In The Garden

Genesis 3:1-9; John 18:1-9

April 5, 2012 (Maundy Thursday) • Portage First UMC

“Where are you?”

It’s a question that has echoed down through history, from the very beginning of time to this very night. It’s a question asked by every person who has ever lost something—or someone—and tonight, standing here in the garden alone, after all that’s happened in the last few hours, I hear echoes of it everywhere. The soldiers have left. The followers are gone. My fellow disciples have fled. Jesus has been taken. “Where are you?” It was first asked in the original garden at the very beginning of time. I have known the story from childhood; it was one of the first stories my mother told me, how Adam and Eve, the first man and first woman, had enjoyed unlimited fellowship with God, how they had walked with God in the cool of the day for who knows how many days or months or years. Time really wasn’t being measured then like we do now, because every day was a new day spent in God’s presence, experiencing God’s goodness. I can see why it was called a paradise—God was always there. When my mother told me the story, I learned how God took care of Adam and Eve, how he planted the garden, tended it, and gave them fruit from the trees to eat. And they could eat anything, except from the one tree. There was a tree, right in the center of the garden, that they weren’t allowed to eat from. It was the “Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,” and God told the man and the woman if they ate from it, they would certainly die (Genesis 2:15-17). And my mother always used that story to say, “John, that’s why you should always do exactly what you’re told!”

Our rabbis debate what God meant by “you will certainly die,” but the point is that the woman and man were tempted by a serpent, ate from the tree, and the rest, as they say, is history. That was when the question was first asked. God came looking for Adam and Eve in the cool of the day, and he couldn’t find them. Well, actually, I imagine he knew where they were; after all, he’s God! But God wanted Adam and Eve to come and walk with him willingly, so when they weren’t there waiting for the evening walk as they always had been before, God called out, “Where are you?” (3:9).

Not long ago, Jesus was here. Standing right here. We all were here. We’d come here from the city. It has been a long week. Jesus seemed to want to challenge everyone and everything about our faith, our traditions, our leadership. He held nothing back, and he made almost everyone angry at him. That was nothing new. Jesus was always making people angry at him, and they’d usually put up with him while we were here for Passover, and then we’d go back to Galilee and things here in Jerusalem would quiet down. But this year, something was different. Jesus was different. He was harder, more pointed, almost like he wanted the religious leaders to get angry with him, like he was intentionally provoking them. Maybe that’s reading too much into what he said and did. I just know that when we left Bethany this morning, he told Mary, Martha and Lazarus he would be spending the night in the city, and not to expect him back for a while, maybe even a few days.

So we gathered tonight for the Passover meal, that great celebration that’s so central to who we are as God’s people. It reminds us, every year, of the lengths God went to in order to free us a people from slavery in Egypt so many centuries ago. We got all settled in the room, and Jesus surprised us all when he washed our feet; that wasn’t the role of a master or a teacher. It’s the role of a slave. And yet, Peter was the only one to protest. The rest of us just sort of sat there in shock as Jesus told us we should do the same thing to one another. Then, back at the table, he told us, “One of you is going to betray me” (John 13:21). Betray him? It was unthinkable! We’d all been with him for nearly three years. We’d shared life together, all of us. We knew each other inside and out. Better friends I had never had than these twelve men. One of us would betray Jesus? Why? How? When? As all those thoughts were going through my head, Peter leaned over and said, “Ask him which one he means” (13:24). I was sitting next to Jesus, so I leaned back and did just that. “Lord,” I said, “who is it?” Very quietly, Jesus said to me, “It is the one to whom I will give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish” (13:25-26). And then he dipped the bread and gave it to Judas, who was sitting on the other side of Jesus. He looked at Judas and said, “What you are about to do, do quickly” (13:27). And then Judas got up and left. Peter looked over at me and mouthed the word, “Well?” I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders, because I couldn’t imagine that Judas would betray Jesus. He had kept our money all of this time; he was our treasurer. He had laughed with us, cried with us, done ministry with us. No, it couldn’t be. He must have left to go buy something else for the dinner, or maybe to make a donation to the poor in our names (13:29). It couldn’t be Judas, could it?

After the dinner, we walked the length of the Kidron Valley; Jesus talked and prayed the whole way. He offered us words of comfort, of promise, of encouragement. And he prayed for us. He prayed that we would be one, that God would protect us from the evil one, and that none of us would be lost. Those are words and prayers that will stick in my memory, that will always be in my heart. And then we arrived at the garden—Gethsemane, they call it. “Oil Press,” is what it means. It’s an olive grove, and just over there is the actual press where they make the olive oil. Of course, it was quiet at night, and Jesus liked to come here. We’d been here many times before. Most of us, Jesus left at the gate, but he asked me, Peter and James to come with him a bit further. He pointed to a spot on the ground and told us to stay there while he went even further into the garden to pray. The moon was full, so we could see him and hear a bit. He was only about a stone’s throw away, but it had been a long week and an even longer day. We were tired, and before I knew it, I heard Jesus saying, “Where are you?” Well, not in those exact words, but he had come looking for us, and all three of us were asleep. “Couldn’t you keep watch for one hour?” he asked (Mark 14:37). He directed the words at Peter, but we knew he was really talking to all of us. “Watch and pray,” he said, “so that you will not fall into temptation.” Temptation…in a garden. Then he went away and prayed again. And a third time. And every time, we fell asleep. “Where are you?” he asked. We’re asleep, Jesus. We can’t even stay with you when you need us most.

When he had to wake us up the third time, he said, “Here comes my betrayer!” Instantly, we were awake, and I turned around, and sure enough, here came Judas (I still can’t believe it was Judas!), leading the chief priests, teachers of the law, the elders and some soldiers. He came up to Jesus, kissed him on the cheek, and called him “Rabbi.” I wanted to smack that smirk off of Judas’ face so bad, but Jesus stepped forward. “Who is it you want?” he asked, and when they said they were looking for Jesus of Nazareth, he told them, “I am he.” Now, see, I would have run away at that point. I would have used the garden and all the bushes and trees to hide behind. They would have had to search hard if they were going to take me. But not Jesus. He gave himself to them. “Let these men go,” he said, pointing to us. And we watched silently as they led Jesus away. He let them take him! We were left here, in the garden, alone, wondering what to do next (18:4-9).

The rabbis have always talked about what happened in the Garden of Eden as “the fall,” the time when we human beings fell away from God—or ran away, or walked away, or however you want to put it. We fell. We stumbled over our own pride and we were no longer who God intended us to be. And as I’ve stood here for the last—how long have I been here? I guess it doesn’t really matter, but I’ve been thinking about that garden and this one. In that garden, Adam and Eve hid from God when they shouldn’t have. They made a mistake, they did what they had been told not to do, and so they hid from the only one who could make it right, from the only one who would still love them in spite of their mistakes. Tonight, when Jesus should have hid from evil men, he didn’t. He put himself right out there. He wanted to be found. Even this place—we’ve come here before. Judas knew right where to find him. If Jesus had an inclination that someone was going to betray him, turn him in, why didn’t we go somewhere else? Why didn’t we go somewhere and hide until the storm blew over? I think the answer is found in Jesus’ time of prayer. In the garden here, he put himself in the hands of the only one who could make it right—his heavenly father. It’s almost like—well, it’s almost like Jesus came to this garden to reverse the fall, to set right what had happened in that other garden, so long ago (cf. Hamilton, 24 Hours That Changed the World, pg. 35). Jesus fell here, too, you know. He fell into the hands of evil men, who will now do with him what they want. And somehow, in that fall, it seems there just might be hope for undoing the other fall.

You know, right before we headed here to the garden, and right after Judas left, Jesus did something that left us all scratching our heads. He changed the Passover liturgy. That isn’t something you do normally, or lightly. The readings and the meanings for the Passover meal have stood the test of time; they’ve been around for a long, long time, and even when, as a people, we failed to celebrate the Passover, these ancient words were still part of who we are. And Jesus, for the last couple of years, has followed the liturgy to the letter. Always. He was faithful to the traditions. But not tonight. Tonight, when he picked up the loaf of bread, he broke it, said the usual blessing over it (“Blessed art thou, O Lord, king of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth”), then stopped and looked closely at it. Two pieces of bread, broken in his hands. Then he looked at us and said, “Take and eat; this is my body.” What? That wasn’t in the liturgy. But none of us dared to speak up; we could still feel the dampness on our feet from when he had washed them. We took the bread, and we ate it like he told us to. Then, a little while later, Jesus took one of the cups of wine that was part of the ritual, and he blessed it like normal, too (“Blessed art thou, O Lord, king of the universe, who brings forth the fruit of the vine”), and I thought we were back on track. But he paused again, stared into the cup, and then said, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” (Matthew 26:26-28).

“The blood of the covenant”—all of us knew what that meant. In our history, covenants or agreements between people had been ratified by the shedding of blood. You gave up something precious in order to solidify or guarantee the relationship. At the first Passover, a lamb had died so the people would be protected when the angel of death passed through Egypt (Keener, Bible Background Commentary: New Testament, pg. 120). The lamb had provided safety, salvation (Barclay, The Gospel of Matthew, Volume 2, pg. 341). We knew the stories, and we knew how, through the years, that had come to be the symbol of a solid or good relationship with God. When we gave up something precious, the life of a perfect animal, a sacrifice, our sins were forgiven by the shedding of that creature’s blood. The blood of the covenant provided forgiveness for the sin that had followed us, haunted us since that first garden. Forgiveness is tied to the blood, and God’s promise was that when the blood was shed, forgiveness would be given. Now Jesus was saying his blood was where forgiveness was found? And worse yet, he told us to drink the wine because it was his blood? I’m sorry, we also all knew that our faith found drinking blood revolting. Jesus was doing something very new here, something I don’t quite understand yet, but somehow, the best I can figure is he wanted us to think of forgiveness whenever we saw bread or wine, and that forgiveness would have something to do with his blood. So he gave us this meal, this bread and cup, to remind us that forgiveness is possible. Maybe it has something to do with what happened (or what began to happen) in this garden. Jesus fell here so we wouldn’t have to fall anymore. Somehow, what he’s doing is bringing forgiveness to us.

Yeah, it’s a lot to think about. I know I don’t have it all figured out yet. I just know that Jesus is up to something tonight—and that it has to do with that meal, and this garden, and wherever he’s headed next. Which reminds me—I’m not sure where everyone else went, but I’m going to go see if I can find out what’s going on with Jesus. I failed him here in the garden by falling asleep; I don’t want to leave him alone now. He’s been deserted enough tonight. And I don’t want to have to answer “Where are you?” with “I was hiding.” So I think I’ll see where they went with him; I know when they left here they went in the direction of the house of the high priest, back along the Kidron Valley. Luckily the moon’s out, so I should be able to follow them hopefully without being noticed. Hey, Peter, do you want to go with me? I think I can get us into the courtyard. I used to know some people there (John 18:15-16). Let’s go find out what’s going on with Jesus.