lament
oh lord we need a psalmist
I’m not even sure this post is wise. I haven’t thought about it much. Though I have been thinking a lot about its subject lately—the last few days, few weeks, several months, you know, the usual amount of time you put into these things. There is a collective hunger for lament in so many of the conversations I have, tables at which I sit, rooms where I listen—a craving for the psalmist to pop up in our midst and cry out for us.
In our pastoral theology class, we were asked to write a psalm of lament. We used the guidelines in John Swinton’s Raging With Compassion, a book I recommend because you will almost certainly be moved by some parts and want to yell at Swinton in other parts. I’ll provide other resources for lament below my psalm because you will need them, too. I wrote this psalm quickly, because it brought up too many questions to stop for even a second to consider them without veering so far off course that I end up trapped in some run on sentence like this. Lament, below:
God, are you as angry as I am? Can you feel my helplessness, hear my sighs of despair? God, my Creator, do you see where I struggle between what I believe myself to be and what I want to be able to do? God, the Christ, do you, in your humanity, know what it is to feel tension in your fascia? God, the Spirit, are you there around and within me as my gut aches, as my solar plexus tightens when I can feel terror in the hearts of my neighbors near and far?
I hear children screaming in Gaza, Lord, wailing for loved ones they will not find whole. Men are dying alone, in the dark, weeping and gasping. There is the stench of death in the air and the dust and shrapnel of destruction wafting out of a place that is here, here in God’s creation, sharing space with us. We see it on our tiny screens, every single day, and yet it continues. We ache, and yet it continues. We feel, with every fiber, and yet it continues. Am I mistaken, am I crazy to think that there are people who can change this? Their actions do not match my outrage. I know (I know, dear Lord) that I am part of a grove of aspen trees, a singular organism that only presents as distinct, self-reliant individuals above the ground, but whose health, whose entire being, is connected and not individual at all. And still—I believe the lies that I am one single person.
That I feel this shows me that you are here, Lord. That I can still hug my children and hope that the warmth flows with haste to others helps me know that you are present and that all is not lost. My confidence in my own strength, even in my own belief, may waver, but your gift of faith continues to hold me, without ceasing. You are love. You are love here, and where there is utter destruction, and where there is no hope, you are love there, too.
God, I say with love and with anger: make it stop. Give our leaders moral courage. Move their stumbling blocks. Awaken our aspen roots and show us how to move with our communities to save lives and end suffering. Show us the cracks to widen and the wounds to heal. Turn our doubt to dust. Save the bodies and spirits of those who are tortured, and bring those who torture, through their action or inaction, to repentance.
I have seen your goodness beyond goodness. I have felt your arms carrying me through faith when I wallowed in disbelief. I have heard your comforting voice reverberating in the darkest of places. I love you, God, with the power of your own love. Thank you for hearing my plea and for answering my cries.
Resources for lament:
How to Write a Lament and a Lament Table Liturgy - The Ignatian Journey
“The Costly Loss of Lament” - Walter Brueggemann (many thanks to my professor Rev. Madeline Hawley for the recommendation and instruction!)
Walking in the Wilderness - Beth A. Richardson (I haven’t read, but comes recommended.)
“Awaken our aspen roots and show us how to move with our communities to save lives and end suffering. Show us the cracks to widen and the wounds to heal. Turn our doubt to dust.” Thank you, friend.