Not My Will | Letters to a Samuel Generation

by Rachel Starr Thomson
written November 2002

They had done this before, these men of Galilee. The ritual of Passover ran through their lives like a binding thread, a constant, comforting presence in an often turbulent world. They had celebrated it many times, in exactly this way, with family, friends, and countrymen. It never changed; its message of hope in the memory of past deliverance never wavered.

But this year, something was different. There was a heaviness in the air, a foreboding that hung about their heads like a cloud. This year it seemed that the Angel of Death was drawing near to their own doors, and they could only pray that the ancient deliverance be enacted once more, in their own day. They might have tried to laugh it off, but the strange words of their Master kept echoing in their ears: “Behold, we go up to Jerusalem, and all things that are written by the prophets concerning the Son of man shall be accomplished. For he shall be delivered unto the Gentiles, and shall be mocked, and spitefully entreated, and spitted on: And they shall scourge him, and put him to death: and the third day he shall rise again.”

They did not understand, but they felt the grim determination rising up inside them. He would not die. They would not allow it, not if they had to give their lives to prevent it.

Now, in the Passover meal, He gave them no comfort. Once again he spoke of death. So calmly He spoke! It was beyond reason that anyone should be so matter-of-fact about His own death—His own crucifixion!

“This is my body, broken for you... take, eat.” They ate, and their hearts grew harder against the darkness that beat against them. There would be heroes made before this night was over. They would die for Him. So Peter proclaimed, and Jesus only shook His head.

“I tell you, Peter, that the cock will not crow this day before you shall three times deny that you even know me.”

The Passover meal over, the disciples could not help but notice the troubled countenance of their Lord. They felt helpless; too stupid to know what to say. But they would give Him some comfort at least by staying by Him, and so they all went with Him when He withdrew to Gethsemane.

Ah, but now He wanted to be alone. He asked them to wait, and they did, but the weariness of the night folded over them and they drifted away in sleep. They were exhausted; exhausted with the confused intensity of emotion that had assailed them the past few days.

A short way away, the Master held audience with God His Father. He was not immune to the darkness. It wore at Him as it did His disciples, tormenting Him until the blood dripped down his face. “My Father!” he cried. “Let this cup pass from me—yet not what I will. Oh Father, let thy will be done!”

At last the time came, and He rose from the rock where He had prayed and went to His disciples. For a moment His face betrayed a deep tenderness as He watched them, sleeping with troubled brows. “Sleep on now,” he said, “And take your rest: it is enough, the hour is come; behold, the Son of man is betrayed into the hands of sinners.” They stirred in their sleep, and then came wide awake as His voice strengthened and rang out in the dark. “Rise up! let us go; lo, he that betrayeth me is at hand.”

Then the soldiers came, their torches tearing gashes of orange across the star-lit sky, swords glinting with the ugly light, faces twisted and sneering. And Judas stepped forward, and kissed the Master, and the betrayal was complete.

Peter knew the moment had come to prove his love and his loyalty. Now was the moment to fight, though it cost him his life. Now was the hour of courage, when adversity would bring forth her children; when trouble would prove him a hero or a knave.

And he was ready.

He leaped forward and his sword cut a determined swath through the air. There was a cry of pain, and he saw the blood flowing from the head of a servant. He raised his arm again, his eyes flashing wildly, adrenaline rushing through him like a river released from a dam.

But Jesus stopped him. He knelt and picked up the servant's severed ear, and he healed him. His eyes turned on Peter, and they were full of reproach.

“Peter,” they seemed to say, “Do not fight against the will of God.”

All of the disciples heard those words in Jesus' bearing as He gave Himself into the hands of His enemies, willingly. Oh, how they wished to fight! Given their own will, they would have fought to the death for Him. Surely, that was what God would have them do!

But no. No, this was God's will. It was God's will that Judas betray the One who loved him. It was God's will that the soldiers come with strong arm and sword. It was God's will that Jesus be arrested. God's will that He die.

The truth came crashing in on them like a bone-crushing tide, and they could not stand before it. They saw in that moment the terrible will of God, and their faith failed them.

They ran.

If we can convince ourselves that God's will is all wine and roses, then we will have no trouble sticking by it. But when the will of God is terrible—what then? How many of us scatter into the night when the soldiers come? Where, then, is our faith?

On that night, when all the world went mad, one Son of man kept faith.

They took Him away to Pilate, and Peter followed at a distance. His heart was beating wildly as he went; a million confused thoughts whirled through his brain. But he could not bring himself to give up. Not yet.

Then in the courtyard, Peter watched as his Lord was whipped, mocked, and taunted. He watched the horrible pageant acted out by the men in the courtyard: a coronation; crown of thrones pressed onto the head of Him who was truly a King. Peter watched the madness of it all. He saw the triumph of Evil over Good.

And this was the will of God. Jesus did not fight. Before the priests He gave no great vindictive speeches. He made no wild protestations. He allowed it all without complaint, for this was the will of the Father.

Jesus Christ looked straight into the terrible will of God and He did not fall. He simply bowed His head and submitted. He trusted His Father, and His trust did not waver no matter what the Father asked Him to do.

But Peter did not have that trust. Hot-blooded heroism had no place in the courts of Pilate, and so Peter fell. Three times he denied His Lord before the cock crowed.

We all know the rest of the story. We know that the madness of the world that night swept Jesus away to Golgotha. We know that in the last moments before His death, He cried out in anguish to His Father, and His Father turned His back.

But we know something else, and because we know it, the will of God can never truly be terrible again. We know that Jesus rose from the dead.

God brought the greatest Good this world has ever known out of the greatest Evil it has ever committed. Yes, His will that night was terrible, but His love was greater. Sometimes love demands sacrifices we do not understand, but we can bow our heads and know that God has not forsaken us. We need not abandon trust, faith, and hope as Peter and the other disciples did when they fled the garden that night.

In our churches we love to talk about the “wonderful plan” God has for our lives. We would rather not talk about His terrible will—the will of God that allows a September 11 to rock our country, that allowed the Holocaust, that allows thousands of Christians across the world to suffer horrific persecution. We don't understand it any more than Jesus' disciples understood Golgotha.

I realize that I am standing on dangerous ground when I refer to the above events as being “the will of God.” I don't say that God takes pleasure in these things, but He does allow them; and that is a very great test of faith indeed.

But we need not fail the test. Jesus rose from the dead, after all.

My prayer is that when we, the people of God, come into our own personal Gethsemanes, we will not run from our Father's will. There is no shame in sweating blood, in crying out to God that we cannot do it without His strength. There is no shame in wishing that things could be otherwise. But let us not forget that His prayer that night ended with the words, “Not my will, but Thine, be done.”