The Fourth Word: My God, My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me?

Second Mennonite Church, Philadelphia, April 3:2026

Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34

At the sixth hour, darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour. And at the ninth hour, Jesus cried out in a loud voice:

“Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

So now we come to the center. Three words have already been spoken, and three more will follow. But this one—this is the core. Not just the middle saying, but the deepest point of Jesus’ suffering, the moment where the weight and cost of our redemption presses in most fully. And it may be the most profound and puzzling statement in the entire Bible:

“My God, my God… why have you forsaken me?” What does that mean?

The Son of God—the second person of the Trinity—the One who has only ever known perfect, unbroken fellowship with the Father now enters into something utterly foreign. He experiences separation—not because of his sin, but because of ours.

Jesus has been handed over to judgment and is experiencing the full reality of the crucifixion: pain, thirst, suffocation. He has labored for almost six hours on the cross, 3 hours in darkness, bearing the full weight of the world’s sin. And in his moment of greatest need, he experiences abandonment by the Father. There’s no relief, no comfort, no voice from heaven like at his baptism or the transfiguration—“This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” No angels come to minister to him as they did after his temptation or in the Garden of Gethsemane.

There’s nothing, only silence.

Martin Luther wrestled with this and said, “God forsaken by God—who can understand it?” And the honest answer is, we can’t. And perhaps we are not meant to, because even Jesus doesn’t resolve it. Instead, He asks, “Why?”—and that question simply hangs there, unanswered, suspended in the darkness of that ninth hour like a thick fog. Why in his moment of need did the heavens turn to brass and the Father hide his face?

But there is something else we need to see.

Jesus is quoting Scripture. Psalm 22 begins with these very words: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groanings?” In his deepest suffering, Jesus reaches for the comfort of God’s Word. His suffering is shaped by the very language of Scripture.

But this isn’t just a quotation. Written by King David, a thousand years earlier, Psalm 22 tells the story of a righteous sufferer who is mocked, surrounded, and humiliated.  A man whose garments are gambled for and whose hands and feet are pierced. David points forward to the Son of David, the true King who would suffer and die and ultimately be vindicated.

And yet, the fact that this is prophecy being fulfilled doesn’t make the suffering any less real.

Jesus is “forsaken.” The word has a wide range of meaning.  It means to be left, abandoned, handed over, all help withdrawn. And that is exactly what happened. Jesus is handed over. He’s not spared. The comfort of the Father’s presence is withdrawn.

Jesus had often commented on his special relationship with the Father…

“I and the Father are One (John 10:30), I am in the Father, and the Father is in me.”

John 14:10 No one know the Son except the Father and no one knows the Father except the Son…

” Matthew 11:27.  This was Jesus’ continual reality, until this moment. Eternal intimacy is in some way altered. 

This isn’t the Father ceasing to love the Son, but the Son entering into the full experience of judgment in our place.

Why?

Because sin always produces separation. From the very beginning in the garden, when humanity chose self-will over relationship with God, separation entered our story—distance, silence, estrangement.

And now Jesus stands in that place—not as a sinner, but as the sin-bearer.

“God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21)… “He was pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities… and the Lord laid on him the iniquity of us all” (Isaiah 53:5–6).

A great exchange is taking place: he was forsaken so we could be forgiven; he was condemned so we could be accepted; he was afflicted- so we can be comforted. He is  dying so we can live.

But notice this—he still says, “My God.” Not just “God,” but “my God.” Even in the deafening silence, He’s still reaching toward the Father. Because faith isn’t the absence of “why”; it’s choosing to say, “My God,” even when we aren’t experiencing his Presence.

Let me give you a picture.

Several weeks ago, I kept texting a friend. We had both promised to stay in touch after a long absence, So I reached out again and again… and again.  I texted February 6, February 26, March 5, March 11, March 13, March 24. Nothing. No response. I was puzzled and annoyed. My texts became progressively more terse, and at one point I even typed, “Are you ghosting me?” It turns out he had changed his phone number, and none of my messages were even getting through. I was actually relieved because I was getting a little snarky.

We connected and went out for lunch on Wednesday.  It’s all good. But before that? It felt like silence. Like distance. Like being ignored.

Now multiply that by infinity.

Because Jesus is alone. The silence, the distance and  abandonment are real.

And yet here’s the mystery: God’s not absent. He’s everywhere present. So, this isn’t absence—it’s silence. It’s the withdrawal of comfort. It’s the Son being handed over to the full weight of our sin, our separation.

So, the tension we’re left with is this.  Scripture says, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” And yet here, Jesus experiences what we are promised we never will.

Why? Because he’s standing in our place.

And this is where we should let the weight land. If this is what it takes—if this is what it cost Jesus—then sin is more serious than we think, and grace is more costly than we realize.

My God, My God, Why have you forsaken me is not just a cry of agony.  It’s the price of redemption.

But for today… We don’t rush to Sunday.

We stay here. With the question still hanging: “Why?”

And yet—even here—something is happening. In the darkness, in the silence, the curse of the garden is being undone. The wall of separation is beginning to crumble. The judgment we deserve is being absorbed. The debt is being paid.

And the answer… is coming. But not yet. Not today.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.”

We may never fully grasp it.  But we can sit with it. We can ponder it. And when words fall short, we can respond with a grateful heart of worship.

How deep the Father’s love for us,

How vast beyond all measure,

That He should give His only Son

To make a wretch His treasure.

How great the pain of searing loss –

The Father turns His face away,

As wounds which mar the Chosen One

Bring many sons to glory.

Behold the man upon a cross,

My sin upon His shoulders;

Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice

Call out among the scoffers.

It was my sin that held Him there

Until it was accomplished;

His dying breath has brought me life –

I know that it is finished.

I will not boast in anything,

No gifts, no power, no wisdom;

But I will boast in Jesus Christ,

His death and resurrection.

Why should I gain from His reward?

I cannot give an answer;

But this I know with all my heart –

His wounds have paid my ransom.