Marie

John Remembers Gesthemane

Read Matthew 26:36-46 (alternate views Mark 14:32-42, Luke 22:39-46 and John 18:1-11)

I am an old man now, and the sun feels good on my back.
My hands and feet are always cold,
and the warmth of the sun seeping into my bones is a comfort.

They are all gone now –
Peter, and James and Bartholomew and Levi,
Even Paul–
I am the only one left.

You ask me about those last few days.
I am glad you do, for someone must remember.
Someone has to keep this all written.
See – here –I  have penned an account.
I’ve read what the others have written,
but there is so much that has been missed;
So much they didn’t say,
So much they didn’t hear,
Especially on that last night.

Oh that last night is burned into my memory like it was yesterday,
not 60 years ago,
not a lifetime away.
I wrote much of it down shortly after,
but I didn’t really need to –
I can still hear his voice in my head.

It was all so confusing that night;
Hope wrestling with hopelessness,
Love and pain all mixed up in his words,
and in his prayers.

I had heard him pray so often but never like that night!
It was like his soul stood naked before us,
and the power of that prayer stunned us all.

And then that long pensive walk to the garden.
We had been to that garden often,
but as we walked it in the dark and the wind,
it felt oddly unfamiliar somehow.

It was like the dinner we had shared
– so familiar but on that night, so strange.
We climbed the Mount of Olives,
The temple glowed back over our shoulders,
Beautiful in the dark,
But the wind was wild and the night so dark
The sand blowing in from the desert was raw on our faces.
It felt as if the air was solid somehow
Our robes clung damp and chill against our skin.
Even the moon draped itself in dark clouds.
It was as if the whole cosmos was weeping with him

And then the garden …

You are right
My account of the garden hardly touches it.
Others have written more fully.

I know, I know…

But you see, that part is so hard to think of.
And still, it hurts to speak of it.
Oh I know.
I was young and foolish –
Full of false bravado and pseudo courage–
A Son of Thunder they called me;
Not a dreamer then,
Not a mystic.
But all that changed that night

I can see him still
His face ravaged in grief
Drops like blood on his face and arms,
mixed with the tears and falling onto his robe.
Oh, the horror of it all…
And his eyes, his eyes…!

I have seen suffering, more suffering in my life than I care to remember,
But that night all of it, all the suffering that ever was and ever would be
Seemed to be there in his eyes
It was more than we could bear.
And we were just so tired.
The grief was wearing us out, and the fear…
It was so much easier to sleep than to watch
So, God forgive us! We slept.

The first time he found us sleeping he sounded almost angry.
Couldn’t we watch with him even one hour?
But the last time he found us asleep, he was gentle–
It was as if he had come to some peculiar peace with what was to happen

But why do I write so little of that?
It is just too painful
For a time, the shame was indescribable.
I saw him –
I saw the pain and I heard the retching sobs
but I didn’t go to him…
I didn’t put my arms around him…
He had cradled me on his chest that night,
but now I deserted him.
I betrayed him then, just as surely as Judas did later , or Peter.
I escaped.
I slept.

I am old now,
And at peace
I am forgiven, I know
He even trusted me with Mary!
That hurt the most, you understand
– that after I deserted him in sleep,
he still trusted me with his mother!
I know I am forgiven, but still the regret is deep.
While he wept, I retreated into sleep
When he wept in despair and struggle,
I dreamt.

I dream still
And oh, the fear and the wonder and the hope of those dreams
May I tell you about them?
In these dreams, I no longer weep – and neither does he!
All the tears are gone
God himself has wiped them from our eyes