Thoughts on Wailing

I can't remember the last time I used the word lamentation or lament; nor can I remember it being used by another in any conversation I've been involved in. I'm far more prone of using words like sadness, regret, sorrow, and mourning. But I now realize that something has been lost in my dismissal of lament from my vocabulary all these years. 

Bettyann's and my "life hymn" is Great Is Thy Faithfulness. A small plaque with these same words reminds us each time we ascend or descend the stairs of the master suite at Quiet Rest.  Invariably, every time we hear the hymn's introduction, our eyes catch and a smile appears. More often than not, our hands reach for the each other's and the clutch brings a sense of security.  I think it's because of certain associations the song evokes.  Association with times of grief, sadness, loss and yet it is the sort of mourning that is both held and expressed in worship. For me, I'm thinking that the connection of these two ideas—worship and lament—has seemed a bit foreign. Nonetheless, I've recently learned that lamentation as worship was once a significant element in the Judeo/Christian vision and experience of the world.

I'm really not up on the current artists of Christian music nor have I been for some years but I was struck awhile back by a young fella singing Abide with me which is one of my all time favorite hymns.  So much so that I searched and found his name to be Matt Redman.  Matt is a songwriter and worship leader from England.  I was impressed to learn that he visited here in the States after the World Trade Center was terrorized.  He came to lead worship in several churches and was more than impressed by the powerful sermons that were being preached.  These sermons were eloquent in expressing the love of Father, Son and Holy Spirit to the shocked and vulnerable people of all the congregations he visited during those days. He says he was convicted by the distinct lack of songs he had on hand for worship in the midst of suffering. Where were the songwriters for such a time as this? Where were the poets and prophets to help the people of God find a voice in worship? Redman wrote: "As songwriters and lead worshipers, we had a few expressions of hope at our disposal; but when it came to expressions of pain and lament, we had very little vocabulary to give voice to our heart cries." 

As a chaplain, sitting, kneeling, standing, holding a hand, kissing the forehead, or just being present with a dying person, I discovered that hope is a needed expression, a gift not afforded by every worldview, and lamentation in this sense is similar. But more so, lamentation is a vital aspect of a life in relation with God. My relationship with God! And I hadn't realized it applied to me until the other day!  Seventy percent of the psalmist's words are words of lament. "Hear my prayer, O LORD," the psalmist pleads. "Let my cry for help come to you. Do not hide your face from me when I am in distress. Turn your ear to me; when I call, answer me quickly. For my days vanish like smoke; my bones burn like glowing embers." Sadly dissimilar to many public and private expressions of grief as well as many worship services today, the writers of Scripture identify with the pain of the world and do not hold back in addressing it before a God they believe needs to hear it. For these voices, lament is not a relinquishing of faith but a cry in worship to God Who weeps with them.

I'll never forget at my father's internment when another mourner caught me with tears flowing eyes, shared: "we don’t have to grieve like others who have no hope, Billy.  I'm sure your father is in heaven and wouldn't want you to cry." Their intentions were good; they meant to encourage me with the powerful hope of the Christian story, which holds at its center the resurrection of Christ. But I desperately needed permission to lament, permission to look up at the cross with the sorrow of Mary and the uncertainty of the centurion. I needed to be able to ask why with the force that was welling up inside me, even as I clung to hope in the Son, trust in the Father, and comfort in the Spirit.  Father, help me to always weep with those that weep.

During this season of Lent, I want more than anything to take time to walk the labored steps of Jesus toward the agony of the cross, the reality of its injustice, and the despair of human death and suffering. I don't want to appear to be melodramatic but after listening to the lecture of Fred Wolfe a few weeks ago, I see this as a profound gift I can give to those around me that need permission to ask why, to cry out in pain, and know that I am the Father's ear. While intentionally picking and listening to songs of hope, I will not forget that lamenting is often the honest, needed pathway there, just as the grossly unfair sufferings of the cross and the darkness of a cold tomb were the way to resurrection. I don't think that either my worship nor my journey can deny this if I am genuinely led to hope.

I'm discovering, again, afresh that my story holds a unique capacity for tears because my story itself is filled with tears. So I can sing through the disorienting sting of whatever, even as it moves me to reach out to those who are suffering with the love of One who will one day wipe away every tear from my eyes.

Father, God, thank you for giving me permission to utter the words in the pit of my stomach, these days, and the Spirit Who helps me groan them, even as I follow the Son who uttered the words in His Story: "I am deeply grieved, even to death."  Amen