Aug 30 2019 Mark 14:27-42

Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want.

Fully human, fully divine. Jesus is praying, fretting the night before he’s to be tried, tortured, and killed. He’s left his disciples a few paces behind, as he petitions God. Let this cup pass me by. Don’t make me do this. Fully human. Yet, not what I want but you want. Fully divine.  

I do like this petition of Jesus. God, make this stop. Take away the pain of the world, the pain in my family. There’s no shortage of things to petition God to remove. And there’s no reason not to do so. And so we pray and ask God to intercede on our behalf, to make our world better. God hears all those cries. God is with us as we cry. God was with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, as he cried.

Crying out to God is frightening, and lonely. And comforting, and companionable, all at the same time. When I cry out, it’s generally because something is cruddy enough that I’m absolutely clear I cannot fix it myself. It’s hard to cry out because it admits a vulnerability and lack of control. And generally, when I cry out, I’m by myself. Even if it takes place in a place of corporate worship, it’s just me and God.

But that petitioning is oddly comforting and companionable too. By virtue of petitioning God, I inherently acknowledge that God is present. God is all powerful, and miracles can happen. And although I feel alone, God is present.

And so we pray. But to be a person of faith, I need to also add the phrase, ‘yet not what I want, but what you want’. I can and do pray for all sorts of interventions. Make this pain go away. Heal this. Calm that. And I need to have the firm faith that what should happen at the end of the day is not my desire, but God’s.

That’s not to say that if something isn’t healed, or fixed or immediately calmed, God wants sickness, brokenness or anxiety. Rather, God has a much wider lens than I could possibly have. I’m judging the elephant blindfolded by grabbing its tail, trunk or touching its side. I can’t possibly have the full picture. ]

This morning, I’m thinking about not my will but God’s, and how I can either catch a glimpse of the bigger picture or let go and trust that there is a bigger picture. Maybe it’s not mine to see or understand, but rather to just trust that it is. I’m grateful we have these glimpses into Jesus’ full humanity. If it is possible, take this pain from me. And I’m grateful that I mostly trust there’s a God who sees all, and is always present. Yet, not what I want, but what you want.