It’s easy for us because we know.
We know the story well. We know its beginning. We know its end. We know Jesus died, then was buried. We know he lay dead in a cold, stone tomb for 3 days. And we know he rose again Sunday morning.
We know his sacrifice offered us an escape from eternity in the domain of darkness and opened the way into his Kingdom of light. We know that his gift has touched billions of people for over 2,000 years, so that now a third of the world’s population follows him.
We know Jesus was fully God, the second person of the Trinity. He had access to all the creative power and authority the Father possessed when he said, “Let there be light.” He was present before the foundation of the Earth. He created everything that was created. The Father granted him all authority in Heaven and Earth.
We also know that he emptied himself and became fully man, as human as any of us. The devil could tempt him in all the same ways he tempts us. Satan’s wilderness taunting was neither figurative nor symbolic. Jesus faced real temptations crafted to entice a real man.
We know Jesus felt the full range of human emotions and physical needs. He laughed, cried, got irritated, and even angry. He hungered, thirsted, and tired. So, we understand his dread of torture. We applaud his courage. We admire his resolve.
We know all of that. But what did Jesus know?
Jesus knew the Holy Spirit moved through him to heal the sick, deliver the oppressed, and work miracles that superseded Earth’s natural laws.
Jesus knew the Spirit’s leading to travel, when to stay, when to speak, and when to remain silent.
Jesus knew the Messianic prophesies—who the Messiah was supposed to be and what he was supposed to do.
Jesus knew that the Father himself affirmed his sonship at his baptism, and then again in full view of three disciples on the mountaintop.
Jesus knew that, just like Moses’ fiery serpent, he would be lifted up for all men to see.
Jesus knew what was coming. Rome ruled the land, so he had seen many crucifixions. King David prophesied a description of that punishment’s long, agonizing death in Psalm 22:14-18.
I am poured out like water,
And all my bones are out of joint;
My heart is like wax;
It is melted within me.
My strength is dried up like a piece of pottery,
And my tongue clings to my jaws;
And You lay me in the dust of death.
For dogs have surrounded me;
A band of evildoers has encompassed me;
They pierced my hands and my feet.
I can count all my bones.
They look, they stare at me;
They divide my garments among them,
And they cast lots for my clothing.
His pleas for mercy were genuine by the time he and his inner ring of twelve disciples reached the Garden of Gethsemane. He prayed for deliverance, but the terror continued into the night as he sweated blood (hematidrosis, a medical symptom of extreme stress).
Jesus knew he could call 12 legions—over 62,000—of angels to fight on his behalf.
Jesus knew God could deliver him just as he had delivered Issac by providing a substitute lamb suitable for sacrifice. But, Jesus also knew the Father planned to send him as the substitute sacrifice to stand in for every sin—past, present, and future—of every man, woman, and child who had, did, or ever would live because he was the only man on Earth qualified to be that sacrifice—free of blemish; perfect.
Jesus knew all this, but did not know one thing. Would God actually allow him to live again? David narrated the torment of Jesus’s soul when he began Psalm 22 with:
My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?
Far from my help are the words of my groaning.
My God, I cry out by day, but You do not answer;
And by night, but I have no rest.
Jesus—as a man—did not know the end of his story. But he believed it would turn out as promised, so he surrendered and said, “Father, not my will, but yours be done.”
So, what do we know?
We know the end of Jesus’ story because we look back on its abundant fruit. But we don’t know the end of our own stories. Will God indeed deliver us from death? Do we get to live with him forever?
Jesus set the example. Now it’s our turn to choose: fear, or trust that our Father honors his promises—all of them, all the time.