The Courage To Lament

“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” — Psalm 13:1

“The only whole heart is a broken one, because it is open.” — Margaret Becker

Some time ago, when I was on sabbatical in Edinburgh, I had a moment when the grief of all the losses I'd experienced over the past several years became too much to bear.  

I'd been holding everything inside, trying to intellectualize it all based on my own knowledge of pastoral counseling, psychology, and the like--twenty years of experience, in fact.  

I'd been in talk therapy for years, attended Al-Anon faithfully, and even worked with a life coach. I was covering all the bases, but hadn't yet had the breakthrough I was seeking.   

In the end, it took hearing a song while I was getting ready for a day of exploring (a song that seemingly had absolutely nothing to do with any of it) to trigger an outpouring of grief, rage, sorrow, and bitterness to come rushing to the surface. 

I've thought a lot about that moment, and I still don't fully understand why that particular song was the catalyst; however, I do know that it was time for something to break, and it did.  

I ended up crying uncontrollably for nearly forty-five minutes, alternately railing at God and begging for God's presence to give me peace.  When it finally ended, I lay on my hotel room bed wrung out, exhausted, but also feeling a sense of relief that I hadn't felt in years.  

And I learned something about what it means to lament, and how sometimes that lamenting can be the only thing left for us to do to begin charting a new way forward after being wracked by grief.      

You see, there are moments when faith begins not with confidence but with a cry. We were taught to bring God our praise, but Scripture also teaches us to bring our pain. 

 The psalms are full of raw honesty: anger, grief, abandonment, bewilderment. And yet, in that honesty lies the beginning of healing.

Lament is the language of those who refuse to give up on a relationship with God, even when they can’t feel God's presence. 

 It says, “I still believe You are there, or I wouldn’t be talking.” The absence of lament in much of modern faith isn’t a sign of maturity—it’s a sign of fear. We are afraid to appear ungrateful or weak. But God would rather hear our anger than our silence.

In lament, we turn our wounds toward the light. We name injustice, loss, and longing before the One who can bear it all. Walter Brueggemann once wrote that lament “is an act of bold faith precisely because it insists that the world must be made right.” The lamenter believes that what is, is not what must be.

When Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus, and then over Jerusalem during his week of Passion, He joined the long chorus of the broken-hearted faithful. When He cried out from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He sanctified every human cry that has ever risen in the dark.

To lament, then, is not to lose faith but to live it. It is trusting that God is still listening, still near, still tender with those who dare to speak their truth through their tears.

Prayer:
God who hears our cries,
teach us to bring You what hurts.
Meet us in our sorrow with mercy,
and remind us that our tears are prayers You understand.
Hold us in the dark until light returns.
Amen.

Reflection Questions:

1. What have you been reluctant to bring honestly before God?

2. How might lament be an act of trust rather than doubt?

3. When have you experienced God’s presence most clearly in sorrow?