I can almost feel the echo of those torches fading in the garden, the sound of the rooster, the chill of dawn breaking. It’s the beginning of the cross story — the road to Calvary.
But even in this shadowed chapter, there’s light — the kind of light that doesn’t fade, not even in a world full of darkness.
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