Reflections on Lament: God is Near (Part 2)

Last time I shared about the crisis in Sudan. The famine, ethnic cleansing, and the violence that has made this the world's largest humanitarian crisis. And I shared how it's led me to desperate, honest questions: God, where are you? God, do you care?

In that place of frustration, I encountered the framework of lament from the Psalms, a journey that begins with calling on God and complaining, honestly bringing our pain to him. I shared in the last post how freeing it was to discover that God invites our honest questions, our anger, our "God, where are you?" moments.

But lament doesn't end there. As I kept exploring this pattern the Psalmists followed, I discovered something unexpected...

that after following complaints, there is a pattern of remembering God's faithfulness and ending in praise.

It ends in praise.

It feels like the right place to land at. Surely God doesn't want us just to complain, right?

Yes… and no. 

I think he wants to hear our hearts. He's moved by the brokenness in the world, and when I complain to him, I'm reminded of his justice.

Psalm 10 captures this cry:

"The wicked think, 'God isn't watching us! He has closed his eyes and won't even see what we do!' Arise, O Lord! Punish the wicked, O God! Do not ignore the helpless! Why do the wicked get away with despising God? They think, 'God will never call us to account.'

But you see the trouble and grief they cause. You take note of it and punish them.

The helpless put their trust in you.

You defend the orphans… Lord, you know the hopes of the helpless.

Surely you will hear their cries and comfort them.

You will bring justice to the orphans and the oppressed, so mere people can no longer terrify them.'

(Psalms 10:11-14,17-18)

When I remember that:

• God sees and "He takes note of the trouble and grief the wicked cause" (Psalm 10:14)

• God "knows the hopes of the helpless" (Psalm 10:17)

• God brings "justice to the orphans and the oppressed" (Psalm 10:18)

Faith begins to rise in my heart.

And there's a mystery to this process of lament that I can't quite understand.

When I bring the things that feel heavy, the heartache, and my frustration to the Lord, I never quite know how I end up at the end with praise on my lips. But I believe that in my honest complaints and remembrance of God's faithfulness, I cannot help but end in an affirmation of who I know God to be, and how I know he is still present.

It's a praise that's so deeply rooted in the existence of suffering and darkness that it no longer feels tone-deaf to the suffering.

This process began as something deeply personal. Late-night prayers, journal entries marked by tears, and questions whispered in the dark. But lament, I've learned, isn't meant to be carried alone. As I've sat and reflected on this process of lament, I've begun to share my journey of lament with others as well—as a reflection of a desire to show up honestly, and a desire to share this grief with my community. Because God hears the cries of those in Sudan, and he calls us to hear them as well. This isn't just work for governments or NGOs. This is the Church's calling too—to hear, to grieve, and to respond.

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As I've wrestled with this question, I'm struck by the timing. It's Advent. A season of waiting, of crying out for God to come. And I wonder: what if this Christmas, we joined in lament?

So this Christmas, will you join me in lament?

It feels like an odd request, in contrast to the lights, and consumerism, and messages of joy and hope. But I believe it was because God chose to respond to the lament of his people (amidst oppression and unfair treatment) that he decided to send his son, born in a dusty manger, to be our Savior. 

Christmas is God's answer to lament.

He heard the cries of his people and didn't stay distant or silent. He entered into our suffering, became flesh, and dwelt among us. The incarnation itself is proof that God doesn't ignore our grief, He joins us in it.

So when we lament this Christmas, we're not abandoning hope or joy. We're participating in the very thing that made Christmas necessary.

We're crying out for God to come, just as his people did for generations. The children in El Fasher are still suffering. The famine continues. The violence has not stopped.

And in the midst of it all, we're trusting and calling out to the same God who responded then all those years ago in Bethlehem, is still responding now—still seeing, still moving, still present with those who suffer in Sudan and around the world.