Faith, Hope and Love

Mark 14:32-38

August 30, 2020 • Mount Pleasant UMC

They called him “the light of the world,” and everywhere he went, he did seem to brighten things up. But not this night. This night it was dark, as dark as it had ever been. Oh, not in the world around him, though certainly that was plenty dark since it was very late at night and there were no street lamps in those days. But the darkness in the garden was nothing compared to the darkness in his soul. The darkness that had threatened him since Sunday now felt overwhelming as he approached what he knew was the last night of his life on earth. The others didn’t know, these friends of his. To them, this was just another Passover (they’d had three of them together now), just another time of prayer. They had been to this garden many times, and every time they came near they could smell the hint of olives in the thick air. This place, this Gethsemane, this “oil press” (cf. Garland, NIV Application Commentary: Mark, pg. 539) was a normal and familiar place of prayer for Jesus and the disciples when they were in Jerusalem, but this night—well, this night, nothing felt normal or right.

“Sit here,” he said to most of them, leaving them by the entrance to the garden. “I’m going on in to pray.” He motioned for three men—Peter, James and John, the “inner circle”—to follow him, which they thought was strange. Usually they had all gone together into the garden to pray. But this night was different, for so very many reasons. Jesus was suffering; it was obvious just to look at him, and besides, he had told them so. “This sorrow is almost killing me,” he said, and then he invited the three to “keep watch” just a little ways from where he was going to pray (14:34; Card, Mark: The Gospel of Passion, pg. 169). As he went just a little further beyond them (about a stone’s throw away, Luke 22:41), these closest friends of his couldn’t help but watch and wonder. What do you do when the strongest person you know suddenly becomes weak (cf. Wright, Mark for Everyone, pg. 197)?

This morning, we’re continuing our journey through the prayers of Jesus, “The Lord’s Prayers,” those few times in the Gospels where we get to listen in on the conversation Jesus has with his heavenly Father. So this morning, we come to a pivotal moment in Jesus’ earthly life: the last night, the time of prayer in a garden near Gethsemane. Let me remind you of a couple of things I shared last week. First of all, Jesus’ prayers (as recorded in the Gospels) are mostly very short. The prayer we get to listen in to here is no different, though we know Jesus actually prayed a lot longer in the garden than just the words that got written down. In fact, he prays three times, each time interrupting his prayer to check on his disciples, who are sleeping nearby. The other thing I want us to remember is that this time of prayer has really been going on all week. Or, at least, this time of prayer is the culmination of this whole week. Remember how we talked last week about Jesus saying that his soul was “troubled” when he realizes that the time for his death is near (cf. John 12:27). That was at the beginning of the week. Now, as he goes to Gethsemane to pray on what we think is Thursday night, that “trouble” as crescendoed into “sorrow to the point of death” (14:34). After all, this is the last time, this side of the cross, he will be with his disciples, his friends. And the knowledge of what awaits him the next day—it’s almost more than Jesus can bear. One scholar points out that throughout Mark’s Gospel, Jesus’ emotions are on full display, and this night, this time in Gethsemane, is the “most emotionally charged” moment in the whole Gospel. If he doesn’t spend some time with his heavenly father, the sorrow he is feeling just might kill him before the cross does (cf. Card 169).

And so, Jesus turns to prayer, and while it is a short prayer, it’s an enormous journey. As we look at the prayer, there are three words that will guide us through it. These are the three things, incidentally, Paul said always remain when everything else fades (cf. 1 Corinthians 13:13), and in the darkness of this night, in the agony of Gethsemane, Jesus prays these three things: faith, hope and love.

Jesus begins his prayer on this night by expressing his faith: “Abba, Father, everything is possible for you” (14:36). When we rush through this prayer, we miss that, for a man in agony and deep, deep sorrow, this is a bold statement to make. Jesus is expressing faith in his heavenly Father, the one he calls “Abba.” Before it was the name of a popular 70’s rock group, “Abba” was the word Hebrew children used to refer to their Daddy. It is a deeply intimate word, and it implies a close relationship between father and child. In the first century Jewish world, God would sometimes be known as and called “Father,”  but no one would have addressed God as “Daddy” or “Papa.” It’s language intimate enough that most good Jews would feel like they are intruders in this conversation. This is the kind of language a young child uses, a child who is completely dependent upon their Father to meet all their needs. And, in that world, it was the father who decided even whether a child lived or died. Jesus is expressing extreme dependency, unlike anyone in that world would have ever known before. By doing so he opened up the possibility that we could know and trust God the Father that intimately as well (cf. Card 170; Garland 540). God is our Abba, our Daddy.

So then, because of that close connection, Jesus not only understood God as a Father who wants to meet our every need, but maybe even more importantly, God is a Father who can meet every need. “Everything is possible for you,” Jesus prays. Everything. Not some things. Not just a few things. Everything. Everything is possible. I remember times when our children were crying, needing something, and I either had no idea what it was they wanted or had no way to provide what they wanted. And, as a father, as a parent at that moment, you feel helpless. You want to meet the child’s needs, but you can’t. As human fathers, human parents, we have limitations. There’s only so much we can do. But God has no such limitation. “Everything is possible for you.” In his prayer, Jesus is affirming what he taught earlier, when he told the disciples, “With God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26b). He is praying his faith—faith that there is nothing God the Father can’t do; there is nothing Abba can’t provide. On this darkest of nights, Jesus begins his prayer with his faith, with what he knows to be true.

From faith, Jesus moves to hope. “Take this cup from me,” he prays (14:36). Take this cup from me—this is his expressed hope during this night of prayer, that some other way will be found for the redemption of humanity. Jesus is God made flesh; he is both God and human. In his divinity (his “God-ness”), he knows what is coming. Jesus, I believe, has known from the start what his mission is. The letter to the Hebrews says that Jesus “endured” the cross because of “the joy set before him” (Hebrews 12:2). In other words, he knew there was a resurrection waiting for him on the other side of the cross. That did not change the fact that, in his humanity, he did not want to go to the cross. He did not want to go through the suffering, the pain, the humiliation that waited for him on Calvary. Who among us would? We call a person who wants to suffer, who seeks out pain, mentally ill. They are a masochist, to use the medical and psychological term. “Beware of the person who wants to suffer” (Walt, Right Here Right Now, pg. 442 Apple Books edition). Most of us, the vast majority of us, avoid any kind of suffering if we can. Just listen to our prayers and the things we tell God—they tend to be about our suffering. Listen to any usual gathering of prayer requests; most of them are about sickness, pain, death or some other form of suffering. It’s natural; we don’t want to suffer, and sometimes, we even believe we shouldn’t have to suffer. I will tell you that both times I have had heart surgery, I have been so sick I did not want to go on. Especially the first time, back in 1999, I remember a distinct moment when I was so sick I actually begged God to take me home. I told him to either end the sickness or end me. I can still see in my mind’s eye exactly where I was in the parsonage when I prayed that prayer. Now, today, standing before you, I’m thankful God didn’t answer that prayer the way I thought I wanted it answered, and I also know that my suffering in that moment was really pretty small compared to what others go through, sometimes on a daily basis and for an extended period of time, but in that moment, I thought I knew what suffering was and I wanted no part of it. Even though I knew that the suffering I was going through would eventually lead to healing—I knew that in my head, but try convincing your heart. When we’re suffering, we’re just suffering and it’s all we can see. And if it goes on for a while, we begin to demand that it end. You know what Jesus’ prayer here teaches me? He shows me it’s okay to hope for something better, to hope beyond suffering, and that it’s okay to ask for a pass. We might not get it. Things still might not happen the way we want them to, but it’s still okay to ask. We pray our faith, and our hope…

And that leads us to love, the thing Paul says is “the greatest of these” (1 Corinthians 13:13). We usually read that phrase at a wedding and then we wax eloquent over how wonderful love is between husband and wife. And it is, but that isn’t really what Paul had in mind when he said love is the greatest of all. He had in mind Jesus, in the garden. Jesus, on the cross. Jesus, saving the world. That’s the kind of love that is the greatest thing—not hearts and flowers, but love that is willing to give itself, sacrifice itself, for the sake of others. It’s love that says, “Not what I will, but what you will” (14:36). Love looks like surrender. Love looks like trust. Love looks like surrendering and trusting over and over again. There is no fatalism here in Jesus’ prayer. It’s not this kind of prayer: “Yeah, well, okay, whatever you want me to do.” No, this is a conscious decision to trust that God the Father knows best. He alone knows what can ultimately save the world. Jesus is not giving up here. No, he is choosing to take a path that will lead to the most powerful demonstration of love this world has ever seen (cf. Walt 442).

“Take this cup from me,” Jesus prays. There must be some other way! I don’t want to do this! Now, some will dismiss Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane as just sort of part of a play, that he really didn’t mean what he prayed. So was he acting here, not sincere? I don’t believe that to be true. Jesus is praying here a prayer of lament, a long time-honored prayer tradition in the Jewish faith. The psalms are full of lament, though we seem to have lost the ability to pray such prayers today. We focus on happy prayers, on good prayers, on prayers that somehow make us sound pious. But a good, rousing lament doesn’t worry about any of that. Lament is not polite prayer. Lament is saying to God exactly what is on your mind and not worrying if he can take it—because you know he can. Lament is trusting that God listens to prayer, God hears us when we call, God knows us when we speak (cf. Garland 540). That’s the kind of prayer Jesus is lifting up in Gethsemane. It’s not a show; it’s not an act. Because, honestly, who would he be doing it for? The disciples are asleep, every one of them. They’re tired, worn out by the events of the week and of the day. They can’t stay awake for a single hour. Here in the garden, it’s just Jesus and his Father, and, just as he will do on the cross (in a prayer we’ll look at in a few weeks), he’s not afraid to say what he is feeling. And it is at this very moment, in this incredibly intimate exchange, while he’s desperately speaking to his Abba, Father, that Jesus’ request is refused. His prayer is denied. No rescue is provided. No voice comes. “God has already spoken, and his Son must obey.” Here, in Gethsemane, in the darkness, surrounded only by the soft sounds of snoring disciples, “Jesus meets the dreadful silence of heaven” (Garland 541; Wright 200). The most loving response the Father can give is to not respond, which sets Jesus on the path to the cross.

The silence of God—have you heard it? Have you experienced it? We can’t imagine what it must have felt like to Jesus, second person of the Trinity, who has for eternity enjoyed the constant presence of the Father, and now is alone. Silence. Maybe you’ve known a similar time, a time when you have prayed and prayed and prayed and it seems like God isn’t there or isn’t answering. C. S. Lewis, in his book A Grief Observed, described such times this way: “A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence.” Often, such times are so personal and so difficult that we find it hard to talk about them, but I wonder if perhaps Jesus’ prayer here in Gethsemane might be a model for us in those times. Just like the famous “Lord’s Prayer” is a model of prayer for ordinary days, perhaps Jesus’ desperate prayer in the darkness of Gethsemane can become a model for prayer in silent times, on dark days, in desperate times. Start with faith; pray what you know to be true. Pray the Scriptures, especially the psalms of lament which not only complain about the situation but also praise God for who he is. Sometimes we need to speak the truth out; we need to hear it in order to be reminded of it. Try prayers like these: “You are my King and my God, who decrees victories for Jacob. Through you we push back our enemies; through your name we trample our foes” (Psalm 44:4-5). Or this: “God is my King from long ago; he brings salvation on the earth” (Psalm 74:12). Or this: “We your people, the sheep of your pasture, will praise you forever; from generation to generation we will proclaim your praise” (Psalm 79:13). Faith calls us to pray what we know to be true, and if you can’t find words of your own, borrow words like these from ancient saints who walked through dark times of their own.

Faith, then, moves us toward hope, and hope, remember, is praying what we need or want. Hope requires us to be honest, though. It’s not that God doesn’t know what we need or what we want; it’s that we need to admit to our own souls where we are and where we want so much to go. Jesus was going into Jericho one day and encountered a blind beggar named Bartimaeus. Even though people told Bartimaeus to be quiet, he kept yelling louder and louder, trying to get Jesus’ attention—which he did. And when he stood before Jesus, he heard the savior asking, “What do you want me to do for you?” In the darkness, in the struggle, Jesus asks us the same question. So pray your hope. Pray like King David: “Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me” (Psalm 51:12). Or this: “Let the light of your face shine on us. Fill my heart with joy…” (Psalm 4:6b-7a). Or when we feel trapped in what looks like a hopeless situation, words like this might help: “Set me free from my prison, that I may praise your name. Then the righteous will gather about me because of your goodness to me” (Psalm 142:7). There is always hope. Let me also say this: the Biblical authors are never timid about reminding God of what their suffering might do to his reputation. In other words, you’ll find things like, “What will people think of you if you don’t help me?” or “People won’t worship you if you don’t rescue me.” Now, I’m not saying you can threaten or blackmail God, but it is within the realm of Biblical language, faithful language, to hold onto the hope that, in everything, God might be honored and glorified. Pray your hope—even if that hope is, like Jesus’ hope, “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to go through what I’m going through.”

Faith leads to hope, and hope leads us to love. “Not my will, but your will be done.” Praying our love is about being willing to go where God leads, where God sends. In the face of no answer from the Father, Jesus expresses his willingness to be obedient, even if it means death on the cross (cf. Philippians 2:8). This is not a prayer of weak resignation, nor is it a prayer of continuing to try to convince God to do what we want. We’ve already expressed our hope. Now we pray the prayer of obedience, of being willing servants who love the God who sees it all and knows more than we do. There’s a big difference between two types of prayers at this point. Sometimes we want to pray, “If it’s your will, please do…such and such.” What Jesus prayed instead was, “Not what I will, but what you will.” Do you hear the difference? The first prayer is still insisting on our own way, our time, our plan. “If it’s your will” is really saying, “This should be your will, and I’m still wanting to do what I want to do.” The second prayer says, “I want to do God’s will and forget about my own.” The second prayer leads us in the way of Jesus, every single time. It leads us in the way of the cross (cf. Walt 443).

So praying love says we are willing to go in the direction God sends us, but here’s the really good news: we don’t go alone. Oh, it may feel like it. As I mentioned, in a few weeks, we’re going to look at Jesus’ prayer of abandonment from the cross, when he felt desperately alone. But we are promised that Jesus will never leave us or forsake us (cf. Matthew 28:20; Hebrews 13:5). When we go in his direction, we are not alone. And that’s a good thing, because in most cases—actually, I think, in all cases—to do what he calls us to do, we will need him with us! Dr. Bill Lane, New Testament scholar, put it this way: “You should always work at the level of your own inadequacy. Don’t just do what you’re good at; anybody can do that. You should always be right on the edge so if the Lord doesn’t show up to help, you will fail miserably” (In the Studio with Michael Card, “Ordinary Miracles,” August 24, 2020, 13:33). When we pray, “Not my will, but yours,” we’re praying out of our love for God and we’re counting on him to show up.

So Jesus prays, and then he comes back to where he left his best friends and he finds them sleeping. He had asked them to “watch and pray,” but overwhelmed with the events happening around them, they fall asleep. I probably would have done the same. (My family will tell you I can’t stay up much past 10:00 and often I’m asleep in my chair at 9:30!) Jesus singles our Peter, calling him by his pre-disciple name, Simon, and asks him, “Couldn’t you keep watch for one hour?” (14:37). Simon doesn’t answer. This one who boasted just a few verses above that he would stick with Jesus even if everyone else fell away (cf. Mark 14:29) has already given in to his own weakness. He will continue to do so throughout the night. And then, I believe the next statement Jesus makes to all three of his inner circle, and because it was written down, it gets addressed to us as well. “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak” (14:38).

That last part gets quoted all the time when people are giving into temptation; we use it almost as a justification for the times we give in. You know, like when Tammy Roberts sends cupcakes to the office with Jack and they end up on my table in my office. As I reach for another one, I might say, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak and the cupcakes are so good.” Jesus wasn’t talking about that kind of temptation, however. In this context, he’s talking about the temptation we feel to walk away from what God calls us to do and who the Father calls us to be. “Watch and pray,” Jesus says. If we’re sleeping, spiritually speaking, if we’re not alert to God’s call, we’ll miss it and we’ll just keep doing our own thing, doing our own will and not doing God’s. “Watch and pray”—pray your faith, your hope and your love. That prayer will lead you in the way of Jesus every time.

With everything that’s going on these days, I’m betting there are some of you here or listening online who are going through one of those dark times. Maybe it feels like a long time since you’ve seen anything resembling light. The virus, the violence in our streets, the uncertainty about the future, the economy—not to mention issues in our own families or with our jobs—it’s enough to send a person into a true “dark night of the soul.” I want to encourage you this morning: God is with you, he hears you, and he has a plan for you. Through the prophet Jeremiah, he told Israel this (in the midst of their own dark time): “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (29:11). That doesn’t mean it will be easy, or that there won’t be difficult days involved. It does mean that ultimately his plan for us is good—it means that even when skies are dark, there is still hope. It means that the worst thing—say it with me—is never the last thing. So in the midst of this difficult time, in the darkness, pray your faith, pray your hope and pray your love. To help you make a good beginning in that life of prayer, I’m going to invite you to pray Jesus’ prayer with me as we turn to God the good, good Father in prayer. Let’s pray…

Abba, Father, everything is possible for you.

Take this cup from me.

Yet not what I will, but what you will.

Amen.