The Mount of Olives

Dusk lays itself down across the landscape with a sigh; unfurling its blankets of blues and soft purples with grey undertones. We’re in the temple area, and all around us the harvest feasts and festivities are wrapping up for the day. I watch Jesus turn his head and look out at the hills as that silent blanket presses down, squeezing out long shadows, tucking its edges around each bright colour and muting it, snuggling up against the horizon, leaving only dark silhouettes in its wake. David sang of those hills that stand out against the sky, they made him remember where his help came from when he was overwhelmed. And I wonder if Jesus remembers that song.

I don’t know for sure what he’s thinking as he stares at the Mount of Olives, as everyone trickles out of the temple area heading home to family. But I know in this moment he’s… not withdrawn exactly, never fully withdrawn from his loved ones… but focused on solitude. I watch the men urge him to come and rest, and he shakes his head, assuring them with an arm clasp, a clap on the back that he’ll be back, that he’s ok. And by now they know him well enough to let him go.

He turns and faces that wilderness as they leave, and something inside me clutches tight. I can’t see his features fully, but I can feel the way his body leans into the dusk, homesick, weary, energy depleted. It was a day full of bright, hard, clashing words that hit him like sword thrusts. Arguments and tension and people in authority trying to catch him off guard. Now that the bright hard sun is down, and the soft colours are stealing up close to him, wrapping him under their blanket of dusk I can see it all hit him. It’s like he’s giving himself permission to face the hurt inside himself now that everyone has turned their attention away from him. I don’t say anything, I stay off to his side, even though he knows I’m here.

He doesn’t look at me, but I know he’s heartsick. I can feel the ache surrounding him even from where I’m standing. And I know he’ll go up. That the night on the mountain, with its sounds of crickets or whatever singing bug there is, and its quiet, still, peace, is a beacon to him. The land itself is a whisper from his dad to come away. He gives himself to that whisper in the night – to the land – letting his dad’s hand in creation soothe those places inside his heart that have been run ragged against all that pain, all that conflict, and tension, and need he wades through every day.

Every time he sneaks away to the mountains my heart squeezes. It’s a clue in all those old stories – a clue of how his heart gets heavy, of how it all weighs on him. Of how much he longs for peace. Of how much he cares and how much he yearned.

Today was a rough day. A long day. There was so much antagonism in the air – so many challenges to what he was doing, what he was trying to say. He’s been watching the way the poor and sick are treated. Watching the way his dad’s house of worship is twisted into a system that keeps those who need him out and hoards power for an elite few. He walked all afternoon among a crowd that debated whether he was demon possessed or crazy. He heard them muttering to each other, arguing about whether he was a good man or a bad one. Weighing his value, careless with it and callous with their judgements.

Every time he offered himself as a way out of their cages, as sustenance and relief there was a mixed reaction. Some wanted to see more of his power because it was fascinating; others felt threatened by him because what he said, what he did shone light into the shadows they’d rather pretend didn’t exist. I don’t know how many of them heard his heart in his voice, saw how much of himself he was willing to give to free them from what chains they walked with.

But I don’t think it was many. Not in the moment anyway. He’s really stirring the pot now, and there’s no going back. And it’s hard – even his own brothers don’t get it, think it’s about gaining political power, social prestige. Some of the crowd have tried to grab him – force him into the headship of a rebellion, a march on Rome, to make him start a military revolution against Roman rule and tax and oppression. He’s done too many outrageous things, pointed out too many uncomfortable truths about corruption and empty heart spaces… he’s even invited in those who’ve been labeled unclean, shoved to the outskirts of society.

Today he argued with the Pharisees about where he came from. He knew who he was and who his dad was too.

Today they picked up stones to throw at him.

Today he held out his hand, he held out his heart, offered himself as food and drink… and most of them turned away and left him. Many of those who turned their backs on him were people he was just getting to know. Many he’d shared meals and names and conversations with – those he’d clasped hands with and who’ve already told him all their troubles. Those he’d already fallen in love with – those he’d looked into and delighted in what he found.

I know it hurts him. Even if he gets it – even if he understands why they can’t see into him the way he sees into them. And so he climbs into the hills David took solace in, and I follow him up, sticking close to his side, staying quiet so he can talk to his dad about it all. Wishing I could give him some kind of comfort.

We reach a bluff overlooking the valley, and he’s silent as the trees lean in towards us like they know who he is, as the breeze drifts across his cheek, bringing cool, wild scents with it, as the moonlight brushes his brow with affection, glinting off the tears that crowd his eyes, drip into his beard. He looks out at that blanket of dusk, silent, the weight of all that pain and oppression in this world heavy on his shoulders, and just as I’m starting to feel uncertain about my presence here – whether it’s welcome – he holds a hand out to me and I take it, clutch it in mine. He tugs, wordless, and I’m walking into his side and squeezing him as tightly as my arms can. He’s always, always my Comforter. Can I give it back, that comfort? If he feels how much I love him now, will it help?

We stand there as I tuck myself against him, wishing just by being there I could soothe the pain he’s in. All the stuff he piles on his shoulders so willingly. I wonder if he’s remembering that old verse in Zechariah that talked about him standing here, his feet on the Mountain, fighting a battle no one sees or understands, streams of living water pouring out from him over the valleys that live in each one of us. He’s willing to give all of himself to heal the brokenness, to bring relief to those held captive by pain, by mistakes and misunderstandings and loneliness.

That’s what he’s doing during the day, in the crowd. Stepping into the gaping separation between us and him – that terrible, empty gulf that we’ve perceived and imagined and built wider and dug deeper with every lie and mistake and hard thing we face. He fights the piled up accusations and voices that repeat their mantras that we can’t get to him, we can’t have him or he doesn’t want us. He works unceasingly to close it from within, to make a bridge, to let us find him, to pull us closer, convince us of his truth that there is nothing that can separate us from his love. That his will, his rock steady, unmoveable will is not to lose a single one of us.

I feel the peace slowly seep into him as he lets the land sing its silent, wild language of adoration to his heart. As the land tells him of his dad, of his presence. As he studies his father’s creation, the largeness and smallness of it, the intricate scale and detail and vastness that says he has more to give, always more. That his father is an unending well of resources and strength to lean on. As he’s convinced again that he’s not alone. That his dad stands beside him. That what they’re doing is worth it.

(Thoughts taken from John 7 and start of 8)