The Way of the Sword
Summary
When Jesus is arrested in the garden, he already knows exactly what is coming—and he surrenders anyway. Working through John 18, Dominic Jackson traces the arrest of Jesus and holds up two contrasting ways of moving through the world. Jesus humbles himself while others seek power. Jesus protects while others attack. Jesus gives his life while the world chooses death. At the center of it all is a choice the crowd is forced to make between two prisoners—a political revolutionary ready to destroy Rome's enemies by the sword, and a nonviolent rabbi who heals the ear of the soldier sent to arrest him. Dominic asks which of the two most of us would honestly choose, and what that reveals about where we actually place our hope.
Questions for reflection
The sermon opens with four stories of false accusation before arriving at Jesus. What does it do to you to hold Jesus' arrest alongside those other stories rather than treating it as just a religious event?
Dominic points out that it's not just Judas or the Romans who are seeking power and status — it's also the disciples, including the mother of James and John. Where do you see that same impulse in yourself?
Jesus says, "I am" — the divine name — and the soldiers fall back. He is clearly in control. What does it mean that he chooses to surrender anyway?
Peter reaches for his sword, and Jesus tells him to put it away. When are you most tempted to reach for your version of the sword — to protect yourself or others through force, control, or retaliation?
Dominic distinguishes between nonviolence and passivity — Jesus chose one, not the other. What does active, nonviolent faithfulness look like in a conflict you're currently navigating?
If you had to be honest, when you think about the people or forces you believe are most harmful in the world today, do you find yourself more drawn to the way of Barabbas or the way of the cross? Why?
The crowd's choice of Barabbas reveals where they placed their hope. Where are you placing yours?
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I'd like to share four true stories. In a moment, you'll see that they all share one thing in common.
Story one. In 2020, Sadie and Eddie Martinez — a Latino couple — went to Michael's to pick up crafting supplies, as they often did. They happened to be shopping at the same time as a so-called mom influencer named Katie Sorensen. The couple had never met this woman. There were no interactions between them other than proximity. However, later that day, Sorensen posted a vlog accusing the couple of following her through the store, making concerning comments about her children, and suggesting to her millions of followers that they were likely human traffickers. There was no evidence. No names were initially named. But police took the video seriously, checked security footage, and questioned the couple. Eventually it was discovered that Sorensen had made the entire thing up for content — she never expected anyone to actually follow up. She was later charged with filing a false report.
Story two. For decades, a man named William Woods was being personally and publicly harassed by a mentally unstable man who claimed to be the real William Woods. The first man worked in IT for the University of Iowa, earned over $150,000 a year, was married with children, and was considered a pillar of his community. The second man — the one making the claim — was homeless, had spent years in prison and mental hospitals connected to identity theft charges, was heavily medicated, and couldn't reliably recall key details about the life he said was his.
After 35 years of both men claiming the same identity, DNA evidence revealed that it was the homeless man who had been telling the truth the entire time. The other man had apparently stolen his wallet at a hot dog stand in the late 1980s, started using a few credit cards, and eventually built his entire life around the crime. For 35 years, the real William Woods was turned away by police, employers, and banks — even declared mentally unstable — simply for claiming to be who he actually was.
Story three. In 2008, a father from New York named Adrian Thomas rushed his unresponsive baby to the hospital. The child passed away. Then, as if that weren't devastating enough, police accused Adrian of abusing the child. During interrogation, he was told there was overwhelming evidence of abuse and that if he didn't confess, his wife would go to prison for the rest of her life. Faced with that choice, he confessed and was convicted of murder — sentenced to 25 years to life.
After six years in prison, the confession was thrown out during a retrial when video evidence surfaced showing the coercive nature of the interrogation. And it was later discovered that the child hadn't died from abuse at all — but from an infection.
Story four is about the arrest, trial, and sentencing of Jesus of Nazareth — which we just read a portion of.
All four stories are centered around false allegations. All four involve people claiming to be exactly who they were. A couple simply shopping. A man who spent 35 years insisting on his own identity. A grieving father seeking medical help for his child. And the Son of God, the Messiah, the Savior of the world — claiming to be exactly that, even knowing it would cost him his life.
That's where we're going this morning.
[Prayer]
The Way of Jesus and the Way of the World
We continue our series following Jesus on the road to the cross. As many of us are moving through the season of Lent — shaking up our routines, seeking God, walking with Jesus toward Calvary — today we land in John 18, picking up right after Jesus spends the night praying in the garden.
If you were here last week, you may have noticed we stepped out of John's gospel and into Matthew's account. That's because Matthew gives us the closest view of that prayer in the garden — the anguish, the sweat, the disciples falling asleep. Now we're back in John. And what I'd like to do as we move through this text is hold up two contrasting pictures: the way of Jesus and the way of the world. How Jesus responds is so completely unlike what any of us would expect — or, if we're honest, what most of us would choose.
A Note on John
Verse 1: When he had finished praying, Jesus left with his disciples and crossed the Kidron Valley. On the other side there was a garden, and he and his disciples went into it.
John doesn't even name the garden. Thankfully the other gospel writers do, and we can piece it together — Gethsemane. He also doesn't mention the agonizing prayer we looked at last week in Matthew. That's very John.
What's fascinating about the gospel of John is what he chooses to include versus what he leaves out entirely. He will devote five chapters — nearly a quarter of his entire gospel — to a single Passover meal in the upper room. And then here, at one of the most action-packed moments in the entire story, he's leaving out details left and right.
I'll admit I do the same thing. I'll have a two-hour conversation with my brother and come home and Megan will ask how he's doing. "Good." She'll ask if my nephew passed his driver's test. "I forgot to ask." Whether my friend finally bought the engagement ring. "We didn't get to that." She'll ask what we actually talked about. "College basketball, mostly. The new Radiohead album. Some Hemingway."
The point is, each gospel writer has his own focus. And rather than that being a problem, I actually think it's one of the most beautiful things about the four accounts. Each writer shows us a different picture of Christ.
Matthew emphasizes Jesus as King — the Jewish Messiah fulfilling Old Testament prophecy, writing for a Jewish audience. Mark focuses on Jesus as Servant — fast-paced, action-oriented, miracles and healing and justice, writing to a Roman audience. Luke presents Jesus as Savior — the Son of Man, the Savior for all people, including Gentiles, women, and the marginalized. And John reveals Jesus as the Son of God — the eternal Word made flesh, the bringer of eternal life, with a particular focus on the spiritual and supernatural dimensions of what's happening beneath the surface.
Which is exactly why John is about to jump into what is less a political arrest and more a spiritual battle.
The Garden: A Second Adam
John's first readers would have immediately recognized the setup. A sinless man in an appointed garden, about to do battle with Satan's representative. A human being in a garden being confronted by the evil one.
The first time that happened, in the opening pages of the Bible, the human race fell.
This time, the human race will be saved.
Comparison One: Jesus Humbles Himself. The World Seeks Power.
Verse 2–3: Now Judas, who betrayed him, knew the place, because Jesus had often met there with his disciples. So Judas came to the garden, guiding a detachment of soldiers and some officials from the chief priests and the Pharisees. They were carrying torches, lanterns, and weapons.
Think about this for a moment. Jesus — the Son of God, the Messiah — is about to submit himself to an arrest. He is about to be bound. The one who breaks chains is about to be put in chains.
Look at his entire life through this lens. Born a baby, announced by angels. Baptized in the river as if he were a sinner, then declared the beloved Son by a voice from heaven. On his last night, he already belongs on the throne. And yet what does he do? He gets on his knees and washes the dirt off his followers' feet. He dies on a cross — and then defeats death.
Then there's Judas, who goes the opposite direction. Rather than humbling himself, he elevates himself. He sells out his friend, his rabbi, his Savior.
Now, I have to be careful here, because when I read Bible stories I tend to fall into a trap. There are the wicked villains, and there is Jesus, and I know exactly which side I would be on if I were in the story. But between the demonic and the perfect is an entire population — the human race — and it's not so clean.
Look at Matthew 20:17–22. Jesus has just told the disciples, again, exactly what is about to happen to him — betrayal, condemnation, flogging, crucifixion, resurrection. He's been telling them for years. And immediately after, the mother of James and John approaches him. Kneels down. And asks: "Can my two sons sit at your right and left hand in your kingdom?"
Jesus is literally walking toward his death. And her first thought is a promotion request.
And it's not just her. Throughout three years of ministry, the disciples argue repeatedly — over and over — about who among them is the greatest. Who deserves the most honor. Who will be second in command.
It's not just Judas. It's not just the Romans. It's not just the pagans. Even the people closest to Jesus are jockeying for position while their king marches toward a humiliating execution.
When the world takes, Jesus gives. When the world seeks power, Jesus empowers. When the world puts itself first, Jesus puts himself last.
Comparison Two: Jesus Protects. The World Attacks.
Verse 4–8: Jesus, knowing all that was going to happen to him, went out and asked them, "Who is it you want?" "Jesus of Nazareth," they replied. "I am he," Jesus said. And Judas the traitor was standing there with them. When Jesus said, "I am he," they drew back and fell to the ground.
Notice first: Jesus, knowing all that was going to happen. No surprises. He has known for a long time exactly what this night would look like.
And notice his response. Our English translations say "I am he," but the word he is not actually in the original Greek. If you have a literal translation or a study Bible, you'll often see it in italics — a note that it was added for readability. What Jesus actually says is two Greek words: ego eimi. "I am."
That is the divine name. When Moses asks God for his name in Exodus, God answers: I am. And Jesus, standing in this garden, uses the same declaration.
Whatever causes the soldiers to fall back — whether it's the supernatural weight of those words, or shock, or offense — the text makes clear that Jesus is completely in control of this moment. He is not a victim. He is not cornered. He is choosing every step of this.
He asks them again: "Who is it you want?" And then: "If you are looking for me, then let these men go."
Why knock back the guards at all, if he was about to surrender himself anyway? He could have called down thousands of angels and taken them all out. He shows his power — and then immediately uses it to protect his disciples. Not himself. Them.
Five seconds later, though, Peter draws a sword and cuts off the ear of the high priest's servant.
Jesus: "Put your sword away. Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?"
And then — in the other gospel accounts — he heals the man's ear. The ear that Peter just cut off.
Even here, at the moment of his arrest, even when his own followers choose the way of the world, Jesus chooses to heal.
Please hear this, though: Jesus chose nonviolence, but he was not a pacifist. Those are two different things. One is active; one is passive. Jesus was not passive. He marched deliberately toward his death, on his own terms, and chose nonviolence in that march — and then doubled down on it by healing the man who had come to arrest him.
Comparison Three: Jesus Gives His Life. The World Chooses Death.
As Jesus is taken away, we begin to enter the sham trial — the wrongful conviction of the only truly innocent person this world has ever seen.
And there's that line: "Caiaphas was the one who had advised the Jewish leaders that it would be good if one man died for the people."
He had no idea what he was actually saying. It reads as political calculation, but it's an unknowing prophecy.
Later in the story, we meet Barabbas. In The Passion of the Christ, Mel Gibson depicts him as a wild pirate-type — scars, grunts, chaotic energy. We have no idea what he actually looked like, but what we do know is this: he was part of an insurrection that involved the political assassination of Roman officials. In many ways, he was less like a common criminal and more like a William Wallace figure — a revolutionary, a community hero to some, at war with Roman occupation. He and his movement, the Zealots, were trying to take down Rome from the inside.
Pilate, observing the tradition of releasing a prisoner at Passover, puts the choice to the crowd: Barabbas or Jesus. A murderer or a rabbi. The sword or the cross. Who do you want?
And when the crowd chooses Barabbas, they reveal where their hope lives.
Think about it from their perspective. On one side: a rabbi who heals people, welcomes outsiders and the marginalized, preaches an upside-down gospel, and apparently can't even protect himself. On the other side: a revolutionary who is done with prayer and ready to pick up a sword and destroy their enemies.
If your enemies are Rome, and you have to choose — who do you trust to actually fix things?
And I want to ask all of us the same question. Whoever you believe is most harmful to this world right now — whatever forces or people you think are standing in the way of justice or peace — if you had to choose between a preacher and a political assassin to take them down, what would you actually choose? Many of us, if we're honest, would take the latter.
The way of the sword, not the way of the cross.
Of course, what history shows us is stunning. Less than 400 years after the cross, the Roman Empire becomes Christian. Not through a bomb or a genocide or a military coup. Through the cross — the thing that looked, in that moment, like total defeat.
The Jury
I believe we are all listening to a trial this morning. And in a sense, we get to be the jury.
Three choices we face, over and over:
Jesus humbles himself; others seek power. We can follow the example of Jesus in humility — or we can choose to elevate ourselves, to reach for influence, fame, and control.
Jesus protects; the world attacks. We can follow the pattern of Jesus the protector, putting others first all the way to the very end — or we can choose self-preservation.
Jesus gives his life; the world chooses death. Pilate says, pick one. Barabbas — the one who will destroy your enemy. Or Jesus — the one who will save him. The way of the sword or the way of the cross.
Every day, we get to choose where we put our hope.