Hopeful Sorrow: Lamenting Your Painਨਮੂਨਾ

Lament Is Countercultural

Social media bombards us with the illusion of perfection. Lament is countercultural in that it challenges the social norm of curating, filtering, and presenting the perfect life for all to see. It’s revolutionary. It’s authentic. And while it falls under Ecclesiastes’ claim that “there is nothing new under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 1:9, CSB), the modern church has somehow lost touch with this ancient song of sorrow in need of resurrection. In a day of deconstructing faith and desperation for authenticity, our world is ripe for lament. The mental health crisis, along with its soaring number of suicides, speaks to the shift that must happen within the church. We are told at church to look on the bright side, silencing us from bemoaning loss and isolating us within our individual stories of sadness, but how can this be God’s way? Under the guise of optimism, or dare I say joy, this disconnected, tone-deaf way of life is reflected through shallow, cheerful prayers. Lament is for those brave and humble enough to forsake prayers of performance for jarring prayers of relationship, for it’s through the shocking language of lament that grief is miraculously juxtaposed by hope, and intimacy with God is forged.

The loss of lament within the church has not helped us grow closer to each other. In fact, it has done the opposite. This travesty nurtures the Enemy’s goal of separated saints losing hope in their sorrow, shrinking away from the very pews they once sat in. Therefore, practicing lament both individually and communally becomes a weapon of hope as we fight for faith together.

The word lament has all but been erased from the vocabulary of the faith community, including worship songs and funeral services. While death opens the door to eternal joy for the Christian, death is still our enemy. And it is right to express anger at its existence, even at the same memorial service deemed a celebration of life. When Lazarus died, Mary ran to Jesus and said, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!” (John 11:32, CSB). As Jesus looked at her, He “was deeply moved in his spirit and troubled” (John 11:33, CSB).

Jesus grieved over the death of Lazarus, as well as the grief his loved ones were experiencing. Jesus displayed emotional maturity through the concoction of emotion he expressed. Our Man of Sorrows felt sadness over loss, anger over the presence of death, and coexisting awe over death being rendered powerless through His upcoming death and resurrection. Jesus feeling simultaneous joy and sorrow, hope and grief, and anger and awe offers us a template to do the same.

When your grief on earth collides with your hope of heaven, it can feel complicated. You know one day your sorrow will end when God wipes away your last tear (Revelation 21:4, CSB), yet that day is not today. The Christian life is one great paradox. As mysterious as God is, we are invited to know Him. He is sovereign and yet allows us to choose salvation. He is loving and has wrath. He is merciful and just, and we live by dying. Being embodied by grief and hope, lament is the language of paradox. We know that Jesus defeated death through His resurrection, yet we live in the tension between grief and glory where people still die. From an eternal perspective, we declare:

“Death has been swallowed up in victory.
Where, death, is your victory?
Where, death, is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:54b–55, CSB)

But while still bound on this earth, we feel the heartbreaking enemy to be the bane of our existence. Yes, death is a gateway into joy everlasting, but on earth our joy is—and will always be—polluted by death and the loss it represents. Therefore, we lament.