“Abba, Father, for you all things are
possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want.”
I’ve always found that single verse to be
one of the most astounding insights into who Jesus was as Son of God, Savior, and,
yet, still human being.
Jesus goes off to pray while the
disciples stay in the garden and nod off contrary to his wishes, and the one
remnant of Jesus’ prayer that we have is this line. “Abba, Father, for you all
things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what
you want.”
For the better part of his ministry Jesus
has been forthright and focused on the idea that the Son of Man must die and
then he will be raised again. In Mark’s Gospel this has been the entire point
of the story. It’s been why he’s told people to be quiet about the healings and
even when he raised Lazarus from the dead. It’s why he’s consistently battered
the disciples for their ignorance of what was to come. He has had one direction
and it has been toward the cross, like a freight train with one set of tracks.
And yet, here on the precipice of the crucifixion, what does he pray but
“remove this cup from me?” Take it away, God, if at all possible.
I believe this is a seminal moment in the
history of what it means to be human.
Jesus is showing us what humanity can be
through his vulnerability. The Son of God is vulnerable. But, contrary to how
we imagine vulnerability, it is precisely that vulnerability that is his
strength.
Being a man
Many times I’ve heard preachers,
especially in certain patriarchal circles talk about “being a man.” This
happens not just in churches of course, but also on football fields and in bars
and in homes, and the message is pretty close to the same. Be a man. Which
tends to mean: Suck it up, do your job, don’t show weakness. But this is not
the way Jesus shows us because here in the garden Jesus shows us that being a
man is to be vulnerable and humble and even full of self-doubt. A human being;
that’s what a real man is. A human being in all our complexity; not just the
bravado and the strength and the laughing in the face of fear. No, to be human
is to show strength and weakness, power and grace, to be perfected in our
weakness because there is nothing more human than that. This is true of men and
women. We are all made in God’s image—male and female. We all have in us what
Jesus shows us: vulnerability, humility, grace.
I watch a lot of sports (probably too
much sports), and I also follow things like the chess world championship cycle,
because, you know, I’m one of the cool kids. And one of the things I’ve picked
up on a lot recently is how little the world of competition values humility and
weakness. One of the commentators in assessing the current chess world
championship cycle suggested that one of the players would not win because of
his personality, because he was, in his words, much too self-deprecating. He
was too humble, not ruthless enough to really win at the end of the day, and,
you know what hit me? He is probably right. To be the best of the best of the
best at something you have to have a little of Lance Armstrong in you. You have
to be willing to do anything—ethical, unethical, cruel or just; it doesn’t
matter. All that matters is being the best. That’s the way to be the best, but
the thing that should really teach us is that the best isn’t really all that
good, being the best is not the same thing as being a good human being. Jesus
shows us greatness; Lance Armstrong showed us what it took to be the best. Who
is a better example to follow?
Just because you excel at something does
not mean that you have this whole being-a-human-being thing figured out. In
fact, I find a lot of people who are exceptional at one thing really struggle
in other areas of their life. They have the obsession and the good fortune
necessary to be better than everyone else at a certain thing, but that doesn’t
carry over into areas of life that often matter more—like relationships and
friendships and self-satisfaction. Jesus shows us in Gethsemane that one of the
traits of a truly good person is vulnerability. That’s the kind of thing that
will not win you many props.
It didn’t work for Jesus either. After all,
he is the one who actually deserves
to be lifted up as the best of the best of the best, because he’s the only one
who could do it without leaving collateral damage on the way to greatness. And
yet, it is precisely because he could have it all and refuses it—as in that
famous scene where he is tempted by Satan—that he has the power he does. It is
in refusing power and choosing vulnerability that Jesus shows us what it looks
like to be a good human being. Vulnerability that comes in the words:
Not what I want,
but what you want.
To those who seek their own greatness
this might be a foreign concept. They spend their lives “wanting it.” Isn’t
that what we tell our kids? You have to
want it more than anyone else. Some people really struggle with this,
because they get their self-worth wrapped up in how hard they work for a thing
when ultimately we are loved apart from how well we do, or even how much effort
we put into it. To be human as Jesus is fully human is ultimately not about how
hard we work or how much we want it, but about how willing we are to give up
our desires for the sake of God’s will. Not what I want, but what you
want.
Greatness—true greatness—is making
ourselves vulnerable, acknowledging that I’m not the best, and that to be the
best would require a level of obsession that would not allow me to be the human
being I am called to be. To be the best at one thing might actually make me a
worse person if it keeps me from vulnerability and humility and grace. If we’re
going to follow after Jesus we’re going to need to let go of some of the things
that we value more than we should. That’s why the disciples keep messing
everything up, not because they’re terrible people; they’re just normal people
as far as we can tell. They keep messing up because the thing they are
obsessing over is Jesus, but it’s the Jesus they want to believe in and not the
Jesus that actually stands before them. They want the Jesus who conquers with a
sword, who boasts, who mocks and ridicules, who ultimately lives, but they get
the Jesus who conquers with grace, who is vulnerable and humble, and who
ultimately dies.
None of them could pray as Jesus could,
because none of them were willing to say “Not my will, O God, but yours be
done.” Thy kingdom come; thy will be done. How easy it is to say! How hard it
is to actually let go! That’s what that prayer is. It’s the most human of prayers.
It’s the most vulnerable prayer I can imagine. Not my will but yours, so even
if my things would pass away, my livelihood would disappear, my wealth would be
stolen, my family would be taken from me, even my life be lost; even still not
my will but yours. That’s tough. That’s Gethsemane.
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