Gethsemane

I made my way up to the huge painted glass portrait of Christ that served as but one of the many windows in the humanly breathtaking cathedral. It was a beautifully orchestrated work that was clearly inspired by a higher entity, yet meticulously brought to life by a lesser hand. The depiction within this multicoloured fragility was one most profound, a weeping Christ upon His knees. The very position I found myself in just mere moments ago.

How can such perfection be brought to His knees?

My mortal mind has never fully managed the realities of Christ, yet this was of a perplexing continuum never before contemplated.

My hand reached out to touch the tear of glass that now coloured my world differently. As my fingers caressed the bluish brushstroke, moistness ran from my fingertip to wrist and gently dripped to the floor. I quickly raised my hand from the surface of the glass and inspected both fingers and floor. Somehow this dry surface had enough moisture to produce a very unusual event. I braced myself and laid both hands upon the painted scene, suddenly I felt a force push me towards the sun-illuminated masterpiece. I closed my eyes and prepared for the sounds, and feelings, of broken glass and a sure plummet to my demise.

After what seemed like several minutes of nothing, I decided to open my eyes again. I was no longer within the walls of the cathedral, for better or worse I could not yet tell. Quickly looking around I could see that I was in something of a garden, perhaps, the time of day was unknown due to the odd light that I saw, not darkness but not completely light either, definitely an ethereal feeling to it.

I now begin to move, however my movements come without sound, almost like I don’t truly exist in this moment. As my eyes adjust I see a figure kneeling upon the ground, greatly emotional and speaking aloud to someone, or something. I draw closer and hear some of the words; “My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.” Although these words were not spoken in my own tongue, I somehow understand every word. This is without question Gethsemane, and before me is the very Jesus that I have been praying to my entire life. The man before me is nothing like the mind’s eye of mankind has portrayed Him in brushstrokes. He has the features that an average man would claim his own, yet something pleasant draws you to him, although now His features are greatly challenged with grief.

Jesus rises to His feet and begins walking toward a group of men; He awakens the disciples and speaks with them. I am too far to hear, so I walk toward them. I immediately freeze in my steps as I see a man leading the way with a crowd behind him.

It begins with a kiss.

I don’t know how, but I am now standing again in front of the simple, colourful glass. It holds little of my attention anymore. I saw Him in grief, just as I have been in grief. My pain is nothing in comparison. He knew what the outcome would be and allowed death to bring life. Somehow, this experience has brought a much-needed sense of reality to my faith and a wake-up call for my perspective. I look at my watch; a mere amount of minutes has passed since I was slumping in a pew and contemplating my life, and how to stop it. Now my heart is beating so fast and all that I can think about is how I can truly start to live my life. I know the outcome now more than ever; my life is not mine to discard.

I walk passed the aisles of pews on my way to the doors; a great sense of renewed hope rests within me. As I open the doors to head outside a light shines upon me for the first time.

A smile decorates my countenance.
























-j.g.smith (09/15/07)