When God is Silent

As Jesus hung on the cross, His body torn by the soldiers’ scourge, His head pierced by thorns, and His blood streaming down the rough wood, the crowd mocked Him relentlessly. The chief priests and scribes, dripping with contempt, hurled their challenge: “Come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe!”

And God was silent.

Nearby stood His mother Mary, Mary Magdalene, His mother’s sister, and the beloved disciple. Their tears and desperate prayers must have filled the air. As a parent, I cannot fathom the agony of watching my own child suffer and die. Only those who have buried a son or daughter truly understand the depth of that wound.

And God was silent.

Curious onlookers lingered, waiting for a miracle. One sneered, “Let’s see if Elijah will come and take Him down.”

And God was silent.

Then, from the darkness of the cross, Jesus cried out in a voice that still echoes through the ages:

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

And God was silent.

Had the Father truly abandoned His Son? Did the weight of the world’s sin make it impossible for a holy God to even look upon Him? Was Jesus utterly alone in that moment?

What does it mean when we cry out to God in our deepest suffering… and hear only silence?

Was this truly a cry of abandonment—or was it something far more profound?

Weeks earlier, Jesus had taught His disciples about persistent prayer, saying:

“And will not God give justice to His elect, who cry to Him day and night? Will He delay long over them? I tell you, He will give justice to them speedily.” (Luke 18:7–8, RSVCE)

Now, on the cross, Jesus cried out the opening words of Psalm 22—a prophetic psalm that vividly describes the suffering of the Messiah:

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from my cries of anguish? My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, but I find no rest.

Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One; you are the one Israel praises. In you our ancestors put their trust; they trusted and you delivered them. To you they cried out and were saved; in you they trusted and were not put to shame.

But I am a worm and not a man, scorned by everyone, despised by the people. All who see me mock me; they hurl insults, shaking their heads. ‘He trusts in the Lord,’ they say, ‘let the Lord rescue him. Let him deliver him, since he delights in him.’

Yet you brought me out of the womb; you made me trust in you, even at my mother’s breast. From birth I was cast on you; from my mother’s womb you have been my God.

Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.

Many bulls surround me; strong bulls of Bashan encircle me. Roaring lions that tear their prey open their mouths wide against me. I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted within me. My mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth; you lay me in the dust of death.

Dogs surround me, a pack of villains encircles me; they pierce my hands and my feet. All my bones are on display; people stare and gloat over me. They divide my clothes among them and cast lots for my garment.

But you, Lord, do not be far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help me.”

This was not a prayer of despair or abandonment. It was a prayer of deep, unwavering faith—spoken from the darkest valley any human has ever known. With the full weight of humanity’s sin crushing Him, Jesus drank the final dregs of the cup of wrath so that every one of God’s children could be set free.

He was not abandoned. He was accomplishing the very mission for which He came.

As He Himself had declared:

“For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life that I may take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again. This charge I have received from my Father.” (John 10:17–18, ESV)

Silence does not mean abandonment. Silence often means God’s perfect will is being fulfilled.

The cross was not the end. Easter was coming.

But not yet.