Prayers of Lament

This meditation was shared in the context of a prayer webinar for Rio Texas Conference clergy.

I heard it said in a podcast this week, that we have officially, collectively, hit weary. Some of us have lived on adrenaline and carbohydrates for two or three weeks, but the blood sugar is plummeting, literally or figuratively. School may now be out forever, and Facebook crashes on Sunday morning, and we’ve rescheduled our virtual selves up to the ears, with many of you preachers working harder now than you ever have before. Some of our churches were already fragile, and we don’t know what this season will mean. We have kids with us and kids far from us. We have aging parents and family members working in hospitals or without jobs at all. We’re starting to have people die and need funerals, when we can’t be with them, and they can’t be with each other. And, of course, there’s Holy Week. On a screen. 

We are carrying a lot. Others are too, but for now, we’re going to take the time together to pour out our hearts before the Lord of life and before each other. We’re going to do this, because as we lead our people during this time, part of our work as resident theologians will be to recover a theology or practice of lament. And we’re going to start with our own lives, our own souls, our own lament. It’s important that we do this for several reasons.

One—you know and I know that much of what we are feeling right now is grief. And we also know what happens to unacknowledged, unexpressed grief. It does not dissolve into the ether but buries itself and waits. The problem is that it doesn’t stay buried well—it spills out in disguise, as irritability, insomnia, crappy food or too much drink, frenetic activity or restlessness, or an effort to control things or people—to name a few. The discomfort and crankiness we feel is often, at its heart, a sense of loss and the grief and fear that go with it. We cannot escape this, as I’m sure you’ve counseled parishioners. The only way through grief and fear, is through.

Second—it is fitting and right to express all of this, the grief and all its disguises, in the presence of God. We know this because the Bible tells us so, and we know it because that’s what living relationships are for—telling the truth, sharing what’s real. The psalms are full of this witness, some of which we’ll read this week as we walk with Jesus to the cross.

My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me continually, “Where is your God?” (42:3)

How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long? (13:2)

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? On my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest. (22:1)

The psalmist is not ashamed to cry out and in fact to demand an answer from God. Whether that answer is to fix the problem or just to come alongside in trouble, to quiet the troubled spirit or offer hope for the future—telling the truth about what’s hard in our lives is a legacy of practice handed down to us as people of God. It’s what our ancestors taught us, as members of the family. It’s what Jesus himself taught us as he knelt in the garden. Lament properly belongs to the Christian life.

Finally—we need to share our lament as a witness to this world. Especially in the U.S. context, we’ve clothed Jesus with everything from the American flag to the prosperity gospel. Our people, our churches have taught and learned that, in addition to dressing up for worship, we need to show only our put-together side to the world. Trouble or worry or uncertainty or grief for many seem evidence of a lack of faith. And this need to pretend can feel doubly true for us as pastors. We are walking through a dark time as a nation, as a global community, and the extent of the resulting individual and corporate death is yet to be seen. We will need a sturdy, trustworthy faith. A flimsy, Easter Bunny Jesus who glosses over the immensity of our grief will not be enough to see us through. The suffering people of this world need to know of the real Savior. They and we need to hear that he weeps with us and dies with us. We need to know that he is big enough to hold our grief and big enough to hold our life.

So it is that we come to pour out our prayers of lament this day. During this time, you may want to lift up the names of people you know and love, or people you don’t know but still love. You can also share any other sort of burden on your heart. This is a time to say the words and let the emotion come. And if you know it’s there, but you don’t feel you can let it come right now, make sure to set a time for yourself, soon. Tell a friend, write in a journal, listen to music that will connect you to the deep reaches of your heart.

This reflection was followed by a time of sharing prayers via chat on Zoom. Afterwards we did the same with prayers of hope and praise, celebrating the new life springing up all around us, even in the midst of death.