"Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?"
"My God, My God, Why have you forsaken me?"
The figure on the cross among many cried out, feeling more alone than he had ever done before. Despite the crowds below and the others being crucified around, that moment was just him in his agonising pain and his emptiness.
His followers and friends were scattered - whilst loyal, they were fearful and they were standing well back. The questions of a future without their leader were racing around their heads.
The ones who were closer were the ones who wanted to see the death, they were the ones who condemned him to death, this was normal life - this was their role - their role was to stand by and watch and wait.
And the one who was always closest - Father God - seemed further away than he had ever been before. In fact, he seemed absent.
But as Jesus hung alone on that cross, the world began to shift.
I have spent Holy Week in Covid isolation and inevitably I've been reflecting on what it means to be lonely. The week has been a complete change of pace, moving from 'how on earth am I going to get this done' to 'what do I do when all of this has been taken away'. It's been a week where I have been cared for deeply, and have had the chance to rest that I was waiting for but didn't expect for another three weeks. It's been a week where I've had time to begin to reflect on the last two years, have got over some fears that I had before, and have learnt to let go and trust. Someone wrote on a comment on a facebook post that perhaps this was an answer to an unspoken prayer, and whilst I'd like to think it wasn't (and those covering for me would say 'no way'), there is something about this weeks journey that that comment resonates with.
It's also a week when I have had more time to focus on the news, and in particular the stories that people have been telling in response to Partygate (where the government have now (finally) been fined for breaking the law during lockdown).
The stories that people are telling are stories of grief, stories of pain, stories of agony, stories of loss and abandonment, stories of guilt. They tell of the struggle to say goodbye to a dying relative over the phone, the last time they saw their Mum, their Dad, their child from the driveway through a window. They tell of the funerals where only one or two people attended, had to say goodbye in the graveyard and went on their way. They tell of the fear of travelling 100 miles to a funeral and being arrested on the way. They speak of the guilt now felt that if the government were having parties, that a little wake might have been OK, and by not having one they let their lost loved one down. They tell the stories of no funeral at all. The accounts of nurses and doctors and teachers who would have loved to do what the government did, but instead they had kettles and fridges and staffrooms taken away and went home to take off their clothes into the washing machine and shower before they could go anywhere near the vulnerable family members within. They tell the stories of everyone who felt they were 'in this together' when the ones who were promoting this idea were definitely not.
And there are many more stories unsaid.
The loneliness of sickness and death in lockdown, of difficult situations and mental health crises, of no human touch, of lacklustre zoom celebrations, of forsakenness, of dealing with grief alone, it leaves a wound that has been opened before it had time to heal in the parties of those who were setting the example, leading the way.... and as the wounds weep, the collective groaning is sounding in our ears.
As we walk through Jesus' journey to the cross on Good Friday, that groaning is in each footstep he takes, each movement of the nail in his hands, each cry out in agony that comes from his mouth.
On Good Friday, we remember the lonely figure of Jesus, abandoned on that cross, and we see someone who understands and whose voice and actions speak deeply into the grief and forsakenness we feel today.
On that cross Jesus knew what it was like to die alone.
On that cross Jesus knew what it was like to feel like he had been let down.
On that cross Jesus knew what it was like to carry all the guilt and sins of the world.
On that cross Jesus knew what it was like to have everything stripped away.
On that cross Jesus knew agonising pain through his body and his mind.
But on that cross Jesus knew that whatever it was like right now, as the wounds weep, the healing has already begun.
On Good Friday, as all the questions and the stories and the brokenness hang in the air, know that Jesus understands.
On Good Friday, as the world begins to shift, and amongst the broken, there begin to be little glimmers of something better, know that the way things are right now are not the way things will always be.
On Good Friday know that in the struggles you face right now, that God has not abandoned you, in fact he is here, in the struggle, facing it head on alongside you. And because he is with you in the struggle, this constant uphill battle won't be forever, because Good Friday leads us on a journey to Sunday and the victory.... it's already won.
