by Kathryn E. Darden
I have recently found myself captivated by the story of Jesus in Gethsemane: the arrest of our Savior and the strange, desperate predicament of His followers. When I think of the garden and the tomb, I don’t see a fable, nor do I envision stained glass images. I see grit in the stone and exhaustion and fear in the eyes of the disciples and of the women who followed Jesus. It isn’t hard for me to put myself in their sandals — to feel the confusion, the bewilderment, and the biting fear that defined the hours between His arrest and His resurrection.
I can easily visualize the transition from triumph to terror. The disciples and women had followed a Man they believed would break the chains of Rome. They had eaten the bread and fish He handed to a massive crowd from a small boy’s basket. They had seen His miracles and heard His teachings, but suddenly, the momentum comes to a shrieking halt. The impossible happens: Jesus is arrested and taken to a sham trial in the middle of the night, in direct violation of Jewish law.
Suddenly, the world turns. People are pointing. “Weren’t you one of them?”
I can easily imagine that frantic feeling of wanting to put distance between myself and the escalating danger — the desire to get out of Jerusalem and go home. The Scriptures tell us that in that moment of crisis, the human instinct to survive takes over: “Then all the disciples forsook him, and fled”
(Matthew 26:56).
I understand that desire to run while recognizing that flight might only make me look more guilty. I can feel the struggle of trying to blend in with the surroundings, hoping to become invisible as the situation becomes life-threatening. I think specifically of Peter, who had so boldly claimed he would never deny the Lord, only to be caught in that same paralyzing fear.
Peter follows Jesus “afar off” (v. 58), then sits in the courtyard of the high priest, trying to stay close enough to see the end but far enough to stay safe. I know that “afar off” space. It is the gray area where my love for the Lord clashes with my genuine human fear of the world’s hatred.
When the servant points and asks, “Weren’t you with Him?” wouldn’t I, in that moment of raw panic, say, “I don’t know Him”?
The turning point for me isn’t the denial itself but the moment that follows: “And the Lord turned, and looked upon Peter” (Luke 22:61). In my mind’s eye, I see that gaze — not one of condemnation but of a heartbreaking, knowing love. I believe in that moment, had I been standing there, my own heart would have broken just as Peter’s does. Like him, I would have been driven out into the night to weep bitterly.
And aren’t there times when my own heart does break over some hurt I have caused or some kindness I neglected when remembered through the gaze of my Savior?
It is easy to skip ahead to the joy of the Resurrection, but we must first sit in the grit, humiliation, and fear of those three days and three nights. I have to acknowledge that my faith is carried in “earthen vessels” — fragile, prone to fear, and desperately in need of the Man who didn’t run when we did.
