John 17:6-19 · Jesus Prays for His Disciples
Entrustment
John 17:6-19
Sermon
by Robert Noblett
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Over thirty years ago, the late David H. C. Read preached and published a sermon series on the National Radio Pulpit that he titled Overheard. In that creative volume, he addressed a series of faith issues one might conceivably have overheard at that time. We overhear comments regularly. We might be riding on public transportation and overhear an amusing or telling conversation between two people, perhaps a parent and child; or we might be standing in a church lounge after worship and hear some people commenting on some dimension of church life, and our ears suddenly perk up. 

In our text for the morning, we overhear Jesus -- just prior to his betrayal and arrest -- praying to God. It is often referred to as a high priestly prayer, and is an exceedingly personal moment between Jesus and God, much in keeping with the intimate relationship between Father and Son that is painted by John. Being invited by John to overhear Jesus praying to God can be very helpful to us. 

At the outset, one is struck by the ease with which Jesus talks to God. It is a pure outpouring of heart. By contrast, it is common to have people indicate that they don't know how to talk to God; you may be among that number. Why might that be so? I suspect for the same reasons that people often don't know how to talk to other people in their lives. Among the questions that retard the tongue would be the following: Will what I say be accepted? Will I be allowed my own convictions? Will the person get angry with me? Can the person be trusted to keep a confidence? What words shall I use? Will the person be a good listener? Will I be belittled, upbraided, or laughed at? This window on the priestly prayer of Jesus can serve as a reminder that all the contents of any heart can be poured out before God and given a compassionate listening. There is nothing we need fear in doing that. 

If words come hard for us, our thoughts can initially be our words. And if giving the contents of our hearts verbal shape continues to perplex us, there is no reason we can't use others' words in giving shape to heartfelt concerns. 

Thumb through the Psalms sometime in the next few days and note how many times the psalmist speaks for you. Then the next time you want to speak to God, go ahead and speak with and through the psalmist. If you want to thank God, join the psalmist in saying, "It is good to give thanks to the Lord, to sing praises to your name, O Most High; to declare your steadfast love in the morning, and your faithfulness by night" (Psalm 92:1-2). Or, should you feel inconsolable, let the psalmist speak for you: "I cry aloud to God, aloud to God, that he may hear me. In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord; in the night my hand is stretched out without wearying; my soul refuses to be comforted. I think of God, and I moan; I meditate, and my spirit faints" (Psalm 77:1-3).

But more specifically, this priestly prayer is a prayer of entrustment. It is found in John between the accounts of Jesus' last supper with his disciples, and his betrayal and arrest. He knows what's coming and he entrusts both his life and legacy to God. The dominance of this theme is striking.

Entrustment is both necessity and release. 

While we have no conscious control over the decision, at birth God entrusts us to parental care givers. Houses of faith acknowledge and ritualize this through services of baptism or dedication, whereby moms and dads publicly acknowledge the receipt of that entrustment. Parents, in turn, entrust their children to other care givers and eventually to school systems. 

Nor does entrustment end when children become adults. Adults also entrust themselves to others. When we marry, we are making a statement about the trust we have in our helpmate. Every time we board an airliner, we entrust our lives to pilots. In surgical suites, we entrust our lives to a medical team. In fact, every time we leave the house to go off somewhere is an act of entrustment.

Arguably, entrustment (or faith if you prefer) is the most important resource we can develop. Without it, we would all hole up somewhere, with our only excursions beyond being those of absolute necessity.  The obverse dimension of this is, of course, the cultivation of trustworthiness. It is as our entrustment is vindicated that we develop the capacity for more of it. 

I don't know who taught you to swim, if ever you learned, but I do know that you would not have learned to survive in the water if there weren't a teacher present whom you trusted to make the learning environment a wholly safe one for you.

I don't know who taught you to ride your first two-wheel bicycle, but I do know that in all likelihood you would not have learned were it not for that trustworthy other who ran along side of you, as you wobbled from side to side, on that day when the training wheels were first removed. 

A child would not be able to take the first step onto a school bus and leave Mom and Dad behind were it not for the fact that, preceding the first school bus ride, there were firmly in place a series of successfully completed developmental tasks, reflective of the child's experience that others in her life have proved themselves trustworthy. 

Ironically, this reliance on the trustworthiness of others eventually leads to the ability to trust ourselves -- our little inside voices, senses, and intuition. We can swim. We can ride the bike. We can go off to unfamiliar territory, establish ourselves, and be successful. Louise Kaplan has written beautifully about this process:

... we manage to hold together when the world lets us down. Although we feel temporarily abandoned and vulnerable, constancy prevails. We retain enough of a sense of our personal worth and the worth of others eventually to convert disenchantment and disappointment into challenge. Constancy enables us to bend with the shifting winds and still remain rooted to the earth that nourishes us.1 

Entrustment is necessity; but it is also release. 

Summer is still the traditional time for vacations. Often families and individuals begin to think about summer travel plans early in the new year. They consult the Internet and their favorite travel agency. A decision is eventually made and excitement about the vacation builds as the date for its actualization draws closer. What makes the vacation even sweeter is the ability totally to walk away from one's place of employment, utterly confident that what one does there has been entrusted to someone else who can capably handle what needs to be handled while we are away. One is thereby released from day to day concerns, free now to enjoy a time of re-creation. 

Caregivers also need times of respite. We all know people who have primary responsibility for a loved one. Their devotion to that loved one is in no way diminished by their need for release from those responsibilities; in fact, respite from those responsibilities maintains, and can improve, the quality of that devotion. How wonderful it is that there are programs and people to whom these care givers can temporarily entrust the care of that loved other. 

In this priestly prayer of Jesus, though, entrustment is elevated to its ultimate level. When all that we can do is done, when all that we can say is said, and when what we can give we have given, we entrust matters to God. This experience happens repeatedly in life, up to and including those moments when we entrust, through death, our loved ones -- and eventually ourselves -- to God's care. 

I suspect that what makes ultimate entrustment possible is all the little entrustments that we learn to make all along the way. We hope wisdom is cumulative, and the more we learn to entrust in matters small, the more graceful we become in our ultimate entrustments. 

Our goal, I believe, is to come to that point where we can say with Walt Whitman:

My terminus near,
The clouds already closing in upon me,
The voyage balk'd -- the course
disputed, lost,
I yield my ships to Thee ... My hands, my limbs grow nerveless;
My brain feels rack'd, bewildered;
Let the old timbers part -- I will not part!
I will cling fast to Thee, O God,
though the waves buffet me;
Thee, Thee, at least, I know.2


1. Louise Kaplan, Oneness & Separateness: From Infant to Individual (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978), p. 41.

2. Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (New York: Doubleday, 1997), pp. 275-276.    

CSS Publishing Company, Sermons for Sundays in Lent and Easter, by Robert Noblett