From the Syrian town of Khan Shekihoun last week came the story of a woman who gave her name as Om Ahmed. In her deepest sorrow she said, “If the world wanted to stop this, they would have done so by now. One more chemical attack in a town the world hasn’t heard of won’t change anything.” Her voice cracking, “I’m sorry, my son died yesterday,” she said. “I have nothing left to say to the world.” (Washington Post, April 5, 2017) (1)
Can I even pray? My God, My God why has thou forsaken me?
In Mpasa, in the Democratic Republic of Congo, a sustainable pediatric clinic is being built. In a place when there are no incubators for premature infants, so newborns are warmed by kerosene lamps, surgeries are performed by flashlight when the clouds pass in front of the sun, we along with others are providing hope in the form of healthcare. But the area is surrounded by conflict. The war claimed an up to six million lives, either as a direct result of fighting or because of disease and malnutrition, many of them children. Soldiers regularly shoot unarmed civilians. Will hope be planted and survive?
Can I even pray? My God, My God why has thou forsaken me?
She was a bright 2nd grader when I met her. From a challenging background, grandma and grandpa and aunt provided the strongest foundation for her when mom was not able. In the years I served there, I watched her discover gifts for befriending the lonely and admiring the shy. She was easy going and an includer by nature. I confirmed her when she came of age, and she told her faith story of finding a family in the church when her own family was falling apart. She wanted that for everyone who came through the door as well as those who never did. But life was hard, she tried to salve the wounds and assuage the pain. Dark moments felt longer and larger than bright spots. In December, she died.
Can I even pray? My God, My God why has thou forsaken me?
Jesus hung on the cross. He prayed that the cup might pass. He prayed that there might another way. He prayed that it may not turn out like this. And then. Thy Will be Done. Jesus’ prayer of abandonment is a prayer of faith. He did not quietly slip into the beyond. Jesus cried out. Jesus never stopped speaking to God. Jesus never stopped even when he felt completely abandoned.
Can I even pray? My God, My God why has thou forsaken me?
On this Good Friday, when nothing feels good quite yet, let us not forget that our story is not done yet. God is not done yet. Let us not rush too quickly to resurrection, alleluia, and God’s miraculous changing of our lives and world. We need the spiritual practice of AND. Not invoke guilt, but to live the cost of love. Death and resurrection, faith and doubt, presence and absence, desolation and consolation, Good Friday and Easter, are connected irrevocably. Our cries of absence (as Martin Marty, religious scholar termed them) and God’s suffering with us is the force and power of his love lived out through time and beyond time. (2)
So, we are living out: Can I even pray? My God, My God, Why has thou forsaken me? AND We cannot keep from praying. If we don’t know how or what to pray, The Spirit intercedes. The Spirit prays in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans.
I will never leave you or forsake you.
In those moments, I join you in suffering.
Amen. So be it.
[1] https://umc-gbcs.org/blog/was-there-anything-we-could-have-done-a-good-friday-reflection
[2] The Crucified God, Jurgen Moltmann.