Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.”  (Matthew 26:6, Mark 32:1, Luke 22:39, John 18:1)

PRESSED

EVOO.  Extra virgin olive oil.  Good for your heart.  Recommended for cooking.  Olives that are squeezed, pressed, crushed in order to extract the purest oil they can offer. Within 24 hours of harvest, the olives are pressed which results in an olive paste.  This olive paste is created by crushing the whole fruit; the paste is then pressed again to release the oil.  Gethsemane was in the midst of an olive grove and the Hebrew word actually means “olive press.”  Speaking of Jesus, Isaiah 53:5 says, “he was crushed for our iniquities.”  Blood, not oil, was extracted from my Jesus so that I can stand pure before our God.  II Corinthians 5:8 says “We are hard pressed on every side but not crushed; perplexed but not in despair; persecuted but not abandoned; struck down but not destroyed.”  My burdens seem heavy, weighty, pressing.  Of them, I often think “crushing me.”  But not so.  Scripture gives me a different reality.  I am pressed, but not crushed.  Jesus was crushed.  For my sins.  Jesus steps in and takes my place.  I am merely pressed.  Jesus was crushed.

When he rose from prayer and went back to the disciples, he found them asleep, exhausted from sorrow.  (Luke 22:45, Matthew 26:40a, 43, Mark 14:37a, 40)

SLEEP

Exhaustion.  Grief.  Depression.  Despair.  Have you ever fallen asleep to escape?  Life has thrown you a set of circumstances for which you have no prior experience, no road map to lead the way.  Severe storm warning.  The lights go off.  You’re plunged into darkness.  Can’t find your way.  You are paralyzed by fear, anger, rage.  Emotions bubble and churn.  So you close your eyes, for just a few minutes . . . hoping that when you open them again it will all have been a bad dream.  Luke says that the disciples were “exhausted from sorrow.”  Previously I didn’t have a lot of compassion or empathy for the disciples when I read this part of their story.  Why couldn’t they stay awake?  But in the last couple years, I have experienced “exhaustion from sorrow.”  I probably would have fallen asleep that night too.  A night when my friend Jesus needed me the most.  And I failed him.

A young man, wearing nothing but a linen garment, was following Jesus.  When they seized him, he fled naked, leaving his garment behind. (Mark 14:51-52)

NAKED

Many scholars believe that the young man who fled naked from the garden was Mark, the author of this Gospel.  Because how would anyone else have known such an intimate, embarrassing detail?  Whether it was Mark or not doesn’t bother me.  My question is, “Why include it at all?”  Why was it important that these two verses be included in Holy Scripture?  Have you ever considered how much force it takes to rip a linen garment off a person’s body?  My guess is that it was even one piece of fabric, like a pull-over shift with possibly few or no seams.  I own several linen garments.  It’s not a flimsy fabric.  Yes, the Roman soldier was most likely rough, aggressive, and larger than this young man.  He had the advantage.  But their struggle also demonstrates the strength, the determination of this young man to flee in that moment.  Better to escape naked than not escape at all.  From what oppressors am I fleeing?  With whom am I struggling in order to escape persecution, even death?  And what am I willing to let go of, to let be ripped away, in order to escape?  Naked.  Two verses.  Two sentences.  Many questions.

Then they spit in his face and struck him with their fists.  Others slapped him. . . . They spit on him, and took the staff and struck him on the head again and again.  (Matthew 26:67, 27:30; Mark 14:65, 15:19; Luke 22:63, John 19:1)

VIOLENCE

On a TV episode the other night, a medical doctor became incensed when she discovered that a mother was pimping her 12-year-old daughter.  She attacked the mother, slamming her against the wall, and literally had to be pulled off by another colleague to remove her from the situation.  What would cause me to be violent?  During the Rwandan genocide of 1994, Christians terrorized and killed their neighbors, also Christians, in the name of ethnic cleansing.  What would cause me to be violent?  Every day countless Mexicans attempt to cross the border into the U.S. to seek a better life than the one they left behind.  Self-appointed lawmen patrol the borders of certain SW states waiting to stop them, prepared to shoot on sight if necessary.  Their frustration and fear with broken systems of government have pushed them to the wall.  Literally and figuratively.  What would cause me to be violent?  Who do I spit on, slap, strike . . . over and over?  And what would change if I gave this person the face of Jesus?

The earth shook and the rocks split.  (Matthew 27:51b)

EARTHQUAKE

Haiti.  Chile.  Turkey.  Cataclysmic shakings of the earth.  Chaos, catastrophe, change.  In minutes.  Can you imagine everything around you broken?  Buildings, streets, trees, people.  Law and order turned upside-down.  Life as you previously knew it devastated in an instant.  Overwhelming loss.  What would give you the strength to keep going?  To start over?  To hope again?  Did you ever note that earthquakes bookend Jesus’ death and resurrection?  When Jesus died, there was an earthquake so violent that rocks split, graves broke open, and people were raised to life.  The morning of the resurrection, a violent earthquake occurred due to the coming of an angel from heaven who rolled back the stone from the entrance of the tomb.  Biblical earthquakes seem to symbolize unprecedented, God-orchestrated, foundational shiftings.  What about emotional, mental, spiritual earthquakes?  Am I too fixated on the rubble of my life? Maybe I need to fix my eyes on Jesus so that God can re-align my perspective.  So I can see where the “dead” me has been brought back to life.  Where huge obstacles have been split in two or even moved out of the way.  A perspective that empowers me to shift from law to grace.

Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock.  He rolled a big stone in front of the entrance to the tomb and went away.  (Matthew 27:59-60, Mark 16:46, Luke 23:53-54, John 19:42-42)

SILENCE

This year I have coveted silence in my life.  Space to ponder, to think, to listen.  Space to hope, to dream, to imagine.  Space to grieve, to smile, to rest.  Silence.  From the time Jesus is laid in the tomb Friday evening, until the appearance of the angels Sunday morning, there is silence.  Space.  Breathing space.  Hold-your-breath space.  Waiting space.  Get-out-of-my-head space. I-have-no-idea-what-to-do-next space.  Screaming space.  Where God whispers your name space.  The silence of Holy Expectancy.  The space between death and life.  It’s hard to hold yourself still in that kind of silence.  To just be.  To stop the words.  To stop all the should haves, would haves, could haves.  To turn off the noise of both the outer world and the inner self.  Silence.

He is not here; he has risen, just as he said.  (Matthew 28:6a, Mark 16:6, Luke 24:6a)

EMPTY

How many secrets am I guarding?  How many burdens, heartaches, dysfunctions, dreams, desires, do I keep entombed?  What am I ashamed to bring out into the light?  Do I keep my faith tied to a slab in the dark?  Is my Jesus locked away where he’s safe and predictable?  The angel points out the empty burial shelf, the linen cloths tossed aside.  “He is not here!” the angel announces.  “He is risen!”  Do I have the courage to empty myself?  To let go?  To believe?  Jesus is waiting for me outside the tomb.  Waiting for me to stop hiding in the dark.  Waiting for me to not be afraid.  Waiting for me to drag my faith beyond the four walls where it’s been dead and stagnant.  For goodness sake, he even sends an angel to grab my hand and lead me out!  He is not here.  Wouldn’t I rather be with Jesus?  Slowly, I walk to the entrance of the tomb.  I stand on the threshold between dark and light, between death and life, between empty and full.  And then, I see him.  Jesus.  My heart catches in my throat.  “What took you so long?” he asks gently.  Standing there, caught in his gaze of love and joy, I have no idea.  What took me so long?  Laughing, he beckons me forward.  Laughing, I follow.  Behind me.  The tomb is empty.