"Our prayers of lament are acts of faith."
"Our prayers of lament are acts of faith."
These past three days, Christians around the world have recalled once more the sacred mystery of Christ’s passion, death and resurrection. These holiest of days in the Christian calendar bring to mind the most defining truth of our faith—that out of love for sinful man, Christ embraced death and won for us our salvation.
This year’s Holy Week comes at a time of pain and uncertainty as we continue to contend with the on-going coronavirus pandemic. We are restricted not only from gathering in our churches for the familiar Holy Week liturgies and traditions, but more importantly by the sudden surge of coronavirus cases in Metro Manila.
Last week, many Filipinos took to social media to air their grievances and express their frustration over the worsening situation—from sharing painful stories of loss to venting their anger with the government. In fact, it is not too difficult to discern the tears behind the tweets, and the sighs behind the stories.
The Bible is full of similar cries for help. These are the prayers of lament. More than a third of the psalms of David are laments. The Book of Job, for example, beautifully narrates his anguish and grief over his experience of losing everyone and everything that he had. Jeremiah the prophet is believed to have written the Book of Lamentations to describe his distress and confusion not only at seeing the destruction of the temple of Jerusalem and the exile of his nation, but at even suffering persecution from the hands of his very own people.
Even Christ himself cried out in lament to the Father, in that familiar scene in the garden of Gethsemane, when after saying to his disciples, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death” (Matt 26:38), he fells to the ground and uttered in prayer, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will” (Matt 26:38). Finally, hanging on the cross, Christ cries out in pain, the very words of Psalm 22, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
How many of us, these past days, have heard that someone they know has succumbed to the coronavirus infection? How many had to endure the difficulty of getting a family member or friend admitted to a hospital, and in the end having to frustratingly wait for hours before getting the needed medical help? How many of our healthcare frontliners have to continue to work, despite knowing the risk of infecting themselves?
The Scriptures teach us that more than just an intellectual assent to the truths about God, faith is about entrusting our entire selves to him. That is why we turn to in thanksgiving in times of blessings and goodness. In the same way when we feel his absence in our lives, when we are overcome by brokenness, suffering and doubt, we cry to God in prayer for strength and comfort, knowing deep inside us that our relationship with him matters —that it matters to us in like manner that it matters to God.
Far from being a failure of faith, our prayers of lament are acts of faith. When confusion and uncertainty leads to firmer hope, it even becomes a sign that our faith is alive, because doubt is part of the rhythm of faith. While our lament expresses true grief, sorrow, disappointment and regret over the sin and brokenness that has plagued our world—so must it also express hope. Our lament is more than just the expression of sorrow or the venting of emotion. Lament talks to God about pain. It has a unique purpose: Hope. It is an invitation to pour out our fears, frustrations, and sorrows for the purpose of helping us to renew our confidence in God. While we come to God in lament, hurting over how things are not the way they ought to be—or how we want them to be—we do so trusting that he cares about our pain and will never abandon us, and that we will find in him wholeness, comfort and strength.
Imagine the grief and disappointment that the disciples must have experienced during the first Easter morning. Christ, whom they thought to be the Messiah that would liberate their people from the Roman oppressors had just died a criminal’s death. Jesus, who was their companion and friend and whom many of them readily abandoned out of worry and confusion, laid dead in the tomb. In their fear and uncertainty, the disciples locked themselves in the Upper Room to make sense of what just happened in the last three days.
Instead, the disciples sent the women to the tomb to perform the anointing that they omitted in the hastily done funeral. But when Mary Magdalene and the other women got there, all they found was an empty tomb. Then they heard an angel speak to them, “He is not here. He is risen from the dead” (Matt 28:6). Imagine the joy that must fill their heart. Their sorrow gave way to wonder. Their grief to joy. The hope in their lament did not disappoint.
Easter is a reminder that even those things which seem to be the worst of tragedies are not always what they seem. Its message is clear. It is a message of hope. Not hope in the sense that things will eventually work to our favor, but the hope that puts trust in God’s plan. Hope in the fact that God always has a higher purpose. Hope in the fact that God uses pain and suffering and even death as a powerful instrument of salvation.
These are uncertain and unsettling times. Like that first Easter morning, we find ourselves locked in our homes. Many of our churches are still and empty, but our hope is alive—and in our pain and doubt, we continue to bear witness to our faith in Christ, who died and rose again, so too can we hope in his saving love.
Alleluia, Christ is risen! Happy Easter!
