3 reasons why we don't lament
we don't have enough faith to do it
Have you ever done a workout that’s a little different from normal, works out muscles you forgot you have, and the next day you wonder what happened because it feels like you got run over by a truck in weird places like behind your knees or under your rib cage? (The older I get, the more common an experience that is for me.)
I think lament is a little bit like that for us spiritually. It’s something we should know how to do as disciples of Jesus, but those muscles have atrophied in the body of Christ. We don’t lament and we should ask, why not?
reason #1: american activism
One reason may be our American activism. As a nation, we tend to favor a “can do” attitude. We like to tackle problems, take the bull by the horns, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps.
In biblical stories of lamentation, people tend to rip their clothes, put dust on their heads, and weep and wail aloud. That’s not action, we think. That’s weakness, a pity party. What could it possibly accomplish?
In that way, lament is a deeply countercultural idea.
reason #2: creeping cynicism
Another reason may be a kind of cynicism that creeps in from the world around us. We hear public figures say things out loud, but we figure they are saying other things behind the scenes. The profit motive is the primary way we explain others’ actions. Displays of emotion are often calculated attempts to manipulate others.
If everyone else around me hustling to get ahead, why would I sit with my feelings and mourn what is broken in me or in the world? Lament is implausible; it’s a liability when I look at others around me who are busy finding an advantage.
reason #3: fear
Do you know why I don’t lament? It’s fear. I’m afraid. I’m afraid to really put myself out there before God. To really let my whole self, body and soul, emotions and intellect, be devoted to acknowledging the reality of sadness, suffering and sin in prayer.
What if I pray something like Psalm 13:1-2:
How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I take counsel in my soul and have sorrow in my heart all the day? How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?
What if I pray that prayer and the answer is… silence? Nothing?
What if I let myself feel all of it, become overwhelmed by the hurt and pain, the sadness, suffering and sin of life in this world, and God does nothing?
What if he doesn’t respond? Doesn’t meet me? Doesn’t rescue me?
lament takes faith
I’ve been through seasons of hurt. Sadness. Suffering. Others have sinned against me. But I haven’t often let myself lament. Instead of let myself sit in the difficulty and honestly bring it to God, I’ve drawn back into self-protection. I draw lines. Create boundaries. Make sure I can’t be hurt again.
But that is a dangerous game to play. C.S. Lewis warns against it in The Four Loves:
There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.
We don’t lament because of our activism, our cynicism, and our fear. But not lamenting—and not letting ourselves love again as a result—is far more dangerous to our souls.
Lament isn’t a sign of weakness or a lack of resilience. Allowing ourselves to deal really with our anguish, pain, and sadness before God takes courage. Lament is an act of faith.
Lamenting directly to God, I am slowly discovering, helps to replace my own sinful habit of complaining. Entering into communion with God through lament leads me out of the deep waters of grief, sadness, anger, to the shoreline and the security of remembering and knowing God's faithfulness and steadfast love. Thank you for drawing us into this conversation.