“[Nothing] shall be able to separate us from the
love of God,
which is in Christ Jesus our Lord”—Romans 8:39.
The Garden of Gethsemane
In the stillness of the Garden of Gethsemane, ancient olive trees stand watch—twisted and bowed, their roots sunk deep into earth that has known both agony and glory. Some of them, they say, may be over a thousand years old. The genealogies of these trees trace back through centuries, their lineage whispering of endurance and sorrow, of storms weathered and seasons survived.
And it was here, amidst olive trees like these, that Christ knelt.
“[Nothing] shall be able to separate us from the
love of God,
which is in Christ Jesus our Lord”—Romans 8:39.
The Garden of Gethsemane
In the stillness of the Garden of Gethsemane, ancient olive trees stand watch—twisted and bowed, their roots sunk deep into earth that has known both agony and glory. Some of them, they say, may be over a thousand years old. The genealogies of these trees trace back through centuries, their lineage whispering of endurance and sorrow, of storms weathered and seasons survived.
And it was here, amidst olive trees like these, that Christ knelt.
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| An ancient olive press (artistic rendering) |
Not far from the grove stands an olive press, the instrument that gives the garden its name—a place of slow crushing, of pressure applied until what is hidden is drawn out. As we stood near it on a trip to Israel in 2017, our guide described the slow, deliberate, exacting process. Yes, here, in this place of pressing, our Lord,
“Being in agony . . . prayed more earnestly:
and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.”
—Luke 22:44
Gethsemane reminds us of a truth about abiding: Submitting ourselves to the God Who created us, Who planned us from eternity— images the Christ Who is our perfect template to follow. After all, as believers, we are fully accepted in Him.
Rooted in What Is Already True
Indeed, the security of our place in Christ is not some sort of delicate thing, It is not a fragile wisp that wavers with emotions or fluctuates. In no way is this truth dependent upon us. Rather, it is covenantal—bound not by the shifting tides of our own hearts, but by the unshakable faithfulness of His.
Rather than being held together by our (sometimes feeble) grasp of Him, it is confirmed in His strong, eternal grasp of us:
“He hath made us accepted in the beloved [that is, in Christ].” —Ephesians 1:6
“Ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God.” —Colossians 3:3
Still, we forget. Not because grace has weakened, but because we are prone to wander. Fear creeps in; weariness presses down; failures occur—and we begin to wonder if the love in which we repose could ever be revoked. But the truth has not changed! May we return to it regularly, allowing our hearts to rest in what is already secure.
Christ’s own are not perched on the edge of His affection, arms flailing for balance. Rather, we are anchored in the ocean of His love and grace. We are not visitors, cautiously knocking, hoping to be let in. We are children already inside—already welcomed—learning to live and walk and rest within the house of love that is now our home.
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| We are anchored in the ocean of God's love & grace |
Paul knew this kind of grace. His letters echo with the cadence of one who carried both ache and assurance. He did not boast in his record. He did not trust in his resolve. His confidence was Christ—and Christ alone.
“It is Christ that died, yea rather, that is risen again. . . who also maketh intercession for us.” —Romans 8:34
This is where Paul placed his hope—in what Christ had finished. Not in his own prayers, but in the risen Lord, Who speaks our names before the Father.
Obedience as Surrender
To walk in love is not to move through life unshaken. It is to walk as a branch clings to the vine, even when the wind bends it low. It is to remain in the posture of faith—a heart inclined, a spirit willing, a soul returning again and again to the One who never lets go.
“Can two walk together, except they be agreed?” —Amos 3:3
To walk with God is to be in step with Him—not just in principle, but in spirit. It is to whisper “yes,” even when the road narrows. It is to say, Your ways are better, even when we do not yet see where they lead. Like a tree bending toward light, the closely abiding soul leans toward the will of God—because it knows where life is found.
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| Can two walk together, except they be agreed? |
“If ye love me, keep my commandments.” —John 14:15
Christ did not speak those words as a test, but as a truth. The one who abides longs to please, because love has already made its home.
The Heart That Leans Upward
There is an obedience that strains under pressure—obeying from fear, not from grateful devotion.
But there is another kind. It leans.
Like branches reaching softly for the light, like roots deepening steadfast through unseen soil—this kind of obedience is born of worship—drawn by love, not driven by fear.
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| As flowers toward the sun |
He did not merely ask for the strength to obey. He asked for a heart inclined—tilted, turned, leaning toward God’s voice as flowers lean toward the sun. For the will to follow is itself a gift, and the strength to obey comes from being held by His hand.
“Hold thou me up, and I shall be safe…” —Psalm 119:117
Obedience was never meant to be a solo climb. It is the fruit of a rooted life—hidden in Christ, nourished by grace, anchored in truth. Rather than being cold compliance, it is the outgrowth of continual communion.
So when the will to obey grows faint, when our strength feels scattered and our love wears thin, let us begin with returning—to the One who bends our hearts gently back toward His own—who invites us to anchor ourselves in Him.
Remain and Remember
In Gethsemane, beneath the twisted arms of the olive trees, surrender was not weakness. It was the fullness of strength yielded in love. The Son bowed, not because He was compelled, but because His heart was free to trust the Father. He remained when others fled. There, in the garden of pressing, where His will was wrung out like oil from the olive, He gave Himself to His Father’s plan, teaching us the definition of true obedience.
We, too, will know moments when the path grows dim and the heart feels unsteady. Questions will rise. Faith may tremble. Yet our place in Christ is not fragile. It does not depend on our constancy, but on His. It rests secure in the One who went to Calvary and did not turn aside.
Because of Him, obedience can rise like branches stretching toward the light, nourished by Him. Surrender, too, takes on a new meaning—not the collapse of one defeated, but the confidence of one upheld by unfailing love.
And when our own strength falters, we are drawn again to the garden. We remember the place where He stayed, where His tears fell to the earth. We hear again His words, “Not My will, but Thine be done.”
Because He prayed them, we may pray them too—not as a single act, but as a rhythm of trust woven into the fabric of our days.
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| In Greece, standing by an old olive tree |
So let us remain. Not as wanderers on the edge of love, fearing to slip beyond its reach—but as children planted deep within it—our roots held fast in Christ, our lives steadied by the love that does not let us go.
The beautiful words of blind hymn writer George Matheson come sometimes to mind as I consider this incredible truth:
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