Questions at the Cross

Yesterday in Integrated Theology, we were talking about the Contemplative Tradition of the Christian church. Focusing on spending time alone to grow to be more like Christ is one of the things that makes this stream of Christian life so special. The problem is that I stink at it! I'm talking about stinking to the point of frustration. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to be quiet? And when I am, usually the first thing to pop up is either snores or to-do lists. Yet, here we had to sit for 20 minutes in class with Psalm 22 and a little painting of Jesus and contemplate. I could type for another five minutes and explain to you all the reasons why I can't do this kind of thing, why I don't like it, why it's hard for me, why I think other people do it better, why it doesn't feel like I have gotten anywhere or done anything at the end of the time, and...and.... Excuses abound. I was angry and frustrated with having to do this exercise. 

But eventually I chose to do something I do know how to do. I wrote. And in writing I learned something about the picture and the psalm. I slowed myself down enough to study the details in both. Why is everyone turned away from Christ? How does the psalm describe what is physically and spiritually happening to Christ?  

I was still frustrated with myself and even slightly at my professors afterward. But I also had a bit of reflection scribbled down in my notebook. That bit of prose, produced as a coping technique for my frustration, is what I now present to you: 

I remain solemnly wrapped in my robe, my eyes and heart filled with deep sorrow. I stand at the feet of a man in agony and dying. Jesus, my friend and teacher. I cannot even begin to imagine the brutality and pain he endures. I can hardly look at his face because of the pain etched there. His breathing grows heavy, far apart, and weak. He pushes up for a gulp of air, and works his mouth as if he cannot help but cry out the words shoving up from his very soul. “My...God,” he cries. “My...God.” He gasps for air again. “Why...have...you...forsaken me?” he groans. Alone. He is surrounded by people, yet utterly alone. 

 His words pierce my heart like the nails pierce his hands. Out they flow from his mouth, with more power than the blood—the holy, cleansing blood—that flows from his hands, feet, and side. His wounds pour forth blood like water from a spring. He is so thirsty that vinegar looks like a welcome relief from his desert-dry palate. His joints come out of socket. His heart literally ruptures from the strain of death put upon it. The death caused by my sin, MY sin, is killing my Savior before my very eyes. Once more, with final and wrenching breaths He declares, “It...is..fin.ish..ed.” Suddenly the air is still. His agonized lungs falter and halt. His broken body sags from the crude wooden cross.

I begin to wonder, as the soldiers laugh and gamble for my Lord’s clothes, why His Father, who was supposed to be known as Love, let this happen. What good will come from the death of one so amazing, loving, kind, powerful, wise, succinct, inspiring, intense? He is like none I have ever seen. My Jesus did not deserve to die. I am the sinner, the one who should be condemned and dead.

Why God? Why do you not answer Him? Why are you so silent and far away? Why must one so good die so soon? God, you know it has not even been four years I have walked by His side, yet I cannot imagine life any other way. Why must he be taken from us now? There was so much left to do.

Unexpected screams fill the air. People cower in fear as the earth trembles and shakes, as the sky grows dark. Does the earth shut its eyes and weep? Is that which we feel under our feet the trembling sobs of a collective sorrow as old as time? It seems as though even God and the angels hide their eyes from his death.

Why God are you so far away? Why do you hear and not answer our cries?