Christ's Lament

I have been captured this Lenten season by the scene in Gethsemane. Christ’s lament the night before he went to the cross. His raw humanity, his grief, his longing for there to be another way.

My soul is sorrowful, even unto death.

He fell on the ground and prayed. There must’ve been dirt under his fingernails where he grabbed at the earth in desperation, clenching his fists in anticipation of the pain. His sweat thickened into blood.

Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me.

Within this prayer I hear the lament:

Please, father, you can do anything. So why are you asking me to do this? Why must I have to suffer this way? Don’t you love me? Take this away. Don’t ask this of me.

Even Jesus—even God (who was also man)—was allowed to grieve. He was allowed to bring his fear, his doubt, his dread to his father. He was allowed to be honest. To cry. To be appalled at the prospect of becoming sin, of being separated from his Father, of bearing all the demonic force of hell in full assault on his body, soul, and spirit. And this grief was not a sin. If it were, our salvation would be null and void.

I am compelled to draw near to the suffering Christ, one who begged his father to find another way. I see in him one who can sympathize with my weakness, with my grief, with my apprehension to surrender and trust.

Simultaneously I want to draw back from the Father who asks his son to go through this horrific pain. It begs questions—Would God ask me to go through such pain? Is this what following and obeying and surrendering look like? I desperately want to understand the Father’s relationship with his Son because I see my own journey wrapped up in this theology. Would such a father who sacrificed his son to save the world ask me to sacrifice myself for the sake of others? What about my heart? What about Jesus' when he went to the cross?

And yet Jesus was not a victim of the cross. He went willingly. He went as a King, intentionally claiming his throne. He went as a Son, trusting His Father’s intentions.

Yet not what I will, but what you will.

So what did Jesus understand so implicitly about his Father that have gave him the courage to surrender and trust in the face of such agony? This is what I need to know. Who are you, Father, to be good and love your children and yet lead them through such suffering? Who are you, Christ, who surrendered in the face of such agony? And who am I, caught between them with my doubts and fears and grieving hesitation?

Abba, if I see what Christ saw in you, will I too be able to move forward through suffering and trust you? And is it possible for my blinded eyes to see you rightly enough for that to be true?