A Grief Observed

In his book A Christianity Worth Believing, Doug Pagitt responds to the claim he's heard for years, namely that feelings and circumstances should occupy no place of honor in the life of a disciple of Jesus simply because they are transitory and cannot be trusted to partially or fully convey anything that has to do with the God we follow: "What is the point of a Christianity that doesn't involve our circumstances? The Bible is full of stories that are about faith lived out in particular circumstances. I got into Christianity because I wanted it to interfere with my circumstances. They have everything to do with faith."

When Judy died, Jessica bore the brunt of the gracious litany that demanded she not fall prey to the the tsunami of despair and hopelessness that rushed onto the shores of her heart as she "dealt with" the death of her mother. Time and again she was admonished to trust God, to hold out hope for a better tomorrow. As I listened to all of this, I was struck by the sheer audacity of it all: who are these people to deny my wife's tears? Who are they to think that they will not have to deal with her grief if they can get her to do the same? How can they possibly think that there is a single scrap of good theology in adopting a stoic stance and acting as if denying God-given emotions is a hallmark of spiritual maturity?

Jessica defied all of these expectations not for the sake of playing the rebel but for the sake of reality and for the sake of healing. I've watched her dive into the chasms of her own sadness and read the grief of her heart like they were lines of poetry written by the finger of God himself. I've listened to her question the care of God, doubt the well-meaning but seriously misplaced words and intentions of his people. I've seen her embrace the onslaught of her grief only to come out with more doubts, more fears, more questions, and more burdens.

And more faith. In the middle of all of this, she has come through with a vision of God who cuts and comforts, a God who wounds and heals, a God who shares the darkness and confusion of our sorrow.

Paul said to grieve, but not without hope. While his words to the Thessalonians are as timeless now as they were two millenia ago, it is the last half of that verse that many gravitate towards: have hope. Absolutely. The resurrection of Jesus means that my wife's tears will one day be wiped away as her resurrected body stands beside those of her Saviour and her mother. Oh, my wife has hope.

But, until that day, she will also carry on with the first half of Paul's admonition: she will grieve. How can she not? How can she deny the gaping hole, the mother-shaped absence in her heart? How can Jessica not miss her best friend, the one whose very blood flows through her veins, whose voice rings out in her laugh, and whose motherly love lives on as Jessica cares for our five-year-old son?

Jessica's life has not changed. Her circumstances surrounding the loss of her mother have not changed, and they never will on this side of the veil. But they have embraced wholeheartedly the gospel of loneliness, hurt, and despair. Yes, the gospel is full of those things. Or do you only see a smiling face when you look at the cross?

A Christmas Song

Two stanzas from one of my favorite Christmas songs. Longfellow expresses the despair I sometimes feel when I take a moment to look beyond myself, but I more than love how he offers a polemic against this as he combines the Easter hope with the Christmas promise.

"I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

And in despair I bowed my head:
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, not doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men."

Merry Christmas.

The Broken Heart of Worship

I am sometimes struck by the disparity between my church's hymnal and that of the Bible (the Psalms). We come together every Sunday to sing of God's unfathomable love, care, and kindness. As a body of believers, we lift up the name of God and tell the old, old story, sharing with one another through the medium of music that there is none like God. He is a Father who carefully watches over his children, and we are to delight in his name. That, according to what I hear, is the heart of worship---unadulterated joy in the presence of God.

The disparity comes in what scholars call songs of lament. They are far from rare; roughly 1/4 of the 150 psalms fall into this category. In a song of lament, the penitent will rage against God throughout the course of the song but eventually ends on a note of hope, trust, and confidence. God has pulled through (or he is about to), and all is well.

Not so with Psalm 88. Here is a man who points the finger of blame at God for all the evil that has befallen him. He counts himself as a dead man (vv. 1-9), and it's God's fault. To make matters worse, God can do nothing for the dead (vv. 10-12). That's not going to stop this man, however, from petitioning and blaming God (vv. 13-18). And the song ends. No hope. No faith. Nothing but a broken heart. And worship. The heart of the worshiper here is not full of of joy and trust concerning God---it is mired in sadness, despair, hurt, and hopelessness. It doubts the promises of God and feels that the darkness has won. God has forgotten him (or so he feels).

Granted, this is the exception rather than the rule among songs of lament, and someone may well say that we are not intended to stay in such a place. That does not, however, excuse us from examining, and dare I say perhaps living out, the implications of this psalm. Sometimes, life just beats the daylights out of us, and it seems like the enemy, the world, and maybe even God himself is set against us. He stays an arm's length from us in our distress, is deaf to our prayers, and seems to have singled us out to be an object of his wrath. Worship God, in the words of a friend, by raking him over the coals.

But surely God isn't honored by such foolishness. Shouldn't we just grow up? Shouldn't we just trust that this is "all for the best?" To allow oneself to be overcome by an emotional tidal wave reveals how shallow one's faith really is, right? So I've heard from those who know better. And sometimes their voices (always well-meaning, I must admit) drown out the wailing of the Scriptures. Sometimes, those voices demand that I not bare my broken heart in the presence of God (he might not like that, you know).

But God allows it, all the same. Why? Why would he allow such a thing? Why would he allow his children, who are supposed to love and trust him at all times, to come before him and wrench in pain at his feet all in the name of worship? Why would he allow the created to take issue with the Creator?

Because he knows that he's our only hope. Do we?