Reinterpreting Mark 14:32–42 (the
prayer in Gethsemane) as a Lenten meditation through Pastor David Jang’s
preaching message—illuminating the trust embedded in “Abba, Father,” the call
of discipleship to “keep watch and pray,” and the loneliness of the cross and
the summons to companionship with Christ.
The air of Lent always feels weighty.
The moment we see the words “Passion Week” on the calendar, our faith is
invited once more into deeper waters. That is why Pastor David Jang (Olivet
University Founder) sought to re-tell Mark 14:32–42—the prayer in Gethsemane—through
the frame of “walking with Christ.” Gethsemane is not merely a tragic stage set
to decorate Jesus’ final night. It is the place that exposes, all at once, what
faith truly leans on, what language obedience is completed in, and how fragile
the reality of discipleship actually is. It is like a “soul’s press,” where
everything is squeezed and revealed.
An intriguing point of departure is the
Gospel of John. The prayer in Gethsemane, preserved in common across the
Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), does not appear in John as a
narrative scene. Pastor David Jang reads this “gap” not as a simple omission,
but as a difference in focus—John’s particular way of looking at the cross.
Indeed, after the Last Supper John records Jesus’ long farewell discourse and
high-priestly prayer in depth (John 13–17), then moves directly into the arrest
scene, foregrounding Jesus’ initiative and kingly authority. This does not mean
there is no inner turmoil in John, but rather that John does not repeatedly
narrate the “threefold struggle” of Gethsemane. Instead, John compresses the
trembling and resolve before the cross in another form: “Now my soul is
troubled… shall I say, ‘Father, save me from this hour’? But for this purpose I
have come to this hour” (John 12:27).
Yet Pastor David Jang deliberately
brings us to Mark’s Gethsemane for a clear reason. It testifies—most
humanly—that the One who “decided” to walk toward the cross did not move
forward like a transcendent machine devoid of emotion or pain. Love is not sustained
by resolve alone; it passes through tears and sobbing. Here, the Jesus we meet
is “greatly distressed and troubled,” “deeply grieved.” That language uncovers
a truth faith often wants to hide. Faith is not a steel-faced lack of feeling;
it is the choice not to run away even while trembling. And that choice endures
only in one form: prayer.
Even the name “Gethsemane” is symbolic.
Encyclopaedia Britannica explains that the term refers to an “oil press,” a
place where oil is extracted. For an olive to become oil, it must be pressed.
The fruit is fragrant as it is, but the oil that holds fragrance and light for
a long time comes only through crushing. This is why Pastor David Jang lingers
over the sense of “press house.” Gethsemane is not a place where Jesus receives
the anointing and ascends to a throne amid cheers; it is where the authority of
the King is refined into the obedience of the cross, where the oil of love is
squeezed out under the pressure of suffering.
That night is also the night of
Passover. When Jesus and the disciples leave the elevated Jerusalem where the
temple stands, cross the Kidron Valley, and move toward the Mount of Olives,
the history of sacrifice and the symbols of atonement would have been flowing
beneath their feet. Josephus, the Jewish historian who wrote under Roman power,
records a count of Passover sacrifices—stating that in one year “256,500”
sacrificial offerings were presented, and that if at least ten people
participated per offering, immense crowds would have surged into Jerusalem.
Even if one debates the precision of the figure, the record at minimum conveys
what Jerusalem was like at Passover: swollen with blood, crowds, and tension.
It keeps us from forgetting that the cross was not an abstract doctrine, but an
event that unfolded within a specific festival, a specific political fear, and
a specific religious intensity.
And yet the disciples pass through that
night with a hymn. “And when they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount
of Olives.” The sentence is so calm that it almost feels ominous. Pastor David
Jang notices the disciples’ “lack of sensing” here. Within the Lord, the signs
of betrayal and the shadow of death are already vivid; but the disciples,
missing the atmosphere, sing—and then drift toward sleep. This contrast is not
a device merely to scold them. It is a mirror for us. We often mistake “singing
praise” for spirituality itself, but praise can also become a way of avoiding
reality. Souls that cannot bear weight sometimes cover it with song. Gethsemane
strips away the song and shows us the bare skin of faith.
Jesus takes three among the
eleven—Peter, James, and John—and goes deeper. It may look like privilege, but
in truth it is a request for companionship. “Keep watch” is not simply a
command for alertness; it is love’s final plea. And when that plea collapses,
the loneliness of the road to the cross becomes unmistakable. The “loneliness
of Christ,” which Pastor David Jang returns to again and again, is established
right here. The Lord carries alone a burden no disciple can carry in His place,
but at least He longs for them to stay awake with Him. Yet they sleep. “The
spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak” is a surgical sentence that
dissects human existence. Our will may know its direction, but habits, fatigue,
and fear lay the body down. This is why faith is often closer to “training”
than to mere “resolve.” And at the center of that training is prayer that
defeats sleep.
The climax of Gethsemane begins with
how Jesus addresses God: “Abba, Father.” “Abba” is the Aramaic expression Jesus
used, and Paul also says that in the Spirit we come to cry out to God that way.
At the same time, many caution against translating it too casually as “Daddy,”
as if it were lightweight or flippant. The intimacy of “Abba” is real, but it
is intimacy within reverence—closeness that does not discard dignity. This is
precisely the tone Pastor David Jang holds. On the edge of the cross, Jesus does
not address God as a distant judge; He calls Him “my Father.” That single word
becomes the final support of faith. If confidence in the Father’s love
collapses, obedience quickly mutates into despair.
But that confidence does not erase
emotion. Jesus prays, “Remove this cup from me.” This is not the sin of
avoidance; it is the honesty of true humanity. Pastor David Jang reads this
moment as comfort, because it shows that fear and trembling in a believer are
not, by themselves, proof of unbelief. The question is not whether fear exists,
but where we bring it. Jesus does not magnify His fear in dramatic appeals to
people; He lays it before the Father. And then He turns the direction of
prayer: “Yet not what I will, but what You will.” This is not resignation; it
is self-surrender grounded in trust. Christian obedience is not the absence of
feeling, but the relational choice that carries us beyond feeling.
To understand this obedience, we should
also remember the prophetic background of the Old Testament. Jesus tells the
disciples, “I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered” (Mark
14), overlaying Zechariah 13:7 onto His own path. The cross is not an
accidental tragedy; it is a road He enters knowingly. And still, in Gethsemane,
Jesus “re-writes” that road through prayer. Foreknowledge and obedience lock
together here. Knowing the Father’s will is good does not make that will
painless. Rather, it gives pain meaning. The obedience of Gethsemane is not, “I
have no choice,” but, “Because You are good, I will trust You and go.”
Another strength in Pastor David Jang’s
approach is that he does not handle this passage only as a “theological correct
answer,” but draws it down into “human reality.” We often speak of Jesus’
obedience while avoiding the psychological weight it carried—how that weight
may have erupted through the body: sweat, breath, heartbeat, trembling. Yet the
fact that the Gospels intentionally record Jesus’ “distress” and “sorrow” means
God did not exile human weakness beyond the borders of faith. When the church
exhibits only faith that looks strong, the wounded begin to swallow their
emotions and turn them into guilt. Gethsemane corrects that distortion. The
confession “I am afraid” may not already be the failure of faith; it may be the
first step by which faith honestly reveals itself in prayer.
Here, the image of the “cup” becomes
richer. In Scripture, the cup can signify judgment and wrath, and it can also
signify the allotted portion of suffering. When Jesus speaks of “this cup,” it
includes more than physical pain: the shame of being handed over to sinners,
injustice, relational betrayal, and the abyss of “abandonment” that will feel
like separation from God. His prayer is therefore not only an instinct to avoid
bodily agony, but a cry from the cliff-edge where existence itself seems ready to
collapse. And what is decisive is that this cry does not let go of the address
“Abba.” Emotions whirl, but the relationship is not severed. As Pastor David
Jang emphasizes, a crisis of faith ultimately arrives when confidence in the
Father’s love begins to shake. The moment love is doubted, obedience becomes
mere duty, and duty quickly becomes exhaustion. But the moment love is trusted,
obedience becomes a choice that carries meaning even inside pain.
The disciples’ sleep shows the
opposite. Just before this, Peter has said, “Even if I must die with You, I
will not deny You.” Yet soon after, he cannot stay awake even one hour. This
inconsistency is not Peter’s alone. Humans tend to overestimate themselves when
making resolutions, and underestimate themselves when it comes time to endure.
The language of determination is grand, but the skill of endurance is thin.
That is why Jesus says, “Watch and pray that you may not enter into
temptation.” Temptation does not mean only moral seduction; it includes fatigue
that makes us abandon relationships, fear that makes us flee responsibility,
and numbness that pushes faith into “later.” Staying awake is not mental
bravado or emotional hype; it is the small repeated act of turning a dulling
heart back toward God.
Pastor David Jang reminds us that
“walking with Christ” is, in the end, “staying awake with Him.” Companionship
is not merely occupying the same space; it is sharing the same concern and
weight. That night, the disciples were in the same garden as Jesus, but they
did not live the same night. Jesus’ night was a night of prayer; the disciples’
night was a night of sleep. And that gap deepened Jesus’ loneliness. We
resemble them more than we like to admit. Even seated in worship, even standing
near someone’s pain, we can exist with a “sleeping heart.” Our attention
wanders, our love is tired, our responsibility feels heavy. Gethsemane shakes
that sleeping heart awake. “Remain here and keep watch” is also a sign that
Christ did not abandon community even in a night of suffering—because to the
last moment He still asked for “with.”
Yet the Gospel’s cold honesty does not
hide that the request was refused. When Pastor David Jang speaks of
“loneliness,” it is not sentimental rhetoric but a redemptive fact. Jesus bore
alone an obedience no one else could bear, and even the closest disciples
failed to share its weight. Here we read the grace of the cross more clearly.
The cross is not an achievement we lifted together; it is salvation lifted up
while we slept. That is why grace is not cheap. If anything, grace hurts more,
because it is love we did not manage to participate in. And that pain becomes
the force that wakes us again.
Pastor David Jang’s addition of Mark’s
story of the young man functions similarly—forcing us to face the shame of “not
participating” head-on. People usually want to record their hero stories. But
Mark’s Gospel contains, surprisingly, no heroes. There are disciples who run
away, friends who sleep, a crowd that goes silent, and Jesus who prays alone.
This direction makes the Gospel truly “gospel,” because salvation is not human
accomplishment but God’s intervention. Salvation did not come because we became
good; it came because love did not give up even when we were powerless.
Still, this story does not hand us a
pass that says, “We can’t do it anyway, so live carelessly.” It does the
opposite. Those who come to know Jesus’ loneliness no longer want to leave Him
alone. This is why Pastor David Jang ends with a summons: now we must walk with
Him. Faith is often late. We usually recognize meaning only after the event has
passed. The disciples also understood more clearly who Jesus was—and what that
night was—only after the resurrection. But Lent asks us to turn “the time of
regret” into “the time of prevention”: not merely tears after the fact, but
waking up now and answering the Lord’s path.
That answer must be translated into the
language of daily life. The prayer of Gethsemane cannot remain only an emotion
attached to a holy place. “Not what I will” becomes concrete in what we choose
in meeting rooms, in conflicts at home, in how we spend money and time, in
honesty within relationships, in the decision to forgive. To lay down my will
does not mean erasing my existence; it means placing myself into a greater
order of love. It is an intensely active work. Some days, the “right choice”
may look like a loss; silence may look like defeat; forgiveness may be
misunderstood as weakness. But Christ walked a road where strength is revealed
through weakness. Paul could confess, “When I am weak, then I am strong,”
because he learned the logic of that road.
Pastor David Jang’s preaching holds
this paradox with pastoral sensitivity. He does not turn faith into “victory
packaging.” Instead, he helps us admit our frailty and, because of it, go
deeper into prayer. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak” is not a
declaration of defeat; it is a prayer strategy. If the soul truly wills, we
must order our environment so the body can follow. Staying up late is not
necessarily piety; going to bed early and rising early for what matters may be
more pious. The power to overcome anger is not the explosion of willpower, but
the habit of pouring the heart out before God before anger surges. The power to
overcome temptation is not a heroic decision in the moment, but the repeated
practice of being awake “so that you may not enter into temptation.”
Gethsemane also questions the
responsibility of community. When someone collapses, we often ask, “Why are you
so weak?” but the Gospel asks first, “Why didn’t you stay awake with them?” The
companionship Pastor David Jang speaks of is a faith of mutual responsibility.
When someone’s night of Gethsemane arrives, small acts of staying near—sitting
with them, praying even briefly, remaining with a single steady sentence—can
save them. Jesus ultimately went alone, but His church must not keep doing that
to one another. When we stay awake in each other’s Gethsemanes, we become a
community that, even slightly, relieves the loneliness of the cross.
At this point, art opens a deeper
passageway. The Italian Renaissance painter Andrea Mantegna’s The Agony in the Garden (c. 1455–1456) visualizes the night of
Gethsemane with his distinctive, hard-edged brushwork. In the painting, Christ
kneels alone on rocky ground; in the distance Judas approaches with soldiers;
below, Peter, James, and John sleep. Mantegna is not merely reproducing an
event—he is arranging distance. Heaven and earth, Jesus and the disciples,
prayer and weapons, wakefulness and sleep: that gap dominates the entire
canvas. It feels like a visual translation of the “lonely road of the cross”
Pastor David Jang describes. Before the painting we are forced to ask, “Where
am I standing?” Beside Jesus’ prayer? In the comfort of sleep? Or within the
approaching procession of betrayal?
When we recall Mantegna’s work again,
the sleeping disciples are not just lazy people; they represent a tragic
pattern we repeat. We say we will “do anything” for those we love, yet on the
night they are weakest, we may not have the strength even to sit beside them.
So the distance in the painting must not end in self-condemnation. Distance
points toward the direction of repentance. We must move a step toward Jesus,
toward prayer, toward the practice of staying awake. The step need not be
grand. Sitting quietly for even ten minutes a day and calling “Abba, Father,”
bringing the day’s fear and desire honestly without hiding, and finally
fastening the heart’s direction with the sentence “Your will be done”—this is a
realistic way of stitching Gethsemane’s prayer into today’s language.
In the end, what Pastor David Jang
wants to show us in Gethsemane is not “pain” itself, but the relational tether
that does not break even inside pain. The cross is not a sudden tragedy that
appears in Jesus’ life without warning; it is the place where the consistency
of love is pressed all the way to the end. That consistency is shaped into
prayer in Gethsemane, appears as unwavering courage even in the moment of
arrest, and is completed on Golgotha as the gift of self-giving. Therefore,
Lenten meditation does not remain in gloomy emotion. It trains our gaze to see
what kind of morning obedience opens after it passes through the darkest
night—how that morning comes to us in the name of resurrection and makes us
alive again. And the light of resurrection reflects most clearly from those who
refused to look away from the pressing of Gethsemane.
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