It doesn’t seem to matter where I go; the format is almost always the same. We start with a song or two that overflow with phrases about God’s victory over sin and our unshakeable faith. Depending on the service, there may be some liturgy recitations, and there’s usually a prayer. This is followed by a scripture reading where sometimes the narrative is simple and joyful, and sometimes it’s a melancholy, tangled-up set of verses written by someone who struggled. Regardless of how complicated the passage is, however, the preacher always manages to detangle it in 15-25 minutes. We reach a satisfying conclusion in time for the altar call.
Then, we walk out of the room into our messy human world. We return to the painful aspects of our lives that cannot be neatly solved in 15-25 minutes. These are aspects of our lives that are sometimes brushed over in church in favor of messages of positivity. They may be mentioned at the beginning of the sermon, but only as a low point to start from, so that we can all be assured that God’s “got us” by the end. I don’t think that we make enough space during services to lament the things that are hurting us.
Is it crazy to say that I don’t want every sermon to be tied up in a big, uplifting, hopeful bow? That I don’t always want worship songs that focus on how happy and confident Christians are supposed to be? That I’d like to have more room to grieve?
A 2019 study published in Verbum et Ecclesia and titled “The importance of lament in pastoral ministry” claims that there is good reason for this feeling. Practices of lament have declined in churches and Christian institutions, particularly in the Western Protestant denominations. The study points to a fear of “a culture of complaint” as a strong reason for this decline. However, as the study showed, practicing lament can “help the individual find healing (social, physiological and spiritual), promote a more socially aware community and help church members gain a better understanding of the nature of the Christian life and the character of God.” Practicing alone is helpful, but there is a lot to be said for practicing lament together as a way of building community and forming deeper connections.
There are also many Biblical examples of lament being a vital and meaningful Christian tradition. The Psalms, for example, include plenty of examples of ecstatic, awe-filled joy. It also includes verses like Psalm 88:14, which says, “Lord, why castest thou off my soul? Why hidest thou face from me?” We read in Matthew that Jesus’s final words were cries from someone who felt forsaken. We have an entire book in the Bible, in fact, called Lamentations. There is a strong historical precedent for practicing lament today, and practicing it far more than most of us do.
I’m tired of churches that spend more time reassuring us that our pain will reach a happy conclusion than they spend acknowledging the actual pain. I’m tired of anger, pain and doubt being used as the means to reach an uplifting end to the sermon. I want sermons that sit in the painful parts of our lives and do not run towards a perfect answer. I want to sing worship songs in a minor key, and I want the lyrics to be sorrowful. I want to mourn in community with others, and I want to tell God of my wrongdoings, and then I want the service to end. I want to lament in Christian spaces.
This is not to say that all that I want to do in services for the rest of my life is feel sorrowful. I love hearing about the good that God has done in people’s lives, and I love hymns that are joyful. Without the traditions of lamenting the bad, however, I think we lose some authenticity in our modern practices.
Sometimes, I would like someone to stand at the podium and say that they’re hurt right now. That they’re angry right now. That they’re grieving right now. And that it probably won’t be resolved in the next 20 minutes.
