“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” — Psalm 22:1.
When I was younger, these words—uttered by Jesus in his final moments on the cross — unsettled me. If the crucifixion was the fulfillment of a divine plan, why did Jesus seem to question the Father at the very climax of his mission? Was he having second thoughts? Was the agony stripping away his divinity, revealing a man who, in the end, was merely human and afraid?
For a long time, I viewed this cry as a moment of weakness. However, my perspective shifted when I discovered that Jesus was not merely venting despair; he was quoting the opening lines of Psalm 22. This realization brought a sense of comfort. I imagined Jesus, amidst his suffering, finding solace in the familiar rhythms of the Psalter—perhaps even mentally moving toward the peace of the 23rd Psalm.
Yet, as I continue to ponder this supposed inconsistency, I’ve realized that Jesus might have been doing something even more than seeking personal comfort: he was teaching us how to suffer.
Most of us are raised with the idea that God is the Almighty—omniscient, sovereign, and beyond reproach. We are often taught that it is disrespectful, or even sinful, to question His will. But on the cross, Jesus provides a different model. By giving voice to his “Why?”, he validates the most raw and painful of human emotions. He shows us that when we are broken, God does not demand a mask of stoic piety; He invites the baring of the soul.
In the end, the “cry of dereliction” is not a sign of failed faith, but the ultimate expression of an intimate relationship. To question God is not to turn away from Him; rather, it is to turn toward Him with the totality of our experience.
By crying out, Jesus gives us divine permission to be honest. He tells us that it is okay to feel abandoned, okay to ask “why,” and okay to bring our anger and confusion to the foot of the throne. When we stop holding back and finally offer God our unvarnished truth, we find that He is not offended by our questions. Instead, He meets us in the silence that follows, proving that being “forsaken” in feeling is not the same as being forsaken in fact. In our honesty, we find a God who doesn’t just watch our suffering from a distance, but one who has already inhabited it.
Powerful, Webb, and helpful, as I share you emotions about this one time even Jesus flinched, questioned. Your best line that I will take (and share): “ Instead, He meets us in the silence that follows, proving that being “forsaken” in feeling is not the same as being forsaken in fact.” Absolutely and incredibly beautiful. What a clear And comforting distinction. Thank you for that.
I appreciate your writings.
Thank you Drake.