The Son cries out, but the Father does not answer (Mt. 27:46)

         Jesus cries out on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”  This is a painful cry of desolation that we hear from Jesus.  With these words, Jesus seems to make a confession of despair in the face of his suffering.  And no wonder.  His cross is the culmination of a hellish tragedy, laden with deceit, infidelity, betrayal, ridicule and rejection.  Religious and political leaders have falsely accused Jesus; his dearest and closest friends have fled in fear; the crowds have mocked him and spit on him; he has suffered the indescribable cruelty of crucifixion.  He is physically and morally exhausted.  Every ounce of energy gone.  Even the heavens have darkened in solidarity.  Is there any wonder that Jesus cries out in agony, “My god, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

            Yet, these are not words of despair.  These are words of protest.  Jesus protests his sense of abandonment and neglect.  His entire mission has been to do the will of his heavenly Father.  This was his only food, the food by which he carried out his mission, emptying himself for others, proclaiming God’s kingdom, and doing good works.  And, Jesus had some measure of success—gathering a band of faithful followers and inspiring crowds to embrace his message of love and hope.  And now this—the injustice of the crucifixion, and the stone cold silence of God.  The Son cries out, but the Father does not answer.

            The Evangelist “does not hesitate to show Jesus in the utter agony of feeling forsaken as he faces a terrible death” (R. Brown, 44).  At his lowest moment, Jesus cries out in unity with the whole human condition.  We can understand the anguished prayer of Jesus in the Garden where he prayed for this cup to pass from him.  It is no wonder that, in the depths of his suffering on the cross, Jesus now confronts God with his pleading…but God does not answer.  God is silent.

            The contrast between Jesus on the cross and Jesus in the desert at the beginning of his public ministry is stark indeed.  Jesus in the desert declares his unwavering faith in God, and the angels immediately come to his aid.  Jesus on the cross has proven his faith in God to the last, and yet, no one comes to his aid, not even God it seems.  This contrast, this undeserved abandonment, this is the injustice that Jesus questions with his protest. 

            Perhaps the explanation for this protest lies in plain sight at the foot of the cross.  No one is there, no one except passersby who mock Jesus in idle curiosity.  All those who should have been there are nowhere to be found—his disciples, his supporters, his friends, his family.  The Evangelist even says that the women who were followers of Jesus and had ministered to him were watching from a distance.  All those whom Jesus held near and dear to his heart had left him alone in his hour of greatest need.  Jesus felt abandoned, and he projected this feeling of abandonment onto God.  This is what drives his question:  why have you forsaken me.  Because he was abandoned by all, Jesus felt abandoned even by God.

            A similar fate awaits many in today’s society.  When those who should care for us abandon us, we often feel abandoned by God.  When we abandon those for whom we should care, they feel abandoned by God.  This is especially true for those who cannot fend for themselves—the young, the old, the homeless, those without resources, the weak.  Those who are isolated from a web of love and support often have a deep sense of powerlessness.  When their pleas for help go unanswered, they often feel abandoned.  Eventually, they feel abandoned even by God.

            This is a sad and terrible fate that the prophet Isaiah warns against (58:7).  Isaiah warns us not to turn our backs on our own, especially the vulnerable and those who suffer.  We are called to see the face of Christ in the sufferer, even in those whom we think deserve to suffer.  Our commitment to Christ compels us to respond to suffering with love.  There is no place for self righteousness in regard to the suffering of our neighbor.  We, the Samaritan of today, stop by the side of the road, not out of curiosity, but out of solidarity, availability, sensitivity, and a willingness to be effective in our help (Salvifici doloris, 28-29, John Paul II). 

            Although our immediate response to suffering is invariably one of protest, our love for Christ and for others compels us to discover anew the meaning of suffering, not on a human level, but on God’s level.  On God’s level, love becomes the most effective response and antidote to suffering of any kind, but especially suffering from hatred, violence, cruelty, contempt, and insensitivity.  Through his own life and mission of love, Christ taught us to seek the good with our own suffering and to care for those who suffer. 

            Christ is our model and protector.  He has been in the depths of our suffering.  The crucified Christ understands how we feel when faced with insurmountable odds.  He knows what it means to feel all alone and without help from anyone.  Jesus knows the feeling of exhaustion, the fear of never being able to succeed, the horrible doubt of not having done the right thing.  He knows the pain and isolation of those who are divorced, addicted to drugs or alcohol, battered or raped, out of work and without resources.  Jesus knows the feeling of depression and chronic disability.  Jesus understands the silence of God.

            Thus, we are not alone in these experiences.  Because of our mutual need for care and understanding, there is solidarity among those who suffer.  Because of Christ’s constant concern and love for each of us, there is also solidarity with him, who suffers with us each time we suffer.  For this reason, all suffering is holy and deserves reverence.

            The Anglican poet Elizabeth Lavers gives voice to this solidarity and reverence in her poem, “Why hast Thou forsaken me?”  Her loving verse of four stanzas with four lines each is a fitting conclusion to this reflection:

Rejected and set apart
To hang between earth and sky,
Straight from his anguished heart
Comes this dreadful cry.

His spirit wearies now.

Forsaken and alone.

Bearing, I can’t tell how,

Our sins, not his own.

No voice to wish him well.

No milestone or mark

In all the bleak wastes of Hell,

All the freezing dark.

Now that he nears death’s gate

I must not turn away.

But I weep for him, desolate.

And try to pray.