THE GIFT OF LAMENT
Lament is a beautiful gift. When all is not right in my life and in the world, sometimes all I can do is lament.
With a cursory look, who can deny that in all corners of this earth things are not as they should be? When each day’s news cycle delivers fresh reminders of suffering and injustice committed against our local and global brothers and sisters, who can deny our planet is deeply off kilter? And as we notice our own inner landscape weaving in and out of all kinds of sorrow for protracted seasons—weeks, months, years—we may long to cry out like a wounded animal, or louder. The gifts of pain and lament can be our teachers and perhaps even healers in these times, as strange as that may sound. They have been mine.
What does the practice of lament offer sad, angry, scared, frustrated, and anguished people like you and me? When a big enough container to carry all the emotions doesn’t seem to exist, lament may be a divine gift of grace, mysteriously drawing us closer to the heart of Jesus.
Through the lens of the Psalms, lament gives permission to speak boldly to God. It is a tool, a posture, a framework used by God’s people in Scripture to navigate suffering when life, and maybe God, doesn’t make sense. Lament is not primarily a complaint or crutch; nor is it a sign of weakness or whining. Lament is both pain and promise.
Some may question such raw honesty with God. But Philip Yancey in his book, Disappointment with God, reminds us, “More passionately than anyone in history, the prophets of Israel gave voice to feelings of disappointment with God. Why do godless nations flourish, they asked? Why is there such poverty and depravity in the world? Where are you, God? Why do you forsake us so long?!” (p. 86). Yancey writes that he admires a God who allows us the freedom to rebel, to cry out in anguish, to lament. God even gives us the words to use.
We can never forget Jesus’ tormented words from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34). Our Lord wrestled with feelings of abandonment at the most vulnerable moment of His life. We can be assured we are in good company when we come to God with our gut-honest expressions. And our Father is the loving parent who desires to hear.
Lament is an act of worship, a hunger for God, a safe space. It can take the form of a prayer, a poem, a song, tears. One night recently, my grief spilled out in words of lament. Afterwards, I reflected on how, in a tiny way, my suffering united with Christ’s suffering. Like Simon the Cyrene, I was helping Jesus carry his cross to Golgotha, and He was carrying me. I come back to this image frequently, and it brings great consolation.
Lament can feel lonely, but we do not have to be alone in our grief. Have you considered that tears may be liquid prayers? The most relational part of our bodies, our eyes, leak water. Not an unseen part. Not our kneecap, covered over with jeans. Tears open up our full humanity, when we allow ourselves to be fully seen and known.
In fact, without a loving community, the practice of lament may lack its full expression. One Sunday morning recently, I came to my church community and the Table with a throbbing grief. Hope had vanished; all I had to offer was tears, a heavy heart. That is all. A jar of tears. Hardly my Sunday best. But my real self.
And it was enough. Because the broken body of Christ came for me. And keeps coming for me, and for everyone, wherever we are in our messy stories. What a beautiful God. He sees and soothes and pours out His very life for me. And for you. No greater Love exists in this world. And through in-the-flesh friends who reach out in love and lunch and linger knee-to-knee with you when all you can do is weep, for the everyday saints who courageously speak truth into your life, He comes to us with skin.
What a God, this God of cruciform love—who invites us to the Table with open arms as we are—angry, anxious, stuck, joyful, longing. All are welcome at the Table. The body of Christ. Given for you. The blood of Christ. Poured out for you. Come to the River of Life. Could there be a better invitation?
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Reflections, questions to ponder:
As you sit quietly with your soul, do you notice a lament rising up?
If so, allow it to speak its words, longings, hurts. Is there a word or image that describes this lament?
How would you like Jesus to be with you as you hold this lament?
How would you like someone from your community to be with you?
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Resources:
If you would like to experiment with creating a prayer of lament from your life and circumstances, you may want to read “Unearthing the Heart,” a helpful and lovely Renovare resource found here (made available with permission).
Hopeful Lament, by Terra McDaniel, InterVarsity Press, 2023. A beautiful framework for tending grief and suffering. Reflections, embodied practices and applications for individuals and children in journeying through suffering.