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Our Lord's suffering in Gethsemane could hardly
arise from the fear of his approaching physical sufferings. Such
a supposition seems wholly inconsistent with the heroic fortitude, the
majestic silence, the calm ascendency over suffering with which he bore
himself till he breathed out his spirit, and which drew from a hardened
and worldly Roman expressions of respect.
Besides, if the mere prospect of scourging and crucifixion
drew from our Lord these strong crying and tears and bloody sweat, he surely
would stand on a lower level than that to which multitudes of his followers
attained through faith in him. Old men like Polycarp, tender maidens like
Blandina, timid boys like Attalus, have contemplated beforehand with unruffled
composure, and have endured with unshrinking fortitude, deaths far more
awful, more prolonged, more agonizing. Degraded criminals have climbed
the scaffold without a tremor or a sob; and surely the most exalted faith
ought to bear itself as bravely as the most brutal indifference in the
presence of the solemnities of death and eternity. It has been truly said
that there is no passion in the mind of man, however weak, which cannot
master the fear of death; and it is therefore impossible to suppose that
the fear of physical suffering and disgrace could have so shaken our Saviour's
spirit.
But he anticipated the sufferings that he was to
endure as the propitiation for sin. He knew that he was about to be brought
into the closest association with the sin which was devastating human happiness
and grieving the divine nature. He knew, since he had so identified himself
with our fallen race, that, in a very deep and wonderful way, he was to
be made sin and to bear our curse and shame, cast out by man, and apparently
forsaken by God. He knew, as we shall never know, the exceeding sinfulness
and horror of sin; and what it was to be the meeting-place where the iniquities
of our race should converge, to become the scapegoat charged with guilt
not his own, to bear away the sins of the world. All this was beyond measure
terrible to one so holy and sensitive as he.
He had long foreseen it. He was the Lamb slain from
before the foundation of the world. Each time a lamb was slain by a conscience-stricken
sinner, or a scapegoat let go into the wilderness, or a pigeon dipped into
the flowing water encrimsoned by the blood of its mate, he had been reminded
of what was to be. He knew before his incarnation where in the forest the
seedling was growing to a sapling from the wood of which his cross would
be made. He even nourished it with his rain and sun. Often during his public
ministry he was evidently looking beyond the events that were transpiring
around him to that supreme event, which he called his "hour." And as it
came nearer, his human soul was overwhelmed at the prospect of having to
sustain the weight of a world's sin. His human nature did not shrink from
death as death; but from the death which he was to die as the propitiation
for our sins, and not for ours only, but for those of the whole world.
Six months before his death he had set his face
to go to Jerusalem, with such a look of anguish upon it as to fill the
hearts of his disciples with consternation. When the questions of the Greeks
reminded him that he must shortly fall into the ground and die, his soul
became so troubled that he cried, "Father, save me from this hour !" And
now, with strong cryings and tears, he made supplication to his Father,
as king that, if it were possible, the cup might pass from him. In this
his human soul spoke. As to his divinely wrought purpose of redemption,
there was no vacillation or hesitation. But, as man, he asked whether there
might not be another way of accomplishing the redemption on which he had
set his heart.
But there was no other way. The Father's will, which
he had come down from heaven to do, pointed along the rugged, flinty road
that climbed Calvary, and passed over it, and down to the grave. And at
once he accepted his destiny, and with the words "If this cup may not pass
from me except I drink it, thy will be done," he stepped forth on the flints
that were to cut those blessed feet, drawing from them streams of blood.
HIS STRONG CRYING AND TEARS. Our Lord betook himself
to that resource which is within the reach of all, and which is peculiarly
precious to those who are suffering and tempted, he prayed. His heart was
overwhelmed within him; and he poured out all his anguish into his Father's
ears, with strong cryings and tears. Let us note the characteristics of
that prayer, that we too may be able to pass through our dark hours, when
they come.
It was secret prayer. Leaving the majority of his disciples at the Garden gate, he took with him the three who had stood beside Jairus's dead child, and had beheld the radiance that steeped him in his transfiguration. They alone might see him tread the winepress: but even they were left at a stone's cast, whilst he went forward alone into the deeper shadow. We are told that they became overpowered with sleep; so that no mortal ear heard the whole burden of that marvelous prayer, some fitful snatches of which are reserved in the Gospels.
It was humble prayer. The evangelist
Luke says that he knelt. Another says that he fell on his face. Being formed
in fashion as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death, even
the death of the cross. And it may be that even then he began to recite
that marvelous Psalm, which was so much on his lips during those last hours,
saying, "I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men and despised of the
people."
It was filial prayer. Matthew
describes our Lord as saying, "0 my Father"; and Mark tells us that he
used the endearing term which was often spoken by the prattling lips of
little Jewish children, Abba. For the most part, he probably spoke Greek;
but Aramaic was the language of his childhood, the language of the dear
home in Nazareth. In the hour of mortal agony, the mind ever reverts to
the associations of its first awakening. The Saviour, therefore, appearing
to feel that the more stately Greek did not sufficiently express the deep
yearnings of his heart, substituted for it the more tender language of
earlier years. Not "Father" only, but "Abba, Father!"
It was earnest prayer. "He prayed
more earnestly," and one proof of this appears in his repetition of the
same words. It was as if his nature were too oppressed to be able to express
itself in a variety of phrase; such as might indicate a certain leisure
and liberty of thought. One strong current of anguish running at its highest
could only strike one monotone of grief, like the note of the storm or
the flood. Back, and back again, came the words, cup . .pass . . . will
. . . Father. And the sweat of blood, pressed from his forehead, as the
red juice of the grape beneath the heavy foot of the peasant, witnessed
to the intensity of his soul.
It was submissive prayer. Matthew and Mark quote this sentence, "Nevertheless not what I will, but what thou wilt." Luke quotes this, "Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me; nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done."
Jesus was the Father's Fellow's co-equal in his divine
nature; but for the purpose of redemption it was needful that he should
temporarily divest himself of the use of the attributes of his deity, and
live a truly human life. As man, he carefully marked each symptom of his
Father's will, from the day when it prompted him to linger behind his parents
in the temple; and he always instantly fulfilled his behests. "I came down
from heaven," he said, "not to do mine own will, but the will of him that
sent me. "This was the yoke he bore, and in taking it, he found rest unto
his soul. Whatever was the danger or difficulty into which such obedience
might carry him, he ever followed the beacon-cloud of the divine will;
sure that the manna of daily strength would fall, and that the deep sweet
waters of peace would follow where it led the way. That way now seemed
to lead through the heart of a fiery furnace. There was no alternative
than to follow; and he elected to do so, nay, was glad, even then, with
a joy that the cold waters of death could not extinguish. At the same time,
he learnt what obedience meant, and gave an example of it, that shone out
with unequaled majesty, purity, and beauty, unparalleled in the annals
of the universe. As man, our Lord then learnt how much was meant by that
word obedience. "He learned obedience." And now he asks that we should
obey him, as he obeyed God. "Unto them that obey him."
Sometimes the path of the Christian's obedience
becomes very difficult. It climbs upward; the gradient is continually steeper;
the foothold ever more difficult; and, as the evening comes, the nimble
climber of the morning creeps slowly forward on hands and knees. The day
is never greater than the strength; but as the strength grows by use, the
demands upon it are greater, and the hours longer. At last a moment may
come, when we are called for God's sake to leave some dear circle; to risk
the loss of name and fame; to relinquish the cherished ambition of a life;
to incur obloquy, suffering, and death; to drink the bitter cup; to enter
the brooding cloud; to climb the smoking mount. Ah! then we too learn what
obedience means; and have no resource but in strong cryings and tears.
In such hours pour out thy heart in audible cnes.
Plentifully mingle the name "Father" with thine entreatles. Fear not to
repeat the same words. Look not to man, he cannot understand thee; but
to him who is nearer to thee than thy dearest. So shalt thou get calmer
and quieter, until thou rest in his will; as a child, worn out by a tempest
of passion, sobs itself to sleep on its mother's breast.
THE ANSWER. "He was heard for his godly fear." His
holy reverence and devotion to his Father's will made it impossible that
his prayers should be unanswered; although, as it so often happens, the
answer came in another way than his fears had suggested. The cup was not
taken away, but the answer came. It came in the mission of the angel that
stood beside him. It came in the calm serenity with which he met the brutal
crowd, that soon filled that quiet Garden with their coarse voices and
trampling feet. It came in his triumph over death and the grave. It came
in his being perfected as mediator, to become unto all them that obey him
the Author of eternal salvation, and the High-Priest forever after the
order of Melchizedek.
Prayers prompted by love and in harmony with godly
fear are never lost. We may ask for things which it would be unwise and
unkind of God to grant; but in that case, his goodness shows itself rather
in the refusal than the assent. And yet the prayer is heard and answered.
Strength is instilled into the fainting heart. The faithful and merciful
High-Priest does for us what the angel essayed to do for him; but how much
better, since he has learnt so much of the art of comfort in the school
of suffering! And out of it the way finally emerges into life, though we
have left the right hand and foot in the grave behind us. We also discover
that we have learnt the art of becoming channels of eternal salvation to
those around us. Ever since Jesus suffered there, Gethsemane has been threaded
by the King's highway that passes through it to the New Jerusalem. And
in its precincts God has kept many of his children, to learn obedience
by the things that they suffer, and to learn the divine art of comforting
others as they themselves have been comforted by God.
There are comparatively few, to whom Jesus does
not say, at some time in their lives, "Come and watch with me." He takes
us with him into the darksome shadows of the winepress, though there are
recesses of shade, at a stone's cast, where he must go alone. Let us not
misuse the precious hours in the heavy slumbers of insensibility. There
are lessons to be learnt there which can be acquired nowhere else; but
if we heed not his summons to watch with him, it may be that he will close
the precious opportunity by bidding us sleep on and take our rest; because
the allotted term has passed, and the hour of a new epoch has struck. If
we fail to use for prayer and preparation the sacred hour, that comes laden
with opportunities for either; if we sleep instead of watching with our
Lord: what hope have we of being able to play a noble part when the flashing
lights and the trampling feet announce the traitor's advent? Squander the
moments of preparation, and you may have to rue their loss through all
the coming years!