The Agony in the Garden

A meditation

Come into the garden, but quietly — they are asleep. Look at them in the corner, the three he asked to stay awake: Peter with his sword across his knees, John with his head fallen back, James slumped against the rock. They meant to watch. They could not. You have done the same, more than once.

Now look at him. He is kneeling on the bare slope a little way off, alone, in a dark robe, with his hands pressed together, and he is looking up at the one thing in the picture that is offered to him: an angel on the rock above, holding out a cup.

He does not want the cup. Look at his face — he is asking, really asking, for it to be taken away. And the angel does not take it away. The angel only holds it, and waits.

And look behind, through the gate in the wall. They are coming. A man in red with a lantern, soldiers with their spears up, and the friend who is leading them. They are not here yet. There are a few more minutes in the garden before the gate opens.

This is where he said *not my will, but yours.* He said it here, on his knees, with his friends asleep and his enemies on the path, to a cup he had begged not to drink. It is the hardest sentence in the world, and he did not say it once and have it done — he said it three times, going back to check on the sleepers in between.

Kneel where he is kneeling. You have a cup too. Say the sentence as slowly as you need to.