Learning (From) Lament: Spring 2021

What do we do when the world falls apart?

BY JIM STREET ’74

THE YEAR 2020...

. . . I will not complete that thought, because you likely completed it yourself more quickly than I could have typed it. From the COVID-19 pandemic, to political hostilities at every level of society, to social unrest and the shaking of cultural foundations, the year 2020 . . .

We all met it with our own familiar inventory of problems and challenges. And, of course, we added a few more (or should I say, “a few more were added”) to the ones we already had. Job loss. Economic ruin. Deaths of loved ones. Hard transitions.

The year 2020 . . .

It brought troubles and compounded the ones we already had.

But it’s not as if we can breathe a sigh of relief, or that we somehow drove 2020 away with our New Year’s Eve rituals. Like a tsunami, 2020 still floods and swirls and crashes into 2021.

But we are a brave and resilient lot, aren’t we? Somehow, we have managed to pick our way through. But aren’t we sad — if not for our own losses, then for the losses of others? And aren’t we tired — if not physically, then mentally and emotionally? And are we not at least a little frayed around the edges, spiritually speaking?

The year 2019 . . . for me, that year was more eventful than 2020. I met 2019 with breathless anticipation, as my 17-year adventure with congestive heart failure began to come to an end. By the end of February, I was admitted to Emory Hospital. I finally emerged from there on Mother’s Day Eve — 50 pounds lighter, but with a heart beating in my chest, one donated by a generous stranger.

In addition to learning to walk again, going to rehab to gain some strength, and dealing with the trauma of all I had been through, as well as the side effects of meds, I spent my time studying the topic of suffering and trying to make some sense of all that had happened to me. ON SUFFERING WELL

heart biopsy. I climbed up on a gurney and laid on my left side. Although I was surrounded by nurses and surgery assistants, one nurse stood only a foot or two in front me and monitored the interior of my heart. I watched the heart beat, the ventricles, and the clapping hands of a healthy heart valve.

A cardiologist gave me a shot in the right side of my neck, punctured a small hole in it and pushed some tiny tweezers through a vein and into the right ventricle of my heart. I saw that, too. The aim was to pinch some tissue from inside my heart so that it could be tested for any signs of rejection. The procedure is a bit tedious but, apart from the shot in the neck, not painful. I was fully awake.

As my cardiologist dug around in my heart, he asked, “Mr. Street, what are you up to these days?”

“Well, in addition to trying to recover, I’ve been getting ready to teach a class,” I replied.

He continued to dig. “Oh yeah, what’s it on?”

I chuckled (lightly!) and said, “Suffering.”

The irony of the moment was not lost on him. He laughed and said, “Well, you have done some graduate work in that, haven’t you?”

“Oh yeah, I did all of the field work. Now, I’m doing a lot of reading about it.”

The nurse by the monitor said, “Mr. Street. How do you suffer well?”

There I was, with a cardiologist digging in my heart for tissue samples, five or six assistants and nurses surrounding me, more machinery than I could take in, and she was ready to explore the depths of suffering.

Aware that I was surrounded by a captive and mixed audience who had not signed up for a theological or pastoral discussion, I offered a few observations, and that was that.

Looking back, I realized I missed an opportunity. I should have replied, “How do you suffer well? Among other things, you lament.”

WHAT IS LAMENT?

Lament is a form of prayer that seeks to rectify an injustice. While not always the case, lament speaks about a disconnect between the lamenter’s experience and his expectations. The experience often concerns some form of persistent suffering and is seen by the lamenter as something that God should have already addressed.

Lament requires telling the unvarnished truth. It is not a practice marked by flowery speech. It is not an opportunity to offer to God one’s dignity rather than one’s truth. Lament does not try to seduce God or manipulate God. Lament is straight and to the point, if even blunt at times.

Even though lament is straightforward truth-telling, it is marked by humility. One does not enter into the presence of God to throw one’s weight around. Rather, one enters into the presence of God to address an injustice completely aware of the One to whom one speaks.

While it may appear that lament originates in the suffering of the lamenter, lament originates with God, just as all prayer finds its origin in God. That claim can be justified in several ways, but I will focus on one.

The God whom we worship has revealed his character to us both through God’s deeds and God’s words. For example, when Moses asked God to show himself to Moses, God balked. Moses could not look upon the face of God and expect to survive that.

God told Moses he would pass by him in a way that would give Moses a glimpse of God without losing Moses in the process. So, God placed Moses in the cleft of a rock, covered him with his hand, and passed by. As he passed, God said, “Yahweh! Yahweh. The compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands and forgiving wickedness, rebellion, and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished . . .” (Exodus 34:6-7)

The self-disclosure of God is descriptive. It tells us much about the character of God. However, the self-disclosure of God is not only descriptive, it is prescriptive. In effect, God is saying to Moses (and to anyone who hears or reads this), “This is the kind of God I am; respond to me as this kind of God.”

God discloses himself as compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, filled with love, and faithful. He invites us to approach and speak with him because that is the kind of God he is. God is not harmed by our truth-telling. Far from it, he invites it by virtue of being the kind of God to whom it is easy to speak the truth.

But notice, God draws a boundary in revealing himself. We don’t get to speak to God in just any way. For all of the love and fidelity and compassion, God still punishes the wicked. Even in lament, we do not get to dress God down. However, because of that boundary marker, we know how far we can go in truth-telling with God and can express ourselves in myriad ways.

SPEAKING THE TRUTH

The truth we speak to God in lament is the truth of our own experience. It is truth that concerns four areas. We speak the truth to God (1) about God, (2) about ourselves, (3) about the relationship between God and ourselves, and (4) about the condition or circumstance of our suffering.

In lament, speaking the truth to God about God is to acknowledge who God is, to recognize God’s self-disclosed character, but also, at least in terms of the lamenter’s experience, to point out that God seems to be failing himself. “You have shown yourself to be this kind of God but, in my experience, you are not being that kind of God.” The tone of it can border on accusation.

Second, in lament, we speak the truth about God, but we also expose the truth about ourselves. One cannot come into the presence of God without becoming painfully aware of one’s self. And that’s part of the conflict of lament: on the one hand, I come before God to tell him that, in my experience, God is not acting in accord with his character, but in so doing, I expose myself in this great act of vulnerability, and sometimes, what I expose is not pretty.

Third, in lament, we address the relationship between ourselves and God. It isn’t just that God is faithful; it is that God is faithful to us, to me. God is not just God; God is my God, our God. That suggests relationship. God loves me, and because God first loved me, I love God. But, when I am in agony and wonder where God is, I not only imply something about God, but also myself and the relationship (and the expectations that go with relationship), as well.

Fourth, in lament, we speak to God about our particular condition or circumstance that causes us anguish. And, as I’ve said before, very often that condition or circumstance, or at least the persistence of it, is experienced as unjust. “God of love, God of faithfulness. You know how great my pain is. You know how much I’ve prayed for relief and for healing but, O God, I may as well be talking

to the ceiling. Why do you seem so indifferent, given your character? Why are you slow to respond, given your faithfulness?” Very often, it is not the fact of suffering, but the persistence of suffering that contributes to our suffering.

And, very often, our suffering is compounded by the silence of God.

THE HIDDEN KEY TO LAMENT

Some of what I have written leads some people to object to lament, especially as a Christian practice. Christians are called to rejoice always and to give thanks no matter the circumstance or condition. I whole-heartedly agree. As a matter of fact, lament involves thanksgiving and praise. It is filled with remembrance of God’s faithfulness in the past. It is rooted in our hope for the glorious future, the New Heaven and the New Earth.

But lament does not pretend that all is always well. It does not gloss over the harsh realities of life. Lament takes seriously God’s claims as to his character and to how seriously God takes the relationship he has created with us and all of creation.

But lament does something else, as well.

Lament offers us a place to begin, even if our lives have become as confused as the interior of a tornado. Lament says to us, “You don’t know where to turn right now or what to do. Let me at least offer you some steps to help you find your way back to some semblance of order, of trust.”

“Call upon the God you doubt. Acknowledge God’s character, but tell him how lost you are. Tell him that he does not seem himself. Tell him that he is letting you down. Tell him of your anguish. Your hurt. Your anger, but do not sin. Tell him how you are caught between knowing who he is and seeing that he is not being himself. Share your ache. Ask for his help! Ask him for his strength! And, even if your words are as bile on your tongue, give him glory, honor and praise.”

Lament reaches out to us in the depths of our despair and invites us to speak with God. It matters not how enraged we may be, how hurt or disappointed we are, how filled with shame or guilt, lament cries out to us: “Come to the God of all comfort and talk it over.”

Lament teaches us not to spend too much time anguishing within ourselves or with others as to questions of why God allows the things he does. Lament teaches us to give up such gossip and just come on over and ask God ourselves.

Oh, to be sure, we may not hear from God — or we may. God may remind us, as he reminded Job, that some things in life are simply not for us to know, or that even if he told us, it may not satisfy. He may remind us that the greater part of God is Mystery, but that does not change the reality that God is not All-Mystery.

But here’s the other thing: even when we feel that God has abandoned us to the suffering that clings to us like lint, even when the evidence screams that God has turned his back, that God does not care, that God has found more important things to do, lament calls us to speak, to address God. Even if it feels as if we speak into an empty, hollow cavern, it calls us to keep on speaking — even if all we hear is the echo of our own voices mocking us.

David questioned God. He all but accused God of abandoning him, of not listening to him, but in spite of that, he could not resist questioning him. You don’t hear me, but that won’t stop me from speaking. Some people deny the very existence of God, but they cannot seem to stop telling him that he does not exist. And, some, who do not believe in God, ask him often to destroy their enemies.

Lift up your tortured voices to God. You might see him on a cross and hear him speak: “Tell me about it. No. Really. I mean sit down right there and tell me about it.”