Is Lamentation Vital To Worship, And To Love?

 

My New Year's Resolution was to be honest. Hang on.

I don't do lamentation (though Barb says I did, long ago). I wander through life like a happy smelly goat, either on my way from trouble, or on my way to it. This doesn't overlook the really hard pain and nausea of where cancer is now, but I'm ok with it all, and Why Me, Lord? just doesn't enter into it.

One of my favourite songs has always been Easy Come, Easy Go.

I guess that sums it up.

But it does beg the question...is this fundamentally, theologically wrong? And I cheating myself, and Barb, and God with a plaster shell so thick that it's become structure, and not mere weatherproofing?

After all, 30% of the Psalms are flat-out laments, and another 40% have lament as an overtone.

There's a Book Of Lamentations in the Old Testament, for crying out loud! (Get it?)

And Jesus famously lamented over Jerusalem, and over Lazarus' death.

Now, I won't say that nothing bothers me. One of the dogs dies, yeah, it hurts. But I get past it, sometimes uncomfortably quickly. It's more of I'm sorry it had to happen than a wail of anguish to shake Heaven. (Yes, everyone who knows me knows I care more about dogs than people.)

And I'm not saying that stainless steel emotions are a pose. I'm not impressing anyone, not even myself (the premise of this post shows that... I think).

But this may well be a deficiency, and a serious one, a wall that keeps Barb at arm's length, and keeps God further away than that (yes, I'm saying my wife is closer than the Almighty, deal with it).

Case in point...if you read The Last Lecture, you'll recall Randy Pausch describing embracing his wife as they wept together over his terminal diagnosis, and over his decline from pancreatic cancer.

It makes my skin crawl. I can't do that. I'll crack a joke, and in so doing completely betray my wife, and the oaths of marriage that I willingly took.

It's called 'leaving her heart in the dirt'. I was going to say 'dust', to make it maybe not sound so bad.

I do not share in her grief. In my manner, I make fun of it.

And what if the God in Whom I profess belief?

He is willing, even eager, to save and treasure my tears. But I won't share them. That I don't have them doesn't matter. God needs me to be broken, that I might be remade in His image, according to His Love.

We are supposed to die to ourselves to be born in Christ, and each death, even this necessary one, is worthy of lament.

No lamentation puts one into either the position of a child who says I'll do it myself!, but can't. He looks silly and, well, childish.

But worse, far worse, is the man who says I'll do it myself...and CAN.

He's relegated God to Plan B.

I'm afraid that's me.

So, what's to be done?

Well, maybe admitting that there's a problem is the first step.

And next, I can refrain from humour where it's out of place. I may not see a situation, like my own, as tragic, but I don't have to share my lack of concern.

This addrresses Barb, and maybe through her, I can come to God.

I'll make a joke of anything,

whatever fix that I am in,

in a search for what will bring

the ability to grin.

I don't worry that you weep,

you just do just what you can,

for you are a lowly sheep

and I am a full-grown MAN,

except that real men know the truth 

about love and its tears, and life,

and this marks me a callow youth

who cannot understand a wife

who yet can forgive again

the jerk who brings her so much pain.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is CIRCLE.

The Cyrkle has a lovely song

that really truly tells it all

about a love that's gone so wrong,

and it's called Red Rubber Ball.

It's about a bloke who gave

his heart to an uncaring gal,

and he thought nothing would save

him from an agonizing fall,

but happily he realized

that he could once again be free

for she, although highly prized 

was one starfish in the sea

and others might well take his love

as a gift from God above.

Sylvia says, in her best Mr. T growl, Grow up, FOOL!