I want to direct your attention, please, to the Scriptures. We’re beginning this morning to think about the final days and hours of our Savior’s earthly ministry leading up to the resurrection, which we will reflect upon together on Easter Sunday. And so from today going through Easter Sunday, we will be thinking about the events around these last days and hours, beginning with the Garden of Gethsemane in Matthew 26.
Every serious Christian will admit, I think, as we come to the account in the Gospels of the Garden of Gethsemane, that we are standing on holy ground. We feel almost like trespassers, don’t we? Like we’re eavesdropping on a moment too holy, too personal for our profane ears, as Jesus leaves His disciples behind Him and in agony, throws Himself down in the dirt, and cries to God as the horror of what is waiting for Him at the cross begins to open to His view in a new way. There is a solemnity and a gravity to this moment in the Gospel accounts that is surpassed only by the events of the cross themselves.
And so if we are to avoid coming to this passage carelessly, we need to stop and to pray and to ask the Lord to meet with us and to help us. So I’m going to pause for a moment or two before we read the passage and I want each of you to pray quietly in the silence and to ask God for ears to hear what the Spirit is saying to the Church. Pray for grace, not just to know the truths that are taught here but to feel the power of them. Pray for such a sight, such a fresh sight of the love of Christ for you that you cannot help but turn from every competing love to love your Savior more than ever. So let’s turn to the Lord quietly, and then after a few moments I will lead us in prayer and then we will read the text together. Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, as we come to Gethsemane, we know today we have come to a holy place. So we pray for Your Spirit that we may hear Your voice, that we may see ourselves, and most of all that we will see You in Your beauty and glory, Your sufficiency, Your great love. For we ask this in Your holy name, amen.
Matthew’s gospel, chapter 26, beginning at verse 36. This is the Word of God:
“Then Jesus went with them,” that is, the disciples, “to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, ‘Sit here, while I go over there and pray.’ And taking with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me.’ And going a little farther he fell on his face and prayed, saying, ‘My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will.’ And he came to the disciples and found them sleeping. And he said to Peter, ‘So, could you not watch with me one hour? Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.’ Again, for the second time, he went away and prayed, ‘My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.’ And again he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were heavy. So, leaving them again, he went away and prayed for the third time, saying the same words again. Then he came to the disciples and said to them, ‘Sleep and take your rest later on. See, the hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us be going; see, my betrayer is at hand.’”
This is the night on which Jesus celebrated the Passover, the Last Supper, with the disciples in the upper room. After they had eaten, they sang a hymn the gospels tell us, and then they went out and crossed the brook Kidron into the Garden of Gethsemane. John 18:2 tells us Jesus often went here with His disciples. This was a familiar retreat spot for them, amidst all the busyness and controversy of Jesus’ Jerusalem ministry. Maybe it had even been their custom on most nights while they were in the city that after dinner in the cool of the evening Jesus would lead His disciples to this favored place. And now in the quiet there, under the shade of the trees, He would teach them, they would sing together, they would laugh together and weep together. There, they had spent nights, many of them not unlike this one, praying together.
But this night, of course, this night was different. We really don’t know exactly how much the disciples understood of what was to come in the hours that follow. It’s hard to say. Certainly at the Last Supper, just moments before this scene, Jesus had made it plain to them that one of their number would betray Him. So it’s not at all a surprise really that a pall of heaviness and sadness has settled over the disciples that night. They have intuited at least, if not fully understood, that this night was somehow the pivot point upon which their Master’s ministry would hinge.
We all know, don’t we, how as we’ve just read the story’s most shocking feature is that Jesus finds the disciples three times over, despite His entreaties and rebukes, sound asleep. It’s shocking to us in many ways. But Luke’s gospel, Luke’s account actually tells us some of the reason for their sleepiness. Luke 22:45 says that Jesus found them “sleeping for sorrow.” Sleeping for sorrow. And anyone who’s ever been plunged into grief will know something of what that’s talking about. It drains you and saps you of your energy. There’s really no fatigue quite like the exhaustion of sorrow. Here they are, spent, amidst all their sorrow; they can’t keep their eyes open. Matthew says their “eyes were heavy.” So clearly they understand something of what is coming. Grief has overtaken them.
But whatever limited and doubtless muddled insight the disciples have, for Jesus, this night was greater than any that had come before. On this night, Jesus knew He stood on the lip of the abyss and He peers down into the shadows to see all that waited for Him as He descends down into it in the hours to come. The storm clouds of coming suffering have gathered over His head. The weight of His sin-bearing has never felt heavier to Him than at this moment. And as we wrestle with what is happening here, with what it means, I want to focus with you on three things in particular that I hope will help us get at what’s really going on. We’re going to think first of all about the solitude of the Savior. The solitude of the Savior. Then secondly, the sorrow, the sadness of the Savior. And then finally, really as a way to sum up and to interpret all of that, the submission of the Savior. So the solitude, the sorrow, and the submission of the Savior.
The Solitude of the Savior
Let’s think about the solitude of the Savior first. In verse 36 in Matthew’s account we watched Jesus withdraw into the garden with all eleven of the remaining disciples. Judas, you remember, at the climax of the Passover meal, has departed about the grim business of betrayal. And now Jesus has taken them all with Him to Gethsemane, and notice He commands eight of them to remain behind “while I go over there and pray.” Next, He takes Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, James and John, and He goes a little deeper into the garden with them. Then He asks them, too, to remain here “and watch with Me.” And then finally, we see Jesus going still further, now utterly alone, stepping into the gathering shadows of the evening to seek the face of God.
By far, the best book that I know of, if you’re looking for a companion to these sermons in the weeks ahead, the best book I know of on the events leading up to the cross, is called The Shadow of Calvary by Hugh Martin. It is an outstanding book, still available in paperback. I’d really recommend it to you. It is profoundly insightful and deeply moving. Martin, noticing the way Jesus commands first the eight and then the three here, describes Jesus in this moment as being “like a general posting His troops strategically before He enters into the deepest combat of prayer alone. It is,” says Martin, “the Captain of salvation making disposition of His forces for a battle in which the weapons of warfare should not be carnal, in which He Himself should bear all the fire and terror of the conflict.”
Whatever truth there is in that metaphor, as we read verses 37 and 38 of the growing trouble and sorrow that begins to wrack Jesus’ mind and heart, aren’t we also meant to see Jesus marching step by step here into the solitude and isolation that His atoning sufferings actually require? The work of securing our salvation could not be done, you see, in cooperation with the eight, nor even with His three closest friends amongst the disciples. They can’t help Him. The gates into the valley of the shadow of death through which Jesus here is called to pass, they only open for Him; only He is qualified – to bear the burden of the sin of the world. Only He can enter the crucible of divine judgment and make complete satisfaction for sinners. Only He can silence the verdict and sentence of condemnation pronounced over us by being condemned in our place. And so He sets His face resolutely toward the cross here, and by descending steps, we see Him in Gethsemane marching down into the gloom. Step one, He leaves behind Him the eight. Step two, His dearest friends are set aside until He reaches the bottom step and He is not utterly alone.
And the measure of His isolation, I think, becomes quite apparent, doesn’t it, after He comes back to them ironically enough after each successive season of private prayer. What weight must Jesus have been carrying that He, the Savior of the world, the God-man, would turn to His disciples, men who have proven again and again, haven’t they, how weak and fickle and confused and prideful and inconstant they were – what weight must there have been pressing down upon Him that He would turn to them and ask them to pray with Him and pray for Him? The disciples praying for one another – that makes sense. The disciples asking Jesus to pray for them – that, I can understand. But Jesus asking the disciples to pray for Him? Doesn’t that underscore the colossal burden that He bore that He would ask them to intercede on His behalf? He felt the need of the prayers even of sinful, weak, ignorant men – so great was the weight. And so He sets them at their posts and tells them, “Watch and pray. I need you to pray.” And now He comes back. Does He find them wrestling with God on His behalf? Does He even find them praying for each other? Perhaps praying for themselves alone? Is there any evidence? No, what He finds is a group of disciples dozing in the cool evening unaware, it seems, of how fierce the battle has been raging in the soul of the Lord Jesus Christ.
And so we see His rebuke in verse 40 and 41. Look there with me. It’s a sharp enough rebuke. “So could you not watch with Me one hour?” And yet, it is tinged with kindness, with forbearance. Do you see that? “So could you not watch with me one hour? Watch and pray that you do not fall into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” He understands how fragile we are. Even here in the garden He is aware and filled with consideration and compassion for them – how our bodies and our brains run out of steam, how we get distracted, how our constitutions betray our best intentions. He’s not unable to sympathize with us in our weaknesses. The spirit is willing, He knows, though the flesh is weak. And so He is wonderfully patient with them and wonderfully patient with us. Again and again He comes to them, and yet we notice His patience is never indulgence. He still calls us, just as He called His disciples, to watch and pray. He knows the best guard against temptation is always to be people pleading with God, keeping short accounts with God, staying close to God in prayer. And so watch and pray, He says.
Having been caught red handed now, sound asleep, and then treated with such patience by Jesus, surely that’s going to be enough to stir them from their ignorance and their indifference and set them praying now. Surely. He’s caught them red handed. He dealt with them kindly and yet rebuked them. Now they are going to stay awake – right? Well no. He comes back the second time – what does He find? Still asleep. Mark’s account hints actually at their shame. When He comes back and finds them, Mark says, “they did not know how to answer Him.” They’re ashamed. And then even a third time, even after that, a third time He comes back and still they are sleeping, even as Judas is leading a troop of soldiers into the garden to take Jesus away by force. We find our Savior nudging them awake, telling them to “sleep and take your rest no more. The hour is at hand. The Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us be going. My betrayer is at hand.”
Now just take it all in for a minute. His command, His patience, His rebuke, His repeated entreaties – all of them have failed to produce obedience. And still He does not abandon them. Again and again He returns to them. Isn’t that beautiful? He comes back to them again and again. He’s the only one who is awake, active and obedient and interceding and they’re helpless and sleeping. Don’t we recognize ourselves here? I recognize myself here. How often have we returned, like a dog to its vomit, to the same sin, again and again, only to be met with the extraordinary patience of the Lord Jesus Christ who does not abandon us anymore than He did the disciples that night. Of all nights, on this night, knowing what was coming we might have understood had He walked away and left them behind, but He stays there with them, even faced with their repeated failures. Don’t you feel as you read how Jesus dealt with them that He’s dealing with you, He’s dealing with you, with me? Not giving up on us. Calling us back again to prayer. Not giving up on us though we desert Him again and again. Isn’t there a sense in which the foolish sleepiness of the disciples finds its perfect mirror in our own compromised hearts? How wonderful to know that unlike us, unlike us, Jesus never slumbers nor sleeps. And even now, right now as we speak together, He intercedes for us, ever living to make intercession for us, watching over us – we who cannot watch and pray even for one hour.
Well whatever lessons we can learn for ourselves from the disciples’ failure, the big point in the passage isn’t so much to highlight the disciples but to show us how alone Jesus was. Think about the great flocks of sheep and lambs cared for by the shepherds in the Judean countryside. And then as Passover draws near, some of the best would be separated out from the flock until eventually one lamb is selected and taken by the high priest’s hands for sacrifice, for slaughter. That’s what’s happening here. At their own Passover celebration back in verse 31, Jesus, while explaining to them what was about to come, quoted to them Zechariah 13:7 – “I will strike the shepherd and the sheep of the flock will be scattered.” That’s what’s beginning to happen now. Here is the Good Shepherd, who is also the Lamb of God, the spotless Lamb, separated from the flock, led to the slaughter. None can go with Him. None can endure the baptism with which He will be baptized. None will bear the curse or make payment for sin; only Jesus. And that’s the first thing we need to see – the isolation; the solitude of the Savior.
The Sorrow of the Savior
Then secondly, notice the sorrow of the Savior. In verse 37, Mark remarks that when Jesus took Peter, James and John aside, He “began to be sorrowful and troubled.” Luke 22:44 says He was “in agony” and prayed with such intensity that “His sweat became like great drops of blood.” In Matthew 26:38, Jesus Himself tells Peter, James and John directly, “My soul is sorrowful even to death.” Now why is our Savior overtaken with such a depth and intensity of sadness that it feels to Him like a mortal wound to His heart? Well certainly He’s grieved to know that one of His own disciples will be His betrayer. He knows that the failures of His disciples here in Gethsemane are just the beginnings of their desertions and denials and abandonment. He knows He will soon be rejected and beaten and made to suffer unspeakable torments in His body. He knows He will die a cruel, shameful death on a cross. No doubt all of that contributes to His sorrows, but the gospel records intend more. They want us to see by showing us Jesus’ agony of soul something of the spiritual depths of the sufferings Jesus bore. He was a “man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” not mainly because of the abandonment of His friends, nor of the betrayal of Judas or the denial of Peter; not the abuse of the crowds, not even because of the bodily torments of the cross. He is a “man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” because He was the sinless Son of God, made to be sin for us.
Why should that so wound His heart? Why should His sin-bearing work so grieve Him? Let me point you again to Hugh Martin. He explains, I think, this idea brilliantly by contrasting the sorrow Jesus felt at bearing our guilt, contrasting that with the joy we sinners feel at bearing His righteousness. Think about it. We don’t deserve to be accepted before the throne of God, but we are, not because we are righteous but because of the righteousness of Christ reckoned to our account when we believe the Gospel. The Father counts us righteous for Jesus’ sake. And when you grasp that, the wonder of that, the freedom of that, is a source of great joy. Sinners received and welcomed as righteous in the sight of God with no righteousness of their own but the righteousness of Jesus Christ. But Martin reminds us that’s only one side of the equation. Christ’s righteousness reckoned to us leads to joy in the hearts of believing sinners, but the opposite is also true, he says. The sin and guilt of wicked sinners was imputed to Christ. My sin, my guilt, reckoned by God as if it belonged to His Son. He was counted guilty and condemned, though He knew no sin of His own.
Now if Christ’s righteousness counted to me brings a sinner like me joy, how much more will my sin counted to Christ bring the one who is holy, harmless and undefiled and separate from sinners unspeakable grief? The agony of sorrow that overtakes Jesus is the agony of the sin-bearer who sees and feels with a depth and a clarity He’s never before known – something of what it means for Him who knew no sin to become sin for us. Everything in Him recoils from the condemnation He knows He does not deserve; but I do, and so do you. Here at Gethsemane, the jagged edge of my every betrayal, the sharp point of my every lust, my every doubt, my every idol, is pressed more deeply than ever into His holy heart. And the wonder is, the wonder, is that He doesn’t shrink from it. He doesn’t walk away from it. He does not refuse it. He embraces it. He chooses it.
The Submission of the Savior
And that actually brings us to the last thing I want us to talk about. First the solitude, then the sorrows; finally, the submission of the Savior. Now as we’ve said, we all sense that we tread on holy ground here at Gethsemane don’t we, never more so than when we eavesdrop on our Savior’s prayer, His communion with His Father here on the brink of the sufferings of Calvary. Overtaken by sorrow and agony of soul at the point of death, what does He pray? What does He pray? Verse 39, “My Father, if it be possible let this cup pass from me. Nevertheless, not as I will, but as You will.” So the righteous Christ shrinks back from being condemned as the embodiment of sin. His soul, His mind, naturally, appropriately, rightly recoils at being damned as it were under the wrath and curse of God at the cross. When the simple fact is, He is the only human being in the whole of history who never once transgressed God’s law, never once entertained a wicked thought, never once even so much as inclined towards sin. And likewise, His body, His finite, weak, weary, human body rightly retreats from every thought of the Roman lash of beatings, of thorns of His brow, of nails in His hands and feet. So He cries with good reason! It would be monstrous. He would not be a man were He to say anything other than, “Father, if it’s possible, let this cup pass from Me.” This isn’t disobedience. This is actually a demonstration not only of His true humanity but of His perfect righteousness. How else should perfect holiness react to the prospect of being treated as only sin should be treated but like this? “If there’s any other way.”
But notice as the flood of horror rises within Him He doesn’t, He never lifts His voice against God in accusation. “You are unjust! I don’t deserve this!” He doesn’t attempt to bargain for His life. “If you’ll just save Me from My sufferings, I’ll do more, even more for You!” He doesn’t abandon His trust under a torrent of unbelief. “How can there be a God who would bring Me into such suffering?” Aren’t these the ways in which we respond to suffering and trials so often? Accusation. Bargaining. Unbelief. Praise the Lord Jesus isn’t like us. We – fallen, fickle, sinful, but our Savior – the righteous one, the spotless Lamb of God, He comes to God even here as Abba Father. “You are Mine and I am Your dear child and I trust You still.” And so He says, “Not My will, but Yours be done.” That’s the measure of Christ’s obedience. “He humbles Himself by becoming obedient to death, even the death of the cross,” Philippians 2:8. That’s what’s going on right now.
You know, our salvation, there’s a sense in which our salvation hangs on that phrase, that sentence – “Not My will but Yours be done.” It’s interesting that the name, “Gethsemane,” means “oil press.” Probably the garden was a grove of olive trees with a press for making olive oils somewhere inside of it. And it’s an apt title, isn’t it, for the site of Jesus’ agonies here because here in Gethsemane the crushing action of the press of the will of God for our deliverance began to bear down on Jesus with a weight He hadn’t experienced before. Here, the full cost of the work given to Him in eternity by His Father, all of it now becomes apparent not just to His understanding but to His senses, His affections, His emotions. “It was the will of the Lord to crush Him. He has put Him to grief,” Isaiah 53:10 tells us. And in that moment, as the olive press crush of God’s will is bearing down on Him, He bends His knee and says, “I will do what You have asked. Not Mine, but Your will be done.”
Did you know that salvation is by works? That you were in fact saved by works? That your salvation absolutely depends on perfect obedience? It really does, just not your works; not your obedience. We are the disciples asleep in the garden. Our best efforts at obedience are always inadequate. Aren’t they? Inconstant. We need to be saved by Jesus’ works, by His perfect obedience. No one else can do it but Him. All our hope, all our joy, all our peace, all our security rests on this one foundation – Jesus obeyed for me, for you. He looked into the dreadful vortex of suffering and then, loving you, loving you, He chose it. He chose it. He embraced it. He said, “There’s nothing in the cross that I want, nothing that I love in it, but I will obey to the point of death, even the death of the cross, Father, because I am her Savior. I am his Savior. And I love them. And because I love them, I will obey for Your glory and their everlasting good.”
The solitude of the Savior. The sorrow of the Savior. The submission of the Savior. He embraced the will of the Father. It was the will of the Lord to crush Him that you might live. So great is His love. Let’s pray together.
Our Father, we praise You for the Lord Jesus Christ. We praise You. We cannot watch and pray with You one hour, but He gave everything, everything, everything for us to reconcile us to You. How we love Him. Teach us to hate every competitor to Him and loving Him more, live for His glory and praise in the days ahead. For Jesus’ sake we pray, amen.