On Good Friday, remember that Jesus understands you

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A Good Friday Meditation

When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. 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?" (Mk 15:33-34)

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What are we to make of these extraordinary words from the Cross? For some Christians, they are almost unbearable. Can it be true that Jesus thought that God the Father had forsaken him? Is it possible that Jesus’ doubted the love of the one he called Abba, Father? Did Jesus give up hope when he was crucified? Did he despair when he was on the Cross?

There are two main ways of understanding these mysterious words of Jesus, in which he quotes from Psalm 22.

The first possibility is that Jesus’s words are not an expression of abandonment but, paradoxically, an expression of hope in God. He is, as I mentioned, quoting Psalm 22, which begins, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

These words would have been recognizable to any Jewish person at the time who had received religious training. And while the beginning of the psalm expresses the frustration of someone who feels that God has abandoned him or her, the second part of the psalm is a hymn of thanksgiving to God, who has heard his or her prayer: For he did not despise or abhor /the affliction of the afflicted; / he did not hide his face from me, / but heard when I cried to him.

In this interpretation, Jesus is invoking the psalm in its totality, as the prayer of one who cried out to God and was heard. An example based on a more well-known psalm might be someone who says, “The Lord is my shepherd,” and trusts that his or her hearers would be familiar with the rest of Psalm 23 (“Even though I walk through the darkest valley…”) and its overall message. In other words, saying, “The Lord is my shepherd” is usually taken not just as an affirmation of God as shepherd but as shorthand for the entire psalm. This is a frequent explanation of Jesus’s terrible cry from the Cross.

In short, Jesus was using that line from Psalm 22 to express his confidence in God.

But there is another possibility: Jesus really did feel abandoned. This is not to say that Jesus despaired. I don’t believe that someone with such an intimate relationship with the Father, with Abba, could have lost all belief in the presence of God in this dark moment. But it is not unreasonable to imagine Jesus, in this grave hour, feeling as if the Father were absent. And remember: If he’s crying out to God, he’s still in relationship with God.

Here we need to distinguish between a person’s believing that God is absent and feeling it. The latter is common in the spiritual life. You may have had this experience yourself: believing in God, but not feeling that God is close. You ask, basically, “Where are you, God?” Here is another important intersection between Jesus’s life and our own.

Of all people, Jesus could be forgiven for feeling abandoned. Think of what he has gone through by this point in the Passion. First, he’s witnessed his betrayal by Judas, one his closest friends, who had identified him to the authorities for 30 pieces of silver.

Today we tend to think of Judas as purely evil, always evil, but remember: Jesus had selected him as one of the Twelve Apostles, and so for a time Jesus must have been close to Judas. Judas was a friend who betrayed him. Also, the Gospel of Mark says that by this point all but one of the Apostles has fled, whether out of terror or confusion or shame. So Jesus almost certainly feels abandoned and, perhaps not for the first time in his life, human loneliness.

Jesus has also been subject to an exhausting series of late-night inquests, brutalized by Roman guards, marched through the streets of Jerusalem under a crushing weight and is now nailed to the wood and suffering excruciating pain. So he could be forgiven for feeling abandoned. The one who abandoned himself to the Father’s will in the Garden the night before, who had given himself entirely to what the Father has in store for him, now wonders on the Cross: “Where are you?”

Today we tend to think of Judas as purely evil, always evil, but remember: Jesus had selected him as one of the Twelve Apostles, and so for a time Jesus must have been close to Judas.

These feelings were probably intensified by something else: having been abandoned by his followers Jesus now feels abandoned by the Father. Until this point, if Jesus felt lonely, or misunderstood by the disciples, he might have turned to the Father for comfort. Now he goes there and feels alone. It may be the loneliest any human being has ever felt.

Let me turn to some biblical scholarship. One of the great 20th century New Testament scholars, Raymond E. Brown, a Sulpician Father, is the author of probably the definitive study of the Passion narratives, called The Death of the Messiah. In an essay entitled “Jesus’s Death Cry,” Father Brown suggests that, in his view, abandonment was in fact what Jesus was experiencing.

Some Christians, says Father Brown, might want to reject the literal interpretation that would imply feelings of abandonment. “They could not attribute to Jesus such anguish in the face of death.” Yet, as Brown says, if we accept that Jesus in the Garden could still call the Father Abba, then we should accept this “screamed protest against abandonment wrenched from an utterly forlorn Jesus who now is so isolated and estranged that he no longer uses ‘Father’ language but speaks as the humblest servant.”

What does Father Brown mean? When Jesus speaks to the Father in the Garden, he says, “Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me….” Abba is a familiar way of speaking, something like saying “Dad.” (Both times I have visited Jerusalem on pilgrimage, I have seen, in the crowded city streets, young children running to catch up with their fathers shouting, “Abba! Abba!”)

But on the Cross, when Jesus says, “My God, My God,” he uses the Aramaic word “Elōi” (or the Hebrew Eli, depending on the Gospel). That’s a more formal way of speaking to God. The shift from the familiar Abba in the Garden to the more formal Elōi on the Cross is heartbreaking.

Jesus understands not only our bodily suffering, but also our spiritual suffering, in these feelings of abandonment. He was like us in all things, except sin. And he experienced all that we did.

Jesus’s feeling of distance, then, reveals itself not only in the scream, and not only in the line of the psalm that he utters, but also in the word Elōi.

How could Jesus feel abandoned? How could someone who had enjoyed an intimate relationship with God express such an emotion? To answer that, it may help to consider at a similar situation closer to our own time.

In her early years, Blessed Teresa of Calcutta, the foundress of the Missionaries of Charity, enjoyed several mystical experiences of intense closeness with God. She also experienced that rarest of spiritual graces—a locution: she actually heard God’s voice. And then—nothing. For the last 50 or so years of her life, until her death, she felt a sense of great emptiness in her prayer. At one point, she wrote to her confessor, “In my soul I feel just that terrible pain of loss—of God not wanting me—of God not being God—of God not really existing.”

When her journals and letters were published not long after her death, as Come Be My Light, some readers were shocked by these sentiments, finding it difficult to understand how she could continue as a believer and indeed flourish as a religious leader.

But Mother Teresa was expressing some very human feelings of abandonment and speaking of what spiritual writers call the “dark night.” This state of emotion moves close to, but does not accept, despair.

In time, Mother Teresa’s questions about God’s existence faded, and she began to see this searing experience as an invitation to unite herself more closely with Jesus, in his abandonment on the cross, and with the poor, who also feel abandoned.

Mother Teresa’s letters do not mean that she had abandoned God, or that God had abandoned her. In fact, in continuing with her ministry to the poor, she made a radical act fidelity, based on a relationship she still believed in—even if she could not sense God’s presence. She trusted that earlier experience.

In other words, she had faith.

Jesus does not despair. He is still in relationship with Abba—calling on him from the Cross. In the midst of horrific physical pain, abandoned by all but a few of his friends and disciples, and facing his imminent death, when it would be almost impossible for anyone to think lucidly, he might have felt abandoned. To me this makes more sense than the proposition that the psalm he quoted was meant to refer to God’s salvation.

So Jesus understands not only our bodily suffering, but also our spiritual suffering, in these feelings of abandonment. He was like us in all things, except sin. And he experienced all that we did.

Thus, when you struggle in the spiritual life, when you wonder where God is, when you pray in doubt and darkness, and even when you are close to despair, you are praying to someone who is fully human and fully divine, and who understands you fully.

Excerpted from “Seven Last Words: An Invitation into a Deeper Friendship with Jesus,” by James Martin, SJ. (Available in Spanish as Las Ultimas Siete Palabras.)

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Don Killgallon
4 months ago

Another spiritual treasure from Father Martin, tackling a very difficult topic (Christ's sense of "abandonment") with brilliance and insight.

FRAN ABBOTT
4 months ago

Thank you, Fr. Martin. This is a keeper!

Michael Bindner
4 months ago

The whole point of the Passion of the Christ was for God to authentically feel how we feel. Call it a vision quest. We know this utterance is the climax of the story, because in John's Gospel he asks for drink and it is given to him. As he had promised to not do so until in the Father's Kingdom, this moment is key to understanding both God and ourselves.

Jesus was not just delivering a line from scripture. These words had meaning for us and for him as one of us. So why would he say such a thing?

Again, going to John, he told Mary that John was now her son, and Mary his mother. This was not some cosmic May crowning. This is having his last disciple give up the mission of salvation for family obligation. Salome, who was also there, was Jesus's kinswoman and John's mother. John had his hands full.

He was telling Mary that he was dead to her. That every memory she had kept in her heart about his divine origins was meaningless. He was dying utterly alone. Anything else would be farce.

When we drink from the cup, as he drank from the sponge, the world becomes new again and we shed our brokenness as he did.

This pretty much disproves the ideas of Anselm about a justly angry God, as well as Augustine's views on the Eden story being anything but an allegory about blame and the need for forgiveness. Of course, this changes everything about natural law morality and the state of women in the Church.

The question is, can we handle the truth and lead the Church to Resurrection?

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