Teach us to weep

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Jen Michel’s book Teach Us to Want remains a highlight of my reading in the past few years. What does it mean to want things as a Christian? Is it okay to desire things, or to have ambition? What place (if any) do those have in the life of faith?

This past weekend I got to hear Jen speak, and she reminded us of both the caution of desire (we should be wary of wanting, because we want wrongly, willfully, and dangerously); as well as the call of desire (because wanting lies at the heart of prayer, and transformation, and discipleship as we learn to want what God wants). Jen’s words are soul-mingling with a number of other voices of late: Paul E Miller’s practical and profound insights in A Praying Life, the beautiful paths of spiritual formation mapped out in the novel Sensible Shoes, as well as the wise mentoring of Ruth Haley Barton in her podcast Strengthening the Soul of your Leadership.

What do we want? What do we hope for? What do we pray for? And how do we cope with the glaring gaps between what we hope and pray for, and the grueling realities of how life sometimes is? How do we discern where God is at work, and what he has for us in each of these? What happens if we wanted and desired good things, and they were withheld or lost?

I have a journal full of questions and confessions and thoughts that have no place on this blog, but I do want to share this one thing, because perhaps you’re wading through some deep waters, too:

There is no path to spiritual wholeness that does not walk through the rocky terrain of grief and lament.

I’m learning to grieve. Right alongside, “Teach me to want, Lord”, I’m praying “teach me to weep”. Teach me how to notice and name the losses and disappointments of this life, and to lay each of these before you. Teach me to feel the hard feelings. Teach me to process pain in your presence.

Grief is not only a feeling we feel with the loss of loved ones. It’s what we feel when we lose anything: friendships or dreams or hopes or the change in a situation. There are good things about each life stage, and when change happens (even for good reasons!), there is still some grief we feel in losing what we had before. Noticing it. Naming it. Calling out the elephant in the room… or prayer closet as the case may be.

My friend Alastair Roberts made an insightful observation about the role feelings play in our spiritual lives: we are not to be ruled by our emotions, but we are not to be dismissive of them, either. Instead, the Psalms teach us to attend to our feelings: to notice them, listen to them (for our emotions, like our minds and our bodies, each give us some information about the world and ourselves), and respond appropriately.

I can have all the “God is good and God is sovereign” theology firmly tucked under my proverbial Belt of Truth and Breastplate of Righteousness… but all of that does not muscle out the fact that sometimes, my heart still hurts, and disappointments still come. It is true that we can say, with Paul, that “in all these things (including death! disease! disappointment!) we are more than conquerors through Christ Jesus who loved us” (Romans 8)… and at the SAME TIME to acknowledge that we feel hard-pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down (2 Corinthians 4:9).

“Why are you so downcast within me, O my soul?” asks the Psalmist.

And then he lists the ways. There is no fast forwarding to hope. Joy may come in the morning, but sometimes there’s still a long night to endure before then. In truth, I think sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do in a situation is to cry.

I made a list of all the things I’m sad about right now: not a prayer list asking for help. Just a “I’m sad” list. This is not the kind of list I would have thought it was okay to write in a journal, but I’m learning that there’s a good and right place for lament.

Teach us to weep, O Lord. May all our longings be laid before you, all our sighs heard by you; and in time, would you lift our heads.

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3 thoughts on “Teach us to weep”

  1. Great post, Bronwyn. Learning to grieve well is a vital part of spiritual growth.

    I have found, in the process of dying, that I no longer grieve for myself. I’ve lost hopes, dreams, relationships, and a future. I’m in constant pain, constant nausea, and am frequently incontinent in the nastiest way. I haven’t left the property in six months. It hurts too much to ride in a car.

    But I feel no resentment, and no real sense of loss. It i as it must be, and the choice before me is a simple one: to cry out to God in despair, or to attend to those things I can still do.

    And so many people in the world have it worse. True, I’m cut off from medical care for financial reasons (the Affordable Care Act is a sick joke), but little of my physical and psychic pains were caused with malice aforethought. Some were, but think of the people who are routinely tortured for their faith, or their gender, or because they simply were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

    I have the opportunity to appreciate each moment, because it could be my last. This is not a kind of Zen-anesthetic; it’s a real understanding that all of the moments of my life were and ARE individual gifts, not seeds to be planted for some future harvest. Each moment is full and mature in itself, and cannot be either hoarded or traded.

    I’m terribly fortunate, really, and I save my sorrow for those who are in straits more dire than mine.

  2. This is so good. And hard. And important. And hard again. I just bought Michael Card’s “A Sacred Sorrow: Reaching out to God in the Lost Language of Lament” as a supplemental read for a class. I am hoping to learn a thing or two about this myself.
    When we lost sweet Shiloh (our baby #3) I couldn’t dismiss my sadness (dismissal would have been my strong preference) so I poured it out to Jesus in a way I hadn’t before. Grief fiercely sucks. It’s freaking brutal. But there’s something sacred that happens in weeping and lament.
    Thanks for posting, friend! 🙂

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