Sermon 3/16/2014
Mark 14:32-42
24 Hours
that Changed the World: The Garden
We’re continuing today with our
Lenten series examining 24 hours that changed the world, as we study in depth
the 24 hours before Jesus’ death on a cross. Last week we looked at the Last
Supper, and thought about how we are Christ’s body in the world, how we say
yes, again and again, to God’s offer of covenant with us. Today, we turn to what
happened after the meal. After the meal, Jesus and his disciples
go to the Mount of Olives, and sing hymns, as was customary. And there Jesus
tells the disciples that they will all soon desert him. They all protest, Peter
in particular, but Jesus tells Peter that Peter specifically will soon deny
Jesus, multiple times.
And then they all go to a place
called Gethsemane, a place that meant “Olive Press,” named for a place to
process the olives from the olive trees of the region into olive oil. And
there, among the olive trees, Jesus takes Peter and James and John – the three
he’s selected in other times when he’s wanted only his closest with him – he
takes them aside and tells them, “I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain
here, and keep awake.” That’s what amazes me most about this passage: even
though Jesus knows that Peter is one of the people who will ditch him – not
just abandon him but actively, verbally, repeatedly deny even knowing him –
even knowing this, Peter is still one of the three that Jesus wants to
accompany him on his darkest night. The grace of that is so powerful, of God
loving us, and not even just loving
us, no small thing in itself – but using us, valuing us, even with our
ridiculously messy, faulty lives.
Then, we read, Jesus goes a little
farther off from them and throws himself to the ground, an action of deep
distress, of submission, of begging.
And Jesus prays and prays, “Abba – Father – you can do anything. Take this cup
away from me!” Take this unfolding of events out from in front of me. Let there
be another way! “But,” Jesus says, “not what I want, but what you want.” Jesus returns to Peter,
James, and John, and finds them sleeping. He ask them again to stay awake with
him, even for just an hour. And again, he prays, the same words. Not what I
want, but what you want. And again, he returns to find the disciples sleeping.
Mark, the gospel writer, tells us that yes, their eyes were very heavy but that
also, “they didn’t know what to say to him.” Their sleeping is at least part an
avoidance technique. Hey, sorry, we couldn’t be more helpful, Jesus, but we
were really tired! This pattern
repeats even a third time. But finally, returning the last time, Jesus says,
“Enough! The hour has come … see, my betrayer is at hand.” The night is over.
I think there are two points of view
for us to consider in this passage. What do we take away imagining the
perspective of Peter, James, and John, and what do we take away as we imagine
what this experience was like for Jesus? I appreciate particularly Adam
Hamilton’s chapter, “The Garden,” which you either have or will study in Bible
Study this week in our Lenten study book. In the chapter, Hamilton acknowledges
that scholars have pondered why Jesus kept praying to have the cup removed from
him, why he was so anguished in the garden as he prayed alone. Various theories
abound – maybe Jesus was feeling tempted, as he had at the start of his
ministry, to take a different path – to say the disciples weren’t ready yet to
lead on their own, to say that more could be accomplished if Jesus lived on
earth longer. Others theorize that Jesus could have been anguished in
Gethsemane, anticipating that people would confuse and misrepresent his
message, that he hadn’t reached enough people, that Jerusalem would soon be
destroyed by the Romans. Jesus was anguished over the future. And I think there
is probably some truth in both those theories. But Hamilton, sensibly, I
believe, simply asks, “Why wouldn’t
Jesus have been full of anguish about the prospect of being arrested and beaten
and crucified?” Why wouldn’t Jesus be thinking, praying, “If there’s another
way to do this, I’d like to choose that way instead!” We follow a God who is
God-with-us, Emmanuel, God made flesh. And so Jesus, God made flesh, can
grieve, as we would, because of the difficult road he knows lies ahead of him.
When was the last time you knew that
the right thing to do was something
you really, really didn’t want to do?
Oh, I’m not talking about doing a household chore or something – you know you
should wash the dishes, but you really don’t want to. But when you were at a
crossroads in life, and you knew which way you were supposed to go. You just
really, really, didn’t want to go
that way. I was talking with Sara Bailey recently about her prayer time, and
about how you know the difference between your own voice and God’s voice in
prayer. Sara, I have to tell you, is a powerful pray-er, and between her deep
faith and God’s amazingness, some pretty neat things happen when Sara sets her
mind on praying for something specific. Sara had encountered a challenging
situation, and she was praying for direction from God. For clarity. And God
answered. Clearly. God told Sara to lead. As she and I were talking, Sara
wondered what we often wonder in prayer: Is the answer I’m hearing my answer,
or God’s answer? Sara and I are both introverts, though, and since I understand
a bit about Sara’s personality, I could tell her with confidence: if you were
just hearing your own voice Sara, and not God’s, it would never be telling you
to lead like that. If the answer you are hearing is telling you to do something
that you kind of dread doing, then chances are, you’re hearing from God!
A few weeks ago, when we were talking
about habits of effective disciples, we talked about service, about what it means when we say “God’s will be
done.” And here, we witness the most powerful example of what it means, as
Jesus prays these words in the garden. Jesus prays, and he knows that what God’s
will is for Jesus to drink from the cup set before him. And so Jesus grieves,
because he knows he’s going to follow God’s exact plan for him. Because he
knows he’s heard God’s answer. We, too, can grieve, even when we’re faithfully
following God. We grieve for other plans we might have had, or for the hard
path that’s ahead of us, or for the anguish that giving up our control and
handing it to God causes us. The anguish is a part of the journey of
discipleship. A part we go through before the joy to come is visible from where
we stand.
Sometimes we connect to Jesus’
anguish in this passage. But often, I think, we’re the disciples with eyes very
heavy with sleep. This particular passage of scripture became personally
meaningful for me when I was doing a chaplaincy internship at Crouse Hospital
while I was in seminary. I’ve shared with you before about my experience of
being in a chaplain in the NICU – the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit – being with
anxious or hopeful or grieving families of newborns struggling to live – and
realizing what every pastor, perhaps every person needs to realize. Sometimes
we’re not able to or supposed to or wanted to fix things for people we encounter who are experiencing such
suffering. The parents of struggling newborns knew that I couldn’t make their
babies thrive. But if I could, if I would,
I could listen to their anguished soul-bearing. That’s harder to do though.
It’s easier to look for solutions, fixes, that keep us busy and separated from
the emotional impact of feeling the agony someone else is experiencing. And so
this passage of scripture, of the disciples sleeping through the night while
Jesus really, really just wanted some
company, some people to share in bearing witness to his grieving, became my
touchstone verse for my chaplaincy, and for my understanding of pastoral care
in general. Ninety percent of the time, I can’t fix things. But I can stay with someone while they offer their
cries of anguish to God. We can all do that.
Back in February, I attended our
conference’s clergywomen’s retreat, a gathering for women in ministry for some
continuing education and spiritual renewal. We met with Rev. Jane Vennard, who
works as a spiritual director. At one point, she asked us to pair up and to
take turns – 5 minutes of time a piece, speaking, about whatever was on our
hearts and minds, while the other person would just listen. Not comment, not interject. Not share how they went through
something similar themselves. Not agree, or disagree. Simply listen. As an
introvert, I didn’t find the prospect of listening without interrupting
particularly challenging. But I found the prospect of having someone else
listen to me in such an intense,
focused way pretty overwhelming. How often do we expect someone to truly,
deeply listen to us? Is it so unexpected, someone listening to us so deeply,
that it even feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar?
We, like Jesus, can offer our anguish
to God, even as we commit to following where God leads. And we, reminding
ourselves how easy it is to feign sleep like the disciples, can offer ourselves
to our companions on the journey as they offer their anguish to God. It sounds so simple. And yet, the disciples
didn’t find it so. And yet, it was such a valuable gift, that companionship,
that it was one of a very few things Jesus ever asked for.
This Lent, let us keep awake, praying
that God’s will be done in our lives, even when we’re having a hard time
syncing God’s will with our own. Let us keep awake, knowing that for God, all
things are possible, and we want to be ready for them. Let us keep awake, even
if it is only because we must offer our cries of anguish to God. Let us keep
awake, even if it is only to stay, stay, stay with one who needs some strength
for the journey. Let us keep awake, even when our eyes are heavy with sleep,
even when we don’t know what to say. Let us keep awake. The flesh is weak. But
let our spirits be willing. Amen.
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