There are quite a lot of human responses to pain. Some people, when faced with suffering, soar. But for others—possibly even for you—suffering can drive our faith into the bottom. It deeply impacts our walk with God, and never at all times in a positive way. What once was all the pieces—our faith, our devotion to Jesus, our unwavering love for him—can sadly transform right into a small, unrecognizable thing, a mound of dirt and earth and mess and doubt and questions and frustrations. We might still pray and sing worship songs and have our “quiet times,” but deep inside, we feel like we may as well be talking to the ceiling fan.
Many people walk away from their faith at this point of their journey. You and I actually have all seen this occur. They (or we) begin to doubt. Soon, doubting results in desolation. Desolation ends in a departure from Christianity altogether.
If we don’t walk away from our faith, one other possible response to pain is to pretend prefer it doesn’t exist. We suck it up. Compartmentalize. Pretend, as I actually have done for therefore long. But as everyone knows, denial typically finally ends up hurting us or our family members—because emotions are likely to dwell near the surface, just waiting to blow up. In other words, you may move all of your trash to the attic and check out hiding it from yourself and the neighbors, but ultimately, the entire home is going to stink.
Or perhaps we try and escape the fact of pain. We drink or overeat. (I personally binge-watch British television shows on Netflix.) We shop. We sleep. We stop sleeping. We grow to be addicted people. Soon, we realize that pretending something isn’t there only gives it more power.
The reality is that none of us wish to suffer long. We like to think about affliction as something to rush through, strut successfully away from, after which discuss during an inspirational keynote address at a conference. The problem is that once we’re in the guts of painful seasons, none of those options—walking away, faking, or escaping—actually results in true healing.
Lament, a crying out to God, asks us to do something out of the atypical. It invites us to take a seat with our grief, regardless of how uncomfortable. In the words of Eugene Petersen, lament says, “When life is heavy and hard to take, go off by yourself. Enter the silence. Bow in prayer. Don’t ask questions. Wait for hope to look.”[i]
Lament calls us away from our typical responses to pain and asks us to easily stay put until God does something. But how, practically speaking, can we even try this?
The How of Lament
If you would like a foundation in terms of lament, take a have a look at certainly one of David’s most famous songs, Psalm 13, a fearless example of lament:
“How long, Lord? Will you forget me eternally?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy overcome me?
Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
Give light to my eyes, or I’ll sleep in death,
and my enemy will say, “I actually have overcome him,”
and my foes will rejoice after I fall.
But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I’ll sing the Lord’s praise,
for he has been good to me.”
David doesn’t run from his sorrow or pretend prefer it doesn’t exist. He hurls his most vulnerable Hows at God over and yet again. This isn’t a delicate surrendering; it’s a reckoning, a listing of the absurd ways David has felt abandoned by God. You can hear the desperation, the anguish of David’s soul. “Look at me and answer!” he demands. Don’t betray me. Don’t forget me. Don’t disappoint me. How long? How long? How long?
Then, in some way, in the midst of his outburst, David shifts his tone: “But I trust in your unfailing love.” David’s response to pain begins with a grievance (lament) but eventually moves mysteriously to praise. David’s misery hasn’t dissipated. His enemies are still threatening to have a good time his downfall. But still, in some way, David sings his louder song. Somehow, David has learned to trust the God who initially appeared untrustworthy.
As we learn to give up our laments to God, we are literally letting God loose from the neat and tidy boxes we’ve placed him in. We are letting God be God. As this recent intimacy with God transforms us, our laments are transformed as well.
There’s actually a story about Jesus where he spits on the bottom, mixing dirt and saliva together to form a muddy concoction. He rubs the mixture onto the eyes of a blind man, giving him sight. If, in the intervening time, your walk with Jesus and your faith journey are nothing greater than a large number of dirt, mud, and spit, take courage. That’s enough material to see your solution to lament—to stop faking, escaping, or running away and stay put in your grief while waiting for hope once more to look.
And in Jesus- hope will at all times appear.
The following article relies on my book The Louder Song: Listening for Hope within the Midst of Lament. For more on lament, grab your copy today.
Photo Courtesy: ©GettyImages/Pheelings Media
