Battleground And Victory
Sermon
Preaching Eyes for Listening Ears
Sermons and Commentary For Preachers and Students of Preaching
This sermon was preached at Covenant Presbyterian Church, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, on Maundy Thursday, 1958.
This was one of the rare occasions when I memorized the sermon and sought to preach it exactly as written. It seems to me that the rhythm, cadence, and sound of the words are important for this particular sermon. The purpose of the sermon is to bring the hearers into the Garden of Gethsemane where they can share to some extent the emotions Jesus must have endured during that night of prayer. The sermon is designed to appeal to the heart more than to the head, and to create an atmosphere of quiet contemplation as the congregation considers the significance of Jesus' suffering and death on our behalf.
Tread softly here, for this is hallowed ground. If you must speak, then whisper only, and in most reverent tones. Stoop not to pluck a careless leaf. Toss no casual stone against the gnarled trunks of the olive trees. But stand, or better kneel, with head bared and bowed. In silence wait. In trembling awe behold this holy ground as if with blood it were baptized, as if upon this sacred soil there lay a host of quiet graves of those who struggled, fought, and died that you might have the costly gift of life and liberty.
They call this place a garden, and so it is. A quiet place with friendly olive trees, the song of birds, soft breezes, and the smell of flowers sweet and bright. But this place is a battleground, for here is fought in desperate conflict the most decisive struggle in human history.
Tread softly here, for you walk in God's Gethsemane. Dare not break the sacred silence, for here one man writhes in agonizing prayer. Three who were told to watch and pray doze into languid slumber. Eight others, beyond the struggle's sight and sound, sit in fear and wonder, while one more has gone into the city to sell his soul at a bargain price.
This is no neutral ground. The battle is for you and me and all humankind. We are caught up, involved, and set upon our destiny by reason of its outcome.
And yet but one man fights the battle. No armies tread this solemn place. No chariots of war leave their ruts along the garden path. He comes. The Man of Sorrows comes to face the lonely wrestling. He does not plunge at once into the solitary conflict, but gradually lets go of human companionship. Surrounded by eleven friends he crosses Kidron's brook. Then he stops.
"Sit here while I go and pray yonder." Eight of them remain. But three of them, Peter, James, and John, follow farther still until by look and word he lets them know that there are steps ahead which he must take alone.
Never had they seen him so distressed and sorrowful. Oh, they had seen him weep, at Lazarus' tomb, for instance, but never so borne down as now. "My soul is very sorrowful, even unto death; remain here, and watch."
Now the battle is joined. The Son of God, the Son of Man, is face to face with mystery and is confronted by the final choice from which there is no turning.
"Abba, Father, all things are possible to you; remove this cup from me."
He is only 33, and no one wants to die at 33. He has seen crosses and watched the crucified hang for days and plead for death. Who is to doubt that he, like anyone, would shrink from this? Is there not some other way? There is still time to turn back, to slip beneath the night's protective shade and return to Galilee to preach and heal and serve. Can there not be some compromise which would serve to give God's message to the world? Must it be now, and must it be death?
Thus boldly before his Father he states his desire and yearning. He does not veil the groping of his soul to find and grasp his Father's will. To know and accept that will joyfully, that is his struggle and his battleground.
Back from prayer he comes to seek once more the support and understanding of his human friends. It is little that he asks of them: a look, a word, a laying on of hands upon his shoulder.
But the three who love him most, Peter, James, and John, are asleep. How can they sleep? But who am I to ask this question? How often I have refused to share his struggle and have slumbered while the Son of God prays in agony.
His struggle is not a shrinking from a pain no flesh was ever meant to bear, but from the weight of the world's sin upon his spotless soul. He is not pleading for a way out, but for a way into the Father's holy will. The battle is to merge his will with God's own will and to be satisfied with the union.
At last the victory's won. The cup will not pass. The cross still waits. Pain must come and with it death; with the cup a strengthening hand to hold it; with the cross the world's redemption; with the death a victory.
See the victor rise from prayer. Back he comes to his disciples, not now seeking from them comfort and support, but offering to them strength and hope.
"Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? It is enough; the hour has come; the Son of Man is betrayed into the hand of sinners. Rise, let us be going; see, my betrayer is at hand."
Boldly, serenely, he goes out to meet the worst that human sin can do. But the victory is already won. It is won in these words, "Your will be done."
There is nothing of fear and defeat in these words. They are spoken in a tone of holy, perfect trust. It is to his Father whom he speaks. He speaks in surrender, yes; but surrender to an everlasting love, to a love which works only good and redeems the deepest pain.
Tread softly here, for on this sacred ground the cause is won, and God's holy will is victor on this day. The cross, the grave, sin, and death are vanquished in defeat.
It is enough. The hour has come. Rise, let us be going, for this is victory day.
This was one of the rare occasions when I memorized the sermon and sought to preach it exactly as written. It seems to me that the rhythm, cadence, and sound of the words are important for this particular sermon. The purpose of the sermon is to bring the hearers into the Garden of Gethsemane where they can share to some extent the emotions Jesus must have endured during that night of prayer. The sermon is designed to appeal to the heart more than to the head, and to create an atmosphere of quiet contemplation as the congregation considers the significance of Jesus' suffering and death on our behalf.
Tread softly here, for this is hallowed ground. If you must speak, then whisper only, and in most reverent tones. Stoop not to pluck a careless leaf. Toss no casual stone against the gnarled trunks of the olive trees. But stand, or better kneel, with head bared and bowed. In silence wait. In trembling awe behold this holy ground as if with blood it were baptized, as if upon this sacred soil there lay a host of quiet graves of those who struggled, fought, and died that you might have the costly gift of life and liberty.
They call this place a garden, and so it is. A quiet place with friendly olive trees, the song of birds, soft breezes, and the smell of flowers sweet and bright. But this place is a battleground, for here is fought in desperate conflict the most decisive struggle in human history.
Tread softly here, for you walk in God's Gethsemane. Dare not break the sacred silence, for here one man writhes in agonizing prayer. Three who were told to watch and pray doze into languid slumber. Eight others, beyond the struggle's sight and sound, sit in fear and wonder, while one more has gone into the city to sell his soul at a bargain price.
This is no neutral ground. The battle is for you and me and all humankind. We are caught up, involved, and set upon our destiny by reason of its outcome.
And yet but one man fights the battle. No armies tread this solemn place. No chariots of war leave their ruts along the garden path. He comes. The Man of Sorrows comes to face the lonely wrestling. He does not plunge at once into the solitary conflict, but gradually lets go of human companionship. Surrounded by eleven friends he crosses Kidron's brook. Then he stops.
"Sit here while I go and pray yonder." Eight of them remain. But three of them, Peter, James, and John, follow farther still until by look and word he lets them know that there are steps ahead which he must take alone.
Never had they seen him so distressed and sorrowful. Oh, they had seen him weep, at Lazarus' tomb, for instance, but never so borne down as now. "My soul is very sorrowful, even unto death; remain here, and watch."
Now the battle is joined. The Son of God, the Son of Man, is face to face with mystery and is confronted by the final choice from which there is no turning.
"Abba, Father, all things are possible to you; remove this cup from me."
He is only 33, and no one wants to die at 33. He has seen crosses and watched the crucified hang for days and plead for death. Who is to doubt that he, like anyone, would shrink from this? Is there not some other way? There is still time to turn back, to slip beneath the night's protective shade and return to Galilee to preach and heal and serve. Can there not be some compromise which would serve to give God's message to the world? Must it be now, and must it be death?
Thus boldly before his Father he states his desire and yearning. He does not veil the groping of his soul to find and grasp his Father's will. To know and accept that will joyfully, that is his struggle and his battleground.
Back from prayer he comes to seek once more the support and understanding of his human friends. It is little that he asks of them: a look, a word, a laying on of hands upon his shoulder.
But the three who love him most, Peter, James, and John, are asleep. How can they sleep? But who am I to ask this question? How often I have refused to share his struggle and have slumbered while the Son of God prays in agony.
His struggle is not a shrinking from a pain no flesh was ever meant to bear, but from the weight of the world's sin upon his spotless soul. He is not pleading for a way out, but for a way into the Father's holy will. The battle is to merge his will with God's own will and to be satisfied with the union.
At last the victory's won. The cup will not pass. The cross still waits. Pain must come and with it death; with the cup a strengthening hand to hold it; with the cross the world's redemption; with the death a victory.
See the victor rise from prayer. Back he comes to his disciples, not now seeking from them comfort and support, but offering to them strength and hope.
"Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? It is enough; the hour has come; the Son of Man is betrayed into the hand of sinners. Rise, let us be going; see, my betrayer is at hand."
Boldly, serenely, he goes out to meet the worst that human sin can do. But the victory is already won. It is won in these words, "Your will be done."
There is nothing of fear and defeat in these words. They are spoken in a tone of holy, perfect trust. It is to his Father whom he speaks. He speaks in surrender, yes; but surrender to an everlasting love, to a love which works only good and redeems the deepest pain.
Tread softly here, for on this sacred ground the cause is won, and God's holy will is victor on this day. The cross, the grave, sin, and death are vanquished in defeat.
It is enough. The hour has come. Rise, let us be going, for this is victory day.
