The fellowship of the garden

The strains of Psalm 22 quietly sung by the choir –  "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" – began the soundtrack for the increasing darkness.  There was no more sunlight to illuminate the stained glass; the clergy changed from white robes to black; the lights were turned off one by one as the altar was stripped of all decorations and the cross removed.  The priests slowly and deliberately washed the altar to prepare it for Good Friday, and a crown of thorns was laid in the center.

Then almost all of the lights were extinguished, until only candlelight remained.  We slowly left the sanctuary, singing the haunting chant, "Stay with me, remain here with me, watch and pray."  The shadows on our faces from the candlelight seemed like torch light in the Garden of Gethsemane.  After a final reading, we left the church in silence.
 
I couldn't help but think about that day for the disciples.  They woke up to a beautiful spring day, expecting to celebrate the Passover with their friends – a solemn enough reenactment in its own right – yet they had no clue of what was able to happen to them.  Jesus woke up to that same day, but he knew.  It staggers my imagination.

The garden is where the rubber hits the road in terms of fellowship.  It's the moment where the veil is lifted, where unbelievers see what we're made of.  Sometimes it's a moment of failure like the disciples experienced:  "Fellowship?  What fellowship?"  At other times, it is where the best of redeemed humankind is revealed.  Someone sits and holds the hands of the dying; another cleans a kitchen or brings food to their neighbor in distress.  Some wait with Jesus, watching and battling in prayer for the soul of one who has wandered from the fold.  In darkness, in distress, in disappointment, in death – in these times, the fellowship of the garden comes alongside.

This is fellowship both given and received.  As a young person, I simply had no idea.  It wasn't until I faced my first true crisis that I understood what it meant to be cradled and cared for, to be loved with the same love Christ had for the caring one. And though I would never wish tragedy on anyone, the garden of suffering is where Christ in his fullness is revealed through His people.

The closing prayer of Maundy Thursday captures my hopes and prayer for me and for you:

Holy God, source of all love, on the night of his betrayal Jesus gave his disciples a new commandment: Love one another.  By your Holy Spirit write this commandment in our hearts through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.  And now let your servants go in peace, to watch and wait with the Lord Jesus, in prayer and divine affection, in silence and endurance.  May God's blessing abide with you, through the darkness this night and into the glory of the dawning of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

This is the third in a series of three reflections on Maundy Thursday.