A Friend of the Man of Sorrows

They say you remember things more vividly when they’re out of the ordinary. Maybe that’s why I remember everything from that extraordinary night so clearly. 

The evening started ordinarily enough though. We were all together. I remember feeling pretty hungry. But Peter and James and some of the others were at it again. Arguing over who was the greatest. Who was going to be the leader. Who would be Jesus’ right hand man. It wasn’t the first time they argued over these things.

But then Jesus did something so unthinkable. He took off his outer clothes, wrapped a towel around his waist, poured some water into a bowl. It was so unexpected none of us knew how to react. Except Peter of course, who immediately protested. But Jesus said: “If I don’t wash you, you have no share with me.” I still remember that look on Peter’s face. I guess we all felt a little bit guilty that we were trying to figure out who was the greatest, when the greatest among us was kneeling before us, washing our feet. One by one. Toe by toe. 

We didn’t understand then. But He was going to show us throughout the night what it looked like to truly love. To lay down our lives for a friend. A friend. That was His word, not mine. But I didn’t realize He was talking about me. About us.

After supper that night, we walked into the Valley of Hinnom. As we crossed the Brook Kidron, even though it was dark, in the flickering light of our torches, I could see that the water was tinged with the blood from the tens of thousands of lambs that had been slain and sacrificed at the temple. This wasn’t my first Passover, but something about that scene struck me that night. Could it be that we were walking with the One to whom all these sacrifices pointed? 

It was about midnight when we entered the garden with Jesus. Gethsemane means “oil press”. In the faint light of the moon, I saw the silhouette of the olive press in the distance. It was here that olives were gathered and crushed in the press to produce oil. It often reminded me of balmy autumn evenings, and the warmth of community gathered together to harvest and press olives. But tonight, the trees, the stone press, it all seemed so… cold. 

Jesus often came here alone to pray. But that night, he told Peter, my brother James and me to come with him. He told the other eight to wait at the entrance. Judas hadn’t come with us. 

I walked next to Jesus. We often walked and talked together. But tonight we were silent. A few times it looked like Peter had wanted to say something. But something about that night - I don’t know if it was the eerie chill that hung in the air, even though it wasn’t that cold; or the long shadows cast over the dark, damp ground as the moonlight tried to filter through the leaves of the olive trees. Or maybe it was just something about Jesus’ manner, as if He knew what was going to happen next to Him - made it so that none of us wanted to, or dared to say anything.

Suddenly Jesus broke the silence. 

“My soul is very sorrowful. Even to death.” 

Our Rabbi rarely expressed in words the emotions that surged within his soul. Not because he didn’t feel deeply. He did. When his dearest friend Lazarus died, Jesus wept at the tomb with Mary and Martha, Lazarus’ sisters. And only a few days before, when we were on the Mount of Olives, I saw Him weeping again, as He looked at Jerusalem and cried: “How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” 

But tonight. Tonight was different. Tonight He told us: “My soul is very sorrowful. Even to death.” I can still feel the chill of that statement as his piercing eyes met mine. This same Man who not long ago shut his eyes through one of the most terrible storms on the Sea of Galilee was now watching, eyes wide open, anticipating the weight of the sin of the world crashing down upon his soul, the guilt of humanity crushing down upon His body. 

 “Remain here, and watch with Me.” He said. 

Jesus went just a stone’s throw away to pray. But it felt like a wide chasm had opened between us. Have you ever felt like you wanted to do something for a closest friend who was suffering, but nothing - no words or deeds - would suffice? And all you can do is just… sit… there. 

“Remain here, and watch with Me.” He said. 

Was that what He wanted? Not an intercessory team. Not a cheerleading squad. Just, friends. Who would be with Him. Who would tarry with Him. To tarry is to stay longer than intended. And we did that a lot with Jesus. When the people had dispersed, we tarried. When the religious leaders had left, we tarried. When the miracles were done, the crowds fed, the sermons spoken, we tarried. We stayed longer than intended. Where else could we go? Only He had the words of life. 

But tonight, far from the cacophony of the crowds, the chaos of ministry, was that what He wanted from us? To simply remain with Him? To watch with Him? 

But how do you be a friend to a man… of sorrows? 

In the silence, I heard Him groaning: “My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not my will but Yours be done.” 

Was this surrender? Not our will, but His? 

That was the last thing I remembered before I must have fallen asleep. Because the next thing I knew, James was nudging me hard as I heard Jesus saying to Peter:  “Could you not watch with me one hour? Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation.” 

I rubbed my eyes quickly, feeling embarrassed to have fallen asleep. But whatever embarrassment I felt quickly turned into heartbreak as I looked up and saw my Rabbi, my Jesus on his knees, praying with such anguish I’d never seen and certainly had never known before. He was in such agony that his sweat became like drops of blood falling on to the hard ground. Such distress that an angel came to minister to Him. My heart broke. I wish we had known how to minister to Him, to be there for Him. 

But even then, like what He said, “the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Because we fell asleep. Again. A second time. 

Suddenly, I woke up. I didn’t know you could feel darkness. But I felt it that night, in the cold. Heavy. Suffocating. Threatening. But in the darkness, I could still hear Him praying, a third time: “Not my will, Father, but Yours be done.” 

Olives are pressed three times to extract oil. The first time for oil used to light the lamps in the Temple. The second for oil used in cooking and in medicine. And then after more weights were added, a third pressing to extract oil used to make soap for cleansing. Then the olives had nothing left to give. 

That night, in the Garden of Gethsemane, where olives were crushed for oil - to light, to heal, and to cleanse - my Jesus was pressed - for our shame, for our sickness, and for our sin - until just like the olives, He had nothing left to give, nothing left to pray but: “Not my will, Father, but Yours be done.” 

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“But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised (crushed) for our iniquities; The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, And by His stripes we are healed.” Isaiah 53:5

“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:12-13