When My Little Boy Got the Swine Flu: Learning to Lament

On Wednesday of last week, I put on Twitter that I experienced a “Lenten miracle.”

“What was that miracle?” you say.

I finished my sermon early. That might not feel so miraculous to you, but I’ve struggled to complete a sermon before Saturday most weeks over the last year because we’ve been short-staffed, and pastoral attention is spread thin.

But I had to finish early because I traveled to Philadelphia at the end of the week for a conference with other pastors. The conference was before everything was being canceled because of the pandemic—or I should say during when everything was being canceled. I say this because as announcements were made nationally and at the state level by our governor, you could see and feel the attention of all the pastors in the room shift to our vibrating phones.

The Fear of Being Helpless

Our church, like all churches, has members with different levels of fear on the one end and skepticism on the other. I’m sympathetic to both. But I keep thinking about November of 2009. I got the swine flu, and so did my eighteen-month-old son. I was a fulltime seminary student, and I worked nearly fulltime in the construction industry too. We didn’t have a ton of money. I was afraid. The news told me people were dying, especially children and the elderly. A classmate was a former physician. I begged him to write a prescription for Tamiflu which was being rationed. I couldn’t focus on lectures or work, always thinking about what would happen to my little boy and fearing the worst.

I don’t feel that same fear now, but I pastor some who do.

Because I finished the sermon early on Wednesday, when it came time to preach it to a video camera on Saturday afternoon so we could share it on Sunday morning (another first for us), looking over my message felt odd. I wrestled with whether to set everything written aside and start a new sermon from scratch or to simply preach it as written. The world had changed so much in just a few days. In the end, I chose something of a middle road. We continued our sermon series: “How Long, O Lord? Learning the Language of Lament.” As our church journeys toward Good Friday and Easter, we are preaching through several of what are called Psalms of Lament. We couldn’t have planned it better.

I Find the Psalms Difficult to Read

I wonder if there are parts of the Bible that you read with more ease. Perhaps when you read certain parts of the Bible, twenty or thirty minutes go by without difficulty. Maybe the passionate gospel logic from the book of Romans captivates you. Or perhaps the parables of Jesus arrest your attention. Or maybe you love the Old Testament narratives, as in the book of Esther. You love reading about the hidden hand of divine providence that orchestrates events, turning the heart of the king toward his wife and the good of God’s people, which, by the way, is a helpful reminder for right now: God’s hiddenness does not indicate the absence of his power.

Some of you feel this way about the Psalms. I hear you talk about them this way. “When things are wonderful,” you say, “I read the Psalms.” “When things are hard,” you say, “I read the Psalms.” That’s good. I admire those of you who feel this way. I confess that I find the Psalms the most difficult of all portions of Scripture for me to read and enjoy. I’ve tried to think about why. I have a few ideas.

I think I’ve struggled to read and enjoy the Psalms because my method of Bible reading does not cooperate well with the genre of the Psalms. Reading four chapters every day as I make my yearly revolution from Genesis to Revelation, doesn’t allow enough time to go deep with each Psalm.

I’ll put it like this. You can drive your car to church on the highway in sixth gear. But if you want to back up out of your driveway, sixth gear is not so helpful. You need reverse. You need to gently tap the brake pedal as you cycle your eyes through your mirrors and glance over your shoulder, constantly adjusting the steering wheel. The Psalms are like reverse. The Psalms demand individual attention. They demand time. They demand a lingering and contemplative approach. This is true of the whole Bible, but especially when reading the Psalms because each new chapter of the Psalms is like beginning a new short story with a new author, new plot, new characters, new struggles.

When the Academic and Theoretical Becomes Experiential

In Psalm 38, which was our passage last week, the author says in verse 2, “For your arrows have sunk into me, / and your hand has come down on me.” In our piety, we would likely be inclined to say, “For it seems like your arrows have sunk into me, / and it seems like your hand has come down on me.” But the Psalms encourage us not to be so tidy with language. Psalms of Lament come from the gut. We shout Psalms of Lament with vocal cords warn raw from groaning. In this way, the Psalms of Lament are best studied not under a microscope while we wear a white lab coat, but rather in sackcloth with dust and ash on our heads. Biblical laments are learned by fathers with an open Bible and a toddler who can’t stop vomiting.

I am not thankful that some in our congregation feel helpless and afraid. But given where we are, I am thankful that this Lent season we have a chance to slow down, a chance to linger over just one Psalm each week. When we began planning a sermon series called “Learning the Language of Lament,” I never expected that our “learning” would be so experiential. God knew better.

* Photo by Nik Shuliahin on Unsplash

To Lament Is Christian

The language of lament is sprinkled throughout the Bible but tends to show up with high density in the Psalms. Consider Psalm 13 authored by David, which opens with the question “How long, O Lord?” Perhaps not so provocative of a statement. But the next lines ask, “Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? . . . How long shall my enemy be exalted over me? (vv. 1–2). These questions appear more like accusations than interrogatives. You have forgotten me. You have hidden your face from me.

We also read of laments in other parts of Scripture than the Psalms. As he reflects on all the occupational hazards associated with being a prophet, Jeremiah tells God he felt duped into the ministry. “O Lord, you have deceived me, and I was deceived,” he says. “You are stronger than I, and you have prevailed” (20:7). One pastor paraphrased this as, “Lord, you sweet-talked me into the ministry,” not meaning the sweet talk of a lover but of a seducer.

Mark Vroegop notes in his book Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy that laments are far more than rants addressed to God, the equivalent of unbridled Facebook outbursts to anyone who will listen, or worse, the vomiting of emotions into the void. Biblical laments are strictly crafted poems and thus have other elements too, most notably what Vroegop describes as “the turn.” The turn is that moment in the psalm when the author moves from expressing his emotions to asking for help and asserting his faith in the goodness and sovereignty of God despite persistent suffering and lingering questions. We see this, for example, in Psalm 13, when after questioning how long God will allow an enemy to be exalted above him, the psalmist turns to declare, “But I have trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation” (v. 5). Though all around his soul gives way, he anchors his hope in God.

This is important because it’s actually this very progression, the progression through words of despair to words of hope, that God is often pleased to bring us from despair to hope, from rage to rest. This is why J.A. Medders calls laments underground tunnels to hope.

Last year I wrote a review of Vroegop’s book for 9Marks, but in the review, I neglected to share one of my favorite aspects of the book: the short, propositional statements he uses to define lament. Over and over he writes, “Lament is ________.” In one place, Vroegop argues that to lament, in the biblical sense of the word, is distinctly Christian. He says this because it takes faith in God to trust him to hear our pain. Giving God the silent treatment, a distinctly un-Christian approach, is saying that God can’t be trusted with honest anger.

Our church is studying the Psalms of Lament throughout Lent, the time leading up to Good Friday and Easter. In preparation for the series, I reread Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy. I’d encourage you to read this excellent book too.

Below is a little taste of most (but not all) of the book’s short, propositional sentences that I love so much.

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Lament is how you live between the poles of a hard life and trusting in God’s sovereignty. (p. 21)

Lament is how we bring our sorrow to God. Without lament we won’t know how to process pain. (p.21)

Lament is how Christians grieve. It is how to help hurting people. Lament is how we learn important truths about God and our world. My personal and pastoral experience has convinced me that biblical lament is not only a gift but also a neglected dimension of the Christian life for many twenty-first-century Christians. (p. 21)

Christianity suffers when lament is missing. (p. 21)

But lament is different. The practice of lament—the kind that is biblical, honest, and redemptive—is not as natural for us, because every lament is a prayer. A statement of faith. Lament is the honest cry of a hurting heart wrestling with the paradox of pain and the promise of God’s goodness. (p. 26)

To cry is human, but to lament is Christian. (p. 26)

Lament is a prayer in pain that leads to trust. (pp. 28, 158)

You might think lament is the opposite of praise. It isn’t. Instead, lament is a path to praise as we are led through our brokenness and disappointment. (p. 28)

You might think lament is the opposite of praise. (p. 28)

Lament is not a simplistic formula. Instead, lament is the song you sing believing that one day God will answer and restore. Lament invites us to pray through our struggle with a life that is far from perfect. (p. 34)

Lament is a prayer that leads us through personal sorrow and difficult questions into truth that anchors our soul. (p. 34)

Lament is how we learn to live between the poles of a hard life and God’s goodness. (p. 36)

Lament is the language of a people who believe in God’s sovereignty but live in a world with tragedy. (p. 44)

Lament is an expansive prayer language. It can be your companion through a wide spectrum of struggles and challenges. (p. 65)

Lament is how we endure. It is how we trust. It is how we wait. (p. 74)

Lament is not merely an expression of sorrow; it is a memorial. (p. 90)

Lament is a place to learn. (p. 91)

Lament is a journey through the shock and awe of pain. (p. 96)

Lament is the song we sing while living in a world that is under the curse of sin. (p. 99)

Lament is an uncomfortable yet helpful teacher. (p. 100)

Lament is one of the ways that a heart is tuned toward God’s perspective. (p. 103)

Lament is the language of those stumbling in their journey to find mercy in dark clouds. (p. 108)

Lament is a prayer of faith despite your fear. (p. 110)

Lament is the language that moves us from our sorrow toward the truth of God’s promises. (p. 119)

Lament is the language that calls us, as exiles, to uncurl our fingers from our objects of trust. (p. 123)

Lament is the song you sing when divine blessing seems far away. (p. 136)

Lament is the prayer language for these gaps. It tells you where to look and whom to trust when pain and uncertainty hang in the air you breathe. (p. 142)

Lament is the language of a people who know the whole story—the gospel story. (p. 151)

Lament is the historic prayer language for hurting Christians. (p. 159)

Lament is more than a biblical version of the stages of grief (i.e., denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance). It invites God’s people on a journey as they turn to God, lay out their complaints, ask for his help, and choose to trust. (p. 160)

Lament is the prayer language for those who are struggling with sadness. (p. 162)

Lament is a means of grace, no matter what trial you face. (p. 170)

Lament is the personal song that expresses our grief while embracing God’s goodness. Everyone has a story. Lament is never a song you set out to sing. (p. 172)

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not naive enough to believe that lament is the single solution for racial tension. There is much work to be done in listening, understanding, addressing injustice, and fostering hope. But I do think lament is a starting point—a place where people from majority and minority backgrounds can meet. (p. 186)

Lament is the bridge between dark clouds and deep mercy. (p. 190)

Lament is the language that helps you believe catastrophe can become eucatastrophe. (p. 192)

Lament is the language of waiting for God’s justice to be accomplished. . . . [L]ament is the way we live with pain beyond belief and divine sovereignty beyond comprehension. (p. 192)

No matter where we are in our journey, lament is a means of mercy. Lament is how you move from no to yes, and from why to who. (p. 194)

* Photo by SamuelMartins on Unsplash