When we think on the night in Gethsemane – when we ask ourselves, “What would I have done when Jesus was arrested” – it is easy to think, “I would not have abandoned him,” and “I would not have denied him,” and “I would have been with him to the end.”

I think we delude ourselves and salve our egos when we allow ourselves to believe this.

In this time and this place – North America, 2008 – institutionalized racism is a fading memory.  I am white in a predominantly white country.  I am female, born late enough that suffrage is considered my inherent right and taken for granted.  I was blessed with family who never once allowed me to believe there is anything beyond my reach.  I never heard the phrase “You can’t do that because you’re a girl” from anyone I respected.

I have not lived in a time or place where the codified legal system designated differing criminal penalties for a citizen than for a non-citizen.  I don’t deny that there are places where equality under the law is not upheld, but as a rule, this society prides itself on striving to an ideal of equity.  Individual bigots aside, our laws decree that sex, race, color, creed, nationality, et al., are not grounds for discrimination.  Our laws do not have mandatory sentences that differ based on citizenship.

Contrast Israel under the Roman jurisdiction.  It was codified into Roman law that Roman citizens could not suffer criminal penalties as severe as non-citizens.  Not only was racism and classism customary, it was legal.  There could be no anti-discrimination lawsuits because there were no anti-discrimination laws.  Add to that the lack of political stature common among the disciples of Jesus, and you see a group of people with no legal recourse, no rights to be free from police brutality, and very good reason to keep silent in the face of soldiers with arms and the authority of law.  Killing in the line of duty these days is scrutinized; in those days it was par for the course.

We know what happened after that night in Gethsemane.  Jesus knew.  Perhaps Judas knew, or perhaps he thought only that Jesus would be forced to keep silent.  The other disciples, however – they could not have known, even though it had been said to them.

It is easy to pity Peter in his denial.  It is easy even to feel contempt for him.  It is far less easy, but perhaps more honest, to recognize in ourselves his fear.  It is difficult because we are indoctrinated from birth to count ourselves as part of a world power.  It is difficult because we are taught to hide our fears so deeply that we cannot see them ourselves.  It is difficult because we believe that we act in spite of our fears and not because of them.

I suspect that some African-American elders – those of our people who grew up in the Deep South perhaps not even 75 years ago – may remember what it is like to be Peter and the other disciples.  They may know, as I do not, what it is like to seek legal recourse and be told that there is no equality under the law – to be told that their oppression is institutionalized and right.

I can only imagine.  We all can only imagine what we really would have done if we had been there in the garden that night.  And I think we do ourselves a disservice if we deny our own cowardice.  We celebrate Maundy Thursday and commemorate the vigil in the garden not so we can pat ourselves on the back and claim we would have done differently from Peter or anyone else, but so that we can know that Jesus loves us in our cowardice even as he loved Peter in his.  Jesus loves us in our betrayal even as he loved Judas in his.  Jesus loves and chastises us in our anger and violence even as he loved and chastised the disciple who struck the servant of the high priest.

This is not a time to be cowboys.  This is not a time to celebrate how different we are from those who came before.  This is not a time for resentment or blame.

This is a time to grieve.  This is a time to remember that night as if it were this night.  This is a time to partake in that pain and despair.  This is a time to know solidarity with the disciples and with each other.  This is a time to let go of our pride and embrace our fear, our regret, our guilt.

This is a time to know that in spite of our fears, our denials, our betrayals, our pride, and every other way in which we fall short, Jesus decided that we were worth dying for.

Jesus decided that I am worth dying for.

Jesus decided that you were worth dying for.