<u>The Pathway In.</u>
Great events always send messengers ahead. There is a movement in the
spirit currents. A sort of tremor of expectancy affects the finer currents
of air. The more sensitively organized one is, that is to say, the more
the spirit part of a man dominates body and mind, the more conscious will
he be of the something coming.
Jesus was keenly conscious ahead of the coming of Calvary. Apart from the
actual knowledge, there was a painful thrill of expectancy, intensifying
as the event came nearer. The cross cast long, dark shadows ahead. The
darkest is Gethsemane. It would be, for it was nearest. But there were
other shadows before that of the olive grove. Jesus plainly reveals in His
behavior, in His appearance, that He felt keenly, into the very fibre, so
sensitively woven, of His being, that the experience of the cross would be
a terrific one for Him. It was deliberately chosen by Him, and the time of
its coming chosen in the full knowledge that it would be an awful ordeal.
It would establish the earth's record for suffering, never approached
before or since.
As He turns His face for the last time away from Galilee, and to Judea,
it is with the calmness of strong deliberation. Yet the intenseness of the
inner spirit, in its look ahead, is shown in His face, His demeanor. As He
comes to a certain Samaritan village on the road south, the usual
invitation to stop for rest and a bit of refreshment is withheld out of
respect to His evident purpose. It is clear to these villagers that His
face is set to go to Jerusalem. In Luke's striking language, "_His face
was going to Jerusalem._" What going to Jerusalem meant to Him had no
meaning to them. They saw only that face, and were so caught by the
strong, stern determination plainly written there that they felt impelled
not to offer the usual hospitality.
They were Samaritans, it is true, a half-breed race, hated by Jews, and
hating them, but invariably they had been friendly to Jesus. That must
have been a marked face that held back these homely country people from
pressing their small attentions upon Jesus. They are keener to read the
meaning of that face than are these disciples who are more familiar with
the sight of it. The impress already made upon the inner spirit by the
great event toward which Jesus had determinedly set Himself was even thus
early marked in His face.
Later, on that journey south, as the time and place are nearing, He
strides along the road, with such a look in His face as makes these men,
who had lived in closest touch, "amazed," that is, awed and frightened.
And as they followed behind, they were "afraid." It is the only time it is
said that the sight of His face made them _afraid_. Then He explains to
them what is in His thoughts, with full details of the indignities to be
heaped upon His person. The sternness of His purpose, perhaps not only the
terrible experience of knowing sin at such close range, but, not unlikely,
an anger, a hot indignation against sin and its ravages, which He was
going to stab to death, flashed blinding lightning out of those eyes.
It was, not unlikely, something of the same feeling as made Him shake with
indignation as He realized His dear friend Lazarus in the cold, clinging
embrace of death, sin's climax. The determination to conquer sin, give it
a death thrust, mingled with His acute consciousness of that through which
He must go in the doing of it, wrote deep marks on His face. It is the
beginning already of Gethsemane, as that, in turn, is of Calvary.
Earlier in the last week occurs the incident which agitates Jesus so, of
the Greeks' request for an interview. These earnest seekers for truth,
from outside the Jewish nation, seem to bring up to His mind the great
outside world, so hungry for Him, and for which He was so hungry. But,
quick as a flash, there falls over that the inky black shadow of a cross
in His path, and the instant realization that only _through it_ could He
get out to these great outside crowds.
As though unaware of the presence of the crowds, He begins talking with
Himself, out of His heart, saying words which none understand. "Now is my
innermost being agitated, all shaken up; and what decisive word shall I
speak? Shall I say, 'Father, save me from this experience'? He can. No, I
cannot say that, for for this purpose I have deliberately come to it. This
is what I will say--and the agitation within His spirit issues in the
victorious tightening of every rivet in His purpose--'Father, glorify Thy
name.'" This is Gethsemane already, both in the struggle and in the
victory through loyalty to the Father's will.
<u>The Climax of Jesus' Suffering.</u>
And now comes Gethsemane. Both hat and shoes quickly go off here, for this
is holiest ground. One looks with head bowed and breath held in, and
reverential awe ever deepening. The shadow of the cross so long darkening
His path is now closing in and enveloping Jesus. The big trees cast black
shadows against the brilliance of the full moon. Yet they are as bright
lights beside this other shadow, this inky shadow cast by the tree up
yonder, just outside the Jerusalem wall, with the huge limb sitting
sharply astride the trunk.
The scene under these trees has been spoken of by almost all, if not by
all, as a strange struggle. With a great variety of explanations men have
wondered why He agonized so. It _was_ a strange struggle, and ever will
be, not understood, strange to angels and to men and to demons. It is
strange to angels of the upper world, for they do not know, and cannot,
the terrific meaning of sin as did Jesus. It is strange to all other men
except Jesus, for we do not know the meaning of purity as Jesus did. And
it was strange to demons, for in the event of the morrow sin was working
out a new degree of itself, a new superlative, in its final attack on
Jesus. Sin was trying to strangle God. Even demons stared.
Purity refined beyond what angels knew, and sin coarsened beyond what
demons knew were coming together. Purity's finest and sin's coarsest were
coming together in the closest touch thus far, in this Man under those old
brown-barked gray-leaved, gnarly trees. The shock of such extremes meeting
would be terrific. It _was_ terrific here under the trees. It was yet more
so on the morrow. Here was the cross in anticipation. Calvary was in
Gethsemane.
Man never will understand the depth of Gethsemane. We are incapable of
sympathizing with Jesus here. Yet it is true that as the Holy Spirit
within a man increases the purity, and the horror of sin, there comes an
increasing sense of sympathy with Him, and an increasing appreciation that
we cannot go into the depths of what He knew here. In the best of us sin
is ingrained. Jesus was wholly free from taint or twist of sin. He knew it
only in others. Now He, the pure One, purity personified, was coming into
_closest_ contact with sin, and sin at its worst. He had been in contact
with sin in _others_. He had seen its cruel ravages and been indignant
against it.
Now, on the morrow, He is to know sin by a horrid intimacy of contact, and
sin at a new worst. He was yielding to its tightest hold. Sin at its
ugliest would stretch out its long, bony arms and gaunt hands, and fold
Him to itself in closest embrace and hold Him there. And He was allowing
this, that so when sin's worst was done, He might seize it by the throat
and strangle it. He would put death to death. Yet so terrific is the
struggle that He must accept in Himself that which He thereby destroys.
This is the agony of Gethsemane. It may be told, but not understood. Only
one as pure as He could understand, and then only under circumstances that
never will come again.
The horror of this contact with sin is intensified clear out of our reach
by this: it meant _separation from His Father_. The Father was the life of
Jesus. The Father's presence and approving smile were His sunshine. From
the earliest consciousness revealed to us was that consciousness of His
_Father_. Only let that smile be seen, that voice heard, that presence
felt by this One so sensitive to it, and all was well. No suffering
counted. The Father's presence tipped the scales clear down against every
hurting thing.
_But_--now on the morrow that would be changed. The Father's face
be--hidden--His presence _not_ felt. That was the climax of all to Jesus.
Do you say it was for a short time only? In minutes y-e-s. As though
experiences were ever told by the clock! What bulky measurements of time
we have! Will we never get away from the clocks in telling time? No clock
ever can tick out the length to Jesus of that time the Father's face was
hidden. This hiding of the Father's face was the climax of suffering to
Jesus.
<u>Alone.</u>
It was a very full evening for Jesus. In the upper room of a friend's
house they meet for the eating of the Passover meal. There is the great
act of washing His disciples' feet, the eating of the old Hebrew prophetic
meal, the going out of Judas into the night of his dark purpose, the new
simple memorial meal. Then come those long quiet talks, in which Jesus
speaks out the very heart of His heart, and that marvellous prayer so
simple and so bottomless.
Very likely He is talking, as they move quietly along the Jerusalem
streets, out of the gate leading toward the Kedron brook, and then over
the brook toward the enclosed spot, full of the great old olive trees. The
moon is at the full. This is one of His favorite praying places. He is
going off for a bit of prayer. _So_ He approaches this great crisis. There
is a friendly word spoken to these men that they be keenly alert, and
_pray_, lest they yield to temptation. It is significant, this word about
temptation. Then into the woods He goes, the disciples being left among
the trees, while He goes in farther with the inner three, then farther
yet, quite alone. Intense longing for fellowship mingles with intense
longing to be alone. He would have a warm hand-touch, yet they cannot help
Him here, and may do something to jar.
Now He is on His knees, now prone, full length, on His face. The
agony is upon Him. Snatches of His prayer are caught by the
wondering three ere sleep dulls their senses. "My Father--if it be
possible--_let--this--cup--pass_--from--me--Yet--_Thy--will_--be done."
The words used to tell of His mental distress are so intense that the
translators are puzzled to find English words strong enough to put in
their place. A frenzy of fright, a nightmare horror, a gripping chill
seizes Him with a terrible clutch. It is as though some foul, poisonous
gas is filling the air and filling His nostrils and steadily choking His
gasping breath. The dust of death is getting into His throat. The strain
of spirit is so great that the life tether almost slips its hold. And
angels come, with awe stricken faces, to minister. Even after that, some
of the life, that on the morrow is to be freely spilled out, now reddens
the ground. The earth is beginning to feel the fertilizing that by and by
is to bring it a new life.
By and by the mood quiets, the calm returns and deepens. The changed
prayer reveals the victory: "My Father, if this cup _can_not pass away
except I drink it--if only through this experience can Thy great love-plan
for the race be worked out--Thy--will"--slowly, distinctly, with the
throbbing of His heart and the iron of His will in them, come the
words--"Thy--will--be--done." In between times He returns to the drowsy
disciples with the earnest advice again about being awake, and alert, and
praying because of temptation near by.
And gentle reproach mingles in the special word spoken to Peter. "Simon,
are you sleeping? Could you not be watching with me _one hour_?" Yes, this
was Simon now, the old Simon. Jesus' new Peter was again slipping from
view. Then the great love of His heart excuses their conduct. What
masterly control in the midst of unutterable agitation! Back again for a
last bit of prayer, and then He turns His face with a great calm breathing
all through those deep lines of suffering, and with steady step turns
toward the cross.