“Yet Listen Now”
by Amy Carmichael
Yet listen now,
Oh, listen with the wondering olive trees,
And the white moon that looked between the leaves,
And gentle earth that shuddered as she felt
Great drops of blood. All torturing questions find
Answer beneath those old grey olive trees.
There, only there, we can take heart to hope
For all lost lambs — Aye, even for ravening wolves.
Oh, there are things done in the world today
Would root up faith, but for Gethsemane.
For Calvary interprets human life;
No path of pain but there we meet our Lord;
And all the strain, the terror and the strife
Die down like waves before His peaceful word,
And nowhere but beside the awful Cross,
And where the olives grow along the hill,
Can we accept the unexplained, the loss,
The crushing agony, — and hold us still.
I don’t think it’s hyperbole to say that “All torturing questions find / Answer beneath those old grey olive trees.” The answers that linger there with Jesus in Gethsemane may not be exactly what you would have hoped for, but they are the answers you need.
For one, Amy Carmichael reminds us that in the garden we find the answer to the question “Is there any hope for lambs and wolves alike?” In the garden Jesus’s little lambs scattered when Satan struck their Good Shepherd. They abandoned him. They forsook him. Peter lied about even knowing him. And yet Jesus was in the process of dying for those very lambs. Later when Jesus saw them, he told them, “Peace, be still!” He knew what they’d done and forgave them anyway. Yes, there is hope for all lost lambs. And not only that, there’s even hope for wolves. The two men crucified on either side of Jesus deserved to hang their in shame and agony for what they’d done. One of them even owned up to that fact. Yet even he in the final hour of his life experienced grace and woke up one millisecond after his death in the presence of Jesus’s glory forever. The hope of mankind is as deep and wide as the love of Chirst.
Here on the eve of Calvary Jesus also answers every last question regarding human suffering. Carmichael says that owing to all the horrors done in this world day in and day out, faith itself—her faith, my faith, everyone’s faith—would be uprooted were it not for this place. What answers does she seem to find here for these horrors? She says that Jesus’s walk through Gethsemane on his way to Calvary “interprets human life.”
What does she mean? An interpreter’s job is to take something uttered in one language and render it in another language for the sake of the listener. Otherwise, the listener would hear a long string of sounds but not understand the meaning. If Calvary interprets human life, then that would mean that Calvary stands as an interpreter that repeats the unfolding of our lives in a new and intelligible way so that we can truly understand its meaning. Otherwise, all we’d see are a series of events and be left with our mouths hanging open as to what it all adds up to.
Here’s where it’s important to be reminded that the answers we find in the garden on Thursday and at the cross on Friday may not be the answers we would have hoped for. The interpretation of our lives with Calvary as the interpreter won’t explain exactly why any given event happened. It won’t tell us why a child dies of cancer, why the rapist got away, why a piano doesn’t fall on that jerk at the office.
Instead, Calvary gives us a new context in which to begin to understand evil and suffering. First, Carmichael reminds us that there is no path of pain that we might walk down where Jesus’s footprints aren’t already visible. He’s gone before us. He knows your broken heart because his heart broke, too. And don’t believe the lie that if a person hasn’t gone through your exact situation, he can in no way understand your pain. Human grief is brought on by all sorts of circumstances, but its knife cuts us all in the same way, and we all bleed red. Even Jesus. Jesus knew what it was to be cut. He understands your pain when you’re cut, even if your wound comes from a different source. In fact, he’s with you in your suffering. Your broken heart breaks his heart. Wherever you go and find pain, he’s standing there with his arms open wide. For me, at least, that gives all life entirely new meaning.
Second, Calvary interprets our lives by helping us see that Jesus stands sovereign over all suffering—over his and over yours. “All the strain, the terror and the strife / Die down like waves before his peaceful word.” Had Jesus spoken a word to the guards who pounded the nails into his hands—just like he spoke a word to that storm, remember—they would have had no choice but to obey him. They might not have recognized who he was, but the atoms in their bodies would have recognized their Maker and would have obeyed. So it’s clear that no one took his life from him. He willingly laid it down. Likewise, in the case of your suffering, no circumstance comes your way in which Jesus doesn’t stand sovereign over it. When he wills, the hurricane in your heart falls silent. If it’s still blowing, it’s because Jesus hasn’t spoken yet. But don’t forget the first observation, he’s with you even as the walls tremble and the roof blows off. That, too, completely changes my understanding of life.
Third, Calvary gives new meaning to our lives by giving us a new category in which we can place events that happen to us: it’s called the I-don’t-get-this-but-I-can-trust-God-will-turn-even-this-into-good category. You need to understand that on Good Friday the very worst sin that has ever been committed in the history of existence was carried out. The innocent, holy Son of God was mercilessly murdered. There could be no more heinous act. Nothing more evil has ever happened or will ever happen. It would be impossible to overstate the injustice. And that’s the Friday we now refer to as “Good” Friday. How can that be? It’s because God planned every last detail. And not only that, God planned glory on the other side, the very exaltation of Christ and the salvation of the world. If God is capable of taking the most evil event that has ever happened and can subjugate it to accomplishing the greatest good the world has ever seen, then he can do the same for every last event in your life and in mine, including all our sins and all the sins ever committed against us. Such an interpretation of life is fantastically different than anything I’ve ever heard before.
It’s worth repeating here and a few more times just for good measure: Calvary doesn’t necessarily tell us why certain events in our lives happen. It does, however, restate all the pain and suffering that we experience in such a way so as to make it intelligible instead of random and meaningless. Jesus hurts right alongside us. He remains sovereign over every last strike of the hammer. And not even the worst possible situation imaginable remains unredeemable in his hands.
Calvary ensures us while it’s Friday today, and while Saturday doesn’t look that great either, Sunday is coming. We may have to wait 30 years to see the dawn of Sunday’s light. But it’s coming. The one who wrote the book of history has guaranteed it. Jesus went before us as an example that our Sunday will come. So hold on. Jesus stands with you in the darkness as you await the light. He knows how scary the dark is. He knows how long the wait may seem. But he’s with you. He’s walked this lonely path before and walks it with you now.
What hope is ours this Good Friday! May we come to trust that in the course of time, we, too, will be able to call even our darkest day “good.” Perhaps spending some time with Jesus under those “old grey olive trees” would help us.