Vulnerable in Ways that Are Scary

There is an astonishing story of vulnerability featuring Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. He and his twelve apprentices had just shared their last supper together. Jesus needed a secluded place to pray. And he needed his friends to be with him.

Knowing that humiliation, torture, and death were bearing down on him like a freight train, Jesus said to his twelve closest friends who were chosen to study and learn and walk closely with him: “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me” (Matthew 26:38).

The men followed their Rabbi into the garden, where Jesus took Peter, James, and John a little further with the instructions to keep watch. He fell to the ground crying out for his Father to remove this impossibly hard thing, this death on a cross bearing the weight of the sins of the world. In essence, the Son prayed, “Please, Father, please don’t make me go through this. But if you want me to, I will.”

Jesus returned to where Peter, James, and John were being vigilant on his behalf. Except … they weren’t. They were sleeping.

“Couldn’t you men keep watch with me for one hour?” This was surely spoken with tenderness and not in irritation because Jesus understood their humanity. He walked in a human body for thirty-three years. He knew physical exhaustion.

Jesus asked them again to watch and pray and he went back into the deeper parts of the garden. “My Father,” he implored, “if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done.” Jesus returned to find his friends asleep once again. And then a third time, with the same lackluster results.

Michael Long, theologian and Bible scholar, indicated two reasons given for why Jesus would want his closest friends nearby while he prayed in the garden. Jesus knew that Peter, James, and John would someday each face their own deaths because of their apprenticeship to him and their obedience to the Father. Jesus wanted them to see how he navigated his journey toward death. And secondly, says Michael, “we can’t minimize the humanity of Jesus who would certainly have desired the support of his closest friends in his darkest hour.” 

Jesus, in his humanity, wanted his friends nearby to watch and pray with him. Which is a beautiful picture of what vulnerability looks like. Because how much courage does it take to admit that we need people beside us in our darkest places?

I love the simplicity of this thought from author and professor Brené Brown: “Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.”

Vulnerability is that state of being open-hearted and open-minded, of being willing to expose ourselves for who we really are, not caring what others think of us but caring enough about others to have meaningful relationships.

Jesus modeled true vulnerability in the Garden of Gethsemane before Judas Iscariot betrayed his Rabbi by leading the chief priests and the officers of the temple guard to him. Which, of course, didn’t catch Christ by surprise.

While the temple guards were putting Jesus under arrest, another of his apprentices, Peter, impulsively pulled out a sword and sliced off the right ear of the high priest’s servant.

“Ha! That deserves you right!” said Jesus.

No, of course he didn’t say that.

Jesus touched the servant’s ear and healed him. Talk about being gracious under fire. Talk about being full of humility and compassion even in the direst of circumstances, because Christ knew this was the beginning of the end … that is, until the end ended in resurrection and new beginnings.

I’ve met people—you’ve probably met people—who we immediately recognize as being closed off. We feel it when we’re held at a polite arm’s length, don’t we? And then there are others with whom we feel an immediate kindred-spirit-ness. These are the ones who arrive with open hearts, who are real and honest and unguarded, who let us in. And isn’t that what we want in relationships? To be let in? To know we matter enough to be on the inside?

Which means if we want genuineness from others, then perhaps we could practice being courageously vulnerable and genuine ourselves.