Jesus knew that he was approaching a violent death long before he came
to the end of the road. The temptation to save his life, by changing his
course, or his methods, had long before been met and conquered. He had, of his
own free will, chosen the path to the cross. True, he was not oblivious to
pain. He wanted to live. He enjoyed life. He wanted to postpone death as long
as such a postponement was not a retreat from his teachings. But he was not
afraid to die. Sucha belief would be wholly inconsistent with his life, and
with the fifteen hours of subsequent bravery and fortitude. For his was a
courage before which hardened Roman soldiers involuntarily bowed in awe and
respect; a fortitude on the cross that impelled a hardened criminal to worship
him. Men less courageous have advanced to the scaffold without a sob. Men, who
could have avoided death, have calmly invited it to save the life of a friend. Some
other explanation for Gethsemane is needed. He was not tempted to save his life
by running away from Jerusalem and retiring to his “‘beloved Galilee.” That
temptation had been with him for three years.
We must search deeper, if we would understand the contents of the
‘‘cup.’’ Jesus did not pray to the Father to save his life—it was not his own
life with which he was most concerned. He appealed to Him to solve a problem,
to help him to a decision. It was not fear that caused the struggle, it was
love, an overwhelming love for all mankind. We cannot fully understand Jesus’
love, because we have never fully lived it. But we can catch a glimmer of it
here and there in his ministry. We see a heart so full of love, that children
sense it and cling to him. We see his love embrace the blind, the lame, and the
diseased, and make them whole. We see his friendliness touch sinners, and they
come forth clean. We see him sweep away all barriers of race and social
prejudice. We watch him shed silent tears at the death of his friend Lazarus.
On the Mount of Olives, we hear his lamentations over the coming fate of his
beloved Jerusalem—and out of it all we emerge with a faint understanding of his
love for mankind.
Picture if we can a mother whose heart embraces her children,
sorrowing over the sins of her sons and daughters and struggling over the
decision—ready to die if by her death she might bring them to a realization
of their sins and a change of heart—or to live and strive with her presence
and love to change their lives. It was just such a decision Jesus had to make.
The heart of Jesus’ problem was born of his boundless love for men.
What would most turn the hearts of all men to him? What would best bring ‘‘the
abundant life?’”” He had written his message on the sands, and the winds had
brushed the writing away; he had written on the hearts of men, and they had
covered it- with their cloaks and gone to sleep. Must he also write it in
blood, that his truth should remain forever on the earth? Would death best
serve the ends of the Kingdom? Or was there another way? All his humanity, all
his intimacy with Peter, with James, with John, and with all the others; all
his love of teaching the sinner, and bringing the lost into the fold, urged him
to seek a course away from the cross. All the sin, and vice, and wickedness of
the world he had come to save weighed heavily upon him. Like a mother, stricken
prematurely, suffers on her deathbed for the sins of her children which she has
been powerless to prevent—and longs in her heart to postpone the valley of
death until she can bring them back to righteousness—so Jesus in Gethsemane, through
his love for all the children of men, suffered in sorrow for all their sins,
and prayed to the Father, ‘‘if it be possible.” If there were some other way
without hiding, without running away, without changing his message or his
methods, by which he could continue in his work to save human souls, then let
him remain.
It was a spiritual struggle of soul, which only Jesus could experience
in the full. And in his struggle for another way, he turned to his Father,
‘‘nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.” It was the supreme surrender
of self to God. And Jesus received his answer, an answer born of his own
searching of the depths of his soul; a surrender of self that made him one with
God and opened God’s mind to him.
There is a way which man hath trod
For lo, these throning, countless years;
It is the way of life, of God;
It is the way of right, of tears;
Its winding we may not foresee;
It is the way—Gethsemane.
It is the way whereby we know
Life’s larger meanings and its claims,
The fellowship of human woe,
Our partnership with others’ pains,
It is the way which seems to be
Life’s only way—Gethsemane.
--Charles Russell Wakeley.
He came from his struggle in Gethsemane calm, serene, confident in the
wisdom of the Father, and went to his death without a cry, because his death
had suddenly assumed a glorious purpose, a supreme manifestation of love that
would save all mankind. We cannot read in to the text that Jesus took upon
himself other men’s punishments. Neither sin, nor guilt, nor moral obligation.
can be transferred to the innocent. The suffering of Jesus did not right other
people’s wrongs. But just as the intensity of a mother’s love causes her deep
sorrow for the sins of her children, so the intensity of Jesus’ love for all
men caused him an overwhelming anguish because of their sins, and in that sense
he took upon him “the sins of the world.’’ Truly, he was to die for the sinner,
not to accept punishment for him, but to draw the sinner unto him.
‘And he cometh unto the disciples, and findeth them asleep”: The
disciples were tired. The preceding days had been long and eventful. Jesus
‘‘saith unto Peter, What! could ye not watch with me one hour?’’ His
exclamation was more one of surprise than of condemnation, for he quickly
added: ‘“Watch, and pray, that ye enter not into temptation; the spirit indeed
is willing, but the flesh is weak.’’ ‘‘His pity overcame him and he made
generous allowance for them.”
“Rise, let us be going”: seems to suggest a return to the others of
the Twelve who were possibly by now aroused by the approaching soldiers, for he
adds: “Behold, he is at hand that doth betray me.” (Obert C. Taner, The New Testament
Speaks [Salt Lake City: The Deseret News Press, 1946], 485-88, italics in
original)
