Why Have You Forsaken Me?: Mark 15:33-41

At noon, darkness fell over the whole land. Not an eclipse—Passover was at full moon—something else. The sun refused to watch. Creation itself recoiled. For three hours, darkness covered everything.

At three in the afternoon, Jesus cried out in a loud voice: "Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?"—which means, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

The opening words of Psalm 22, torn from a throat raw with thirst and agony. The Son crying out to the Father who had always answered, always been present, always loved him—and finding, for the first time, absence. The weight of sin, pressed onto innocent shoulders, had severed something.

Some standing near thought he was calling Elijah. "Listen, he's calling Elijah."

One ran and filled a sponge with wine vinegar, put it on a staff, and offered it to Jesus to drink. "Now leave him alone. Let's see if Elijah comes to take him down."

Elijah did not come. No one came.

With a loud cry, Jesus breathed his last.

At that moment, the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.

The veil that separated the Holy of Holies from the rest of the temple—the barrier between God and humanity, the wall that only the high priest could pass once a year—ripped from top to bottom. Not from the bottom up, as if human hands had torn it. From the top down. God tearing open the way to himself.

A centurion stood facing Jesus. He had supervised crucifixions before, watched men die cursing, whimpering, begging. He had never seen anyone die like this.

"Surely this man was the Son of God," he said.

A Roman soldier. A pagan. Standing at the foot of the cross, he made the confession that Israel's leaders had rejected.

Some women watched from a distance: Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and Salome. They had followed him in Galilee and cared for his needs. Many other women had come up with him to Jerusalem.

The men had fled. The women remained. They watched as the light of the world went dark.