Awake In Gethsemane

Every Easter weekend, we gather to celebrate life. We sing resurrection songs. We dress a little brighter. We speak words like hope, victory, and new beginnings. And rightly so — Easter is the great declaration that death does not get the final word.

Easter did not begin in a garden filled with sunlight. It began in a garden filled with anguish. Before there was an empty tomb, there was a full cup. Before there was a stone rolled away, there was a Savior pressed down. Before there was resurrection joy, there was obedience chosen in the dark.

If we rush too quickly to Easter morning, we risk misunderstanding what resurrection actually means.

Because resurrection is not God rescuing Jesus from a bad situation.

It is God vindicating a Son who had already chosen the cross.

And that choice was made here — in Gethsemane.

Matthew tells us that after the Last Supper, after the hymns were sung, after promises of loyalty were confidently spoken, Jesus led His disciples out of the city. They crossed the Kidron Valley. They walked beneath olive trees. They came to a familiar place — a place Jesus often visited.

Nothing about the location was surprising. But everything about the moment was.

Jesus knew this was the night.

The night of betrayal.

The night of abandonment.

The night when obedience would cost Him everything.

For the first time in Matthew’s Gospel, we are allowed to see inside the emotional life of Jesus.

Not teaching.

Not healing.

Not confronting.

But trembling.

Matthew uses words here that appear nowhere else in the Gospel to describe Jesus’ inner state. He is sorrowful. He is troubled. He tells His closest friends that His soul is overwhelmed — so overwhelmed that He feels crushed beneath its weight.

This is not theatrical distress.

This is not performative suffering.

This is the Son of God staring directly into the cost of salvation.

What makes this moment even more sobering is that Jesus does not face it alone by accident — He faces it alone by choice.

He brings His disciples with Him.

He asks them to stay awake.

He invites them into the moment.

And they fall asleep.

What happens in Gethsemane is not just about Jesus’ agony.

It is also about human inattentiveness in the presence of holy suffering.

That makes this text painfully relevant for Easter weekend. We, too, can celebrate resurrection without ever staying awake long enough to understand the cross.

This morning, we are going to walk slowly through this garden — not to wallow in sorrow, but to understand the obedience that made Easter possible.

--- PART ONE: The Weight of the Cup

Matthew tells us that Jesus came with His disciples to a place called Gethsemane. The name itself means oil press. Olives were crushed there so that oil could flow.Matthew does not mention that detail by accident.

This is a place of pressure.

A place of crushing.

A place where something precious is pressed until it is poured out.

Jesus tells most of the disciples to sit and wait. But He takes Peter, James, and John with Him — the inner circle.

These are the same three who saw His glory on the Mount of Transfiguration. The same three who heard the Father’s voice. The same three who promised loyalty just hours earlier.

And now they see Him undone.

Matthew says Jesus began to be sorrowful and troubled. That wording matters. This is not a sudden panic attack. This is the slow arrival of an unbearable weight.

Then Jesus speaks words we almost never associate with Him: “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death.”

This is not metaphor.

This is not exaggeration.

This is Jesus describing a grief so heavy it feels lethal.

The Son of God tells His friends that the sorrow itself feels like it might kill Him.

And then He asks them for something simple.

“Remain here, and watch with Me.”

He does not ask them to fix anything.

He does not ask them to understand everything.

He does not ask them to be strong.

He asks them to stay awake.

There is something profoundly human here.

In our moments of deepest distress, we want someone near. We want presence. We want companionship. We want someone to stay with us in the dark.

Jesus is no different.

This passage gives us one of the clearest windows into the full humanity of Christ anywhere in Scripture. He is not detached. He is not insulated. He is not above sorrow.

He is fully human — and fully aware.

Then He goes a little farther.

Luke tells us it was about a stone’s throw. Close enough to be heard. Close enough to be seen. But far enough to be alone.

There, Jesus falls on His face.