Good Friday - Gethsemane Prayers

Mark 14:32-42

They went to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.” He took with him Peter and James and John and began to be distressed and agitated. And he said to them, “My soul is deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and keep awake.”

And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. He said, “Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me, yet not what I want but what you want.”

He came and found them sleeping, and he said to Peter, “Simon, are you asleep? Could you not keep awake one hour? Keep awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

And again he went away and prayed, saying the same words. And once more he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were very heavy, and they did not know what to say to him.

He came a third time and said to them, “Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? Enough! The hour has come; the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Get up, let us be going. Look, my betrayer is at hand.”

Thursdays are the roughest mornings in my household. On Thursdays, Clive, my three-year-old, goes to “school” for four hours. As soon as he wakes up and realizes what day it is, he starts: “I don’t want to go to school. Please don’t make me go. I want to stay here with you.”

The other days of the week he’s spoiled rotten by a mix of grandparents who watch him. So Thursdays have become the hardest day of the week. Who knew playing with friends, eating snacks, going outside for recess, and painting was so tough.

When we pick him up, he gleams about his day and the fun he’s had. But drop-off… that’s another story. A few weeks ago I took him, and the whole car ride he kept saying what he had started earlier that morning: “Please don’t make me go. I don’t want to go. You can take me with you.”

Finally we got into school, walked to his classroom, and said goodbye, or tried to. Clive gripped me tight, saying again, “Please don’t make me do this.” I peeled him off me, told him it would be okay, and left. And as I walked away, he threw himself on the ground like only a toddler can do and wailed.

And I knew he would be fine. The teacher texted later and said he was having a blast within minutes. But as I walked down that hallway, hearing him sob, it hurt my heart. I kept thinking, this is awful. Maybe you’ve experienced this as a parent, hearing your child plead, “please don’t make me do this.” Or maybe you were the child pleading.

Whether you have been the child pleading or the parent walking away, you have stood closer to Gethsemane than you realize.

All throughout Lent we have been listening to prayers from Hebrew Scripture and the people who prayed them. Again and again we discovered that many of those prayers were our prayers too. Prayers we have prayed without realizing it. Prayers we wanted to pray but weren’t sure we were allowed to pray. Tonight is no different.

Because Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane may be the most relatable, honest, raw, and human prayer in all of scripture.

Up until now, Jesus has never wavered in his journey to Jerusalem. He never hints that he wants things to go another way. And so we begin to imagine a Jesus who isn’t afraid, a Jesus who wants the cross, a Jesus who is somehow different from us. But at Gethsemane we discover something important.

Jesus is afraid. He hopes there is another way. He does not want to die. Because he is human, as human as you and me.

After the meal they shared together and with Judas gone to do what Judas does, Jesus takes the eleven disciples to Gethsemane, which in Mark is more like an olive grove than a garden.

He takes his closest companions, Peter, James, and John, a little further in among the trees.

And something happens to Jesus there.

He begins to shake. He is overwhelmed with sorrow and fear, so much so that he tells his friends, “I am so sad I feel like I could die.” And going a little further, he throws himself on the ground, like a child at drop-off, and he prays: “Father, I know you can change this. Please don’t make me do this.”

It is an honest prayer; probably one Jesus hesitated saying out loud because it meant Jesus still had some hope: hope it won’t happen. Hope there is another way. Hope that my Father will save me, because I don’t want to do this.

And I wonder what it was like for God to hear that prayer. To hear your child begging you to stop what is coming. To hear your beloved pleading with you to save him. I wonder if it hurt God’s heart, infinitely more than mine on that Thursday. I have to believe it did. And I have to believe God’s heart hurts too when we pray this same thing today.

This is the prayer of anyone who has cried out, “Save me.” It’s the prayer of the young couple who finds out for the 10th, 15th, or 20th time that the pregnancy test is negative. It’s the prayer of the cancer survivor driving in for another first round of chemo. It’s the prayer of anyone who has needed friends, desperate for support, for care, only to find them asleep, indifferent to your suffering, leaving you alone while you cry and shake in fear and despair on the ground.

Everyone eventually prays in Gethsemane. In desperation we all say to God, “Please don’t make me do this.” “Please don’t let this happen.” “Please take this away.” And sometimes the cup does not pass. And that is why we need Good Friday.

Because Jesus’ prayer does not end there. He also says, “Yet, not what I want, but what you want.” I don’t want to do this, God. Yet, I trust you. I am scared, God; yet I will do it.

The prayer does not change what is coming. The cup does not pass. But Jesus trusts God anyway. It is the most sacrificial and divine prayer we get in all of scripture, showing us again Jesus is fully God, too. It is a prayer of obedience, yes. But more than that it is a prayer of trust.

Not the kind of trust that says everything happens for a reason or don’t worry God’s got a plan. But the kind of trust that says, even here, even now, against all logic and reason, I will trust. Having said his deepest hope, the secret he didn’t want to utter, sharing his greatest fear, Jesus can now trust God with all that is about to happen.

I don’t lift this nevertheless part up as something to emulate, as if we just need to be obedient like Jesus was. That’s not the good news of this prayer nor this day.

The good news is that this prayer leads Jesus to the cross. Jesus gets up from the ground, walks out of gethsemane, and walks toward suffering, toward abandonment, toward death:

for you, for me, and for everyone who has ever prayed this prayer and the cup didn’t pass. Jesus has stood where we stand. Jesus has prayed what we pray; feared what we fear; and suffered what we suffer.

And because of that, there is no place of suffering we can go where he has not already been. That’s the good news of Good Friday. That on our roughest day, when we throw ourselves to the ground and plead with God to take the cup away, we remember that Jesus has already drunk from it. The cup may not pass. But we are not alone.

Amen.

Bagged Salad, Lazarus, and the Glory of God

John 11:17-44

When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home.

Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary and told her privately, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village but was still at the place where Martha had met him.

The Jews who were with her in the house consoling her saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.

He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.”

When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

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I hate bagged salad. To this day, I can still remember the: like fermented lettuce soaked in apple cider vinegar and cat pee. It was putrid. Pallets of it were taken to the farm every week. You’ve probably heard me talk about the farminary before: farm plus seminary equals farminary. It was agriculture and theological education wrapped into one. Before my first class started, I had grand ideas about what the farminary would be like: romanticized thoughts about growing a huge, flourishing garden that would compete with Eden.

On the first day of class, Nate Stucky, our professor and director of the farminary, led us to our first hands-on agricultural assignment. It wasn’t tilling rows, planting seeds, and certainly not picking any harvest. Instead, he led us to the compost pile and a pallet of bagged salad swarming with flies. Even now, I am convinced you could see green streaks of stench floating above it like in a cartoon.

Nate told us, “Today you continue to help bring this farm back to life.”

Before the farminary began, the land had been a sod farm and a Christmas tree farm. Both of those stripped the land of the good, rich soil, leaving behind infertile dirt that no one wanted. Nate knew when he began the farminary that the first thing he had to do was bring the soil back to life.

Which meant students like me spent much of our time at the compost pile, ripping open thousands of bagged salad kits, dumping the contents onto the pile, and turning it over and over. And it wasn’t just rotten lettuce. Food waste from the dining hall. Coffee grounds from a local shop. Leaves from last fall. All of it together—a giant pile of smelly, dying compost—was what brought life to this barren land.

When we stirred it all up and revealed the black soil at the bottom, Nate would say, “That’s resurrection.”

The obvious, yet difficult thing about resurrection is that it requires death first. Most of us approach death like either Martha or Mary.

Martha approaches it with hope. She is certainly grieved by her brother’s death—“Lord, if you had been here…” but at the same time she remembers the promises she’s heard her whole life about resurrection and life everlasting. So she responds with hope for the future: “God will do what you ask, and I know there will be resurrection someday.”

But Jesus wants Martha to have hope in this life, not just the next.

So he says, “I am the resurrection and the life. Do you believe this?” Jesus takes those promises we know in our heads and puts a face to them. In moments of loss and crisis and death, what matters most is not just what you know, but who you know—who you trust. You know about resurrection, Jesus says, but do you believe I am the one who brings life now, not just someday?

Mary, on the other hand, comes with no speeches, no theology, no future hope. She says the same words as her sister, but without the reassurance: “Lord, if you had been here…” I imagine her angry and sad, crying on her knees, repeating that line over and over. Jesus doesn’t correct her or explain anything.

He just meets her tears with his own.

I find it comforting that Jesus seems to meet each sister where she is—strengthening Martha’s hope while sitting in Mary’s despair. Because whether we come with hope or with anger, with faith or with tears, Jesus still walks us to the tomb.

Because it’s there at the tomb, in deep grief and pain, that Jesus reveals his glory. With the stench of death in the air, Jesus says to Martha, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” What Jesus is telling Martha, and us, is that the glory of God is revealed in resurrection:

not just when hearts start beating again, but whenever something we thought was dead begins to live again.

Yes, Lazarus is raised, but God’s glory is seen in anything that has been treated like it’s dead but brought back to life. In the things we have grieved, mourned, and wept over, but that somehow lives again. In the stuff that is rotting and stinking, yet somehow comes back to life. We can see this glory all around us.

If you’ve ever been out west to Yellowstone National Park, one of the most common trees you’ll see is the lodgepole pine. When fires come through the park, they burn the trees and scorch the earth below. But in the heat, the pines release their resin-sealed seeds onto the ground. The flames melt the resin, the underbrush is cleared away, and out of the ashes rise new trees. What looks like destruction is actually preparation for new life.

Death and resurrection. The glory of God.

Or consider the Martindale–Brightwood neighborhood right here on the near northeast side of Indianapolis. Once a thriving neighborhood for middle-class Black families, it was systematically devastated by redlining and pollution, left to decay. But for decades now, churches, neighbors, and the Martindale–Brightwood Community Development Corporation have been working together to bring affordable housing, access to food, jobs, and mentoring for youth to the area—all signs of new life. It’s not a story of a thriving area, yet. But I bet Lazarus wasn’t running a marathon the next day. It’s slow, but it’s still death and resurrection. The glory of God.

Think of your own life: a relationship once shattered is revived; a career thoroughly burned is brought back from the ashes; a love of God rekindled after years of church hurt and deconstruction.

Each one an example of resurrection.

The glory of God is seen in the dead, rotten, smelly, sealed-up places because that’s where new life is called forth. If we want resurrection, then we can’t be offended by a little stench. We can’t be too scared of death, because the two go together.

And resurrection isn’t something we just witness. We are invited to get involved. Jesus says to those gathered there, “Unbind him and let him go.” Jesus does the raising, but he tells the community to do the unbinding.Resurrection is God’s work. But unbinding… that’s the church’s work. That’s our work

And we are already trying to do this in our own way. Through our Outreach Grants, through our support of Project Rouj, through investing in people and places that are overlooked, we are helping unbind what God is bringing back to life. We are saying this is not over yet. There is still life here.

Sometimes unbinding looks like helping a neighborhood come back to life.

Sometimes it looks like walking with someone through grief or addiction or failure until they can stand again, like our Stephen Ministers do.

Sometimes it’s forgiveness, cutting the grave clothes off a relationship that was assumed over.

Unbinding is helping people live again. And that is the work Jesus gives to the church: to go to the places of death and look for signs of new life.

So let’s rip open the bag.
Pour out the rot.
Stir the pile.

Take in the smell,
looking for signs of life,
for the glory of God.

And once we see it,
unbind it,
let it go,
and spread it around.

God has brought back to life
that which was dead.

And we have seen God’s glory,
alive and well,
here and now.

Amen.