Gethsemane

Wet and weary, we trudged amid drops of rain, weaving our way through the gnarled olive trees. Gethsemane. There was solemnity in the air as we huddled together waiting for our pastor to unfold the story of that place. The Savior’s story. Our story.

I had been eagerly anticipating this moment. Gethsemane was my place. I was acquainted with the agony, with sweat like drops of blood, with begging for the cup to pass. I wanted to have a moment, to feel something monumental and grandiose as I stood in the physical setting of a story I had claimed as my own. I hung on every word my pastor spoke.

But it seemed he had only just opened his mouth when my ears widened to soak up every other sound in that place. There was the never-ending roar of the tour buses, their diesel engines chugging up the hill below us. Then the fire-cracker resonance of gunshots somewhere not too far away. Finally, as if the very gates of chaos themselves had opened, the call to prayer came emphatic and intrusive over the loudspeaker. I stood straining to hear the words of truth my pastor spoke, while the cacophony of noise washed over me.

Alternating waves of dismay and outright irritation lapped at my feet. This was not how I had scripted this moment. But as I listened to the clamor increase, a thought crept over the horizon of my mind. Was this not, perhaps, the most fitting of soundtracks for Gethsemane?

On that day some two thousand years ago, when Jesus fell to the ground in fervent, urgent communication with the Father, were the haunting cries of our sin screaming just as loud as the present auditory overload in my ears? The weight of what faced Him, of what was ahead for His disciples, did it roar and groan and swell in a halting and inharmonious cadence? Was the voice of the Enemy there, whispering and taunting, chanting and shouting of a victory he did not know he would never taste? And what of the disciples? While only a short distance away the Master agonized, the so-called faithful succumbed to grief and exhaustion. Was the tumult of the world simply too much for them in Gethsemane? I wondered as I stood there: did the racket of my surroundings echo the turmoil of that crucial night?

Ears ringing and mind racing, I toured Gethsemane with a heavy heart. I felt it, the noise and unrest of that place. But the Lord didn’t leave me there. As I traced my way back through the grounds, a word rang out in my mind like a single, sustained note.

Victory.

This was where the battle was fought and won, where self was surrendered to the Father’s will. From Gethsemane Jesus turned toward the cross, determined to lay down His life as the propitiation for our sin. In Gethsemane Jesus set the standard for His followers. Like our Master, we must lay down our lives in submission to the Father.

Victory.

On that rain-soaked afternoon, I celebrated the victory Christ had beneath the olive trees. And I celebrated the victory He has in my life and in the lives of all who will surrender to Him. It is a battle. There is nothing easy or painless about surrender. But we can take comfort knowing we serve One who understands the deepest depth of agony and turmoil. And quietly He shouts above the chaos, His voice a beacon to guide us in the way of life.

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