There is no room for optimism on good Friday.
There is only grief, darkness, and death.
We are living in an unprecedented time. Across the world a pandemic rages, filling almost every heart with fear. There have been fatalities so far, and though they are few, comparatively speaking, the potential that this will wage on and on is still a live possibility.
There is a kind of cheap hope that we can have about all of this: Things get better, they always do. This is the same kind of cheap hope that keeps us from being united with Christ and his sacrifice, that leaves us unable to enter into the mystery of the suffering of God because we are so antsy to get to the resurrection.
But, as oft has been told, there is no resurrection without the crucifixion.
Good Friday brings us to the penultimate mystery of holy week: Jesus has been unfairly tried, abandoned by his friends, and has carried his own cross to the hill on which he will be crucified, Golgotha – the skull.
On the cross, he utters a prayer that he lifts from Psalm 22. In this great Davidic psalm, Jesus finds his own voice as the God-man hangs naked and suffering, utterly humiliated before the world:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
The psalm, which we read in our Good Friday liturgies, goes on:
2 My God, I cry by day, but you do not answer;
and by night, but find no rest.3 Yet you are holy,
enthroned on the praises of Israel.
4 In you our ancestors trusted;
they trusted, and you delivered them.
5 To you they cried, and were saved;
in you they trusted, and were not put to shame.6 But I am a worm, and not human;
scorned by others, and despised by the people.
7 All who see me mock at me;
they make mouths at me, they shake their heads;
8 “Commit your cause to the Lord; let him deliver—
let him rescue the one in whom he delights!”9 Yet it was you who took me from the womb;
you kept me safe on my mother’s breast.
10 On you I was cast from my birth,
and since my mother bore me you have been my God.
11 Do not be far from me,
for trouble is near
and there is no one to help.12 Many bulls encircle me,
strong bulls of Bashan surround me;
13 they open wide their mouths at me,
like a ravening and roaring lion.14 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;
15 my mouth is dried up like a potsherd,
and my tongue sticks to my jaws;
you lay me in the dust of death.16 For dogs are all around me;
a company of evildoers encircles me.
My hands and feet have shriveled;
17 I can count all my bones.
They stare and gloat over me;
18 they divide my clothes among themselves,
and for my clothing they cast lots.19 But you, O Lord, do not be far away!
O my help, come quickly to my aid!
20 Deliver my soul from the sword,
my life from the power of the dog!
21 Save me from the mouth of the lion!
With these words we see the crucifixion of the Lamb slain before the foundation of the world instantiated in time. We see the irony of the Messiah, the one who came to save, now without a saviour. The visceral images gives us a glimpse at the horror of that day, and our knowledge of Christ as God incarnate teaches us that this is not any innocent man, but God in the flesh left exposed, undone.
George MacDonald compares the struggled of Gethsemane with that of the cross. He suggests that the Father was still tangibly present in the garden, but on the cross Christ’s will is left alone to obey his Father without any sense of his nearness. MacDonald writes of Christ calling out to the “vanished God.” (Unspoken Sermons, vol. 1, 168-9).
Jesus’s cry, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me” goes out to a God who has hidden himself.
This is the same cry that we take up today, throughout the world, mingling with the Spirit-inspired words that Christ lifts up to his father.
For those who have lost employment and struggle in the wake of COVID-19 – “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
For those sick, and those tending to their sick loved ones – “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
For those losing their faith, wondering why they can’t seem to believe – “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
Those who lose grandfathers and grandmothers, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters – “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
For those left without support from family and friends – “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
For the children at home isolated with abusive relatives – “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
For the lonely whom no one has called, for whom no one cares – “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
For those who are heading into the darkness of death – “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
All of us have uttered these words, do utter these words, from the depth of our being. We say them now more than ever as we are stuck at home, trying to get our minds around the future – which was never certain – but now is unavoidably contingent. We’ve left behind the rhythms we use to protect us from the glory and terror of life. We’ve left behind our plan-making for the weekend, for vacations, for time with friends. We’ve left behind the comforts of the coffee shop and walk through the park. Life has suddenly grown dimmer, smaller, constricting us life a coffin.
“My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
There is no hope.
There is nothing.
There is darkness.
Jesus looks out from the cross, at the faces of those who scorn him, at his grieving mother, at the absences left by his disciples, his friends. The one over whom the Father had spoken, “This is my Son, my Beloved, in whom I am well pleased,” is now alone. And there is no comfort even from God. Christ cries out, and earth quakes, the sky is darkened, and the veil in the temple is torn in two.
Silence.
And we are hear still praying: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
We are conscious of only ourselves in the dark.
“My God, my God, why have your forsaken me?”
All is lost.
“My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
And then we see a glimmer, hear another breath.
A voice, however feeble and thin is added to our voice, and we know that Christ is with us in the darkness of Good Friday, and we are with him.
