I distinctly remember that last time I spoke to my mother with words and with a tone that was not acceptable. I was about ten years old. She had asked me to do something I didn’t want to do. So, I snapped back at her in a less than kind way. She marched me to our bathroom and washed my mouth out with soap. Not just any soap. “Lava” brand soap. It has little pieces of pumice in it and specializes in removing the worst grime and grease. I can still taste its toxic flavor. It makes me gag. I can still feel the pumice rubbing my tongue raw. That was the last time I spoke to my mother using words and a tone that was inappropriate.
When it comes to people who have some authority over us, we’re supposed to obey certain rules of communication. Don’t ask questions. Don’t complain. Do show respect. Do keep things positive.
We often assume the same style of communication with God. The one with the ultimate authority over us. “If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say anything at all” is often a guiding principle for us in prayer.
But this creates all kinds of problems, especially when we are going through pain. In times of crisis we may assume that we’re still supposed to keep things bright and positive with God. But how can we do that when we’re filled with discouragement or despair? Filled with that tension, some of us fake it–we tell God what we think he wants to hear, even though we don’t mean it. Or, we just stop talking to God.
But Jesus models a radically different way of speaking to the Sovereign in times of trouble. Jesus, as we’ve seen, practiced self care in the midst of misery. He was mindful of his pain and gave voice to it (“I thirst”). And, he acknowledged that his suffering was temporary and that it was accomplishing something (“It is finished”). But Jesus also practiced soul care. He not only tended his relationship with himself (self care), he also attended his relationship with God (soul care). We see that in this stunning statement from the cross:
“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matt. 27:46)
Jesus is quoting Ps. 22. Here’s the full opening to that psalm:
My God, my God, why have you deserted me? Why do you seem so far away when I need you to save me? Why do you seem so far away that you can’t hear my groans? My God, I cry out in the daytime. But you don’t answer. I cry out at night. But you don’t let me sleep. (Ps. 22:1-2 NIRV)
Why? Why? Why?
Jesus is leaning into a strong biblical tradition of being real with God. Psalms like these, lament psalms, invite us to talk to God in ways that are authentic and genuine, not fake or forced:
How long, O Lord? Will You forget me for good? How long will you hide Your face from me? How long will I harbor cares in my soul and sorrow in my heart by day? (Ps 13:1-2 ERV)
Lord, wake up! Why are you sleeping? Get up! Don’t ignore us forever! Why are you hiding from us? Have you forgotten our pain and troubles? (Ps. 44:23-24 ERV)
You have taken my friends and neighbors away from me. Darkness is my closest friend. (Ps. 88:18 NIRV)
If I’d talked like this to my mom, she’d pull out the Lava bar! But in the Bible, this is how we’re supposed to talk to God. Richard Foster, in Prayer: Finding the Heart’s True Home, calls this Simple Prayer:
There is no pretense in Simple Prayer. We do not pretend to be more holy, more pure, or more saintly than we actually are. We do not try to conceal our conflicting and contradictory motives from God—or ourselves.
Prayer is never intended to be us being someone we think we should be. Prayer is us being who we truly are, with all the messiness and sharpness and feelings that come with who we are in times of pain.
Yet, we seem uncomfortable with this. In his book Hurting with God, Glenn Pemberton finds that while laments make up 40% of the Psalms, only 13% of the hymns in Churches of Christ, 19% of hymns in the Presbyterian church, and 13% of Baptist hymns are laments.
Soong-Chan Rah, in Prophetic Lament: A Call for Justice in Troubled Times, writes that the lack of lament is rooted in positions of power and privilege. The “haves,” he writes, often prefer a posture of celebration over lament, and often resist attempts to name and lament the suffering of the “have nots.” Rather than face death and pain in our communities, and thus lament, we prefer to keep things positive–a posture only possible for the privileged:
“Lament is honesty before God and each other. If something has truly been declared dead, there is no use in sugarcoating that reality. To hide from suffering and death would be an act of denial. If an individual would deny the reality of death during a funeral, friends would justifiably express concern over the mental health of that individual. In the same way, should we not be concerned over a church that lives in denial over the reality of death in our midst?”
Thus, it is healthy, not only for ourselves, but for our entire society, to deeply and authentically lament what is wrong in the world. Lament is a sign of solidarity. A signal that we see others, we hear others, especially in their distress. Rah writes,
“The evangelical culture moves too quickly to praise from lament. We do not hear from all of the voices in the North American evangelical context. Instead, we opt for quick and easy answers to complex issues. We want to move on to the happier message of success and triumph and cover up the message of those who suffer.”
So, today, lament. Lament the difficulties you are enduring. Lament the difficulties others are enduring. Practice lament as a form of personal sincerity–a way of being real with God about what you’re feeling. And, practice lament as a form of public solidarity–a way of opening your eyes up to the pain and loss of others, refusing to dismiss it or diminish it. In this Covid-19 crisis, raising these doubts and questions and cries to God may be one of the most important steps you can take.
