"Who in the days of his flesh, when he had offered
up prayers and supplications with strong crying and
tears unto him that was able to save him from death, and
was heard in that he feared: though he were a Son, yet
learned he obedience by the things which he
suffered." HEBREWS v.7, 8.
Eight ancient olive trees still
mark the site of Gethsemane; not improbably they witnessed
that memorable and mysterious scene referred to here. And
what a scene was that! It had stood alone in unique and
unapproachable wonder, had it not been followed by fifteen
hours of even greater mystery.
The strongest words in Greek language
are used to tell of the keen anguish through which the
Saviour passed within those Garden walls. "He began
to be sorrowful"; as if in all his past experiences
he had never known what sorrow was! "lie was sore
amazed"; as if his mind were almost dazed and
overwhelmed. "He was very heavy," his spirit
stooped beneath the weight of his sorrows, as afterward
his body stooped beneath the weight of his cross; or the
word may mean that he was so distracted with sorrow, as to
be almost beside himself. And the Lord himself could not
have found a stronger word than he used when he said,
"My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto
death."
But the evangelist Luke gives us the
most convincing proof of his anguish when he tells us that
his sweat, like great beads of blood, fell upon the
ground, touched by the slight frost, and in the cold night
air. The finishing touch is given in these words, which
tell of his "strong crying and tears."
THE THINGS WHICH HE SUFFERED. What were
they? They were not those of the Substitute. The tenor of
Scripture goes to show that the work of substitution was
really wrought out upon the cross. There the robe of our
completed righteousness was woven from the top
through-out. It was on the free that he bare our sins in
his own body. It was by his blood that he brought us nigh
to God. It was by the death of God's Son that we have been
reconciled to God; and the repeated references of
Scripture, and especially of this epistle, to sacrifice,
indicate that in the act of dying, that was done which
magnifies the law, and makes it honorable, and removes
every obstacle that had otherwise prevented the love of
God from following out its purposes of mercy.
We shall never fully understand here
how the Lord Jesus made reconciliation for the sins of the
world, or how that which he bore could be an equivalent
for the penalty due from a sinful race. We have no
standard of comparison; we have no line long enough to let
us down into the depths of that unexplored mystery; but we
may thankfully accept it as a fact stated on the page of
Scripture perpetually, that he did that which put away the
curse, atoned for human guilt, and was more than
equivalent to all those sufferings which a race of sinful
men must otherwise have borne. The mystery defies our
language, but it is apprehended by faith; and as she
stands upon her highest pinnacles, love discerns the
meaning of the death of Christ by a spiritual instinct,
though as yet she has not perfectly learned the language
in which to express her conceptions of the mysteries that
circle around the cross. It may be that in thousands of
unselfish actions, she is acquiring the terms in which
some day she will be able to understand and explain all.
But all that we need insist on here,
and now, is that the sufferings of the Garden are not to
be included in the act of Substitution, though, as we
shall see, they were closely associated with it.
Gethsemane was not the altar, but the way to it.
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!
