Good Friday - Doubt in the Midst of Tragedy
Scripture Passage 1: Psalm 22:1-21a
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but I find no rest.
Yet you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel. In you our fathers trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them. To you they cried and were rescued; in you they trusted and were not put to shame.
But I am a worm and not a man, scorned by mankind and despised by the people. All who see me mock me; they make mouths at me; they wag their heads; “He trusts in the Lord; let him deliver him; let him rescue him, for he delights in him!”
Yet you are he who took me from the womb; you made me trust you at my mother's breasts. On you was I cast from my birth, and from my mother's womb you have been my God.
Be not far from me, for trouble is near, and there is none to help. Many bulls encompass me; strong bulls of Bashan surround me; they open wide their mouths at me, like a ravening and roaring lion.
I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.
For dogs encompass me; a company of evildoers encircles me; they have pierced my hands and feet - I can count all my bones — they stare and gloat over me; they divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots.
But you, O Lord, do not be far off! O you my help, come quickly to my aid! Deliver my soul from the sword, my precious life from the power of the dog! Save me from the mouth of the lion!
Scripture Passage 2: Mark 15:33-39
And when the sixth hour had come, there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour. And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?**” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?**” And some of the bystanders hearing it said, “Behold, he is calling Elijah.” And someone ran and filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a reed and gave it to him to drink, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.” And Jesus uttered a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. And when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”
I stood nervously outside of his hospital room for quite some time; the other hospital chaplains had talked about him, and I knew that he had a personal connection to my Chaplain supervisor. I would be lying if I did not feel a heightened sense of gravitas with the situation. Here I stood outside of Mr. Smith’s room - a man in the most dire of circumstances; a man of faith, recently cruelly diagnosed with rapid end stage cancer and just signed up for in-hospital hospice. Death was staring him right in the face - a premature death, at that. The word “unfair” would be unfit for a man with a reputation like his. And here was Mr. Smith, beginning his process of acknowledging Death’s presence as an ever closer companion in his cramped hospital room. The staring contest, whether Mr. Smith wanted to or not, had begun.
The air was certainly palpable and thick, permeating the hallway outside of his room. Standing in the midst of that cloud, all of the color in the world looked that much duller, and though it was the middle of the beating heat of the summer, this little section of the world was plagued with a stinging chill. It was clear that this was a very serious situation, and an invitation of the Holy was, at the very least, hoped for. I would say, from my side, God’s presence was very much urged.
Deep breath in. Did I get the right room? Yep, room 401. Deep breath out. Need to control the anxiety. Maybe a few more seconds with some more deep breaths will help. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. It’s now or never, I guess.
I was most certainly nervous for the discussion - Rumor had it that Mr. Smith was wrestling with the big question: “Why me?”
And as I routinely did before each patient visit, I prayed the prayer:
Lord, may the words from my mouth, and the meditation of all of our collective hearts, be pleasing to you, our Lord, our Rock, our Redeemer – Amen.
This must have been one of the most heart-wrenching and confusing times for Jesus’ friends, family, and disciples. Before their eyes hangs Jesus, this miracle man whom they’ve been following and learning from for quite some time - some for an entire year. The one who, earlier in the Gospel narrative, was proclaimed as the Christ - the messiah - the anointed one. He was the one whom the prophecies foretold that would herald the coming of a new King David and defeat the Philistines of the day - the Romans. He was the one that would unite the twelve tribes and usher in a new kingdom of God here on earth. He was the one that cleansed demoniacs and raised the dead. The man with power over the natural, the supernatural, and the eternal has been arrested, beaten, and tortured right before our eyes. And now he hangs on a cross and left for dead like a dirty criminal - a potent scare tactic to prevent any other rogues who dare oppose the empire. Our hopes and dreams are dashed; “what do we do now? Where do we go?” the disciples ask themselves. “We, who were already the outsiders of society and on the fringes, all of our hope is being so cruelly ripped away from us.” The pain of seeing a loved one, a family member, and a close friend suffering and dying is a pain that cuts so incredibly deep. A pain that is intensified every minute the disciples and friends spend watching and listening…witnessing the end and completely helpless. At some point, disappointment, a bitter spice that is oh so familiar to them, returns like an old shadow that had never truly left, but now returns that much more boldly. Yes, the Romans have won again. But let’s be honest - if it wasn’t the Romans, then it’s the Assyrians, or maybe the Babylonians or perhaps the Egyptians - always the same story, different names.
It is not so hard to imagine hearing the disciples crying out, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me yet again?”
It’s not hard to imagine it at all. But, perhaps, it is even harder to imagine Jesus crying out these words. There is a sense of expectancy in Mark’s Gospel narrative; something grand is about to happen; some kind of great parting-of-the-Nile type of event is poised to take place, something to deliver the Anointed One must just be on the horizon. But Jesus, enduring one of the most painful methods of execution, this long and drawn out painful suffering, with the last ounces of strength he harkens the psalmist and cries out, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” to which silence is the only reply.
Jesus is alone; Mark the Evangelist makes that abundantly clear. The disciples, unable to stay awake to pray with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, all fled at the sight of his arrest. Mark also notes an interesting two verses of a young man who was following Jesus, but at the arrest wriggled out of his clothes and fled; he would rather run away stark naked, full of shame, than be with Jesus in his most desperate hour. The end is near for Jesus, and instead of a picturesque vision that many of us probably have for our end - a peaceful death surrounded by the love of family and friends - Jesus faces the exact opposite - spite, scorn, and derision are his only companions.
But perhaps the worst was the feeling that God also abandoned Jesus – the same God that tore open the heavens to affirm, “This is my beloved son, with whom I am well pleased”. This cry to God, this visceral cry of pure anguish and defeat, really, no other question can capture the depths of the despair: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” It’s very different from asking God, “Please do not forsake me,” but rather, it is an acknowledgement of the speaker’s state of being already forsaken, being disowned, abandoned, and rejected. Jesus’ cry was a question to God who seemingly had turned God’s back on Him.
I remember having similar thoughts as I sat with Mr. Smith. He had friends and family in his room, but upon my entrance and introduction he asked that everyone, except for myself, leave the room. And as I brought a chair close to his frail and broken body, trust was established quickly, and before I knew it, Mr. Smith began telling me his life story; it was important for him to be remembered by his accomplishments. Here is a man who lived a good and successful life; a man of faith who always tried to do the right thing, even if it went against the grain of what society told him he should do. And his major concern was that he wanted to instill these values onto his only child, a college student finding her own path in life. He was doing the best he could.
And then he asked the question I had braced myself for: “Why me? Why is this happening to me? Why is God doing this to me? Where is God?”
Perhaps in the darkest of days, perhaps in the deepest part of our hearts where we dare not admit exists, perhaps we have also asked this question to ourselves and to God. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” You just need to turn on the news: gun violence on college campuses, deaths from natural forces and storms, warfare around the world with airplanes dropping bombs on hospitals full of civilians, domestic and sexual violence happening in our neighborhoods behind closed doors, people coming into these church doors looking for a word of comfort and an embrace of love but leave with sadness and disappointment week after week. Tragedy is all around us, and I can’t help but hear the question over and over again: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
But it is a question that we are ashamed to ask. Aren’t we, the “religious” people, supposed to have faith in times like this since, after all, “God will not give us more than we can handle”, right?
We are people who are so adverse to dwell in the pain. And even worse, we are so adverse to sit with others who are in the midst of their tragedy. We tell ourselves that we cannot show pain or weakness to others; it’s silly for us to be so upset over this, isn’t it? We wouldn’t dare share or talk about the tragedy that we just experienced unless we had some kind of teaching point or “bright side”, right? But maybe, just maybe, I should tell someone.
And before you know it tears from the hurting one starts flowing as an expression of the raw pain and the turmoil comes tumbling out like flood waters that overflows the broken levy, and we who are witnesses to this flood scramble to change the topic, to throw sandbags on the dam, to lighten the mood, to give empty platitudes, to offer a bright perspective. “This will only make you stronger,” we may say. Or, “this will be a very powerful testimony to others,” we may genuinely suggest. Perhaps in our hardened foolishness, we may even dismiss the hurt feelings and tell the hurting one, “You know, I don’t know why you’re so sad about this. Toughen up.”
I fought oh so hard to hold my tongue as I sat for that hour with Mr. Smith.
Because doubt in the face of tragedy and sorrow is a very real and difficult thing to struggle with. We can explore many aspects of doubt, thinking about doubt as it relates to science, reason, and the human experience, but for now, we are grappling with doubt in the face of tragedy. Grappling, in many ways, as Jesus did two thousand years ago.
“Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?”, Jesus cried out, and people mistakenly thought he was crying out to Elijah. I have to wonder if the Pharisees and the scribes recognized that Jesus was directly referring to the 22nd Psalm. This Psalm whose first half was the first reading, is a psalm of lament, one where the psalmist at his/her wit’s end opens up the most vulnerable of hearts to God. For twenty one verses the psalmist agonizes and pleads with God, a God who has apparently forsaken the psalmist. But the twenty first verse marks a distinct change in the flow of the psalm, and like many of the lament psalms, the twenty second psalm also turns to deliverance and proclamation of God’s goodness.
But perhaps the biggest point, lest we forget, is that the psalm that immediately follows the today’s, the psalm that asks, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” is a psalm that affirms us and reminds us that, “The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want.”
“The LORD is my shepherd” - That, and not an apparent anguished cry of failure, is ultimately Jesus’ last words at Calvary. Even at the end of his earthly ministry, Jesus remains faithful in his trust of God. Even in the last bits of his strength, he confesses his trust in God.
So, I wonder, why did Jesus ask the tough question? “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Why didn’t He, instead, declare that “The LORD is my shepherd” as he hung on the cross? I like to think that it was a subversive message, as many of Jesus’ messages and teachings seem to have been. For the Pharisees and scribes who knew their scripture, this cry may at first seem like a victory for them – they broke Jesus, he just admitted that God forsakes him.
But in reality, even in the face of death, Jesus points out his faithfulness to God, the God who is Jesus’ Shepherd; torture, humiliation, and the grave will not take Jesus away from his Father. I like to think that Jesus’ cry was hot dagger running straight through the hearts of those who wanted Jesus dead. The Pharisees could not forget that the psalmist’s cry ends with a faithful psalmist, not a renouncement or surrender.
But for the disciples and friends of Jesus, I hope this cry is a word of encouragement for us. Not only is it an affirmation of trust for the eventual deliverance of God, but it is very much an acknowledgement of the pain and the feeling of isolation for Jesus’ followers in the face of pain, suffering, and tragedy. Jesus’ cry gives us permission to cry out to God with this same question when we are in our depths. He affirms that there are times in tragedy where we cannot help but lament and feel as though God has turned God’s back on us, where we do not have a friend in the world. It is a reminder that Jesus acknowledges and stands besides us especially in those times, as he experienced such a time in his earthly life.
I also think that God’s apparent lack of response to Jesus’ cry is something for those of us who find ourselves alongside those in the midst of tragedy. We know that God was, indeed, very much present at Calvary despite what the Romans or the Pharisees may have thought, so what are we to take from the apparent silence from the Father as the Son hang lamenting? Again, I think there is something to be said about the acknowledgement of the depths of pain in tragic situations. Jesus’ death on the cross was necessary, and God did not sugar coat the experience. Salvation did not immediately jump and fast forward to Easter Sunday. God was firmly planted within that tragedy and the days that followed.
It is a powerful reminder that, although Grace is given freely to all of us, Grace itself is not free at all, and has an incredibly high price. It is a responsibility and a value that we must always remember and never cheapen. It is far too costly.
Perhaps God models what we are called to do with others who are also in their own personal Good Friday. Maybe telling people “it’s not so bad” isn’t as helpful as we think it is. Perhaps jumping to the bright side of things, shouting “He is Risen indeed!” prematurely only cheapens the depths and the experience of the tragedy that just unfolded. Just maybe all we should do is to sit in silence along side of the tears in a sign of solidarity. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit were in full alignment that fateful Friday afternoon, and shouldn’t we also be?
I sat in silence after Mr. Smith asked the tough questions. I didn’t have an answer, nor did I think it was my place to try. My job was just to be with him in his time of darkness and sadness. The interesting turn, I realized, was that eventually Mr. Smith’s train of thought moved from the question of God’s presence, ultimately to a confession that he was afraid of the pain of dying. It dawned on me, as I think it did for him at some point, that the question of, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” is still addressing God and perhaps a much more powerful sign of faithfulness than we originally think it is. The cry is still a cry to God.
Mr. Smith died two weeks after I first met him as he began his walk in the shadow. I was not there when he entered the valley of death, but I like to think that he died peacefully with the words, “The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want” on his lips. I like to think that he lived a life of faithfulness into the very end. In my eyes, even in his lamenting and asking “why”, he remained faithful.
The communal sacrament of the Eucharist is a reminder of that kind of faithfulness. In one aspect, it can be viewed as the table of Grace, where Jesus extended a seat to all – friends and even to the one who would betray him. I like to call the sacrament of communion, in a similar vein, as the Response of Faithfulness. No matter where we are in our lives, whether lock-step in God’s plan and spiritually on fire with a direct phone line to God’s heart, or if in the midst of our own Good Friday crying out to a God seemingly deaf to our cries, we come and eat and drink and accept the invitation that is given to us in an act of complete faithfulness.
For participation in communion it is a drastic and radical act, to receive this grace. It is an outward sign that we, no matter the highs or the lows that we are going through, that we still accept this gift of grace - that the body and blood of Jesus, given to all of us, is a reminder and connection to one another, as well as to God. Especially for those who feel so distant from God, but come up to the table yearning something, yearning to be spiritually fed, may you be encouraged, good and faithful servant. For in this act of communion, we join along side of you in the depths of your Good Friday.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit – Amen.
