084. Jesus In Gethsemane.
Jesus In Gethsemane.
Delightful must have been that interview, which we have just done contemplating, between Jesus and his disciples. Doubtless it would have been pleasant to both, could it consistently have been prolonged. But Jesus knew that his hour was approaching. The Prince of Darkness was marshaling his forces. His betrayer had gone forth, and was gathering his assistants in the already-matured project of surrendering him to bigoted and vindictive rulers and priests.
Jesus, therefore, retired from the chamber; and, taking his course across the Cedron, invited his disciples to accompany him. But his heart was too full not to continue to flow forth in the same tide of holy love. Discoursing to them, as they went, in the same terms of gracious endearment, “he took them,” it has been beautifully observed, “into a new region of truth; expatiated over fields filled with the products of infinite love; ranged over ground which they had only before beheld dimly at a distance—ground, which brought them within sight of the gate of heaven. He drew them close to himself; show them his inmost designs; showed them his very heart, with all their names engraved there, and all their interests bound up and made one with his dearest purpose, and with the glory of the Father.”
What more could he say? Nothing. Love—pure, holy, ardent love—could utter nothing more affectionate. But love could do more—and this was the last and kindest effort which even the Redeemer could make in their behalf—he could pray the Father for them. And such a prayer he now offers, as they had never heard; and such as, till then, had never gone up from earth to heaven. We cannot dwell upon it; but it was a prayer, “in which he asked with the largeness and confidence of one who felt that he was entitled to ask what he would; a prayer, in which he pleaded as if he were already standing by the ‘altar of incense,’ above, and had actually entered on his office of Intercessor there.” (The prayer, to which reference is here made, the reader will find in John 17. The fifteenth and sixteenth chapters, John 15-16, are occupied with Christ’s valedictory discourse, possibly uttered on his way to the garden, and was followed by this prayer before he entered.) They had now reached Gethsemane, whither he was designing to lead them. Here was a garden, lying on the western slope of the mount of Olives, and from which the “Holy City” was in full view. He had often been there: indeed, it was his accustomed retreat, when he wished to retire from the world; or, when sad and depressed, he sought relief by contemplation, and intercourse with heaven.
They had been in the garden but a short time, before a sudden and surprising change came over him. That heavenly calmness—that divine serenity which he had manifested during the evening, gave way to forebodings the most painful—to agony the most intense. “My soul,” he exclaims, “is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me.” The evangelists are remarkable, as is well known, for the simplicity of their narrative. They use no embellishments; they seem intentionally to avoid all emotion, and relate events as if they had no personal interest in them. And yet, from their simple statement, who has not inferred that the anguish and agony of the Redeemer were not most remarkable?
How shall we account for his horror—his dismay—“his strong crying, and tears”?—for that “agony,” which brought a bloody sweat upon his body, and which fell in drops to the ground? “In the ordinary course of human affairs, an innocent man, of common fortitude,” it has been observed, “resigns himself, with acquiescence, to his fate: his integrity supports him. Hence, many illustrious and virtuous men, in the heathen world, supported by the native fortitude of the human mind, poured contempt upon all the forms of death, and departed with magnanimity and with glory. In the early times of the Christian Church, the first disciples followed their Lord in a path that was marked with blood.” Even tender females braved the rage of the enemy, and the fires of the tormentor, and, with triumph, embraced every species of sufferings which human ingenuity could inflict. But Jesus trembles, and stands aghast! Wherefore this, when his death, though painful and severe, is to prove so glorious—and to be fraught with blessings upon a world, while that world shall last?
There was reason for all he felt, and for all he expressed. He had a cup of suffering to drink, from which he might well shrink. Bodily suffering, that he could endure. The taunts and mockings of his enemies, those he could sustain. But the assaults of Satan, now unbroken—for it was his hour—who could support them? But, far more than these, a sense of the Father’s wrath, added to the crushing weight of a world’s entire guilt—such a load was rolling on towards him, and he unsupported—only a few friends around him— and they now—strange to tell!—on the verge of sleep, and soon to be scattered! Who would not be “sore amazed?”
“My soul,” said he—and who can wonder at the exclamation?—“my soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death.” He felt, evidently, that he should not be able to sustain the trial through which he was going to pass. The incumbent cloud had a density and a blackness, which so oppressed his soul, that he verily believed that he should be crushed. Where, then, would be the purposes of Infinite Mercy? What would become of a race of sinners, for whom he was about to die? What a pall would be spread over a world of spiritual darkness! And would not some harps cease their heavenly strains, even in the temple of glory itself! In such an extremity, what should he do? There was one resort. Though the Father was hiding his face, and was calling unto the sword of his justice to smite, he could and would seek unto Him. Selecting, therefore, his three most confidential disciples, he retires to another part of the garden; where, leaving them, he directs them to tarry and watch with him, while he should proceed a little further, and pray.
Until now, there had been no such spectacle on earth. He, who, but a little before, on the mount of Transfiguration, had reassumed the glory which he had with the Father, before the foundation of the world—He, who had been favored with the presence of Moses and Elias from the mansions of immortality—who had slept in tranquility amid the storm—who had said to the raging billows, “Peace, be still!”—and who had entered the chambers of death, and called back to life the tenant of the grave!”
“Behold the man!” He kneels—falls on his face, and cries—still addressing God, as he was wont when he walked in the light of his countenance, by the endearing appellation of Father—“O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me!”—yes, if it be possible—if I may be spared these readful and overwhelming agonies—if justice can be satisfied—if thine honor can be maintained—if thy government can proceed, and a face of rebels can be spared, then spare me; let this incumbent cloud, which shuts out thy smiles, roll away—let the hour of the powers of darkness terminate—“nevertheless,”— Blessed Jesus! I thank thee—and a world of sinners should thank thee—that thou didst not stop here. No! there was within thee a love which still ruled— which floods of affliction could not drown—and that love prompted thee to add: “Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.”
O wonderful power of faith! wonderful triumph of love— the obedient love and regard of Jesus for his Father’s honor! That was still the ruling passion of his soul! “Let thy will be done:” so had he taught his disciples to pray, and now he himself sets them an example; he shows what filial love and confidence can do in the very darkest hour through which the Redeemer of men was called to pass.
Having thus referred his sorrows and sufferings to God, he returns to his disciples. But what a spectacle meets his eye! His disciples—his best beloved disciples—and among them the one who, that very evening, had lain, in all the confidence and familiarity of affection, on his own bosom— that, and the other disciples, were asleep! They asleep, and he wading through billows which were well nigh overwhelming his soul! “What!” said he, addressing himself to Peter—the ardent, the confident, the already-pledged Peter—“What, could ye not watch with me one hour?” “Watch?” said he. Yes; “watch!” greater trials are approaching: “watch and pray;” implore the support and aid of God, in view of the calamities which are now hourly thickening upon us.
Again he retires; it was his privilege to urge his suit; he might cry importunately, and he does. But now, observe, his prayer is altered. “O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, thy will be done.”
Once more he returns to his disciples, doubtless to caution them against danger; to show them what interest he had in their welfare; to enlist their sympathies amid his sufferings, and to excite them to engage in prayer for the help which they would need, as calamities poured in upon them.
But, again, they have sunk on the ground, and their eyes are fast locked in sleep! What could he think? What should he say? Should he awake them? Should he upbraid them? At this time he awoke them not; but again, betaking himself to the footstool, he repeats before his Father the supplications which he had already uttered. And was there no response from that Father, who “always” heard his Son? Yes; the Father heard, and answered. An angel was sent to strengthen, 1:e. to encourage him. The precise manner in which this was effected, is not revealed; but it is easy to imagine that that celestial messenger conveyed the assurance, that, in answer to his faith and submission to the divine will, he should not be suffered to fail. The arms of Almighty love and strength should be placed underneath and around him. The sufferings, which were upon him and before him, he must endure. Sin could be expatiated in no other way, but by the shedding of blood— the pangs of the cross would alone render it consistent for God to offer salvation to sinners. But he should be sustained; he should triumph; “he should see of the travail of his soul, and be satisfied.”
Thus assured, the Redeemer repairs to his disciples whom he still finds locked in sleep. Oh, it was strange! It was passing strange, that they could then sleep—and sleep on, amid the tears, and groans, and prayers of one whom they so much adored! Once more he expresses his surprise: “Do you sleep now, and take your rest? Is it a time to indulge yourselves in sleep? Behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is betrayed! Rise, let us be going.”
Such were some of the scenes of that solemn night, in which Jesus was betrayed. Such were his sufferings! And such his prayers! The practical lessons which are here taught, we must leave our readers to supply. But we cannot omit to remind them of their obligations of love to Him, who suffered so much on their account. O, had Jesus failed; had his nature sunk; had his fortitude forsaken him; had the fountain of his love ceased one hour to pour forth its hallowed tide—where, where had we been? What would have become of a world of sinners? Shall we ever cease to love him? Shall we ever wound and grieve him, by neglecting his cause, or growing weary in his service? No:
Love so amazing—so divine, Demands our life—our love—our all.
We can never be placed in circumstances precisely like those of the Redeemer. Such sufferings we shall never be called to endure. But we have guilt—and guilt of the deepest dye upon us; and, for which, we may suffer, God only knows how much; what deep and agonizing afflictions and pains await us, we cannot foresee. But they may come; and, if they do, the example of Jesus we may imitate. We may hie to a throne of grace. We may cry once, twice, thrice, as he did. Nay, we may pray on, day after day, and month after month, until God removes our trials; or, until, in some way, he shows us that it is his will that they should continue. But when that, in the providence of God, is our lot, we have then the standing assurance to comfort us: “My grace is sufficient for you.” When troubles, like a burning sun, Beat heavy on our head, To this Almighty Rock we run, And find a pleasing shade.
How glorious he—how happy we, In such a glorious friend! Whose love secures us all the way, And crowns us at the end!