Learning to Lament

During last night’s All-Church Call, we talked about the biblical practice of lament. In a pull-yourself-up-from-your-bootstraps, quick-win, get-to-the-good-stuff culture, large swaths of Christianity have lost the art of living through loss, grief, and uncertainty, exercising instead the much more positive muscle of the American Dream. When lament falls out of our liturgy, we forget how to suffer together.

So what happens, then, when the world grinds to a halt, industries slow, people are shuttered indoors, and a virus creeps not only into our bodies, but into our hearts and minds, as well? If our goal is to simply get to the other side of hardship, what happens when we don’t know when or where the other side is? What if the light at the end of the tunnel shows us something different than what we’re used to? What if we lose the very bootstraps we were hoping to pull ourselves up with?

  • We can try to look over it. With minds set on a worldly prosperity not promised to us, we look at the future restoration of heaven and earth and try to make ourselves believe that it’s coming in the here and now. This is an over-realized eschatology.

  • We can pretend to look through it. In our arrogance, we can assert to have seen the specific will of God - what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, who’s to blame, and what will stay his hand and bring relief. We assume the mind of God.

  • We can look at the ground below it. Not having a category for what’s happening, we turn on Tiger King, scour social media, or find other distractions that are alluring precisely because they’ll never make us sort out world events outside of us or the world of thoughts and feelings inside of us.

  • Or… we can look to the Lord who is in it. Without burying our head in the sand, making up answers, or leaning on Christian cliches, we can take an honest survey of life as it is, actively remind ourselves of the God who still is, and truly shelter-in-place in who God still is - come what may! This is biblical lament.

We are uncomfortable with discomfort. And when we let our flesh lead, we respond to discomfort in a way that puts our comfort at the center at all costs - even at the expense of others. When we’re willing to lie to make ourselves feel better, we’ll lie to others. When we’re willing to ignore our pain, we’ll ignore others’. When we’re willing to accept cheap answers to hard questions, we’ll give cheap answers to others.

God did the opposite. Jesus placed himself at the center of our sin and suffering, and it’s our labor to look for him there. The writer of Hebrews tells us to “run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God” (Hebrews 12:1-2). In Christ, agony and joy coexisted, and he endured precisely because he knew that in the end, the first would would one day give way to Easter, but the second would still remain.

It’s a distinctly Christian thing to be deeply moved by sin and suffering in the world while simultaneously holding to an immovable joy. When Jesus wept for the death of his friend, his joy was still before him. When Jesus lamented over the stubborn hearts of Jerusalem, his joy was still before him. When Jesus prayed through blood, sweat, and tears to be spared from the cross, his joy was still before him. And when Jesus cried out to his Father why he had been forsaken by him, his joy was still before him.

The joy of Christ isn’t threatened by discomfort.

Our Christian ministry in times of crisis isn’t to make each other happy. Nor is it to go turning over every rock looking for something to make us sad. Instead, our ministry is one of biblical lament. We don’t have to look far to see the suffering around us, and we only have to look to Jesus to see the source of our joy. By learning to lament, we get to be honest about where we are, honest about who God is, and then honestly express the intermingled mess of discomfort and joy to the Lord and with one another.

So let’s lament. Let’s talk. Let’s pray. Let’s grieve. Let’s sing. Let’s read. Let’s weep. Let’s be silent. Let’s plead. And let’s do it all without the expectation that every wound will be mended, every fear will be quelled, and every sorrow will be driven away. Rather, let’s lament with the expectation that the God who placed himself at the center of our sin and suffering has room for every sorrow - and for every one of us. And on this side of Easter, we can endure in Christ, because we know that in the end, every wound, every fear, and every sorrow will one day give way to his next and final return.

But joy will still remain.

Further Reading

 
 
Scott O'Donohoe