1/3/2026

Day 3

The Garden of Surrender

Luke 22:39-46

Jesus Prays on the Mount of Olives

39 Then, accompanied by the disciples, Jesus left the upstairs room and went as usual to the Mount of Olives. 40 There he told them, “Pray that you will not give in to temptation.”41 He walked away, about a stone’s throw, and knelt down and prayed, 42 “Father, if you are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.” 43 Then an angel from heaven appeared and strengthened him. 44 He prayed more fervently, and he was in such agony of spirit that his sweat fell to the ground like great drops of blood. 45 At last he stood up again and returned to the disciples, only to find them asleep, exhausted from grief. 46 “Why are you sleeping?” he asked them. “Get up and pray, so that you will not give in to temptation.”

Gethsemane means "oil press"—a fitting name for the place where Jesus was crushed under the weight of surrender. In this ancient garden on the Mount of Olives, where olive oil was extracted through relentless pressure, we witness the most profound human struggle with God's will in all of Scripture. The symbolism is unmistakable: just as olives must be crushed to yield their precious oil, Jesus entered a place of crushing pressure that would produce the fragrance of obedience and the oil of salvation for all humanity.

Here, in the darkness of night, Jesus confronts the cup of suffering that awaits Him. In His full humanity, He recoils from what lies ahead: "Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me." These words echo across the centuries, raw and vulnerable. The Savior of the world, who spoke galaxies into existence, now kneels in anguish, asking if there might be another path forward.

This prayer reveals something crucial about surrender: it's honest. Jesus doesn't pretend compliance. He doesn't mask His anguish with spiritual platitudes or present a sanitized version of His emotions to the Father. He sweats drops of blood—a rare medical condition called hematidrosis, triggered by extreme stress—prostrates Himself on the ground, and asks if there's any other way forward. True surrender doesn't deny our feelings or manufacture artificial peace. Instead, it brings our authentic selves—with all our fears, doubts, and desires—fully into God's presence. God can handle our honesty; He invites it.

But then comes the pivot, the hinge upon which human history turns: "Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done." Here is surrender in its purest, most costly form—not the absence of desire, but the deliberate submission of desire to God's greater purposes. Jesus wanted something different, acknowledged it honestly before His Father, and still chose the Father's will over His own preferences. This is the essence of discipleship: allowing God's purposes to eclipse our own, even when the path He chooses leads through suffering.

The disciples, meanwhile, slept through this pivotal moment. Jesus had asked them to watch and pray for just one hour, but grief and confusion overwhelmed them. Their eyes were heavy, their spirits unprepared for the spiritual warfare unfolding in that garden. How often are we the sleeping disciples, unconscious of the spiritual battles raging around us, unaware that our own Gethsemane moments require vigilance, prayer, and spiritual alertness? We too can miss the significance of what God is doing because we're overwhelmed by our own weariness.

Significantly, an angel appeared to strengthen Jesus, not to remove the cup. This detail matters profoundly. Surrender doesn't always mean relief from difficulty; sometimes it means receiving supernatural strength to endure what we cannot avoid. God doesn't always change our circumstances to match our preferences; instead, He often transforms us within them, providing grace sufficient for each moment we face.

Your Gethsemane might not involve physical suffering, but you face the same fundamental choice Jesus faced: Will you drink the cup God offers, even when you desperately want Him to take it away? Surrender is choosing "Your will" when everything within you screams "My will." It's allowing yourself to be pressed in the oil press, trusting that the crushing produces the fragrant oil of Christlikeness—the character, compassion, and obedience that can only emerge through submission.

What cup are you asking God to remove? What circumstance, relationship, or calling makes you want to pray for any path except the one before you? Today, can you add those critical words: "Nevertheless, not my will, but Yours"?

Nothing in your life is yours anymore, not plans, not dreams, not reputation. 

Surrender will cost you the ownership of yourself."