Peter’s story continues with the Garden of Gethsemane.
Soon we came to the olive grove outside the city, where we had often been before. Jesus told the others to sit and wait, and then he took James and John and me a little farther into the grove. He was only a pace or two in front of us as we walked, but he seemed a world away. His shoulders were hunched, as though carrying a great burden. His walk was no longer quite straight. He stumbled more than once. John took his arm to steady him as he went. Finally Jesus stopped.
“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow, even to the point of death,” he said. He turned to us with the imploring eyes of a friend in pain. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Stay here, and keep watch with me while I pray.”
Wanting to help, but not understanding what was going on, we just nodded, and watched as he stumbled forward on his own a little farther and then collapsed to his knees.
Unsure what else to do, the three of us sat down and leaned against the olive trees to watch and to wait. The ground was cold and hard. The trees were twisted and knotty, the bark rough against our backs, but I didn’t much care. I had a whole net of other problems to disentangle. What was going on? Why was Jesus so upset? Why did all his teaching tonight feel like he was saying goodbye? And why did he think I would disown him?
Jesus’ voice cut through the night. He was crying out in agony, begging God to take away the cup he was to drink. What cup? What was God asking of him that Jesus wanted it taken away? I couldn’t imagine. I had never heard Jesus speak like this before. Tears welled up within me at the sound of his trembling voice. Soon, my head was spinning, and I felt a heaviness come over me.
I woke to Jesus’ voice, “Simon, are you asleep? Couldn’t you keep watch for one hour?”
I stirred and opened my eyes. Jesus was crouching beside me. His hair was a matted mess. The full light of the Passover moon lit up his face. Its lines were deep with anguish. Sweat and tears had cut little rivers through the dirt smudges on his cheeks. His eyes were swollen and cast deep shadows across his face. It was not the face of Jesus that I had come to know.
“Master!” I cried. I wanted to apologize for falling asleep, but the words caught in my throat.
“Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation,” he said. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
I watched as Jesus turned and went back to his place. I felt sick to my stomach. Jesus was in pain and I wanted to help him, to fix whatever the problem was, but here I had failed to do even the one simple thing he asked of me. I stamped my feet and pulled my cloak tighter around me. I was cold and stiff. I shifted positions among the gnarled roots and tried hard to focus and to pray. But all I could think about was Jesus’ face. Why was he in pain? Why was he so sad? Grief brought a low throb to my head and I settled back against the tree. Within minutes, I had fallen back asleep.
I woke a second time to the sound of Jesus saying my name. I sat up and looked around, but he was already headed back to his place. “Watch and pray,” I repeated to myself. “Watch and pray, Simon. Come on, you can do this.” Again I set myself to pray, kicking myself for my failure in my master’s hour of need.
I woke again. This time, Jesus was standing there ready to go. He had regained some of his strength. There was a heaviness about him, but also a stillness that I had not seen since we entered the garden. The lines of distress were gone from his face. “Are you still sleeping?” he said. “Get up. Let’s go.”
I struggled to my feet, pausing a moment to steady myself against the tree. My head was spinning. Really, Simon? I said to myself. Three times? What’s wrong with you? You say you’ll die for him, but then you can’t even stay awake to pray with him?
As we made our way back to wake the others, I saw torchlight moving towards us through the trees, and heard the growing sound of approaching voices. Who was coming to the olive presses at this time of night?
“Hey, guys! Wake up!” I urged the others, pulling Andrew to his feet.
“It’s time,” Jesus said. “Here comes my betrayer.”
Wait, what? Betrayer? I looked up at the approaching crowd. They were armed with clubs, swords, and robes of religious authority. It finally hit me. All of Jesus’ talk about suffering at the hands of men wasn’t just a metaphor. No sooner had this sunk in than a new shock came.
A man stepped out in front of the group. It was Judas! One of our very own!
“Rabbi!” he said, and greeted Jesus with a kiss.
As soon as he did so, several of the men stepped forward. It was clear what they intended to do. I looked at them, I looked at Jesus, and I thought to myself, Here is where I prove my love for him! I drew my sword, jumped out in front, and lunged at the nearest man.
He dodged, I fell, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground. So much for Joab.
But before I even had a chance to feel ashamed of my miss, the voice of Jesus met me with rebuke.
“Simon!” he said. His tone told me it was not the miss he disapproved of. “Put it away.”
Rising to my knees, I turned to face him. He shook his head. He did not want my offering of strength. My heart fell.
Then came another voice, “My ear! My ear!” It was the man I had just attacked. So! I’d gotten something after all. He was kneeling, feeling the ground frantically with one hand and gripping the side of his head with the other. Blood was dripping through his fingers. His eyes were wide with panic.
The man’s friends were about to rush in, when Jesus stepped forward, picked up the ear, and knelt before the bleeding man. The man stared at Jesus, uncertain. Gently, patiently, Jesus coaxed the man’s bloody hand away from his head and restored the ear to its place. Just like that. It was as though the whole thing had never happened, apart from the matted blood and the astonished look on the man’s face.
No sooner had Jesus completed the task than the men came upon him again.
“No!” I shouted, and jumped to my feet.
But Jesus raised his bloodied hand and stayed my fight. His eyes were steady. His face was set. He had made his choice. He had released the tether between our boats, and had started to float away. The men surrounded him, and Jesus did not resist.
There was nothing I could do. I just stood there, watching, as my world began to unravel around me. I was prepared to fight for Jesus. I was prepared to die for Jesus. I was not prepared to sit by and watch as they carried off my beloved master to God knows what fate. But when the guards had finished their knots, they turned toward me, and suddenly, I realized I had my own choice to make.
I ran.