Watching Hope Die

There is nothing more painful than burying a child. With every step towards laying your child to rest, your heart screams inconsolably, “It’s not supposed to be like this! I wanted more time. I had such high hopes. I’m burying my heart in a wooden box. Why wasn’t it me?”

I can only imagine the mental, emotional, and spiritual war Jesus’ mother torturously endured as she watched her friends take her firstborn Son off the cross. She was never told this would be Jesus’ end, but she was warned Jesus’ existence would be like a sword piercing her soul (Luke 2:35). If only she’d also been told, “When your soul is pierced, it feels as if you’re suffocating. When your soul is pierced, you will feel as if you were chosen to raise God’s Son because you were highly hated, not highly favored.”

That day as the veil of the Temple tore in two and the sky grew supernaturally dark, Mary must’ve screamed the loudest. Her son—the gift to the world, but her little boy—was gone. She wanted so much more time. She had so much more to say.

For us, it’s easy to shrug off Good Friday because we know that “Sunday’s coming!” Hallelujah! But let us not forget the depth of despair that Friday brought. Jesus was hope, joy, life, and peace. In the timespan of one afternoon, he was gone. Imagine being Mary, the young-yet-seasoned mother who had chosen to trust the invisible Yahweh with her Son hearing that son scream, “Eloi! Eloi! Lama Sabachthani (My God, my God, why have you forsaken me)?”

Sit in the void of that desperation. Sit in the reality of time seemingly dying as you grapple with the idea that maybe God had played you for a fool and stolen your Son, Friend, Teacher, and Savior. This is your new reality. You don’t know if it’s safe to hope. You don’t know if it’s safe to live. You feel that death has won.

But then Sunday came. Hope came back to life—forever.