Over 2000 years ago on this night Jesus went with his best friends to the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. Jesus went there to seek God and to beg His Father to move in His life. Jesus knew what tomorrow would bring, but His best friends, His companions with whom He had traveled with day-in-day-out for three years, were apparently clueless.
Gethsemane, translated from the original Aramaic, literally means “oil press.” A fascinating blog could be based on the fact that Jesus went to the Garden of “The Oil Press” to seek God. It could be blogged how Jesus felt the weight of Good Friday closing in on Him. I suppose that blog would be wonderful. I suppose that blog would portray Jesus as the humble hero and Savior we all know Him to be. We could all navigate away from that blog feeling great about our Lord and Savior and thanking Him again for all that He has done for us. That would be great and it is right to give Jesus honor and praise.
However… that is not where I am tonight.
Right now I am thinking about a 33 year old man named Jesus who was scared. I am thinking about that man who asked his three best friends in the world to come and pray with Him. I am thinking about Jesus who knew what tomorrow would bring. I am thinking about the three men He trusted to be his armor bearers, his prayer warriors, his prayer team. I am thinking about how they let Jesus down in His weakest moment. I am thinking about these three men who had the privilege and the honor to pray for their, our, Savior as he plead out to our Father in agony. I am thinking about how they chose sleep over prayer. I am thinking about how they chose sleep over praying for the their Savior, their God, their friend…
I think of the pain that Jesus endured tomorrow. The scourging, the carrying of the cross through town and up to Calvary, the nails being driven into his body, the gasps for air as He attempted to breath as He hung on the cross. The pain is incomprehensible.
Then I think about tonight. I can so easily put myself in Peter’s position. I imagine Jesus asking me to come and pray for Him all night. I imagine watching Jesus walk deep into Gethsemane. I imagine starting to pray and then seemingly moments later Jesus is waking me up asking me why I am not praying. I imagine Jesus waking me up not once, not twice, but three times.
What I can’t imagine is the pain my Lord must have felt every time He woke me up. What I can’t imagine is the pain He felt when I disrespected Him as he prepared for the toughest day in history.
I know Jesus prayed for the men who crucified Him, “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing.” (Luke 23:34), but the problem with me is is that I know what I am doing.
I know what I am doing when I pray and I know what I am doing when I choose to sleep instead of pray. My heart sinks because I know I could have been just like Peter, James and John. I have fallen a sleep on Jesus when He has asked me to pray. Jesus has woken me up not once, not twice, not three times, but countless times asking me if I will pray with Him?
Good Friday we “celebrate” the roughest day in history. The scourging, the carrying of the cross, the crucifixion. The pain.
Tonight, I wonder what really hurt Jesus more? The beating and the brutal death of His body? or… The way I let Him down as I fell asleep when He wanted me there praying with Him the most?
