The Night that Peace was Born

A Year of Last days: Reflections in an Anabaptist Direction

The last day of March 2010 ... Tomorrow, Thursday, is the day before this year’s Passover Sabbath, the day of preparation. About 1977 years ago in the evening of this day, lengthening shadows enveloped Jesus while a band of strangers silently climbed forested slopes of Gethsemane in their quest for the Galilean rabbi. Jesus knelt alone, braced, as if locked in a struggle with an invisible opponent, while clubs, swords and metal paraphernalia of battle glinted in the advancing smoky haze of lanterns and probing torches. They weaved between gnarled trees or clambered up terraces, through the brittle poppy stalks in dry grass. Across the dark chasm of the Kidron Valley one thousand year old walls and ramparts channelled the snorting sounds of restless animals and the murmurs of their keepers, camping in the courtyards of the Temple. High above Jerusalem’s long eastern wall, a million flickering lamplights gave a sense of motion to the city’s bulky shadow, like some vast night ship drifting across an unfathomed deep. From the distant northeast, below the crest of a Judean hill, perhaps where the full moon was visible, a jackal wailed.

Thick cloud touching Gethsemane muffled the sounds of eight sleepers, a stone’s throw below the place where their friends and the Rabbi had climbed to pray. Suddenly the stealthy newcomers were tripping on the sleepers’ heads. A steel voice cursed in recognition as waking Galileans cried out and roused their fellows. They staggered to their feet as if in an unspeakable nightmare. Once at the crest of the grove, they hid among the trees in a sweat of terror. Simon the Zealot whispered harsh reprimands in a pang of guilty remorse: they were too late, outnumbered.

No word was spoken from the emboldened crowd which now moved like a battalion into the mountain garden. Jesus stood close to his companions but now moved away regally, toward the enclosing shadows. The heavy air muted every leaf and blade of grass. Then a nightjar’s solitary call sounded from somewhere down in the valley of Bethany.

The torch and lantern light began to blend. A front row of guards noticed the sweat lines on Jesus’ face, but no trace of fear or accusation diminished his direct gaze. Every armed man had his hand to a hilt or a handle, expecting the worst.

All of history turns on the tranquil authority of Jesus opening words in this strangest encounter ... Who is it you want? ... and in the angry rise and fall of several answers ... Jesus of Nazareth! His outstretched open right palm and effortlessly cordial words, I am he, seemed to break the clouds and let sudden shafts of moonlight pierce the darkest corner of Gethsemane, transforming his robe and face into dazzling white. The shock, unexpected and complete, caused the closest men to fall back into the grassy rubble in a bundle of curses and defensive moans.

Within minutes the consequential kiss and the awkward binding of this endearing rabbi, history had turned like the entwining of Jesus’ ropes and chains. A score of stumbling Galileans were quickly disappearing into the mist with fading gasps of anger and tears of shame.

If ever there were a night that justified the use of force this could be said to be that night. If ever violence were necessary to protect the innocent, this night could be said to require it. If ever a clear definition between perpetrator and victim could be drawn, this night could be said to provide one. But no violent means for justified ends are found in the story of Gethsemane. No battle cry for justice is sounded. No words of blame are narrated.

The gospels do not fit any classical genre of aggression or defence. Here is no perpetrator or victim; Jesus permits, even instructs Judas to do what he has come to do. Here is no glory in battle. Judas’ desire to surprise or hurt the teacher with a secret weapon is nullified, painful as his betrayal is for the rabbi, in Jesus’ self abandoned self offering. Here is no bloody victory. Peter uses his sword in the mêlée around Jesus’ handcuffing but Jesus commands the fighting to cease; were military might necessary, at least thirty six thousand angels could be sent to Christ’s command. Like a child needing one last object lesson before his Rabbi leaves him, Peter learns again through agonising error: his choice to bear arms is self defeating. While Jesus is roughly bound he might have good reason to fight or break and run, yet he stills himself and speaks to his enemies with fearless love and winsome respect. No trace of self preservation or instinctual revenge nor any sign of trauma, but only astounding compassion and presence of mind. Jesus tells the soldiers to let his friends go and reaches out to heal a bleeding servant.

The climax of this story of shadows for Matthew and John is Jesus revealing himself dazzlingly, just before the scattering of his fearful companions. The rabbi’s gentle yet sovereign bearing disarms the Temple people, the men of the cloth in this ragtag crowd of thwarted assailants, as he explains how their weapons, stealth and show of bravado have been futile. His peaceful coming into their hands has taken place so that “the writings of the prophets might be fulfilled.” Matthew 26:55.

He was oppressed and afflicted,
yet he did not open his mouth;
he was led like a lamb to the slaughter,
and as a sheep before her shearers is silent,
so he did not open his mouth.
By oppression and judgement he was taken away.

Isaiah 53:7-8a (Quotations from the NIV)

As his disciples took in the wonder of this revelation that dark, illuminating night their whole world was upending yet later they remembered the darkness and the light, and finally understood what the writings of the prophets meant. They themselves had seen, touched and carefully watched the Prince of Peace. This Jesus they have shared with us.