Sermon Tone Analysis

Jesus says something scary: “Now I am going.”

Frightful.

We know it confused the disciples, because they asked: “Where?

Can we go?” Then: “If you go, I’ll go.

I’ll die with you.”

Worse than “I’m going,” Jesus talks in past tenses.

In John 16:4 he says, “I did not tell you this at first because I was with you.”

Then in John 17, Jesus prays, “While I was with them.”

Jesus muddies things, though.

He also says, “I’m still in the world,” or on Easter, “I haven’t yet returned to the Father.”

Though he also says, “Don’t hold on to me.” Jesus views himself residing in some way station, some purgatory: not here, not there.

“I’m going.”

“I’m here.”

“I haven’t returned.”

“Don’t hold on.”

So much about God, Jesus, and the plan we can’t understand; this we can: waiting.

We know what’s coming; we want it done.

Over one hundred men and women recently went through this.

They graduated and received calls as pastors and teachers from Martin Luther College and Wisconsin Lutheran Seminary.

When graduates receive calls someone doesn’t hand them an envelope.

Our schools announce assignments in a Divine Service: lessons, hymns, preaching.

I can testify: it’s a painful experience.

I came across something on Facebook that explains it well: a “Guide to a Call Service Sermon.”

On one side it lists the preacher’s outline; on the other the candidates’ thoughts.

The preacher talks about the excitement of getting a call.

He preaches forgiveness through Christ.

He talks about the joys and struggles of serving God’s people.

What do future pastors and teachers think during the sermon?

“Just tell me where I’m going.”

“Just tell me where I’m going.”

“Just tell me where I’m going.”

You haven’t been there, perhaps, but maybe it’s waiting for your assignment after completing boot camp.

Or, as we celebrate the anniversary of D-Day, think of the soldiers in England boarding ships to sail across the channel.

Fear coursed through their veins, yet a voice hammered, “Just get me on that beach!”

Waiting kills, so Jesus goes back and forth: “I’m here,” “I’m gone.”

This confused the disciples, but not as much as, “I have to go for you to be happy”: “It is for your good that I am going away.”

Jesus isn’t being wishy-washy.

He’s not even being Paul who doesn’t know if he wants to live or die, “Yet what shall I choose?

I do not know!

I am torn between the two.”

Jesus knows for sure and for certain what’s happening, how it will go, and why it must go that way.

He’s just waiting.

He’s almost, but not quite, that guy whose body is here but his mind is elsewhere.

That limps, because Jesus never flags or fails.

He never loses focus.

That’s why he says, “I am telling you guys the truth, everything I’ve said tonight, everything about to happen, it’s good.

Good for you.”

This saddens the disciples.

They abhor Jesus leaving.

They don’t get it.

They ask, “Why?

Where?

When?” Peter comes forward and says, “I’ll die with you!” That’s why, as Jesus says, sorrow fills their hearts.

Not for Jesus, but for themselves.

“I am going to him who sent me, yet none of you asks me, ‘Where are you going?’

Because I have said these things, you are filled with grief.”

The disciples hear, but don’t hear.

Jesus always spoke this way.

“I’m here for a specific job: suffering, dying, rising from the dead.”

They hear, but don’t hear.

“I’ve always talked this way; you’ve hardly listened.”

It’s the “their hearts were hardened” of Mark 6. It’s Peter screaming “Never, Lord, this shall never happen to you.”

Peter boasting: “I will lay down my life for you.”

We don’t quite get what we say, what we claim or ask for.

We don’t always listening.

Nor do we think of God and his Christ first.

It’s us first.

“Because I have said these things you are filled with grief.”

We mourn the wrong things.

We mourn the inconvenience to us.

“Now what am I going to do? Don’t you see the work you’ve stuck me with, Lord?

How can I carry the church with you gone?” Me, me, me.

I, I, I. We can’t see how being without Jesus is good, because we put the burden on ourselves.

“It’s up to me, now.

I have to carry the load.

Thanks, God!”

What presumption!

What arrogance!

What hubris!

The moment we think that it’s about me the church falls and hell opens its jaws.

In that moment you’ve forgotten your catechism: “I believe that I cannot by my own thinking or choosing believe in Jesus Christ, my Lord, or come to him.”

When Peter confessed, “You are the Christ, the Son of God!” Jesus made sure to rain on any pride parade: “This was not revealed to you by man, but by my Father in heaven….On this rock I will build my church.”

On his own, Peter knew nothing.

On our own, we know nothing.

On his own, Peter couldn’t do anything to preserve the church.

Neither can we.

Only the Father made Peter know.

Makes us know.

Thus, the catechism: “The Holy Spirit has called me by the gospel.”

Jesus: “I tell you the truth: it is for your good that I am going away.

Unless I go away, the Counselor will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you.”

Jesus doesn’t just wait for his suffering, death, and resurrection.

He waits for Pentecost and pouring out the Spirit.

“He needs to come,” Jesus says.

“I want him to come.

I’m waiting for him to come.

This is good for you: me leaving; him coming.”

Why?

The Spirit coming means the Church of Christ has everything we need.

When Jesus finishes what he became man to do, when he pours out his blood for your sins, when he lets death wrap its arms around him, when he rests in the tomb, only to rise again, Jesus accomplishes what the Father intended: sin paid for, once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous.