Learning to lament

These last few years have taught me about the gift of lament. The year after my college graduation in '05, I watched at a distance as our world was rocked by surge after surge of devastation: the 7/7/05 London bombings, hurricane Katrina, the Pakistan earthquake, the genocide in Darfur, the war in Lebanon. It was affecting me personally, on a deep gut level, to the point where I didn't know how to pray anymore. "Dear Lord, now I lay me down to sleep, please bless the children shelled in Lebanon and raped in Darfur" just didn't seem to be adequate.

It wasn't.

At the same time, I was going through inward turmoil in some areas of my life, gritting my teeth against unanswered prayer. I was seeing heartache in the lives of my friends. I was angry at God.

It was then that I realized the power of those depressing psalms, the ones I usually skip over when I'm laying myself down to sleep and want comfy bedtime reading. You know, the ones that say things like "The best of [our days] are but trouble and sorrow" (Psalm 90) or "How long, Lord? Will you hide yourself forever?" (Psalm 89) or "I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. My eyes fail, looking for my God." (Psalm 69)

Brutal honesty, raw anger, utter helplessness, true humanity.

Denise Ackermann, in "After the Locusts", helped me to see that these songs of lament are subversive; we name the evil for what it is because we will not accept that things should be this way. We cling to God's justice and call on Him because of His character and His promises. We sing the songs defiantly in the face of all that has gone wrong, daring to believe that evil will not have the last word.

Boenhoffer writes, "Suffering must be endured in order that it may pass away". Mysteriously, as we participate in the weeping and struggling of life, we are part of that renewal process, along with Christ Himself. I don't understand it, but it helps to know that my tears are not in vain; they are paving the way to make all things new.

Somehow, we are not only made to endure the suffering, but to experience joy. I've always seen these at odds with each other. It seems impossible to acknowledge depravity and suffering for what it is, and still to be joyful. But maybe my understanding of joy is far too narrow, too shallow, too naive. I want a soul that is full of depth and nuance, that is able to enfold the human experiences of others, in all of their stark reality, and to meet them in the place where the hand of God dips into our lives.

In the godforsaken, obscene quicksand of life
there is a deafening alleluia
rising from the souls
of those who weep
and of those who weep with those who weep.

--Ann Weems, upon the death of her son
(From "After the Locusts", by Denise Ackermann)