Mark
15:33-39
33
When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the
afternoon. 34 At three o'clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, "Eloi,
Eloi, lema sabachthani?" which means, "My God, my God, why have you
forsaken me?" 35 When some of the bystanders heard it, they said,
"Listen, he is calling for Elijah." 36 And someone ran, filled a
sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, "Wait,
let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down." 37 Then Jesus gave
a loud cry and breathed his last. 38 And the curtain of the temple was torn in
two, from top to bottom. 39 Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw
that in this way he breathed his last, he said, "Truly this man was God's
Son!"
She
sat in the same pew every Sunday, the same seat in Sunday school, Bible study,
and prayer meetings. Folks noticed when she wasn’t there, because everyone
loved her. They let her know every Sunday with hugs and kisses on the cheek.
They let her know with cards and cakes, with occasional visits and phone calls.
Her husband had been gone for years; they had no children. After every service, every meeting, she would
achingly slide behind the wheel of her car and slowly wind her way back home,
where she would sit in her chair and stare at the wall—the pictures cataloging
a life of joy and celebrations. She’d sit there until dark, maybe turn on the
television just to hear other voices. Then she’d shuffle down the hall to lie
in the bed until sleep came.
There
came that day (a day that will come for all of us) when health was no longer
the luxury it once was, when she was too weak to walk, too weak to bring the
spoon to her mouth. She was moved from her home and across town to a different
home. Her pew was vacant for a little while, her absence felt by fewer as the
days and weeks ticked by. The visitors thinned out as time passed and her
condition progressed. The phone stopped ringing. Then, one evening, with the
low roar of the television as the only other presence in the room, she exhaled
one last time. She was alone. (Selah)
His
was a life to be envied. He had a beautiful wife, adoring, successful children,
a reputation in his community of charity and generosity. So many looked up to
him. He taught Sunday school, was a generous giver of his time and money. The
lives he touched, the lives he changed can’t be counted. The pictures on his
desk, on his wall, on his phone captured a life of adventure and excitement, of
vacations in exotic places with his family. Everyday seemed to be filled with
joy and purpose for him, yet in those few moments when the busyness hushed,
when those around him were occupied with other aspects of their own lives, he
was left with only the sound of his own voice echoing in his mind. Then one
day, when the weight of it all—the weight of an enviable life, the heft of a
remarkable existence—seemed too heavy to bear, a few too many pills silenced
that echoing voice in his head. Surrounded by those he loved, admired and
adored by those who loved him, he was alone. (Selah)
For
over thirty years he was surrounded by family and friends. He was raised in a
time and place when most (if not all) of the family stayed close to home, took
up the family business, and worshipped together in the same place. Even as an
adult, when he seemed to strike out on his own, seeking to fulfill his vocation
that came from some holy, other source, he was engulfed in the presence of
others. He was there, in line with the multitude, as his cousin John was
baptizing in the Jordan River; when he came up out of the water it was clear to
some that even God was with him as the sky tore open and the voice from heaven
said, “This is my beloved son. I’m pleased with him.”[1] It
seemed everywhere he went people flocked to him, asking for advice, seeking
help, needing healing: some came wanting an insight into the scriptures, some
came wanting to heal a sick friend, others came pleading for the life of a sick
child, and still others came asking the deep, difficult questions of existence.
Thousands followed him wherever he went: all four gospels tell of a time when
he and his disciples had to provide food for at least five thousand others. They
were always there, following him around wherever he went. He was never alone.
Jesus seemed to be inundated by the presence
of others. It should come as no surprise then that in several places throughout
the gospel accounts we’re told that he would withdraw from the group, find
somewhere he could be alone with his thoughts, a place where he would not be
bothered, a place to quietly pray. Any parent who has had to stay at home with
the wild, running, screaming children knows that feeling—the need to just have
a moment or two of peace, away from the noise, the demands, the complaints…that
need to just be alone. It shouldn’t shock us that Jesus needed to retreat once
in a while, especially when there were thousands of others begging for a moment
of his time, thousands of voices calling his name, wanting his attention, but
that all changed.
Mark
(I think) tells it most succinctly, most hauntingly, in chapter fourteen. It
was just after one of those times when Jesus needed to be alone, when he needed
a moment or two to pray. It was at a place called Gethsemane, just outside of
Jerusalem, where he told his disciples to wait. He took the three closest to
him (Peter, James, and John) and walked on a little farther. Then, he charged
them with the task of staying awake and keeping watch as he went on a little farther
still, to be alone with his thoughts, his prayers, his grief. Then, after
having to wake up his watching friends three times, Judas arrives to betray
him. Jesus is arrested, and as soon as the cuffs are on we hear words that
weigh heavy on the page in verse fifty of that chapter: “All of them deserted him and
fled.” He was alone. (Selah)
From that moment on, Jesus would be shuttled
back and forth between Jewish authorities and Roman officials. His innocence
questioned, simultaneously confirmed and denied. Even his closest follower
would deny ever knowing him—not once, not twice, but three times, even cursing
at the very notion that he knew Jesus. The same crowd that followed him for so
long, the same multitude that seemed to hang on his every word, the same people
who witnessed his works of mercy and power, the same mass that made it near impossible
for him to be alone, these people now called for the life of a murderer in
exchange for Jesus’ life. When they were asked what should happen to him they
all shouted “Crucify him!” Gone was their desire to know him. Gone was
their need to be near him. Gone was their want to witness his works of wonder.
Like a child caught in the midst of mischief, they have piled the fault on and
pointed the finger at Jesus. “We’re not with him. We were just
checking to see what he was up to. We were following him because we wanted to
keep an eye on him.” They shouted all the more, “Crucify him!”[2] His
disciples deserted him; the crowd turned on him. He was alone. (Selah)
Alone, abandoned, Jesus
is flogged, handed over to be crucified. He is mocked by those who see him—those
who once huddled together to hear him and his words about the kingdom of
heaven. Nailed to the cross, Jesus is joined by two strangers, strangers who
Mark tells us taunted Jesus (though Luke tells us one would ask to be
remembered by him). He isn’t crucified with two who followed him. He isn’t
executed with those who ate at the table with him. Not even the one who—when
Jesus told him he would be rejected and killed—declared “Over my dead body!” is
there. Even the One whose voice declared from the ripped heavens by the Jordan that
Jesus was his Son, the One who commanded the disciples to listen to Jesus on
the Mount of Transfiguration, the One to whom Jesus had turned to in prayer
those times he went by himself to pray—even the Father seemed absent as the sky
darkened at noon. It was as if creation had gone off track in the absence of
the Creator.
For three hours the
darkness lingered. For three hours Christ hanged on the cross, in the darkness,
alone. Then, “At three o'clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lema
sabachthani?’ which means, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’"[3] He
was alone, and in that loneliness, Jesus cried out with the words of Psalm 22,
a psalm pleading for deliverance from suffering. All have deserted him; even
God seems to have abandoned him in this dark hour. The pain and suffering that
came with the self-giving love of Christ was compounded by the deepening
darkness, the immense isolation, the lingering loneliness. It proved too much
to bear, for we are told: “Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his
last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now
when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his
last, he said, ‘Truly this man was God's Son!’" In his loneliness
and grief, in his pain and suffering, with a pleading cry and final breath,
Jesus is finally recognized as the Son of God.
It’s not at the manger
with a host of angels singing glory to God in the highest heaven. It isn’t on
the shore of Lake Galilee as Jesus ends his wondrous walk across the water. It
isn’t by the tomb of Lazarus in Bethany when the one once dead come lumbering
forth from the grave. It isn’t on a hillside as baskets weave their way through
the hungry masses following Jesus’ miraculous multiplication of fish and bread.
Jesus is recognized as the Son of God when in the midst of loneliness, grief,
and suffering he breathes his last. But isn’t that when we tend to recognize
God?
Isn’t that where we most
often see Jesus, when we feel we’re at the end of our rope, when the weight of
the troubles of this world cause our souls to ache, when we’ve walked out on
the limb and it seems everyone else stayed behind to cut it out from under us? Isn’t
that when we feel the need for a loving God most keenly, when all hope seems
gone, when all our friends and family have left us, when the silence seems too
loud, when the way seems too dark? When we’re alone.
We say those words so
often, the words of the psalmist in the old King James Version of the
twenty-third Psalm: “Yea, thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…” Yet so often it seems hard
to believe that God is with us—especially in the shadowy valleys. When the
bills pile higher…when the chemo isn’t working…when the divorce papers have to
be signed…when the rent is due and the car won’t start and there’s not a single
dollar in your wallet…it can be hard to believe that God is with us. When the
meds don’t work…when the depression sets it…when the children don’t mind…when
the judge says “guilty”…when the casket is lowered in the ground after an
untimely end and an unfair fight…it’s easy to believe we’re alone in all of
this. When others cast judgment on behalf of God…when cherry-picked Bible
verses seem too pithy…when the pseudo-theology of a white-washed Christian
culture says things like “oh well, God has a plan” or “the Lord works in
mysterious ways, and we have to trust him” and it all just seems to shallow to
matter…it can be difficult to believe that there is a God who loves us enough
to die for us. When life seems too hard to carry on, it can be hard to believe
in a God who sits on a throne in the clouds above us—thankfully, we do not
worship that kind of God!
For our God is One who
has taken on our burdens and our cares—not in some fanciful, transcendent
sense, but in the reality of flesh and blood. We are loved by a God who has
wept with those who mourn, eaten with those who were hungry, laughed with those
who have rejoiced, prayed with those who searched for guidance, and yes,
suffered with those who were suffering. We worship and serve a God who has
literally walked this earth and felt what we have felt. We worship and serve a
Christ who has even felt the horrifying pain of loneliness! And in that we take
comfort! In that good news we find
hope that when the way seems dark, when all others have deserted us, there is
One who never will, One who has gone on before us, One who has shown us that
through the pain, through the heartbreak, through the darkness, there is
resurrection! There is life!
So, when the way is dark before
you, when it seems as if all others have abandoned you, when you feel most
alone, even in the presence of so many, remember that Christ has been in your
place and he is in that place with you—even now—so that you will never be there
alone. May we be the real presence of Christ in each other’s lives, so that
when we feel the grip of grief, the shadow of death, the darkening presence of
loneliness, we won’t have to face it alone. Amen.
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