“When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy rises in man’s heart: this is the rock’s victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane.” — Albert Camus, from “The Myth of Sisyphus”
Many years ago, I had a thought that has stayed with me ever since: Maybe the whole reason I was born is so I can sit with Christ for an hour in the Garden at Gethsemane.
I remember the exact time of day and place: late afternoon, on the west side of Norton Avenue in LA’s Hancock Park, just south of 5th Street. I was in the midst of what had already been a long period of psychic anguish (and, as it happened, would continue for some time). I was starting out for my daily walk. I was devoid of joy. Nothing gave me pleasure. Nothing energized me. All I knew was to keep going to Mass, to stay close to Jesus.
The crucifixion, carried out before a jeering, spitting crowd, is horrifying to contemplate.
Each stage on the road to Calvary has its psychic counterpart for us. Still, we probably won’t be physically scourged, nor have a crown of thorns jammed on our head, nor be nailed to a cross in this life.
But the Garden of Gethsemane — the agony of anxiety that must be undergone in utter darkness alone, the terror of the unknown, the sense of being completely inadequate to what lies before us — is the province of every human being.
Everyone knows the agony of waiting to hear from a lost or missing loved one. Everyone knows the anxiety of waiting: for the results of a medical test (will the biopsy be negative?), or an academic test (will I qualify for this college?), or an interview (will I get this job?).
Can I pay my rent or feed my children? Will the ambulance come in time? Will he ask me on a second date? Will she marry me? Will the baby be healthy?
Will I die alone?
In a way, we are always in the Garden at Gethsemane, all our lives. As we age, we perhaps find ourselves ever more cognizant of our place there. Beneath all other anxieties is the anxiety, even if unconscious, of where, when, and how our earthly end will come.
In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus knew when and how his end would come. He knew, and he was terrified.
What does it mean to sweat tears of blood? “Hematohidrosis,” the National Institute of Health reports, “is a very rare condition in which an individual sweats blood. It may occur in an individual who is suffering from extreme levels of stress.”
Can we even imagine anxiety that extreme? And Jesus didn’t just sweat blood; he sweated tears of blood. He suffered extreme stress coupled with extreme sorrow: both at a level beyond comprehension.
It’s well documented that animals who know their time has come will often wander off to a place where they can be alone and die. The instinct is to hide from attackers. No such protection would be offered to our Savior.
The Garden at Gethsemane was a place where Jesus had often gone with his disciples to pray. He longed for them to pray with him now, but they were tired. He longed to be safe, but soon the Roman soldiers would come with their torches and whips.
People in prison awaiting their executions are in a position to be close to Christ. I think of Servant of God Joseph Müller (1894-1944), one of scores of priests executed by the Nazis (his crime was telling a joke about Hitler: under torture, he would not reveal the name of the person who told it to him). I think of Servant of God Jacques Fesch (1930-1957), a murderer who had a conversion experience while incarcerated in Paris before being guillotined. I think of Mikal Mahdi (1983-2025), another convicted murderer and the second man recently executed by firing squad in South Carolina.
I also think that during Holy Week, when I wake in the middle of the night, maybe a few things could wait until morning. Maybe I don’t need to grab my phone, right then, and research the call of a vermilion flycatcher, or the price of flights to Appleton, Wisconsin, or the player list for the French Open, or my checking account balance.
Could you not sit with me for an hour?
All through Lent, while out walking, I’ve prayed along with the Stations of the Cross by St. Alphonsus Liguori.
“My adorable Jesus, it was not Pilate; no, it was my sins that condemned You to die.”
“My beloved Jesus, it was not the weight of the cross but the weight of my sins which made You suffer so much.”
“My most gentle Jesus, how many times You have forgiven me; and how many times I have fallen again and begun again to offend You!”
Our human weaknesses, failures, faults, wounds, and predisposition to sin are so monumentally extreme that it took — and continues to take — the extreme suffering of the Crucifixion to reconcile us to God.
The least we can do is sit with Jesus for an hour in the Garden of Gethsemane as he contemplates his passion.
That’s all he asks. Just sit.
And while we’re at it, pray, “Remember me, Lord, when you come into your kingdom.”
Heather King is a blogger, speaker, and the author of several books. Visit heather-king.com.
