The Mount of Olives
“And he went, as he was wont, to the Mount of Olives:’
The mountains are Nature’s monuments. Like the islands they dwell apart, and like them they give asylum from a noisy and irreverent world. In their silence many a meditative spirit has found leisure for the longest thought, and in their Patmos-like seclusion the brightest visions and largest projects have evolved; whilst by a sort of overmastering attraction they have usually drawn to themselves the most memorable incidents which variegate our human history. And, as they are the natural haunts of the highest spirits, and the appropriate scenes of the most signal occurrences, so they are the noblest cenotaphs. Far off they arrest the eye; and though their hoary chronicle tells its legend of the past, their heaven-pointing elevations convey the spirit onward towards eternity. We do not wonder that excited fancy has sought relics of the ark on the top of Ararat; and in the grim solitude of Sinai, it is solemn to remember and easy to believe that the voice of Jehovah has spoken here. Elijah has made Carmel all his own, and the death of Moses must be ever Pisgah’s diadem. The words of Jesus seem still to linger on the hills of Galilee, their lilies forbidding “thought for raiment,” and their little birds twittering “no thought for to-morrow,” whilst every grassy tuft and scented flower is breathing its own beatitude. But though heavenly wisdom spake on that mountain-side, and excellent glory lighted up the top of Tabor, there is another height to which discipleship reverts with fonder memory, and which it treads with softer step — that mountain where beyond any spot in Palestine “God was manifest in flesh,” — where the great Intercessor was wont to pray, where Jesus wept over Jerusalem, on whose slopes he blessed the Apostleband, and sent his message of mercy to mankind — the mountain at whose base lay Bethany and Gethsemane — on whose gentle turf his feet last stood, and where they yet may stand again — the Sabbatic, pensive, and expectant Mount of Olives.
Round this Incarnation-monument let our thoughts this day revolve. To learn the mind which was in Christ, and so the mind which is in God, let us confine our view to that little spot, and ponder those scenes in the Saviour’s history and those words in the Saviour’s ministry of which the theatre was Olivet. And whilst we do this for purposes of general piety — to get materials for our faith and love — let us, as the best introduction to a few discourses on Prayer, keep an especial eye to the suppliant Saviour. That we may know the Intercessor above, there is no way so excellent as to get acquainted with that same Jesus while he sojourned here below.
1. Olivet reminds us of the Saviour’s pity for such as perish. It was a pleasant evening in spring, and the Holy Land looked happy The rapid verdure — the bright blush of the pomegranate, and the tender scent of the budding vines — the nestling dove in her mur-B 2 muring joy, and the colt and lamb in their crazy gambols — all felt the gush of vernal glee. And people felt it. It was the sunny paschal tide, and the waysides resounded with shouting pilgrims on their journey to Jerusalem. From Hermon to Zion it was one long stream of music and merry hearts, and even round the Man of Sorrows it looked like a dawn of joy. They seem at last to guess his mission and suspect his glory. They are conducting him in triumph. They are rending down the palm-branches and cleaving the welkin with their shouts, “Hosannah to the Son of David!” and proud is he on whose mantle the pacing colt of their new monarch sets his foot. — But why this solemn pause? this slackened gait, this quivering lip, this tearful eye? Jerusalem is full in sight — straight over yon narrow vale, so near that you may count each stone of the glistening temple, and catch from the teeming streets this evening’s tune of mingled gladness. Is it not a goodly sight? yon gorgeous fane — the true Jehovah’s sanctuary; yon crowding population, God’s ancient people — and more than all, the thought of happy meetings and blessed homes on which this evening’s sun will set? But the Saviour saw another crowd and heard another shout. Through the darkened noon he saw the erected cross, and round it heard the frantic mob exclaiming, “Away with him, away with him! Crucify him, crucify him! His blood be on us and our children.” The Saviour saw another sight. Across the gulf of forty years he looked as clearly as then he looked across the valley of Jehoshaphat, and saw the dismal prayer fulfilled. He saw another passover, and another multitude, and another evening like this — but saw that there should never be the like again. He beheld the Roman eagle swoop down on Ids quarry, and in the straitness of that siege saw things from which the piteous soul of Immanuel shrank away. He saw another sight. He saw these goodly stones all tumbled down, and barley growing in silent fields where now so many footsteps nimbly tripped it — no temple, no ephod, no priest, no passover! And, oh! he saw yet another sight. He saw another world, and in its sullen gloom and endless weeping recognised many a one whose beaming face and sparkling eye lit up that evening’s
b 3 festival. As if already in the place of woe he looked on many round him; and though their voices were that moment merry and shouting in his train, he knew that they would despise his blood and hate his Heavenly Father, and their present mirth made Jesus weep the more. “He beheld the city, and wept over it, saying, If thou hadst known, even thou, in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes.”
Every tear that Jesus wept is a mystery, and this solemn incident in the Redeemer’s history no one can entirely explain. But, my dear friends, it teaches this awful lesson — that some may share a Saviour’s tears who never profit by a Saviour’s blood. It shows that his pity for sinners is far beyond their pity for themselves. 0 Christless sinner! these, tears of the Saviour speak to thee. They ask, Do you know to what a hell you are going, and what a heaven you are losing? You may be merry now — but so was Jerusalem then — and yet its mirth made Jesus weep the more. You may be light-hearted and lovely to your friends- — and so were many of those whose ungodly souls and dark hereafter made Jesus weep. You may be in the midst of mercy and surrounded with the means of grace — and so were they; but mercy so near them and grace rejected only made the Saviour’s tears flow faster. “Would that thou hadst known in this thy day, the things that belong to thy peace!” And you may have even some interest about the Saviour. Under some erroneous impression, or on a holiday triumph, you may join the jubilant company and shout Hosannah — but oh! if you despise his blood, or join the world that crucifies him, you are one of those whose cup of wrath will only be embittered by a pitying Saviour’s slighted tears. You who never come to a communion
you who have never got such faith in
a dying Saviour, or such love to him as to do this in remembrance of him — you who do nothing to identify yourselves with the Nazarene — the Crucified — whose zeal is all expended on the road from Jericho to Jerusalem — who never follow to the guest-chamber, to Gethsemane, to the cross, to the tomb, and back into a scorning world — you who are not moved by a Saviour’s blood, will you not be melted by a Saviour’s tear? That tear fell from an eye which had looked into eternity, and knew the worth of souls. It fell from an eye which was not used to weep for nothing, and which must have seen something very sad before it wept at all. It fell from an eye which, 0 sinner! would glisten with ecstasy if it saw thy dry lids moistening and thy dry heart melting — an eye which would sparkle in affection over thee if it saw thee weeping for thyself, and weeping for the pierced One.
2. The Mount of Olives reminds us of the Redeemer’s agony to save. At the foot of the mountain, and between two paths, both of which lead over the hill to Bethany, is a little enclosure called Gethsemane.* To this day it contains some singularly large and very ancient olive-trees. Being on the way-side to Bethany, and at a convenient distance from the noise and interruption of Jerusalem, “Jesus ofttimes resorted thither with his disciples;” and when he crossed the brook and got in, either alone or with his little com-
* See Narrative of a Mission to the Jews, by Messrs. Bonar and M’Cheyne, chap. S.
pany, under the soft shelter of the olive branches, and the city gates were closed, and no footfall was heard on either path, he enjoyed “communion high and sweet” with his Heavenly Father. And this holy fellowship endeared the place. It was not the dewy stillness — though that was welcome at the close of the jaded day, — nor the sweet moonlight, and the gentle fall of tiny flakes from the blossoming trees, and the murmur of the brook, and the song of evening birds — though, after the rough jeering and blasphemy of men, the inarticulate music of the loyal universe was thrice welcome to the Saviour’s ear; but because in that seclusion He and the Father were alone together. Intercourse such as he enjoyed while as yet in the Father’s bosom he tasted there, and it so gladdened and strengthened his soul that he ofttimes resorted thither. Others would go home to sleep, but Jesus would go there to pray. Every man went, at evening, to his own place; but Jesus “went to the Mount of Olives.”* And, as it had been the scene of his highest delights, he selected it as the fittest place for his deepest * John vii. 53; viii. 1.
sorrow. The Son of Man had no dwelling of his own; but Gethsemane was the Saviour’s “closet,”* It was there that, in secret, he had so often prayed to his Father; and as the memory of blessed moments, and the sunshine of heaven opened rested on it, now that grief was near, he, as it were, entered into it and shut to the door. But oh! how changed! ‘Tis no longer the same Gethsemane. All his days of flesh the Surety had been bearing his people’s sin, and at all times carrying in his bosom the vial of indignation due to their sin. But it was not wrath poured out; it was wrath in a vial. Now, however, the vial burst, and his inmost soul was drenched in its burning fury. He was sore amazed. To be made “a curse” was a new thing to Immanuel. To be brought into such horrid contact with the thing which his soul hated — to be numbered with transgressors and to bear the sin of many — was a strange and appalling thing to the Holy One of God. He was sore amazed! A cup was put into his harmless hand; and, as he gazed at this cup of trembling, it was not the sharp anguish of the flesh, nor the
Matt. vi. 6.
taunts of ruffian men, nor the malignity of hideous fiends, — but it was guilt which made its dregs so bitter, and the Father’s wrath which caused its flaming overflow. And though his hand was too gentle and filial to fling that cup away, separateness from sin and the joyful sense of his Father’s love were to Jesus dearer than life; and though his omnipotent hand still clasped the cup, his holy soul revolted from it; and in extremity of pain — in the agony of a bloody sweat — he prayed that it might pass from him. But had he not drunk it, that cup must have journeyed on, and all his people, in a lost eternity, must have drunk it for themselves; and though the fainting flesh prompted him to let it pass, and the hatred of the accursed thing, and the instinct after the Father’s smile, seconded the prayer of the feeble flesh, love to man still held it fast, and love to the Father enabled him to drink it all. And when at last, from its paroxysm of woe, he wakened up in the strengthening angel’s arms, the work was well nigh done, justice was all but satisfied, and the Church all but saved; and, for the joy so much nearer now, the cross had no terror and the sepulchre no gloom; and now that the bitterness of death was past, Judas and his torchlit band could not come too quickly.
Oh, what wonders love hath done!
But how little understood!
God well knows, and God alone,
What produced that sweat of blood:
Who can thy deep wonders see,
Wonderful Gethsemane!
There my God bore all my guilt:
This through grace can be believed;
But the horrors which he felt
Are too vast to be conceived:
None can penetrate through thee,
Doleful, dark Gethsemane!
3. The Mount of Olives is identified with the supplications and intercessions of Imraanuel, and so suggests to us the Lord Jesus as the great example in prayer. The supplications which ascended on those solitary nights, when, of his people, there was none with him, survive in no human record; yet, doubtless, to the end of time our world will be indebted to the lonely hours when the Man of Sorrows watched and prayed upon the Mount of Olives.
Hart’s Hymns.
The petitions offered in Gethsernane the pen of Inspiration has preserved; and the seventeenth of John records a long and fervent prayer offered, in all likelihood, in some calm spot near the same venerable mountain’s base. In these supplications the heavenly High Priest was not only his people’s mediator and intercessor, but their model and their guide. And from these we learn —
(1.) Submission in prayer. In praying for his people, the Mediator’s prayer was absolute; “Father! I will.” But in praying for himself, how altered was the language! “Father! if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.” “Now is my soul troubled, and what shall I say? Father! save me from this hour; but for this cause came I unto this hour. Father! glorify thy name.”
(2.) Perseverance in prayer. The Evangelist* tells that there was one prayer which Jesus offered three times, and from the Epistle to the Hebrews we find that this prayer prevailed.f Although the more palpable sufferings did not pass away, the more exquisite
* Matt. xxvi. 44. t Hebrews v. 7.
and inward anguish, which made his soul exceeding sorrowful even unto death, did pass away. In answer to his “strong crying and tears,” he was saved from this deadly and soul-crushing grief.
(3.) The best preparation for trial is habitual prayer. Long before it became the scene of his agony, Gethsemane had been the Saviour’s oratory. “He ofttimes resorted thither.” But when the hour of darkness came, and he trod the wine-press alone, he found that even He had not been there too often. And, brethren, it will be the best preparation for your own days of darkness and scenes of trial, to resort ofttimes thither in anticipatory prayer. Days of bodily weakness or sad bereavement will come abated, and the day of death will come less startling, if in prayer you have oft repaired to it beforehand, and bespoken Almighty help against its time of need.
(4.) The Mount of Olives recalls to us the Saviour’s affection for his own. I fear that the love of Christ is little credited even by those who have some faith in his finished work, and some attachment to his living person. There are several relations which link souls on earth together, and the affection, the instinct of endearment created by that relation is in some instances intensely strong; but, O disciple! do you believe that your Saviour’s love is stronger? A brother knows how he loves his brother — but their love to one another will not explain a Saviour’s love to them — for Jesus is “a friend who sticketh closer than a brother;” a friend whose love will stand severer shocks and enter into finer feelings. A mother knows how she loves the infant in her arms, how little she would grudge the hours spent in watching his feverish slumber, and the health she lost in restoring his; but that will not tell her how a Saviour loves his own. She may forget, but Jesus will not forget his ransomed. And in regard to the most sacred of all relations, the Bible says, “Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the Church, and gave himself for it, that he might sanctify it.” Not that it is possible to have the same high and self-devoting and transforming love; but the nearer approach to it the nearer a perfect affection. But though the Word of God employs these
c 2 three comparisons to shadow forth the Saviour’s feeling towards his own, the labouring words and disappointed metaphors leave us to infer that there is something in the heart of Immanuel towards his people — something more specific — more solicitous — more bent on their happiness and more bound up in their holiness — more tender and more transforming, than any thing which the dim affections and drossy emotions of earth can rightly represent. O disciple! do you credit this? Have you not been rather wont to regard yourself as occupying in the Saviour’s mind such a place as a star in the firmament, or a symbol in a formula, or a leaf in the forest, or at best a sheep in the uncounted fold? If these be your notions, go back to Olivet. Hear the Divine Intercessor at its foot exclaiming, “Neither pray I for these alone, but for all who shall hereafter believe through their word;” and hear him promising, ere his feet sunder from its grassy slopes, “And lo! I am with you alway, even to the end of the world;” and recollect that he who prayed thus and who promised thus is He to whom “all power is given in heaven and in earth” — the Alpha and Omega, who is, and was, and is to come — the Almighty. Kemember that in his comprehensive eye you as truly had a place as Peter and John, and in his all-sufficient love you have a place as specific if not as large as they. You are one of those over whom he stretched his uplifted hands and pronounced his parting blessing. You are one of those to whom he has promised another Comforter, and whom he has engaged to be with alway; and though formal teaching may forget it, and your own cold heart may contradict it, if you belong to Christ at all, however much you may be prized and cherished by some around you, there is One unseen who loves you more, and who having loved you from the first will love you to the end.
Except his bodily absence, there is no alteration in the Friend of Sinners. It was ineffable love to the souls of men that brought him to the manger, and that love was nothing less when he hasted to Jerusalem, impatient for the cross. The bloody sweat of Gethsemane did not exhaust that love — the desertion of disciples did not damp it, and the soldiers’ buffeting and the rabble’s shouts did not disgust it. It was love to men, which in the ransomed thief for a moment brightened his dying hour, which gave him breath to cry, “Father! forgive them!” and strength to bow the head and give up the ghost. Love to man was the last thing which left the heart of Jesus, and the first tiling that throbbed in it when it was a living heart again. The darkness of Golgotha had not eclipsed it, nor in Joseph’s sepulchre had the tomb-damp tarnished it. No sooner was he risen indeed, than his love glowed again so fervent that that resurrection evening it made two faithful hearts on their way to Emmaus burn within them; and after lighting one little company after another for forty days, in a burst of concentrated kindness, in a blaze of final blessing, it vanished from them into heaven. And in the same manner as they saw him go, we shall see him come; the same mighty yet benignant Saviour, as full of grace when he returns the Man of Joys as when he first and for ever ceased to be the Man of Sorrows. And, oh! brethren, do you learn it — do you believe it! Let the Mount of Olives be your incarnation-monument. Let the road from Jericho be the record of a
Saviour’s pity. Let Gethsernane be the measure of a Saviour’s desire for souls, and let Bethany be the token how much he loves his own; and like the men of Galilee, let the last and habitual aspect of the Saviour be that look which lingered on their memory till one by one they passed away to see him as he is — that look which spake more love than even his melodious blessing, and which, after the cloud had closed him from their view, made them loath to quit the Mount of Olives.