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.
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