Since mid-way through Campbell University's Spring Break--with the realization that the effects of spreading cononavirus would be felt worldwide, and the declaration that all law school classes would move to online--I felt a disquieting sense of unease. Some of it had to do with the large number of deaths reported from Italy, some with concerns about our children's work and childcare situations, but otherwise the source and nature of my melancholy remained unfocused.
Unfocused, that is, until I watched this brief (nine-minute) commentary by the pastor of our previous church home, Ruffin Alphin. Since then I have seen others also pinpoint the nature of my mood: grief. Grief for things I have lost, like embodied Sunday worship with our current communion of saints, and grief at the loss of face-to-face contact with my students. And too, grief for the losses of many others whether to death of loved ones, losses of a job or business, or the sense of anomie that comes with "sheltering in place".
But why now? After all, the continuous stream of life in this world provides ample opportunity for grief. Why do I feel grief more now than usual? Of course, usually my losses are run-of-the mill; I've become used to the effects of aging and the imponderable what-ifs of life. And while the world's current losses appear greater than usual, I'm not sure that's the case. After all, death, terrorism, pestilence, famine, and unemployment afflict many millions every day.
Whatever the occasion for grief, what response is appropriate? Drawing from the biblical text, lamentation seems most fitting. Which caused me to recall the conference taught by Michael Card, Recovering the Lost Language of Lament. You can read a brief post with a few of my observations about the conference here. Something I wrote then seems especially apropos now:
* Michael Card, A Sacred Sorrow: Reaching Out to God in the Lost Language of Lament 142 (NavPress 2005). (Emphasis added.)
Unfocused, that is, until I watched this brief (nine-minute) commentary by the pastor of our previous church home, Ruffin Alphin. Since then I have seen others also pinpoint the nature of my mood: grief. Grief for things I have lost, like embodied Sunday worship with our current communion of saints, and grief at the loss of face-to-face contact with my students. And too, grief for the losses of many others whether to death of loved ones, losses of a job or business, or the sense of anomie that comes with "sheltering in place".
But why now? After all, the continuous stream of life in this world provides ample opportunity for grief. Why do I feel grief more now than usual? Of course, usually my losses are run-of-the mill; I've become used to the effects of aging and the imponderable what-ifs of life. And while the world's current losses appear greater than usual, I'm not sure that's the case. After all, death, terrorism, pestilence, famine, and unemployment afflict many millions every day.
Whatever the occasion for grief, what response is appropriate? Drawing from the biblical text, lamentation seems most fitting. Which caused me to recall the conference taught by Michael Card, Recovering the Lost Language of Lament. You can read a brief post with a few of my observations about the conference here. Something I wrote then seems especially apropos now:
Card began by noting that lament exemplified in the Bible is a communal activity; thus, individualized American Christians don't handle grief/sorrow/lament well. Coupled with a religious culture of unrelenting extroverted positivity, lamenting is virtually unknown in White evangelicalism. The Black church in American never lost an appropriate place for lament for obvious reasons.Grief should be acknowledged but should not become a slough of despond. Grief should be turned outward but not weaponized. (Or, need I mention, politicized.) Grief should instead be turned into lamentation. Following the path of Job (and David and Jeremiah and Jesus), we should direct our lamentations to God. Indeed, we should feel the freedom to ask two questions of complaint: God, where are you? God, if you love me, why? We like Job may eventually get answers. Or we may not. Nonetheless, we can live in the hope that all will be made right and our laments will end:
"Behold, I make all things new." (Revelation 21:5) In that moment, we will realize to our great joy that, all along, this journey of lament has been a journey toward the New Jerusalem. ... [Ultimately] we leave our laments and forget once and for all the vocabulary of their pain and the syntax of their sorrows! Lament will become the faithful companion with who we part ways when the journey comes to an end.
But wait. This remains a future destination. It gives reason for hope ... This hope is meant to shape and give meaning to us in the twists and turns of the journey. But the future hope does not cancel out our need to lament now in fact it accentuates our deep need to lament what remains. The promised hope makes the pain of the present journey bearable.*The present practice of our future hope can take many forms, service, thanksgiving(!), and ... even humor(!!). (For some observations about the place of the latter go here for the words of Melissa Baartman Mork.) None will be complete. None will eliminate the grief over which we lament. But all three can help bring us into the presence of our faithful, loving God.
* Michael Card, A Sacred Sorrow: Reaching Out to God in the Lost Language of Lament 142 (NavPress 2005). (Emphasis added.)
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