“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? And are so far from my cry and from the words of my distress?”
In the gospels according to Matthew and Mark these are the words of dereliction, the beginning words of Psalm 22 that Jesus cries out from the cross before dying.
We’ve read or sung Psalm 22 now three times this Holy Week, not only because Jesus cried out these words, but also because they hold such power for the world and for us, because they feel so true.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
That cry could rise along with the stench of garbage from those who are trash pickers in the great garbage dump outside the city of Rio de Janeiro, South America’s largest landfill.
The cry that might pour from the heart of a man in his sixties who has lost his job and in spite of a constant and frantic search, cannot find anyone who wants to hire someone his age.
The cry that a woman in Africa might mutter under her breath as she walks over four miles just to get enough water for her family to use for that one day. And then walks that same four miles the next day and the next and the next.
The cry that comes from a homeless man, lying on a grate on a cold winter night in view of our nation’s stately Capitol building, trying to stay warm in spite of the fact that sleet is soaking through the tattered sleeping bag that covers him.
A mother’s prayer as she gets up yet another day without enough food to feed her school age children who are home for the summer and who need three meals a day.
The cry of a wife visiting her husband who lives in an Alzheimer’s unit because she can no longer take care of him at home.
The cry that echoes through the intensive care unit of every hospital on the face of this earth.
The cry of a soldier who has just lost his best buddy to a roadside bomb, or one who is waiting to be evacuated from the war zone with his legs blown off—or the cry of parent holding a little child who has just stepped on a landmine and has been killed.
The cry of someone who has just gotten a phone call announcing the unexpected death of a loved one.
The cry of a young girl being raped by a family member when no one else is around to know.
The cry of those who get bad news and no solutions from their doctors.
The cry of those who suffer psychologically with the various mental illnesses that haunt human beings.
The cry of those who are dying, or who wish they were dead.
Our cry to God.
And what is God’s cry to us?
My people, my people, why have you forsaken me, and are so far from my cry and the words of my distress over the turmoil and the sadness that my good creation and its people are in?
Why have you forsaken one another?
And what is God’s cry to those of us who have all we need and more than we need?–who live with earplugs in our ears, so we don’t ever hear these cries of forsakenness that are shouted and muttered and prayed by people all around us?
Maybe God’s cry is not only “Why have you forsaken me?” but also, “Remember me.”
Remember what I asked you to do when I was here with you, breaking the bread with you at our last meal together.
To love one another.
“Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”
Remember me, and do what I’ve asked you to do—to heal the sick, to feed the poor, to open the door and to let our brothers and sisters in, as we sang in our communion hymn last night.
“Remember me, so that my death on the cross will actually make a difference, so that people will know that my love is alive and active and transforming even in the face of what feels like the emptiness of death and complete forsakenness.”
“Remember.”
Amen.