The Hard Questions of Faith

Text: Mark 15:33-34, John 19:30

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

            There is a simplicity to Lent, like the beauty of a single jewel shining in a simple setting or the bloom of the first flower in a garden before the others have opened. It draws our focus to one thing and one thing only: Jesus crucified for the salvation of the world. Tonight we see all other distractions fall away as the cross of our Lord is held before our eyes, as it takes its rightful place in our minds and hearts once more.

            But it is in the meditation on that cross of Jesus, pondering all that it means for us, that we see there’s space for the more difficult questions of faith at the foot of the cross. These questions are tangled up in the experience of believing that Jesus has accomplished everything in our place, that our eternity is secure in His nail-pierced hands, in spite of what our senses tell us, in spite of what our fallen natures are experiencing. Things do not become easy once our faith is in Jesus. We still hurt. We still fear. We still suffer. And often, we’re left wondering why. We have one of those hard questions of faith drawn from painful experience from the lips of Jesus Himself as He’s suffering on the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken Me?”

            There is a complex mystery in this question from Jesus that we would do well to slow down and consider. How can the Son of God, begotten of the Father from all eternity, who is One with the Father, now be parted from the Father on the cross? How can one Person of the Holy Trinity be forsaken by another when the bond of perfect self-giving love is what has united them from eternity? Our reason must surely bow before this mystery as something that we cannot fully grasp, but which we know to be true: Jesus, the Son of the Father, has suffered separation from the Father—also known as hell—as He takes on the punishment for the sins of the world.

            Of course, this hard question of faith, “My God, why have You forsaken me?” takes on yet another dimension as we realize that when Jesus asks this question, He’s quoting from the psalms of King David, His ancestor from a thousand years earlier. David had suffered much as God’s chosen ruler of His people Israel. His life was threatened more times that we can even comprehend, from enemies, from those he thought were friends, even from family. He was God’s favored one, and yet he suffered terribly. From all that his senses could tell him, God had rejected him.

            This of course brings us into this hard question of faith. As we gather around the cross of Jesus tonight, we take a moment to ponder these words from Jesus, these words from King David. As we ponder them in this great mystery and struggle of faith—how can God forsake those He loves?—we can’t help but make these words our own prayer.

            We have a level of uncomfortableness when it comes to the hard questions of faith. You know the types of questions these are: It may not be “Why have You forsaken me?” but instead “Why did you let this happen?” Or perhaps it’s: Why me? Why is this happening all over again? Why do they get what they want but I don’t? Why is this disease returning? How long do I have to live with this pain, this fear, this anxiety, this disease, this grief? When will things start to turn around? Will they ever get better? How can a good God let something like this happen? Why won’t You answer my prayers? Are You even there?

We dislike not having an answer. And when we do have an answer, but it doesn’t satisfy us, it’s even worse. The worst for us is when we do have an answer, but it’s more than just unsatisfying—it’s an answer we don’t like. It’s a truth we don’t want to face. So we try to find solutions to those hard questions. We tell ourselves that we’ve never had these dark of questions, these fears. We make up all sorts of answers why: if we only did this instead of that, if we tried harder, if we lived better lives, if this other person, or everyone else, stopped messing it up for us, then none of it would have happened. We get angry, hoping that will shield us from the hurt. We hurt others, looking for relief by inflicting wounds instead of receiving them. We cut others out of our minds, our conversations, our hearts. We chase other solutions, other idols, other gods, like money, pleasure, comfort, power, revenge, whatever seems like it will make things better. We try to put together some sort of philosophy or sampler platter religion that will give some sort of answer closer to what we want to hear. I know I’m guilty of trying to take the uncomfortableness out of those questions by giving answers that appeal to our human need to be satisfied, to understand, to comprehend and force the eternal, infinite God into our finite minds.

But the questions still remain. We still hurt, even when it’s covered in layers of psychology and self-invented so-called wisdom, when it’s numbed by pleasure or anger or drugs or alcohol or shopping sprees or indignant self-righteousness. And why? Why do those things not really help solve those problems? Because the answer is even harder to hear than the question. I want to brace you for that. The reason why is you.

Good Friday forces us to come to grips with the reality that we are the problem. It’s not just everyone else’s fault. It certainly isn’t God’s fault. It’s me. It’s you. The reason why bad things happen in this world is because mankind—and that includes each individual here—contributes to the load of sin that covers this globe. And sin—our sin—works like rust, corroding everything it touches, sowing seeds of corruption and decay everywhere: in our bodies, in our interactions with others, in our attitude toward God. And there’s a penalty for that. Just like an iron structure can’t stand long when it’s rusted through, just like a patient filled with terminal disease can’t survive without treatment, so we see that sin has ruined everything and put it under a death sentence.

Good Friday sets the hard questions before us and is painfully honest with us. But it does not leave us this way. For there is an answer here tonight too. Just as the hard question came from Jesus’ lips, so also comes the answer, the solution to those difficult questions. Jesus’ answer is: “It is finished.”

When Jesus says “It is finished,” He’s not only referring to the pain of His own crucifixion or the agony of being separated from the Father finally being over. He’s speaking of everything—it’s all finished. It really is all completed, it’s done, there’s nothing more to do, there’s nothing more to say. Sin—your sin—has been completely and totally dealt with. Jesus has dealt with it. He’s carried the burden. He’s carried the abandonment. He’s taken on all the physical wounds and the verbal arrows, the emotional blows and the mental anguish. He’s paid the entire price for sin, body and soul, so it is finished. The sin of the world—including your sin—has been dealt with. Salvation is complete. Everything is perfect between you and God now. And now that the disease, the rust, the corruption and root problem has been dealt with, everything will now begin to be made right.

It might not always look this way to your eyes or even feel this way to your heart. Remember, Jesus says, “It is finished,” just before He dies and goes into the tomb. The disciples won’t come to the conclusion that everything has been accomplished just by judging with their eyes. It won’t look to them like the problem, the questions, have been answered if they’re just going from what their eyes see and what they feel as their Lord and Teacher is put into the tomb.

We may not come to the conclusion that our difficult questions, our hard feelings and experiences, are finished either when we’re in these uncomfortable moments, in these “Why have You forsaken me?” type of situations. But Good Friday stands here as a testament that in spite of what the disciples see, in spite of what you see, in spite of what the world mockingly says, in spite of what your demanding fallen nature insists, in spite of it all, it is finished. It’s all dealt with. It’s all forgiven. It’s all going to be healed. You may wait. You may even go into the grave, like our Lord did. But it is finished. It always will be. Your Savior has left nothing undone. He has done it all for you. And just as He was raised, you will be too, and every tear will be wiped from your eyes, every wound healed, everything lost restored.

Tonight the cross really is the answer to everything. It may not be the answer you want. It may not be the answer that immediately silences your heart’s need for data. And that’s OK. It’s fine if you need time to let this answer sink in, to see all the ways that Jesus’ cross really does answer all your hardest situations and questions. It does because it’s God’s answer. He’s finished it all. Your pain, your loneliness, your guilt, your shame, your fear, your doubt, your grief, your confusion, your anxiety, your disease, your sin, your death—it’s all finished in Jesus, in what He has done for you tonight. You are forgiven. You are set free from those things. You can move forward, no matter where you’re going, knowing that your Lord has already gone ahead of you; that He’s going with you through it all. Your God has not forsaken you because of Jesus’ cross. Your God loves you more than human words can express. In fact, the only way to see it clearly is to look at the cross, to look at what He’s done to be with you forever, to give you healing and forgiveness and life with Him. He is always with you, even to your own Easter. In the name of Jesus, the Crucified One. Amen.