Pandemic Ponderings -- Lament

I have deeply struggled over the past two years with what my response ought to be to the things I see going on around me. My reactions have been wide-ranging and often not God-honouring.

I have wanted to give in to fear and lock myself into my house and never emerge again. I'm not speaking hyperbolically.

I have wanted to live carelessly to prove that I am not living in fear.

I have wanted to carefully obey all the rules in an effort to prove that I am a good citizen who has the welfare of my neighbours at heart.

I have wanted to rebel against all the rules and do whatever I want because who the heck do you think you are anyway to tell me what to do?

I have wanted to write scathing diatribes to politicians and newspapers and whoever else I can think of.

I have wanted to write soothing and spiritual-sounding posts on social media to try to persuade people I'm coping wonderfully well (when I'm not).

I have wanted to scream until my throat is raw.

I have wanted to punch people in the face.

I have wanted to fight back.

I have wanted to give up in despair.

But what I have not wanted to do, until quite recently, is to truly lament. Complain? Yes. Feel sorry for myself? You bet. I'm really good at that. Whine? I'm a master. Get into a temper fit? I'm horribly good at that, too. Protest? For sure. Even to cry? I've shed my fair share of tears. But lament? No.

Because to genuinely lament, to lament in the way Scripture talks about lament means that I come to the end of myself. I stop trying to find a solution. I admit that there is no solution and this is just how things are right now. Trump or Trudeau, vaccines or ivermectin, lockdowns or freedom rallies are not the solutions. They are never going to solve this thing that is so much bigger than a virus. I just want things to go back to normal. But to lament means I come to the end of myself. I say it, out loud, "There is no hope in prince or ruler, in a man however wise." Normal is broken and it will never return. The damage has been done. If God does not step in and do something, if God does not intervene, nothing will ever change. 

To genuinely lament means that I stop screaming at or about people. If only Doug Ford would be reasonable and open things up again and repeal all these pandemic protocols. If only the ridiculous people who are so afraid they go about with masks inside their own homes would just disappear. If only the filthy, misogynistic racist unacceptable would fall into line and roll up their sleeves. If only we could get rid of the people who disagree with our opinions (and everyone's opinions are backed by science and research). Oh, how I can scream. But to lament means I stop screaming at or about the events and people around me, and I start crying to God. I take all that frustration and anger and fear and worry and longing and rage and dread and I bring it to him, and to him alone. I protest on my knees, flat on my face, before God only.

To genuinely lament means I grieve not just the loss of my own comfort, but I grieve the wretchedness of this whole world. I see the pain of those whose lives have been directly and forever impacted by Covid. I cry with those who have lost loved ones, lost health and vitality. I allow myself to feel their pain, to understand their fear, to empathise with their grief. I hear the cries of so many whose lives have been indirectly and forever impacted by Covid -- the woman whose cancer surgery was postponed until it was too late, the man who is walking in darkness because his eye surgery was deemed optional, the men, the women, the thousands, the thousands who are crying out in fear and pain and anxiety. I hear those cries, and I care. I look into the eyes of those whose lives have been directly impacted by lockdowns, and I see their pain. I face the pain of the couple whose livelihood and life savings have shrivelled up in lockdowns, the parent whose job disappeared because she couldn't work from home and couldn't work at work. I look into the eyes of the children, the teens, the men, the women who are fraught with anxiety and depression and starving for human interaction -- the grandparents who have not been able to see grandchildren, the families separated by borders and distance and injunctions, the churches who have been forced to practice the communion of the saints in thumbnail boxes on a computer screen -- and I see their deep pain. I stop trying to compare pain. I recognise it is all agony. I stop trying to put on a brave face, I stop hiding behind the truth that God is in control (and he is and that is a truth), I stop pretending that everything is ok, I stop hiding behind anger and protest and I finally admit that it's all broken and I'm broken and it really, really hurts. I stop yelling and whining and protesting, and I cry. So much pain. So much heartache. How long, O Lord? Will you forget us forever?

To genuinely lament means that I recognise the dissonance between the kingdom of this world and the kingdom of heaven. It means that I look hard at the fact that, though God is in control, and although he is sovereign, the fullness of his kingdom is not yet. Yes, I have hope. Yes, I know God works all things for the good of those who love him. And in the meantime, people are dying from Covid, and people are filled with fear and anger, and people are dying from warfare and famine and persecution and natural disaster and the world is filled with pain and hurt and sorrow, and I am filled with pain and hurt and sorrow, and I cry out for God to act. Only God can act. Nothing else will do. No one else will do. I weep with those who weep.

To genuinely lament means that I remember and long for the coming kingdom. Oh, how easy it is to forget when all is good and life is comfortable that this world is not all that there is. Yes, Jesus is coming back, but I hope later. Once I've met my goals and married my love and made my mark and enjoyed what this life has to offer, then he can come back. But to genuinely lament means that I long desperately for that day. I open my ears to the cries of the starving and war-torn and persecuted. I care as much for the people who are dying of malaria as I do for the people who are dying of covid. I care as much for the vaccinated as I do for the unvaccinated. I care as much about the lockdowns experienced by Christians in Afghanistan, Iran, China, and North Korea as I do about the rules that prevent me from eating steak at the Keg unless I show a piece of paper. Thy kingdom come, Lord. Thy kingdom come, not my kingdom come. Lament is the language of liminal places.

When I lay down my idols, when I stop counting on politicians and vaccines and truckers and mandates and rules and lockdowns and anti-lockdown protests to save me; when I stop fixating on financial security and cultural comfort and #blessed, when I give all of that up, what am I left with?

Lament.

I cry out to the God who hears. I cry out to the God who is near. I cry out to the God With Us.

But genuine lament is the language of hope. It refuses to give up. It turns away from the idols and resolutely turns toward God. It declares, unabashed, that however things look, however long it takes, however dark it gets, I will still believe. I will still hold on. Lament doesn't dodge the darkness; it walks right through it. It doesn't avoid the pain; it feels every ache. It isn't a way of jumping to "God is good all the time" to get over the hurt, but it goes through the hurt to get there nonetheless. And when I wipe my tears, I find God is near, and I say to him, Still I trust. Still you are good. Still I follow. Still I love you. Even if.

How long, O LORD? 

How long must these days of darkness grind on and on?

How long will this world limp from false hope to false hope,

    ever hoping, ever despairing, falling further and further from life?

How long will we live in this liminal space between life and loss,

    hope soaring and dashed, open and closed, open and closed,

    just one more hoop to jump through, but oh wait, not yet?

How many more, God? How many more lives lost,

    livelihoods lost, relationships torn assunder, days spent alone?

    How many more times will your name be mocked?

Oh, God, do you not see?

    Do you not see those in hospital gasping for breath, 

        living a thousand agonies, 

        striving inch by inch to hold on to life?

    Do you not see those who have life but no livelihood,

        living a thousand agonies as they strive

        but watch as inch by inch their savings shrivel?

    Do you not hear the cries of the tens of thousands of millions

        crying in fear, in loneliness, in desperation

        as they long for loved ones, for relief, for hope from somewhere?

    Do you not hear the anguish of those who risk life and limb

        to escape war and poverty and persecution

        only to drown or freeze to death on the borders of freedom?

Oh, God, do you not hear?

Oh, God, hear! Oh, God, see! Oh, God, act!

Step into our anguish and move.

Restore to us joy and peace and hope:

    joy not in comforts or possesions but in your faithfulness;

    peace not because everyone agrees but because we rest first in you;

    hope not in policies or politicians or protests, but in your goodness,

        your mercy, your coming kingdom.

Oh, God, move! See and hear our anguish,

    and move!

Oh, God, you hear. You see.

    In the brilliance of the winter sun, we see your light.

    In the hesitant first notes of birdsong on a cold winter day, we hear your hope.

    In the moments of friendship and kindness and compassion which still exist, we feel your love.

    In the pages of your Word, we know your faithfulness.

Oh, God, you hear. You see.

We know you will act.

And so we trust.

Your love is unfailing.

You have been good.

You will be good

To us.

        

Pandemic Ponderings -- Idols

 I am currently taking a course toward my Doctorate of Ministry, which requires a great deal of reading. One of the books I have recently read is called Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy, by Mark Vroegop. It is a book on lament, and in it, Vroegop notes that times of suffering can unearth idols in our lives.

Now didn't he touch a nerve.

Or five.

Suffering reveals idols. Like the idol of financial security. I can hardly afford gas anymore. Every time I fill up my tank, I am filled with rage at a government that insists on spending more and more money on green technology when other countries around the world pour filth into our air and water. Every time I see a car with a plate that starts with the letter G, I think snidely and smugly to myself how lovely it must be for that person to drive a car that I helped to pay for when never in a million years could I ever afford such a car for myself. I deserve financial security. I am owed cheap groceries in whatever quantity and variety I happen to wish for. I am not merely somewhat uncomfortable or inconvenienced; I am enraged. Because I am worshiping the idol of financial security. When so many all over the world are experiencing genuine deprivation, I am enraged that the price of citrus has gone up. When so many all over the world can't afford a car or the gas to put into it, I am enraged that I have to pay more to fill my tank.

God, forgive me.

Suffering reveals idols. Like the idol of treating people like saviours. Or maybe not people. Maybe vaccines and vaccine mandates. Or lockdowns. Or anything that will get us out of this wretched mess. If only everyone would get vaccinated, we could be out of this. We should force them all to get vaccinated. We should lock them up, the filthy germ-spreaders. We should let them die, gasping for breath, in the hospital parking lots. After all, they brought it on themselves. We assume the vaccine will save us, and we treat the unvaccinated with more and more contempt until we are treating them worse than we would treat our animals. Or if only the government would open things back up, and I chafe more and more at the lockdowns and restrictions. We call our leaders Hitlers and Nazis and have the temerity to liken our loss of freedoms to the horrors of the Holocaust as though we have forgotten the pictures of the living skeletons and the rooms full of eyeglasses and false teeth and children's shoes. If only someone, anyone would see the damage being done by the lockdowns, the job losses, the school closures. I cast my mind far and wide looking for a reason, a logical explanation, the one magic thing that will get us out of this, the one thing that will save us. Some trust Trudeau, Trump, the truckers. They will be the ones to save us. And I worship the idol of human leaders, human innovation, human wisdom, and I am enraged when, one by one, they fail.

God, forgive me.

Suffering reveals idols. Like the idol of craving cultural comfort. My world should just be nice. People should just get along. Everyone should just always let me in when I'm trying to merge on the highway. And I am enraged when I see society crumbling around me and life becoming more and more uncomfortable. Families are torn apart. Brother against sister. Son against mother. Society is fracturing and dividing along the edges of a chasm so deep and wide it seems impossible there will ever be bridges built. Shrieking at each other with fury in eye and voice. I want to join them. Every fibre of my being wants to join them. If I just scream loud enough and long enough, maybe someone will hear and I will be able to go back to living my comfortable life when the price of gas was reasonable and the shelves were full and I wasn't obliged to show papers to get into a restaurant and I didn't have to cover my face every time I am in public and people wouldn't give me the side-eye or automatically think me a radical alt-right fringe lunatic for following Jesus. My world is no longer comfortable, and I am enraged.

God, forgive me.

Suffering reveals idols. Like the idol of spiritual leaders. My church is right because we obey the pandemic restrictions. Your church is wrong because you ignore them. Your church is wrong because you have followed the pandemic restrictions. My church is right to ignore them. And we divide up behind our spiritual leaders and we shriek at each other across the abyss, an abyss full of the flames of hell and the stench of sulphur and satan laughs.

Oh, God, God forgive me.

Suffering reveals idols. Like the idol of presuming divine favour. I just assume that I deserve the blessings of God. I'm not lucky; I'm blessed. Of course I deserve financial security and a comfortable life and food on the shelves of the grocery store and a front-row parking spot to boot. I'm a nice person and I've always had those things, and I'm surrounded by a triumphal spirit that everything will always work out and God works everything for the good (aka comfort) of those who love him. Never mind the fact that around the world, people -- yes, believers -- are starving, caught up in military conflicts, being blown into oblivion by volcanoes, drowning in floods, burning in wildfires, dying for their faith. They're just unlucky, I guess. I presume divine favour. Oh, I don't say it out loud. I would never dare to say it out loud. But I live it. Because when I do not get all those earthly comforts, I am surprised. No, not just surprised. I am enraged.

Oh, God, forgive me.

Oh, God, forgive me.

Pandemic Ponderings -- Foreigner

 I haven't been writing. I haven't wanted to. There's been far too much going on in the world around me and I have been far too busy merely surviving to have the bandwidth to actually write. But someone asked me the other day, "What has God been teaching you recently?" As I thought about that answer, and as I look at the world around me, and as I think about all that I have been reading and learning over the past two years, my answer is threefold and will form a three-fold blog mini-series.

First,  I am a foreigner on this earth.

Second, I serve a lot of idols.

Third, I am learning to lament.

So, first, I am a foreigner on this earth. The last two years have made me intensely uncomfortable as a Canadian. Oh, not just in the typical pandemic-living-is-awkward-and-unpleasant way, but more in a I'm-wearing-shoes-that-don't-fit way. It all just feels so wrong, and it's not just about the pandemic restrictions. It's about the attitudes, the rage, the fear, the disrespect and disdain, the deep hostility people are holding toward each other. I've spent the last two years trying to figure out what my response ought to be to all of it. I can't move about as easily as I could before. I can't meet with friends and family as freely as I could before. Costs are rising. Violence is rising. I've had to teach online -- ok at best, but certainly not ideal. Who do I listen to? What news channel do I follow? Is all of this really a deep global conspiracy to overthrow all that is good and light and right? Should I be taking up arms (literally or figuratively) and fighting for rights that have been stripped away? If I do choose to follow the injunctions, am I giving in to a great evil that will soon see me receiving the mark of the beast? Or am I doing the right thing as a follower of Jesus by submitting to the authorities? Are people who throw anti-lockdown protests the heroes because they are fighting for our rights? Are people who quietly roll up their sleeves and get vaccinated the heroes because they are fighting for the common good? Who do I listen to? Who do I follow?

As the last two years have crept by (and they have felt longer than all the other years of my life) I have become more and more convicted of one thing: the reason living in this country feels like wearing a shoe that doesn't fit is because my citizenship is not of this country. My citizenship is of the kingdom of heaven. I am a Christ-follower, not a Canadian. Oh, sure, I live in this country, and I carry a passport for this country, and I pay taxes in this country, and, to this point, I have been afforded certain rights because I happen to live in the borders of this country. But my allegiance is not to this country. It is to Christ. My citizenship is of the kingdom of heaven.

Yeah, yeah, sure, you might say, but what's your point?

Just this: I had fallen into the trap of believing that somehow the rights I have as a Canadian equal my rights as a citizen of Christ.

Let's face it -- it's been pretty comfortable in this country. I have never been persecuted (unless you want to call someone making some fun of you being persecuted, but go tell that to the Christians in Iran or Afghanistan). I've never gone hungry, at least not in the way that people go hungry who are trying to survive on two spoons of maize a day. I've never been prevented from gathering with other Christians (or with other people period, Christians or not).  When I got sick, there was always medical help. I've been allowed to go wherever I want whenever I want and no one has ever stopped me. And I have believed that these rights are not just earthly rights of an earthly kingdom, but divine rights. That is, they are rights that belong to me as a citizen of Christ.

But that's a lie.

They are not heavenly rights. They are earthly rights of an earthly kingdom of which I am not a citizen, and as earthly rights of an earthly kingdom, they could be here today and gone tomorrow. And the rights that I have as a citizen of Christ are very, very different.

Blessed are the poor in spirit.

Blessed are those who mourn.

Blessed are the meek.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

Blessed are the merciful.

Blessed are the pure in heart.

Blessed are the peacemakers.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness.

Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.

Pray for those who persecute you.

Take up your cross and follow me.

When I examine my own heart, I don't see a whole lot of poor in spirit, mourning, hungering and thirsting for righteousness, mercy, pureness of heart, peacemaking, or rejoicing in persecution. I see instead pride, complaining, hungering and thirsting for the items missing off the grocery store shelves, hostility and rage, throwing of insults, bristling against restrictions and calling it persecution, self-satisfied smugness and superiority, and on and on. My heart is an ugly, ugly place, bristling against the removal of earthly rights I think I am owed because I happen to live in this country.

God has convicted me. My attitude is not right. My eyes have been on my earthly citizenship, and not on my heavenly citizenship. I have been chafing against shoes that don't fit right anymore when they should never have fit in the first place. It is very easy to think I am poor in spirit when no one pushes on my pride. It is easy to talk about mourning when I am not actually mourning. It is easy to act meek when everyone is polite. It is easy to be a peacemaker when everyone agrees with me. It is easy to talk about persecution when I'm not actually suffering at all in any way. I should always have recognised the upside-down nature of my citizenship. But it is only in the last two years that I've really begun to feel it.

I am not a citizen of Canada. The rights that I have heretofore enjoyed have changed. Maybe they have changed forever, I don't know. But when I am brutally honest with myself, none of that has affected my citizenship in Christ. Nor does it affect the rights and responsibilities I have toward my King. I am still fully free to follow him.

Do the pandemic restrictions make me uncomfortable? Do I wish they weren't so? Do they sadden me, stress me, and make me feel miserable and anxious at times? Do I hate them? Unequivocably yes. But do any of them prevent me from living as a citizen of Christ? Before God, no. In fact, in these days of rage and hostility, my living as a citizen of Christ, should I manage to do it to any degree, could even be a light in the darkness of anger and fear that I see around me. But oh, how it chafes. How the shoes rub with every step I take.

"They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country -- a heavenly one" (Hebrews 11:13-15).

May that heavenly country come with haste.