In the darkness of night, after sharing the Passover meal with his disciples, Jesus led them to a garden called Gethsemane at the foot of the Mount of Olives.
This was not just any garden. Its very name tells a story. In Aramaic, Gat Shemani means “olive press” — a place where heavy stones crushed olives to extract their precious oil. Jesus chose this place, this olive press, for his moment of greatest anguish.
Shadia Qubti
Mark tells us Jesus “began to be deeply distressed and troubled,” words that convey being weighed down by grief — literally pressed down like an olive in the press.
“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,” he tells his disciples. Then, asking them to keep watch, he goes a little farther to pray.
In that moment of profound isolation, Jesus utters words that have echoed through centuries: “Abba, Father, everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me.”
This is not Jesus meekly accepting fate. This is Jesus pushing back. Resisting nonviolently. These words reveal Jesus doing what we all do when facing overwhelming suffering — saying, “No, please, there must be another way.”
“This is not Jesus meekly accepting fate. This is Jesus pushing back.”
Gethsemane: A living place of resistance
Today, Gethsemane stands in East Jerusalem, occupied territory since 1967. But this is not just a tourist site or historical monument. It’s a living place where daily life unfolds amid occupation. When pilgrims visit, many see only the biblical past, missing the present reality of Palestinians who maintain these sacred sites despite systematic dispossession.
The custodians of Gethsemane — descendants of those who have tended these spaces for generations — continue their faithful presence while experiencing their own forms of anguish. The ancient olive trees, some potentially dating back to Jesus’ time, do not just symbolize suffering, they embody resilience.
They’ve survived armies, empires and centuries of turmoil, continuing to produce fruit and bear witness, connecting the anguish of the historical Jesus to the lived experiences of Palestinians today.
The olive trees of my childhood
In my childhood home in Nazareth, our bustan — the Arabic word for garden — had several ancient olive trees that became the geography of my youth. These were not just trees; they were playgrounds where my siblings and I created imaginary worlds.
These trees, at least 200 years old, have trunks so massive it would take three people holding hands to encircle just one. These trees witnessed every significant family moment from birthdays to weddings.
During olive-picking season, we would drop the olives with sticks, then manually crush and preserve them in olive oil and feijan (rue). For Palestinians, olive trees embody our relationship with the land. A bustan speaks to a cultivated garden that sustains the family, while Gethsemane names the place where olives are pressed. One nurtures, the other transforms through pressure. Both are essential to Palestinian life and identity.
The crushing that does not break the pit
When olives are pressed, they must be crushed completely to release their oil. This crushing is not gentle — it requires tremendous pressure. Yet there is something remarkable about this process: the crushing, as heavy as it is, does not break the pit. The olive pit remains intact despite the weight bearing down upon it.
“The olive pit remains intact despite the weight bearing down upon it.”
This has long been a metaphor for Palestinian resilience. Our core identity remains whole despite generations of pressure.
However, what we have witnessed in Gaza gives me pause. The scale of destruction and death has been beyond anything in recent memory. More than 50,000 Palestinians killed, mostly women and children, although this number underrepresents the real casualties estimated to be between 150,000 to 300,000.
Ancient Olive Press at Capernaum (Shutterstock)
Perhaps this time, the crushing has been so severe that some pits have indeed cracked. We must be wary of what emerges when a people’s core is damaged. Bitterness can seep in where resilience once lived.
The oil that emerges from pressing can heal and nourish, but a pit that cracks can produce bitterness that poisons. As Palestinians facing this unprecedented suffering, we stand at this threshold. Can we maintain our core identity without letting bitterness define us? Can we produce the healing oil of justice-seeking without becoming what we resist?
Voices of the marginalized at the olive press
Imagine a gathering at an ancient olive press in the shadow of Gethsemane’s twisted trees.
Here, voices of the marginalized share their understanding of Jesus’ prayer. Indigenous elders recognize in Jesus’ plea their communities’ refusal to accept suffering as divinely ordained. African scholars understand how empires twist sacred stories to emphasize submission while erasing resistance. Womanists, familiar with transforming bitter experience into sustenance, recognize how Jesus refused silent suffering. And Palestinians, on whose ancestral lands this prayer was uttered, tend the flame that keeps the oil flowing in darkness.
What binds these voices together is not just shared suffering but shared resistance — a communion sanctifying their refusal to accept suffering as divine will.
The Gethsemane Olive Orchard, Garden located at the foot of the Mount of Olives, Jerusalem. (Shutterstock)
When the cup remains
But Jesus’ prayer did not end with resistance. He continued, “Yet not my will, but yours be done.” The cup is not taken away.
This creates a tension we all struggle with. If Jesus asked for the cup to pass, why did God not remove it? Does this mean suffering is necessary? Divinely required?
These questions become dangerous when applied to Palestinian suffering today. Is there divine purpose in the deaths of 17,000 children in Gaza? Is occupation somehow God’s will? Absolutely not!
Christ already has conquered death through his resurrection. His sacrifice was unique and complete. There is no theological necessity for additional human suffering to accomplish what Christ already has done.
When we face the question “Is suffering necessary?” we must remember that while suffering exists in our broken world, Christ’s victory means it is not divinely required or ordained. This is precisely why we can, like Jesus in Gethsemane, honestly pray for suffering to be removed while still remaining faithful.
The answer lies in understanding that Jesus’ honest plea itself challenges theological violence. It shows us that nonviolent resistance to politically imposed suffering aligns with Jesus’ own response. To name injustice, to cry out against it, to refuse to silently accept it — these are not acts of faithlessness but expressions of the deepest faith.
As a Palestinian Christian, I have encountered Christian siblings, mostly Western, who have deemed me and my people an obstacle and an alien in my only homeland. These interpretations, which position the modern state of Israel within a messianic agenda, leave no place for us except erasure and dispossession.
Such theologies, which treat the suffering of Palestinians as necessary for divine purposes, stand in stark contrast to Jesus’ own plea to “take this cup from me,” a truth woven throughout the gospel message.
The sleeping disciples and our world today
Three times Jesus returned to find his disciples sleeping. “Could you not keep watch for one hour?” he asked. Despite witnessing his distress, they could not stay awake. Their eyes grew heavy while Jesus remained awake, praying through his heaviness.
One could bear the weight of suffering; the others could not bear even the weight of witnessing.
“Many who call themselves disciples fail to keep watch in our darkest hour.”
This pattern continues today. Much of the world sleeps while Palestinians suffer. Many who call themselves disciples fail to keep watch in our darkest hour. The weight of Palestinian suffering is too heavy for many Christians to bear even as witnesses, yet Palestinians themselves must bear it directly.
True solidarity requires the strength to stay awake under the weight of another’s suffering, to fulfill our calling as witnesses when sleep beckons.
Ancient trees as witnesses
The olive trees of Gethsemane still stand today. Some have witnessed two millennia of prayers and tears. They have absorbed the weight of empires. They have witnessed Jesus’ anguished cry and today witness Palestinian anguish.
What the olive press teaches us remains true across time and space: Resistance to suffering is not faithlessness but is woven into the very fabric of faith. Jesus did not glorify suffering but resisted it even as he ultimately faced it. His genuine plea to have “this cup” removed stands as eternal validation for all who cry out against injustice.
The olive pit may be pressed, but it need not break. And even if some pits crack under unprecedented pressure, new trees will grow. This is the mystery at the heart of Gethsemane — that resistance and endurance can coexist, that honest protest before God can accompany faithful presence in suffering.
As Holy Week approaches, we stand between Gethsemane and Gaza. We are called to remain awake when others sleep, to bear witness when witnessing itself becomes a heavy burden. We are called to recognize that while pressure may produce something precious, we should never glorify the crushing itself.
May we carry with us the courage to say with Jesus, “Take this cup from me” when faced with injustice, and the strength to remain present when the cup remains. May we honor the Palestinian commitment to dignity and life even in the face of crushing pressure, reflecting Jesus’ own faithful resistance in Gethsemane.
And may we, like those ancient olive trees, stand firmly rooted in witness to both suffering and the courage to name it.
Shadia Qubti, a Palestinian Christian from Nazareth, currently serves as community engagement animator at Trinity Grace United Church in Vancouver and as a commissioner to the General Council of the United Church of Canada. She worked in faith-based peacebuilding in Palestine/Israel for 15 years, focusing on amplifying women’s voices through initiatives like the Women Behind the Wall podcast. Her writing is inspired by her completed research into Palestinian and North American Indigenous understandings of land, informing her approach to Palestinian land-based theology.