Joel D. Kline
November 16, 2003
Highland Avenue Church of the Brethren
The Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost
In my pastoral role I occasionally get asked how I know what to say at those times of overwhelming pain and grief, when words seem so inadequate. You know the times I’m talking about—experiences of uncertainty, times of loss, moments of grief that appears to have no ending. We’ve experienced some of those moments in this congregation in the relatively brief time that I served as pastor: anxious waiting for progress report of a critical surgery of a family member; unanticipated heart problems, or a diagnosis of cancer; the sudden death of a loved one; a protracted time of suffering, as disease slowly takes the life of a family member.
In an article in The Other Side, a journal focusing on justice and discipleship issues, Ann Sill writes of a horrific event impacting the life of her faith community, as Heather, an honors student only months from her college graduation, is killed just days before Christmas as a drunk driver plows into her car. That morning Heather and her family had shared together in congregational worship, lighting the Advent candle. But within hours her life would be violently and meaninglessly wrenched from the rest of her family and community.
In such situations, words fail, and the best we can do is listen to the despair and grief of those who are left behind. We share the suffering of those who are grieving, not nearly so much by the words we speak as simply by our presence with them and our acceptance of their pain.
It must have been an experience of deep woundedness that stands behind the heartfelt cries that flow from the book of Lamentations. Lamentations is a small volume—only five chapters long. But it contains some of the most heart-wrenching writings in the Scriptures, apparently written in the wake of the fall of Jerusalem in 587 B.C.E., a time of deep anguish and pain. “As laments do,” writes Ann Sill, “the poems [in Lamentations] hold God by the collar and call God to account for the reality of death, destruction, violence, sickness, hunger, torture, and abuse. The overall tone is one of communal mourning—Jerusalem speaking for the whole of its people.”
But in the third chapter, an unidentified individual takes over, and there is a shift from communal to personal lament. The writer is one who feels vulnerable, entrapped, cut off, helpless because of the tragic events befalling Jerusalem. “My soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is,” laments the individual, who goes on to bemoan, “Gone is my glory, and all that I had hoped for from the Lord” (3:17-18). It is as if we are overhearing the deepest cries of the heart, the cries of one so overcome with grief that life no longer makes sense.
In the mindset of old, God is held to be responsible for all that happens in human life, both good and ill. And so the lamenter points the finger at God, crying out about God,
[God] has driven and brought me into darkness without any light;
against me alone [God] turns his hand, again and again, all day long…[God] has made my flesh and my skin waste away, and broken my bones;
[God] has besieged and enveloped me with bitterness and tribulation[God] has walled me about so that I cannot escape;
[God] has put heavy chains on me;
though I call and cry for help, [God] shuts out my prayer;
[God] has blocked my ways with hewn stones,
[God] has made my paths crooked (3:2-9).
“The thought of my affliction and my homelessness,” cries the lamenter, “is wormwood and gall!” (3:19)—wormwood, a bitter-tasting plant, being a symbol of extreme calamity and sorrow. Yet in the very midst of this mournful cry, this lashing out against God, there suddenly emerges a very different perspective. The words of lament are followed by radically different reflections. “But this I call to mind,” writes the lamenter, “and therefore I have hope:”
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
God’s mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness (3:21-23).
In spite of all that has happened, the lamenter—and all of Israel—can stake their lives on God’s grace and mercy, God’s compassion and peace. The writer of this poem of lament speaks for us the very dilemma of faith—this question of how we put together our conviction that God is a faithful God, a God of love beyond measure, with the often-agonizing struggles of human life. Where now is God, we are prone to cry in the midst of times of pain and grief.
Roberta Bondi reminds us that “the love of God is characterized by God’s persistence throughout human history in trying to rescue us from our brokenness.” But what happens when we believe intellectually that God is a God of love and compassion, yet in our hearts, when life is crashing down upon us, we are more prone to see God as ogre? Ann Sill writes of conversation with Heather’s father, Tom, who speaks of his trying to physically shake the words of the police officer, bringing word of Heather’s death—literally trying to shake that message out of his head. And then this deeply spiritual yet shattered man tells Ann, “I don’t know any longer if I believe in God, but if the bastard exists, I hope we never meet face to face.” We may not appreciate the language, but who among us has not had times when we’ve wanted to express our pain and fury in similar ways? Do not Tom’s words echo the lament of the psalmist, and indeed of Jesus himself, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Somehow in the very midst of honest and open struggle with God, as modeled by Tom, by the writer of Lamentations, by the psalmist, and even by Jesus, God does in fact become more present to us, more real among us.
In the midst of our times of confusion and even agony, are we not nevertheless drawn back to remember that God is a God of compassionate love and grace? Events happen that we cannot easily make sense of, but somehow we hold to this promise, that God is with us even in our pain. “This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of God never ceases.”
Some years ago Bruce Cockburn wrote a song that includes these words: “One day you’re waiting for the sky to fall/the next you’re dazzled by the beauty of it all.” Dread and delight, despair and hope, anxiety and beauty—these seem to be radical opposites, but perhaps we never really delight in life without knowing firsthand the experience of dread; perhaps we never see the beauty if we have not first lived in the midst of anxious uncertainty; perhaps we can little embrace hope if we have not lived through times of despair. In her article in The Other Side Ann Sill speaks of hope beginning “in the juxtaposition of the two, in the very collision of human despair and God’s love.”
The hope of which the writer of Lamentations speaks is not a hope fully understood, not something the writer fully possesses. Rather, hope comes as gift actively unfolding within him and around him. Hope is not simply a pollyannaish certainty that everything will go our way and turn out well; much more, hope is the conviction that, even in the midst of pain and difficulty, life is worth the risk, regardless of how things turn out. Hope tells us that life is indeed worth the living. Hope strains ahead, sensing what might yet come to be. Hope, as our call to worship affirms, believes that God is able to fashion good even out of fear and evil, that God can bring new life out of hurt and despair, that ultimately goodness and justice and love will prevail. Surely this was the conviction of Martin Luther King, Jr. who spoke of the arm of the moral universe being long, but bending toward justice. This is hope.
C.S. Lewis in his novel Till We Have Faces observes that there are two responses to difficulty, the brittle approach and the flexible approach. To stand firm or to bend. But perhaps we need to fuse the two, to hold fast to our faith while remaining open to new options for the future. Even when we have little or no control over external conditions, can we not retain inner control? And is this not the experience of the lamenter in today’s Scripture lesson, that even as the circumstances surrounding the fall of his beloved homeland seem well beyond his control, nevertheless he can embrace hope and imagine a new world.
Back in the early 1980s, in the days when the system of racial apartheid was still very much the order of the day in South Africa, I recall hearing Allen Boesak speak at Annual Conference. President of the World Alliance of Reformed Churches, Boesak, you may remember, was both an outspoken opponent of the racism that divided his country and an advocate for nonviolent resistance. But it was not always easy to hold fast to his conviction that Christ calls us to the path of nonviolence; it was not always easy to hold fast to a sense of hope. Questioned Boesak,
What do you say when you are called like I was in 1980 to where the first boy to be shot down by the police lay in the street bleeding to death? His mother came running and pushed through the crowd, and as she cried out, “Please let me through. It is my son. I want to speak to him.” And the police officer hit her with his gun butt and shouted at her words that reverberated across the world: “Let the bastard die.” The little boy was ten years old.
In response to his own question, Boesak goes on to say,
In the midst of the pain and anguish and suffering, and in the midst of that anger that eats away at your heart, and in the midst of that sadness that overwhelms you like the waters of the sea, in the midst of so much uncertainty that you do not know what tomorrow will bring, and in the midst of the reality of oppression that will not go away…. In the midst of all that, we shall ask the question, “What is our only comfort in life and in death?” And we shall answer, “In life and in death, we belong, body and soul, not to ourselves but to Jesus Christ, who is Messiah and Lord.”
Does not the writer of Lamentations point us to the same kind of faith and hope? Not the plastic version of faith and hope that would seek to act as if pain and injustice and oppression and fear do not exist, but faith in a God who remains with us unflinchingly in the very midst of our times of despair and rage, a God who is able to absorb in love all the anger and pain we can muster, a God who desires and longs for us to experience so much more than we think we are capable of experiencing, a God whose steadfast love never ceases, whose mercies never come to an end, whose faithfulness is renewed morning by morning by morning by morning!
At those very times when words most fail us, how blessed we are by this God who loves us with a love that will not let us go, who shares with us countless gifts of love. Thanks be to God! Amen.
Spirit of the living God, descend upon our hearts. Touch us with your grace, that we might be grace-full in our relationships with one another. Touch us with your peace, that we might become builders of your kingdom of hope and peace on earth. Touch us with your strength, that we might have the courage to proclaim your goodness and your compassion, your self-giving love and grace.
Spirit of God, we confess that we are frequently bound by fear. Too often we remain silent when we ought to be advocates for justice and compassion; and at other times, when we ought to be silent and listen for your voice and to the voices of our sisters and brothers, we are tempted to fill the silence with too many words. Stoop to our weakness, O divine and mighty Spirit, and grant us your wisdom. Teach us to love you, O God, and our neighbors.
God, we pray for those individuals and families who come to our Soup Kettle; may they find, not only a warm meal, but a caring embrace of your gracious love. We pray for those in our community who are served by the homeless ministry of PADS; may they know the touch of Christ through the loving service of Elgin’s faith community. And we pray, O God, for renewed vision and passion to live out our mission here at Highland Avenue—to be a place where faith is indeed deepened, peace proclaimed, community embraced, new persons welcomed, and neighbors served, all in the compassionate spirit of Jesus.
Hear us now, O God, as we pray for those in special need of your healing touch, that your light and love might enfold them and their families….
God of all creation, maker of the heavens and the earth, maker of each one of us, send your Spirit to sustain and guide us, to renew and empower us, to strengthen and redeem us—and not only we who have gathered here as a community of your people, but indeed, all humanity, and all creation. Grant eyes to see your coming new world, where all shall live as your people in justice, peace, and love, where all shall see your mercies new each day, and where all shall find strength and hope in your faithfulness, O God.
In the gracious spirit of Jesus we pray. Amen.