From noon on, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon.  And about three o’clock Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” that is, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”  When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, “This man is calling for Elijah.”  At once one of them ran and got a sponge, filled it with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink.  But the others said, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to save him.”  Then Jesus cried again with a loud voice and breathed his last.  At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split.  The tombs also were opened, and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised.  After his resurrection they came out of the tombs and entered the holy city and appeared to many.  Now when the centurion and those with him, who were keeping watch over Jesus, saw the earthquake and what took place, they were terrified and said, “Truly this man was God’s Son!”  

Matthew 27:45-54

 From noon until three, darkness covered the land.  Jesus cried out to God the Father asking why the Father had forsaken Him, and as He breathed His final breath the temple curtain ripped, the earth shook, and tombs opened.  “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46).  Everything about the scene is dark – the noon sun disappeared, God’s glory hid, Jesus, the light of the world, was not shining.  For a time, darkness seemed to prevail, and God seemed absent, but the light soon overtook the darkness in new splendor.

If God ordained His Son’s suffering to accomplish His perfect will, why are we surprised when we suffer?  What was happening when you last wondered where God has gone? And asked why has He forsaken you?  Where were you when darkness seemed to prevail?  How did light eventually overtake the darkness in your situation?

It is sad that we live in this broken world in our state of brokenness, that our bodies fail, and that we need hospitals, but isn’t it wonderful that hospitals exist and smart, caring, angelic people work there, giving their lives so others may have theirs back?  As I write, we are blessed to be at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston.  In a crowded waiting room, we are two small pieces of a wide cross-section of humanity.  Two women wearing hajibs sit near a woman wearing a designer dress and heels carrying a beautiful handbag.  A young man stands, leaning against the wall with tattooed arms crossed, wearing ear buds and a black woolen drivers cap.  Next to him, a grey-haired man sits reading the Wall Street Journal through small glasses.  The room holds well over a hundred people.  Skin of every possible color is present, as is, I imagine, a broad spectrum of socioeconomic strata.  Most speak English but several couples speak other languages to each other.  Cancer and its unique darkness are truly nondiscriminatory, crossing lines of gender, race, geography, age and language.  

I stand watching the room and the variety of people coming and going and sitting within it.  Anxiously glancing eyes reveal suffering and worry, but hope and love shine through the darkness, revealing themselves through the small courtesies individuals offer one another, like kind smiles hidden behind masked faces yet revealed through eyes.  A man struggles to stand while offering his chair to a woman who is having difficulty standing, and he seems genuinely happy when she reluctantly accepts his gracious offer.   

Hope and kindness pierce the darkness, and I imagine each individual’s desire to live and overcome the monster dwelling within them (lest they would not be in that particular room of all places), and my mind suddenly shifts to people outside the building, walking the sidewalk, driving in cars, working in buildings covering the horizon, possibly going about their routine, moving from moment to moment and day to day without giving life and the glorious opportunities it offers much of a thought – taking it all for granted.  Each person’s presence in the room is evidence of a detoured life – no one planned to be there and the life they formerly considered to be normal had suddenly stopped, yet the world outside continues.  Soaking in the scene, I wonder whether this jolt, this brush with mortality might be what many need to truly experience life, and a line from a book by Daniel Migliore comes to mind.

Mr. Migliore writes,

“Theology as faith seeking understanding offers many moments of delight in the beauty of the free grace and resurrection power of God.  Yet it is also able to look in the abyss.  It would cease to be responsible theology if it forgot for a moment the cross of Jesus Christ and the experiences of human life in the shadow of the cross where God seems absent and hell triumphant.  This is the meaning of Luther’s arresting declaration of what it takes to be a theologian:  ‘It is by living, no – more – by dying and being damned to hell that one becomes a theologian, not by knowing, reading, or speculating.’”[i]

How many in that room, while battling rogue cells within, silently cry out to God who seems absent?  How many are on the brink of meeting God through the shadow of the cross, through this present darkness, through their brush with death as they see God’s glory revealed to them?

Where are you today?  If “God seems absent and hell triumphant,” perhaps God is allowing you the gift of transformed faith through the crucible of the abyss, providing new opportunities for you to experience His holy gift of grace, to know Him, and to reveal His holy light to people you otherwise would never know, as He overcomes the darkness in new splendor.  In this present darkness, never stop seeking Him.  As you study His holy word, ask Him for eyes to see.  As you interact with others, ask Him for eyes to see opportunities before you to shine His light.  May you never stop praising His holy name and thanking Him for all His blessings.  Amen.
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[i] Migliore, Daniel L., Faith Seeking Understanding: A Introduction to Christian Theology, 3rd edition (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2014), p.6