Sermon Tone Analysis

It’s very familiar.

You know it well.

You know it even if you don’t realize you do.

You have heard the words of Psalm 22—at least some of the words—several times.

This is a fitting way to end our ‘Psummer in the Psalms’, to exalt in our God and in our Savior once more.

Psalm 22 speaks of David’s own personal distress and of God’s deliverance of David from it; it’s a psalm of David, written in the time of David—an expression of David’s faith in God in the middle of all he’s facing: silence and scorn and defeat.

Psalm 22 is about David, his experiences, and his faith.

And yet, Psalm 22 prophetically describes in remarkable detail the suffering, the crucifixion, and the resurrection of Jesus.

The language David uses was no doubt prompted and inspired by the Holy Spirit.

Only its inspiration could account for the fact that it spans one thousand years from the time of David to the time of Jesus and perfectly describes the experiences of the Christ.

So, initially, as David was writing this psalm it described his own situation, his own suffering, his own deliverance.

But it is impossible, impossible for us—with Christian eyes—to read this psalm and not see Jesus; it’s impossible for us to read these verses and not see Jesus and all He’s done for us.

As we read Psalm 22, we have to keep in mind that this applies to David in the time David was writing.

And, by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, this also perfectly describes and details what Jesus went through on the cross.

What I want for us this morning is simple: to reflect, to meditate, to set our minds upon the cross of Christ; that old, rugged cross—the symbol of suffering and shame—and all the cross of Christ means for us.

Look with me at the beginning of Psalm 22, verses 1-2:

The first verse in the psalm was spoken by Jesus from the Cross—it’s likely the best known phrase from this psalm, simply because Jesus spoke it and because Jesus felt it.

Jesus spoke these words Himself.

We hear Him speaking these words.

Both Matthew and Mark record the words of this psalm on the lips of Jesus in His native Aramaic.

This is for our benefit—so we hear it as Jesus would have said it, the exact words that Jesus spoke.

As we hear it exactly as Jesus spoke it, we feel the weight of these words as they drip from his mouth: “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabacthani?”

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

Jesus was Forsaken by God for us

This forsakenness cannot mean that the eternal communion between the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit was broken.

God could not cease to be triune, three in one.

Neither does this forsakenness mean that the Father ceased to love the Son: especially not here, and not now.

Nor does this forsakenness mean that the Holy Spirit ceased to minister to the Son.

These words are not a cry of despair; despair would have been sin.

Even in the darkness, God was still for Jesus, “My God”.

And though there was no sign of Him, though the pain obscured the promises, somewhere in the depths of His soul remained the assurance that God was holding Him.

What was true of Abraham was truer still of Jesus: Against all hope, He in hope believed.

There is much this forsaking is not.

Yet, this is a real forsaking.

Jesus didn’t merely feel forsaken.

He was forsaken.

And not only by His disciples, but by God Himself.

It was God Himself—God the Father—who had delivered Jesus, who handed Jesus over to Judas, to the Jews, to Pilate, and finally to the Cross itself.

And on that Cross, when Jesus cried, God had closed His ears.

“How great the pain of searing loss –

The Father turns His face away…”

The crowd had not stopped heckling.

The demons had not stopped taunting.

The pain had not ended.

This time, no word came from heaven to remind Jesus that He was God’s Son, that He was greatly loved.

No dove came down to assure Him of the Spirit’s presence and ministry.

No angel came to strengthen Jesus.

No redeemed sinner bowed to thank Him.

In the anguish of Gethsemane, as Jesus begged His Father to take the cup from Him, Jesus called His Father, Abba—the most personal of all Aramaic words.

But on the cross, Jesus doesn’t refer to God as Abba; Jesus refers to God as simply God: El.

Like Abraham and Isaac going up to Mount Moriah, Jesus and His Father—Abba—had gone up to Calvary together.

But now, Abba is not there.

Only God, only El is there.

God All-mighty, God All-holy.

And Jesus is before El, not now as His beloved Son.

Jesus stands before El as the Sin of the World.

That is His identity—Jesus is, on the cross, the Sin of the World.

“Jesus could not sin, never thought about sinning, never considered sinning, and never was a sinner.

Yet, He was the sin-bearer.”

- Dustin Benge

Jesus is on the cross sin, condemned to bear its curse.

And Jesus has no cover.

No one can serve as His advocate.

Nothing can be offered as His punishment.

Jesus must bear it all.

And God, El, will not, can not spare Him until the ransom is paid in full.

This is the picture of the cross: the anguish and tension between the sin-bearing Son and His Heavenly Father; the whirlwind of sin at its most dreadful: God forsaken by God.

Never before had anything come between Him and His Father, but now the sin of the whole world has come between them, and Jesus is caught in this terrible curse.

It’s not that Abba is not there, but that He is there as the Judge of the all the earth, who could not, would not spare even His own Son.

Jesus stands where none has stood before or since, enduring at one tiny point in space and in one tiny moment of time, all that sin deserved.

Jesus was forsaken by God for us.

If this isn’t our understanding of the Cross of Christ, we haven’t fully grasped what Jesus has done.

If we don’t get this, if we miss this—that Jesus, the Sin Offering, stood before the Holy and Just God, forsaken by His Father for us—well, if we don’t get that, we’ve missed it all.

Jesus was forsaken by God for us.

Jesus Endured the Pain and Suffering we Should Have Endured.

People love to ask: “Why do bad things happen to good people?”

Well, let me tell you, that has happened exactly once.

Bad things—truly bad things—happened to Jesus (the only good person in history) and this happened because He took our place, enduring the shame and punishment and suffering and mocking and scoffing and insulting that we—you and I—deserved.

It takes no imagination at all to see the suffering and anguish of Jesus in the words of the 22nd Psalm.

In fact, the very gestures and words of verses 7-8 were reproduced at Calvary—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.”

Everything from the mocking and insults hurled at Him, to the animal attacks from men He came to save, to the dry mouth of the Creator who had to ask for a drink, to the staring and gloating of the crowd, to the centurions dividing and casting lots for His clothing—the words of the 22nd Psalm express (as well as words can) the suffering and pain that Jesus endured in our place.

In our place…as our representative…as our substitute…

Imagine you live in a cardboard house, and not the nice, fancy, refrigerator-box cardboard; just your regular, run-of-the-mill cardboard.

Your cheap cardboard house is so small you don’t even have room to stretch out your legs to sleep.

You live in this cardboard box and you don’t have a job, you don’t have any money, any food; you have to forage for your breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnight snacks.

The only water you have is rain water that drips through your corrugated roof.

In essence, you have nothing.

And then, there’s a knock on the cardboard (you don’t have a doorbell, you know?).

You fold open your front door; It’s Warren Buffet, the billionaire.

He’s come to exchange lives with you.

You get his billions, all of his companies, his mansions, his cars.

And he’s going to live in your flimsy shack.

He hands you the titles and deeds to everything he has.

He gives you the keys and fobs to all he owns.

He signs over all his investments and stocks, his billions.

You get what he has.

He trades places with you, he exchanges stations in life with you; your situations are now completely flip-flopped.

Can you imagine another person switching places with you, and willingly; they, of their own volition, jumping at the chance to exchange their lofty position for your lowly state?