The Art of Lament

We’re a couple of weeks into Lent. Lent is the 40 days (minus Sundays) between Ash Wednesday and Easter. The basic idea of Lent is to step back from life and to refocus/realign yourself back to a faithful following after of Christ. Typically, Lent is thought of as a time of fasting, prayer, and alms-giving.

I’m praying more and I’m fasting – or maybe abstaining is a better way of saying it – from some things. Something that I have added is an online book study.

The book that we are reading is “Prophetic Lament: A Call for Justice in Troubled Times” by Soong-Chan Rah.  

As you know, if you have been reading any of my writing, I have been really mulling over the idea of brokenness in my life and brokenness in general. And so, when someone I respect recommended this online book study, I jumped at the opportunity. It seemed like a good fit.

And it has been. Here are a couple quotes from the book that I have read so far:

“Lament in the Bible is a liturgical response to the reality of suffering and engages God in the context of pain and trouble. The hope of lament is that God would respond to human suffering that is wholeheartedly communicated through lament.”

“Petition arises out of lament. The one who suffers brings the appropriate petition in view of the experience of lament. Praise, therefore, can seem hollow when neither lament nor petition has been sufficiently offered.”

Along with reading the book, we are also reading Lamentations. And let me tell you something. Reading the book of Lamentations is not the most exciting thing in the world. But! I’m reading it with a new appreciation than I did when I started this study group.

So, let’s talk about lament for a minute.

                   

We, as people, are problem-solvers. When things aren’t going well we isolate the problem, strategize an appropriate solution, and then attack it.

This isn’t all bad.

But, it disallows honesty. Honesty demands lament. Lament is such a dramatic word, so maybe I should say that an honest look at our brokenness, or an honest assessment of a difficult and dark time, demands grieving.

Let’s not rush through the pain. Let’s not rush others through their pain. Instead, let’s be brave in the face of pain. Let’s sit with it. Let’s let it suck the breath out of our lungs. Let’s let ourselves feel the sting.

I’m starting to think that knowing the edges of my brokenness will only be possible when I allow myself to grieve - allow myself to lament.  

From the Knock to the Headlock

I was homeschooled for almost my whole life. The exception was first grade, when I went to a small Christian school.

So many good memories from that time. My teacher, Mrs. Armentrout, was kind but also tough. At least once or twice a day a big second or third grader would knock on the door to have her pull out their loose tooth. She would put them in some sort of headlock and just yank it out. The whole drama, from the knock to the headlock to seeing big kids cry, was terrifying and awesome.

My childhood best friend, Jeremy Gray, was in my class. We were the coolest.

There was a kid whose last name was Neff. I always pretended it was Nerf. The most beautiful girl in the world was in my class. She was my first crush, but I don’t think she ever knew who I was. There was a girl with the last name Ziggafoos. We always laughed about her last name cause it was funny cool.

I was the third fastest boy in the whole first grade. Depending on everyone else’s lifestyles the past 30 years, I imagine I’m still top three.

I remember painting a tree in art class. I remember the art teacher showing my mom the painting. My mom and I disagree on what the teacher said, but I interpreted the whole conference being about my lack of artistic ability. I took it to heart.

A couple years later I checked out a library book called, “Draw 50 Cars…” It had step by step instructions on how to draw cars and other vehicles. I thought this was a surefire way to become an artist. My finished product was decipherable as a VW Bug, but that’s about it. My younger brother, Paul, would look over my shoulder and follow the steps. His vehicles always looked awesome.

And so I hung up my paintbrushes, pencils, and my dream of being a tree-drawer.

It’s funny. But, it’s actually an area that I lack confidence and feel a bit insecure about. If asked I say, “No, I’m not artistic.” Every once in a while I will try to sketch something out, but it goes downhill once the idea leaves my mind and enters the page.

I’ve been thinking about my brokenness recently. I’ve been asking God to show me ways in which I’m broken. This memory popped into my head a couple of days ago after an encounter with a less-than-friendly art teacher at work. It is not that my lack of ability, or my insecurity about art is a way that I am broken. Rather, it is a symptom that points back to the real broken.

You know what the beautiful part of discovering, identifying, and exploring your brokenness is?

A few things that come to mind are:

being able to better relate to others

letting go of self-inflated pictures of yourself

and finding ways to be okay with the broken.

I think I’m gonna go find a tree. And maybe I’ll write about how beautiful it is - cause I sure as heck can’t draw its beauty! 

The Bread, The Cup, and Fresh Pluke.

I have to tell you something to you. Before last Sunday morning I hadn’t taken communion for a long time. I am hesitant to put an exact time on it, but it’s been awhile.

Reason being, there’s this little phrase in 1 Cor. that stops me. “Unworthy manner.” I grew up in a tradition where communion was taken seriously. I grew up in a tradition that put a lot of emphasis on all the unworthy manners.

And to be honest, I haven’t felt very worthy for a while. I’d given into the fear that the consequences of taking communion improperly were worse than the possible blessings of taking it properly.

For the longest time my love for Jesus has been the artificial love that someone has to feel for the family of the person that donated a life-saving organ.

But slowly, slowly my understanding of Jesus has been changing.        

There is this joke. The joke must always be told in the car, and it can only be told on car rides that are over 2 hours. The reason for this is because the joke takes nearly 30 minutes to tell. The joke-teller leads their listeners on a glorious goose-chase of many highs and lows, and when it is all said and done the punchline is this, “Pluke!”

The reactions of the listeners vary between eye-rolls, anger expressed through punched shoulders, and maybe, just maybe, one of the listeners enjoyed the joke. They wouldn’t have enjoyed it for its ending, but they would have enjoyed it for the intricacies of the storytelling. I love that joke.

I can imagine walking through a field with Jesus and the boys. They grab a couple heads of wheat for a snack as I’m telling the joke, and everyone is along for the ride. I deliver the punchline and several disciples throw wheat at me. John punches me in the shoulder. Peter lashes me with his tongue. And Jesus? Jesus is just grinning. He enjoyed it from beginning to end. Maybe he liked it because he liked stirring the pot as well. Or maybe he liked it so much because he knew how much I enjoyed telling it. Either way, he’s grinning and laughing as we all recover from the joke.

That’s where my understanding of Jesus is taking me these days. Laughing with him, and him approving of who I am.

Now I’m sitting in the pew last Sunday morning, and the announcement is made that we are taking communion later in the service. And, like the last couple of years, I dismiss it. I wasn’t prepared, and to get prepared I would need hours.

But then I imagine Jesus asking me why I’m planning on abstaining.

“I don’t want to be guilty of sinning against your body and blood.”
“What does that mean, anyway?”
“I’m not sure. But the Apostle Paul said it, so I believe it.”

He turns away from me and looks towards the front of the auditorium. I’m watching him, waiting for his response.

He turns back to me, and nods. “Yes, this is a serious thing that you are going to be doing. That is true.” He pauses and rubs at his side. “But do you not want to live in community with me?”

“I do. I do want that.”

Jesus smiles at me, and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Do this in remembrance of me.”

So, I took communion. Not because I am worthy, but because I want community with Jesus.