Gethsemane in Spirit - A Theological Jaunt

A few days ago (maybe a week ago…) I had the day off and decided to walk to the Garden of Gethsemane. As a test of my assimilation into the neighborhood I thought I would test my skills reaching it by taking the shortest route which happened to be through the Old City. For anyone who cannot imagine, the Old City is notoriously difficult to navigate, but from google maps I was fairly sure I was familiar with the route. I managed to find the way after just a single quarter mile detour after missing a turn, though to my credit I did stop amid the crowd at the turn to ponder if it was the correct one. At any rate I arrived and like most holy sites it was a tourist trap, the entrance of which was crowded with individuals all jockeyed for position at the entrance to sell their wares; the sort whom I imagine would have their table thrown over by Jesus had they had any. If perhaps you think such a judgment is rash on my part don’t stop reading just yet.



The garden itself contained 8, perhaps 9 olive trees in a grove almost certainly the very same place Jesus prayed, wept, and was betrayed in. The garden itself was fenced off but well tended, and there was a large cathedral parallel which I approached next. The cathedral was designed very intentionally to be dark, gloomy even, to set the mood for the events that occurred there. Appropriately, no talking was allowed in the cathedral. I did my best to be respectful to all the notices, though it was not posted, I turned the flash off on my camera because it would surely disturb anyone trying to pray or reflect there. After taking in the architectural beauty and sensation produced by the building I attempted to block everything out and pray and reflect myself for a short while. In many ways, my sentiments at the Garden were uncannily parallel to those which the Biblical record assigned to various characters at this place; I hope I convey them humbly. I haven’t conveyed them explicitly in this blog but I hope it isn’t needed.




I entered being distressed in my soul about the certainty of my faith, the thought of leaving loved ones behind, questioning if the direction God is leading me is really right and worthwhile.., I struggled to escape this to focus on penitence and found these thoughts obstructing me. While perhaps they were not the formulaic nature of a prayer or addressed at God formally I felt that even the roof itself would block alleviation by God or the ascent of my concerns to him. These sentiments were only exacerbated by the irreverence of the tourists behind me and in turn my frustration at the lack of grace I was giving to them in my heart. During my entire visit I was intentionally keeping one step ahead of a large tourist group so as to not be distracted by the cumulative volume of their footsteps or whispers. As they entered and I left the cathedral, I turned to take one last photo; as I was doing so I noticed the tour guide apparently speaking to the group. The signs for silence and “no explanations inside” were abundantly clear at each door, I thought perhaps he himself was reminding his group to be quiet.

I continued on to the tomb of Mary which was next to the garden. The entrance was an impressive downward staircase, perhaps leading some 100 feet down, in itself my favorite part of the tomb. The walls and ceiling were a jumble or incense holders and candelabras. Once I reached the bottom I took in the site, which contained probably late Renaissance art of the life of Jesus and Mary in somewhat of a timeline. The tomb itself was nothing much to look at, just a bunch of very old looking dirt vaguely resembling a box-like shape, covered in a shrine. I escaped just in time before the mob entered. I wanted to get one more shot of the downward staircase before I left, as the crowd cleared a mother and small child were left behind descending at the pace of the young child who seemed to be taking great joy in each step.

My final stop was in the grotto in Gethsemane, the spot where it is said Jesus was confronted by Judas and the authorities. The chamber was fairly small, contained some seating, an ancient Greek inscription under glass, behind a rope, and far too faint for me to read, some painting of Christ’s betrayal and a center-piece I can't recall at the front. I again sat and attempted to focus on prayer, trying to make this site meaningful, thinking perhaps (possibly heretically) I would be closer to God in this place given my circumstance. A man sitting there also shushed two women whispering to each other. “An attendant”, I thought to myself, “perhaps I will be able to focus in this place for a while.” More quickly than before, the tourist group caught up to me, and the attendant faithfully shushed the whisperers and held up a sign I’m assuming said “silence” in a dozen languages. I figured I would stay and attempt to focus in spite of the group. Suddenly the tour guide, a thin, bald-headed man, about 40, the same one as before, began speaking over a microphone in what I believe was Russian… I thought “surely he must have seen the sign for ‘SILENCE’ and ‘NO EXPLANATIONS INSIDE.’” The attendant held up his sign to the tour guide, who looked back at the attendant made a shrug and continued speaking. The flippancy of this act offended me, and the attendant himself looked aghast. The attendance shushed him again and held up his sign, to this the tour guide lowered his voice for a few seconds and continued talking. With no other options the attendant opened his mouth and said something in a frustrated tone. Without changing his tone or facial expression at all, the guide casually answered back and kept talking. One more time the attendant opened his mouth to try to get the man to explain the site outside but he was ignored yet again, the guides group gave him no consideration either. The attendant could do nothing but stand by and watch. I was already feeling upset and frustrated, this only produced feelings even stronger entering into malice and hate. When I left, and on my walk back, I was practically furious about the time I spent there. I thought to myself, “How could he have so little respect! How could he so flagrantly do something like that and act as if it didn’t matter?! Didn’t he know what he was doing?! All the more how could everyone be on this man’s side! I know what I should have done to him! I wish I would have ripped off his microphone and smashed it on the ground…” It was upon dwelling on this for much of the walk back that I replaced smashing the microphone on the ground with “sliced off an ear” and realized what I myself had done.

I’ve been processing the event ever since.