Abaondoned

Abandoned

At noon, darkness fell across the whole land until three o’clock. At about three o’clock, Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” which means “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”

Some of the bystanders misunderstood and thought he was calling for the prophet Elijah. One of them ran and filled a sponge with sour wine, holding it up to him on a reed stick so he could drink. But the rest said, “Wait! Let’s see whether Elijah comes to save him.”

Then Jesus shouted out again, and he released his spirit. At that moment the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, rocks split apart, and tombs opened. The bodies of many godly men and women who had died were raised from the dead. They left the cemetery after Jesus’ resurrection, went into the holy city of Jerusalem, and appeared to many people.

The Roman officer and the other soldiers at the crucifixion were terrified by the earthquake and all that had happened. They said, “This man truly was the Son of God!” (Matt. 27:45-54)

 Abandoned. Such a haunting word. On the edge of a small town sits a decrepit house – weeds higher than the porch. Boarded windows; a screen door bouncing in the wind. Attached to the front gate is a sign that reads: Abandoned. No one wants the place. Even the poor and desperate pass it by.

A social worker appears at the door of an orphanage. In her big hand is the much smaller, dirtier hand of a six-year-old girl. As the adults speak, the wide eyes of the child explore the office of the director. She hears the worker whisper, "Abandoned. She was abandoned."

An elderly woman in a convalescent home rocks alone in her room on Christmas. No cards, no calls, no carols. A young wife discovers romantic e-mails sent by her husband to another woman. After thirty years on the factory line, a worker finds a pink slip taped to his locker. Abandoned by family. Abandoned by a spouse. Abandoned by big business. But nothing compares to being abandoned by God.

“At noon, darkness fell across the whole land until three o’clock. At about three o’clock, Jesus called out with a loud voice, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ which means “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?’" (Matt. 27:45-46) By the time Christ screamed those words, he had been hanging on the cross for six hours. Earlier that day, around nine o'clock that morning, he had stumbled to the cleft of Skull Hill, or Golgotha. A soldier pressed a knee on his forearm and drove a spike through one wrist, then the other, then one through both feet. And as the Romans lifted the cross, they unwittingly placed Christ in the very position in which he came to die – suspended between man and God. A priest on his own altar.

Noises intermingle on the hill: Pharisees mocking, swords clanging, and dying men groaning. Jesus scarcely speaks. But when he does, it’s like diamonds sparkling against velvet. He gives his killers grace and his mother a son. He answers the prayer of a thief, and asks for a drink from a soldier. Then, at midday, darkness falls like a curtain. "At noon, darkness fell across the whole land until three o’clock." (v. 45)

This is a supernatural darkness. Not a casual gathering of clouds, or a brief eclipse of the sun. This is a three-hour blanket of blackness. Merchants in Jerusalem light candles. Soldiers ignite torches. Parents worry. People everywhere ask questions: “Where is this noonday night coming from?” As far away as Egypt, the historian Dionysius takes notice of the blackened sky and writes, "Either the God of nature is suffering, or the machine of the world is tumbling into ruin."

Of course the sky is dark; people are killing the Light of the World. The universe grieves. God said it would. "On that day . . . I will make the sun go down at noon, and darken the earth in broad daylight. . . . I will make it like the mourning for an only son, and the end of it like a bitter day." (Amos 8:9-10) The sky weeps. And a lamb bleats.

Remember the time of the scream? "At about three o'clock Jesus cried out." Three o'clock in the afternoon – the hour of the temple sacrifice. Less than a mile to the east, a finely clothed priest leads a lamb to the slaughter, unaware that his work is futile. Heaven isn’t looking at the lamb of man, but at "the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world." (John 1:29)

A weeping sky. A bleating lamb. But more than anything else, a screaming Savior. "Jesus cried out with a loud voice." (Matt. 27:46) Note the adjective. Loud. Other writers employed the Greek word for "loud voice" to describe a "roar." So, it’s not as if soldiers are cupping an ear asking him to speak up. The Lamb roared. "The sun and the moon shall be darkened. . . . The LORD also shall roar out of Zion, and utter his voice from Jerusalem." (Joel 3:15-16) Christ lifts his heavy head and eyelids toward the heavens and spends his final energy roaring out toward the ducking stars, "Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?' which means, 'My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?'" (Matt. 27:46)

Have you ever asked yourself the same? Why Jesus? Why abandon your Son? Forsake the murderers. Desert the evildoers. Turn your back on perverts and peddlers of pain. Abandon them, but not him. Why would you abandon earth's only sinless soul? There’s that word again: abandon.

The house no one wants. The child no one claims. The parent no one remembers. The Savior no one understands. He pierces the darkness with heaven's loneliest question: "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" Paul used the same Greek word when he urged Timothy: "Be diligent to come to me quickly; for Demas has abandoned me, having loved this present world, and has departed for Thessalonica." (2 Tim. 4:9-10) As Paul looks for Demas, can he find him? No. He’s been abandoned. As Jesus looks for God, can he find him? No. He’s been abandoned.

But wait. Doesn't David tell us, "I have never seen the righteous forsaken"? (Ps. 37:25) So, did David misspeak? Did Jesus misstep? No, neither. In this hour Jesus is anything but righteous. But his mistakes aren't his own. "Christ carried our sins in his body on the cross so we would stop living for sin and start living for what is right." (1 Pet. 2:24) Christ carried all our sins in his body.

Don’t forget, our past is laced with outbursts of anger, stained with nights of godless passion, and spotted with undiluted greed. And suppose your past was made public? Suppose you were to stand on a stage while a film of every secret and selfish second was projected on the screen behind you? Wouldn’t you want to crawl into a hole? Wouldn’t you scream for the heavens to have mercy on you? And wouldn’t you feel just a fraction . . . just a fraction of what Christ felt on the cross? The icy displeasure of a sin-hating God? Jesus, enduring a billion times more, wondered the same.

Christ carried all of our sins in his body. See him there on the cross? That's a gossiper hanging there. See Jesus? He’s the embezzler. Liar. Bigot. See the crucified carpenter? He's a wife beater. A porn addict. A murderer. See Bethlehem's boy? Call him by his other names – Adolf Hitler, Osama bin Laden, and Jeffrey Dahmer. Really? Lumping Christ with all those evildoers? Yes. But I didn’t put him in the same sentence with the likes of Hitler, bin Laden, or Dahmer. Jesus did – and more.

More than place his name in the same sentence, he placed himself in their place. And yours, too. With hands nailed open, he invited God, "Treat me as you would treat them!" And God did. In an act that broke the heart of the Father, yet honored the holiness of heaven, sin-purging judgment flowed over the sinless Son of the ages. And heaven gave earth her finest gift. The Lamb of God who took away the sin of the world.

"My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" Why did Christ scream those words?

So you'll never have to.

Grace,

Randy