REFLECTION:
As we walked from dinner, I was reminded of one of my first lessons as an apprentice. I was to become familiar with the story of the righteous man, Job. For it is in this story where I was to first become acquainted with suffering.
It has been said by the ancients that Job’s story was the first story to be transposed into the written word. Suffering is so universal, and thus, seeing God’s presence in the midst of suffering would be imperative to any child of God.
Our ancestors suffered greatly at the hands of Pharaoh. And then our neighbors, the Midianites, Edomites, the Philistines, and on and on.
We’ve suffered at the hands of each other.
Soon my lessons shifted toward the coming Messiah, the “Suffering Servant”, as my Teacher would call Him. We would read aloud the writings of the prophet Isaiah:
“Surely he took up our pain
and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God,
stricken by him, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
and by his wounds we are healed.
We all, like sheep, have gone astray,
each of us has turned to our own way;
and the Lord has laid on him
the iniquity of us all.” Isaiah 53:4-6
I’ve been with Jesus of Nazareth for three years. I’ve seen Him provide for the multitudes, relieve the suffering of the sick, sit with the lonely, welcome the outcast, and give rest to the possessed. He’s healed so many of so much. He’s healed me.
But I’ve never seen Him like this.
He’s been tired for so long. After dinner tonight, even His eyes looked weary. His walk has slowed.
As we approach the Kidron Valley, He pauses and leans up against a tree, looking heavenward. He scans the skies, looking back above the Holy City. He sees nothing.
He rubs His face. A heavy sigh follows. He looks toward the Garden and waves us up the hill.
We walk through the gates in silence. He motions toward a few of us and we follow Him deeper into the Garden.
I want to help, to do something, anything. He looks heavenward again, searching the skies.
He finally speaks, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death . . . stay here and pray.”
As He moves further into the darkness, He stumbles and then collapses. His face now fully covered by His robe. Agonizing cries fill the mountainside. He lets out an excruciating wail.
I can’t sit still. I get up and move closer.
He pulls Himself to His knees and looks again into the heavens. Sweat seeps out of Him, a sweat so thick it is mixed with blood.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “Pray,” He mumbles.
He slowly falls again, now to His hands. His body begins to tremble. He wipes His face and then lies prostrate. Moments pass, minutes, an hour maybe, and I hear Him, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.”
I watch Him and listen. Tears streaming down my face. Soon I am weeping uncontrollably. Where is God’s presence in the midst of this? All that He has faced. And all He is facing now . . .
I close my eyes as tightly as I can, praying David’s Shepherd Psalm over and over again.
