The Garden of Gethsemane. It rolls sweetly off my tongue. It’s a grove of trees on the Mount of Olives. Serene and peaceful. Jesus spent much time alone with the Father there, refreshing and reviving times of solitude. But on this late night, there was none of that. There was nothing but sorrow so deep that Jesus asked Peter, James, and John to keep watch.
Terror gripped him. Terror so great that a tangible manifestation poured from his body. His pain, physical, mental, and emotional, ravaged his mind, body, and soul. Yet, Jesus went willingly to the cross, but not without crippling anguish.
In some instances, an hour passes swiftly. In others, it drags on and on. This night was a grievous hour of praying, begging, pleading, trusting, and believing, knowing what the Almighty himself would say. The late hour brought bodily exhaustion to the disciples. No doubt, the fear they felt also contributed to their weakness in falling asleep, but it paled in comparison to Jesus’ relentless fatigue.
Three times, he comes back to check on them. They’re asleep. Frightened and depleted. But so is Jesus, and he resisted. Jesus reiterates his request.
Have you ever felt that? A willing spirit to succumb to God’s will, but your fear is so great that your weakness may allow temptation to overcome you? You’ve begged God to take it away. Panic looms, and you feel as if your heart might explode.
But Jesus’ torment that night was nothing we can imagine. I can only guess how he was anguished. My weak speculation of what he felt as he contemplated what was to come chokes me. Realizing he must benefit everyone but himself. And yet, miraculously, it would benefit him. His glory accomplished. Still, all that misery for me? I’m plagued by the realization of what he suffered for me.
Oh, he had the power to stop it. The means to save himself, but not without dire consequences for me. During his agony in Gethsemane, the traumatic time of prayer, Jesus not only knew but could feel the malicious violence and humiliation awaiting him.
The only example I can think of is Corrie Ten Boom or other missionaries who have sacrificed their lives for others. They forfeited everything so others could have a changed life—a better life—a life, period.
Yet, because of Jesus, the whole world would change for his actions—his impending, terrifying, torturous sacrifice. Me and every person past, present, and future would not only bypass the malevolent fate that Jesus met head-on but have the opportunity to live in eternal bliss. Why me? I have often asked. Yet I know. It’s not because of anything I’ve done, but only because of His incomprehendale Love.
Jesus suffered agony in Gethsemane for me. His humiliation released me from shame. And His mortifying death on the cross rescued my sure demise. Jesus’ resurrection gave me life. Hallelujah, Sunday is coming.