Let This Cup Pass: Gethsemane's Cry through Palestinian Experience

(if you want to listen to the presentation version, start at 32:20)

A Palestinian Land-Based Reading of Jesus at Gethsemane (Mark 14:32-42)

Introduction: The Garden and the Press

In the darkness of night, after sharing the Passover meal with his disciples, Jesus led them to a garden called Gethsemane at the foot of the Mount of Olives. This wasn't just any garden - its very name tells a story. In Aramaic, "Gat Shemani" means "olive press" - a place where heavy stones crushed olives to extract their precious oil. Jesus chose this place, this olive press, for his moment of greatest anguish.

Mark tells us Jesus "began to be deeply distressed and troubled,"(14:33) words that convey being weighed down by grief - literally pressed down like an olive in the press. "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death," (14:34) he tells his disciples. Then, asking them to keep watch, he goes a little farther to pray.

In that moment of profound isolation, Jesus utters words that have echoed through centuries: "Abba, Father, everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me." (14:36)

This isn't Jesus meekly accepting fate. This is Jesus pushing back. Resisting nonviolently. These words reveal Jesus doing what we all do when facing overwhelming suffering – saying "No, please, there must be another way."

Gethsemane Today: A Living Place of Resistance

Today, Gethsemane stands in East Jerusalem, occupied territory since 1967. The Church of All Nations overlooks the Kidron Valley, its golden mosaics gleaming in the sun. Inside, the Stone of Agony marks where Jesus is believed to have prayed, and outside, some of the world's oldest olive trees continue to bear witness.

But this isn't just a tourist site or a historical monument. It's a living place where daily life unfolds amid occupation. The nearby Palestinian neighborhood of Silwan faces home demolitions and settler encroachment in the name of Archeological washing. Just recently, news emerged of Walid Ahmad, a teenager from Silwan who died from starvation while in Israeli prison, another soul crushed under the weight of occupation.  The ancient Palestinian cemetery on the Mount of Olives suffers desecration and vandalism. Israeli authorities have designated parts of this sacred landscape as "national parks," restricting Palestinian access while allowing settler expansion.

Source: Israeli Ministry of Tourism

When pilgrims visit Gethsemane today, many see the biblical past, missing the present reality of Palestinian Christians and Muslims who maintain these sacred sites despite systematic dispossession. The custodians of Gethsemane – descendants of those who have tended these sacred spaces for generations – continue their faithful presence while experiencing their own forms of anguish.

These ancient olive trees, some potentially dating back to Jesus' time, don't just symbolize suffering – they embody resilience. They've survived armies, empires, and centuries of turmoil. They continue to produce fruit, to provide shade, to witness. And they connect the anguish of the historical Jesus to the lived experiences of Palestinians today, reminding us that Gethsemane isn't just a story from the past but a reality unfolding in the present.

I want to be clear that I'm not equating Palestinians with Christ himself. Rather, I'm contextualizing Jesus' experience within the Palestinian landscape where it occurred, and drawing connections between his response to suffering and how we might respond to suffering today. This is about finding theological meaning in our present circumstances, not claiming a messianic role.

The Olive Trees of My Childhood

In my childhood home in Nazareth, our bustan – Arabic word for garden - had several ancient olive trees that became the geography of my youth. These weren't just trees; they were playgrounds where my siblings and I climbed and created imaginary worlds, moving from olive tree to fig tree in our adventures.

I recently asked my father about the age of these olive trees. He confirmed they were already ancient when he was a child, and that they had been there when his father – my grandfather – was a child as well. At least 200 years old, these giants have trunks so massive that it would take three people standing in a circle, holding hands, to encircle just one.

These trees witnessed every significant family moment - my childhood birthdays, my brothers' weddings when our bustan transformed into an outdoor venue. During olive picking season, we would drop the olives with sticks, or let them fall on their own, then manually crush them and preserve them in olive oil and rue (feijan). These trees anchored our family life, offering shade and silent companionship through generations.

For Palestinians, olive trees are our entire relationship with the land. The Arabic word 'bustan' speaks to a cultivated garden that sustains the family, while 'Gethsemane' names the place where olives are pressed. One nurtures, the other transforms through pressure. Both are essential to Palestinian life and identity.

The Crushing That Doesn't Break the Pit

When olives are pressed, they must be crushed completely to release their oil. This crushing is not gentle – it requires tremendous pressure. Yet there is something remarkable about this process: the crushing, as heavy as it is, does not break the pit. The olive pit remains intact despite the weight bearing down upon it. This has long been a metaphor for Palestinian resilience – our core identity remains whole despite generations of pressure.

However, what we have witnessed in Gaza over the past 18 months gives me pause. The scale of destruction and death has been beyond anything in recent memory. Over 50,000 Palestinians killed, mostly women and children, though this number underrepresents the real casualties between 150 to 300 thousand. Perhaps this time, the crushing has been so severe that some pits have indeed cracked. We must be wary of what emerges when a people's core is damaged – bitterness can seep in where resilience once lived.

The oil that emerges from pressing can heal and nourish, but a pit that cracks can produce bitterness that poisons. As Palestinians facing this unprecedented suffering, we stand at this threshold – can we maintain our core identity without letting bitterness define us? Can we produce the healing oil of justice-seeking without becoming what we resist?

Metaphoric Gathering at the Olive Press: Voices of the Marginalized

Imagine a gathering at an ancient olive press in the shadow of Gethsemane's twisted trees. Not seated at tables of privilege, but circled around the stone press where olives release their essence under pressure. Here, voices of the marginalized and colonized share their understanding of Jesus' prayer. They sit on rough-hewn stones or directly on the earth, passing simple bread and oil between them. This is where resistance has always found its voice – not in palaces or temples, but in places of labor and crushing.

Indigenous theologians lean against the press, their hands familiar with the work of coaxing life from resistant earth. They recognize in Jesus' plea their communities' refusal to accept suffering as divinely ordained. The stone that presses olives reminds them of stones rolled across their sacred lands, of boundaries imposed by those who see creation as property rather than relation.

Queer theologians gather near the press, creating sanctuary in the shadows where Jesus prayed. They understand the garden as a place of both anguish and authenticity, where truth challenges power. They recognize in Jesus' vulnerable plea their own refusal to accept othering as divinely ordained. In Gethsemane's darkness, they find permission to ask for the cup to pass while still remaining in profound love and faithfulness.

Black women theologians sit closest to where the oil emerges, familiar with transforming bitter experience into sustenance for community. They know what it means to be pressed from all sides yet maintain their essential nature. At this olive press, they recognize how Jesus refuses silent suffering, how his plea validates their right to name injustice while continuing to nourish those who depend on them.

And Palestinians, on whose ancestral lands this very prayer was uttered, tend the flame that keeps the oil flowing in the darkness. Their connection to this specific soil, these specific trees, links them directly to Jesus' experience. Their daily navigation of checkpoints and displacement gives them unique insight into praying beneath the shadow of empire while maintaining the practices that keep community alive.

What binds these voices together at the olive press is not just shared suffering but shared resistance. As the freshly pressed oil is passed around in a simple clay cup, each recognizes in the others' stories echoes of their own. The oil that emerges from pressing –becomes their communion of resistance, sanctifying their refusal to accept suffering as divine will.

Friends, when Palestinian Christians today cry out, "Take this cup from us" as we experience more loss, more maiming, more bombs, more demolition, more rubble -– we stand in the tradition of Jesus himself. Our nonviolent resistance is not faithlessness. It is deeply, profoundly faithful.

When the Cup Remains

But Jesus' prayer doesn't end with resistance. He continues, "Yet not my will, but yours be done." The cup is not taken away. This creates a tension we all struggle with. If Jesus asked for the cup to pass, why didn't God remove it? Does this mean suffering is necessary? Divinely required?

These questions become dangerous when applied to Palestinian suffering today. Is there divine purpose in the deaths of more than 17,000 children in Gaza? Is occupation somehow God's will? Absolutely categorically not!

To state the obvious for me here, Christ has already conquered death through his resurrection. His sacrifice was unique and complete - there is no theological necessity for additional human suffering to accomplish what Christ has already done. When we face the question 'Is suffering necessary?' we must remember that while suffering exists in our broken world, Christ's victory means it is not divinely required or ordained. This is precisely why we can, like Jesus in Gethsemane, honestly pray for suffering to be removed while still remaining faithful.

The answer lies in understanding that Jesus' honest plea itself challenges theological violence. It shows us that nonviolent resistance to politically imposed suffering aligns with Jesus' own response. To name injustice, to cry out against it, to refuse to silently accept it – these are not acts of faithlessness but expressions of the deepest faith.

As a Palestinian Christian, I have encountered Christian siblings who have deemed me and my people an obstacle to the second coming of Christ, an alien in my only homeland. These interpretations, which view modern Israel as prophetic fulfillment regardless of Palestinian displacement, offer us little hope beyond our own erasure.

Perhaps I should embrace these titles with a touch of irony - after all, Jesus of Nazareth himself said a prophet is not welcome in their hometown. For Nazarenes like Jesus and myself, it seems prophets and Palestinians share the experience of being unwelcome in our own homes, bearing cups of suffering that others insist we must drink. Yet like Jesus in Gethsemane, we can faithfully resist while remaining present, refusing to accept that our suffering is somehow divinely ordained.

Luke tells us something the other Gospels omit: 'An angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him' (Luke 22:43). Even in Jesus' greatest isolation, divine presence manifested to provide strength - not to remove the cup, but to help bear it. This moment reveals a profound truth: resistance to suffering doesn't mean we will escape it, but neither does it mean we face it alone. Even when the cup is not taken away, strengthening appears. For Palestinians today, this strengthening comes through community solidarity, through global witnesses who refuse to look away, and through the deep spiritual resources passed down through generations of sumud (steadfastness).

The Sleeping Disciples and Our World Today

"Three times Jesus returns to find his disciples sleeping. 'Could you not keep watch for one hour?' he asks. Luke offers a unique explanation for their failure: they were 'exhausted from sorrow' (Luke 22:45). Their grief itself had become too heavy to bear - not just physical tiredness but emotional depletion. Their eyes grow heavy with the weight of witnessing impending tragedy. They fail to stand with him in his darkest hour not from indifference but from being overwhelmed by the very sorrow they witness.

This adds nuance to our understanding of those who 'sleep' through Palestinian suffering today. Some turn away not from callousness but because the weight of witnessing becomes unbearable. Compassion fatigue sets in. Yet Jesus' example challenges us to remain awake despite this heaviness, to bear witness even when it exhausts us. The disciples' failure was understandable but still left Jesus alone when he needed them most.

The heaviness of the disciples' eyes mirrors Jesus' own heaviness of soul. The same weight that presses upon Jesus presses upon them too, but with different results. Jesus remains awake, praying through his heaviness. The disciples surrender to sleep. One can bear the weight of suffering; the others cannot bear even the weight of witnessing.

This pattern continues today. Much of the world sleeps while Palestinians suffer. For us in Pacific time zones, this is literally how it has taken place – Just this morning we've awakened to news of fresh destruction and death that occurred while we slept.

Yesterday, before going to bed, I saw Munther Isaac’s post about the Christians in the Greek Orthodox church in Gaza preparing Palm fronds for Palm Sunday, and thought to myself, this is a joyous news to share and a representation of our shared faith at this season. However, the shifting and too fast change of pace of the news, doesn’t stop here.

This morning, as we gather for Palm Sunday, news has just reached us of an attack on Al-Ahli Anglican Hospital in Gaza. This hospital, which had already been bombed in October, is now non-functional—a place of physical healing destroyed. Yet even as bombs render the hospital unable to care for bodies, Palestinian Christians gathered for Palm Sunday service, waving palm fronds amidst the rubble, refusing to let their spirits be crushed. There is profound symbolism here—while places of physical healing are systematically destroyed, the spiritual resilience of a people remains unbroken. Their faithful witness, choosing to worship while under attack, embodies both the resistance and faithfulness of Jesus in Gethsemane.

I first shared this reflection when I was in Victoria on March 23rd. That very day in Gaza, 15 paramedics were murdered and then buried in the sand. Recently, footage from Rifat Radwan - one of the paramedics' personal phone came out that contradicts the Israeli account of what happened. This murder was horrible, heavy and disturbing to hear its details, but even harder to listen to Rifat's last words: "Forgive me, Mother… This is the path I chose to help people."

This is one of the stories that broke me to tears. Even for me as a Palestinian, this is too heavy to bear witness to. Not only because of the heaviness of these stories but because of the questions they raise. The soldiers who committed this crime are the outcome of a nation built on never forgetting the annihilation their people suffered. Yet their ability to commit such atrocities forces me to question the scope and application of these historical lessons. Does "Never Again" mean only "never again to us"? If so, does such understanding permit an "always once unto others"? How has the pressing weight of remembered suffering been transformed into the power to press down upon others? When will we realize that violence only breeds more violence, that the myth of justified brutality for a greater cause is the same lie empires have always told themselves? Like olives crushed beyond recognition, something essential about our shared humanity is destroyed when we glorify or justify the crushing of others. Like the disciples who could not stay awake in Gethsemane, we often close our eyes to such contradictions, finding them too heavy to bear witness to.

The weight of Palestinian suffering is too heavy for many to bear even as witnesses, yet Palestinians themselves must bear it directly. The heaviness that Jesus felt in Gethsemane, that overwhelmed his disciples into sleep, is the same heaviness that threatens to close our eyes today.

True solidarity requires the strength to stay awake under the weight of another's suffering – to keep our eyes open when they grow heavy, to remain present when sleep beckons. In witnessing without turning away, we participate in the nonviolent resistance Jesus modeled in Gethsemane.

From Gethsemane to Victoria: Ancient Trees as Witnesses

The olive trees of Gethsemane still stand today. Some have witnessed two millennia of prayers and tears. They have absorbed the weight of empires – Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman, British, and now Israeli. They have witnessed Jesus' anguished cry and today witness Palestinian anguish.

When I walk among the trees here in British Colombia, so different from the olive groves of my ancestral lands, I still find myself listening for their wisdom. These arbutus and Garry oaks have their own stories to tell, their own history of resistance and resilience. They too have witnessed dispossession and survival. They too know what it means to be rooted in contested land.

What the olive press teaches us remains true across time and space: resistance to suffering is not faithlessness but is woven into the very fabric of faith. Jesus did not glorify suffering but resisted it even as he ultimately faced it.

His genuine plea to have "this cup" removed stands as eternal validation for all who cry out against injustice. The olive pit may be pressed, but it need not break.

And even if some pits crack under unprecedented pressure, new trees will grow. This is the mystery at the heart of Gethsemane – that resistance and endurance can coexist, that honest protest before God can accompany faithful presence in suffering.

Today, we stand between Gethsemane and Gaza, between ancient olives and these trees of Vancouver. We are called to remain awake when others sleep, to bear witness when witnessing itself becomes a heavy burden. We are called to recognize that while pressure may produce something precious, we should never glorify the crushing itself.

As we leave this place and return to our lives, may we carry with us the courage to say with Jesus, "Take this cup from me" when faced with injustice, and the strength to remain present when the cup remains.

May we honor the Palestinian commitment to dignity and life even in the face of crushing pressure, reflecting Jesus’ own faithful resistance in Gethsemane.

And may we, like those ancient olive trees, stand firmly rooted in witness to both suffering and the courage to name it.

Amen.

A shorter version of this reflection has been published in Global Baptist News