How the Church Can Give Me Wailing Space

John 11:35...

This week marks the anniversary of my son's passing. His absence is a void that persists in my heart, an ache I carry with me every single day. In addition to being Arleigh's mother, I also serve as pastor. However, the response to my child's death was not solely my own; it was scrutinized and questioned by some within the church community, who believed they had the right to shape my grief. That audacity still astounds me. Who, the hell, I wonder, granted them (anyone) such authority?

As I reflect on this, I am reminded of the historical reluctance within the church to embrace the concept of a "wailing wall" or the act of lament. It's a reluctance that deeply troubles me.

In her book, "Spirit and Trauma: A Theology of Remaining," Author Shelly Rambo* delves into the experiences of Holy Saturday, the space between Jesus's death and resurrection. Rambo articulates that if the crucifixion symbolizes acute trauma - the loss of a loved one, an act of state violence - then Holy Saturday, and even the empty tomb, represent "that important moment in which you're living beyond a death, a kind of metaphorical death, but can't see life clearly ahead." It's a place where hope can falter, scattering parts of the heart to uncharted territories.

Grief is a traumatic experience, one that cannot be suppressed by empty platitudes or the recitation of soothing clichés without consequence. Lament, therefore, becomes a gift, offering both space and hope for a path towards healing. Our approach to worship, if it is to be therapeutic, must be re-evaluated. We need to assess how it can create that space for lament, recognizing it as a gift to both us and to God.

Let’s go to Granny’s house to a pivotal moment in my own life, and an experience that underscores the importance of lament. It happened when I sat in my grandmother's kitchen. She was there, as usual, with her favorite set of books on the table - her find-a-word puzzle book, her Bible, a writing pad, and her pen. We started talking, one organic conversation leading to another. And then, the question that had weighed on me for so long burst forth: "Granny, how did you manage it? How did you go on after losing two of your children?"

Her response was simple, yet profound. "I don't know," she said, resignedly. "All I know is that I have to keep on living every day I have." It was as if, for the first time, she truly acknowledged the deaths of her children, including my mother. She began to cry, and she wailed for what felt like an eternity. She named some of the other troubles she had carried.

Granny was a devout follower of Jesus, and an active church member. She read her Bible daily, attended Bible studies and prayer meetings, sang hymns, and prayed about everything - absolutely everything. Yet she didn't know she could voice her pain, let alone that the church had a long tradition of lamenting such sorrows, both publicly and individually. She had been conditioned by her local worshiping community not to question God, not to dwell on the hardships of life, and certainly not to grieve openly.

That conversation we had was a turning point for her, a release from the prison of silence and contradiction that had defined her relationship with God. She gave herself permission not only to name and acknowledge her pain but also to lament it. And it was through that act of lament that she finally began to heal.

Normally, my grandmother kept her sorrows close to her chest, but on that day, her chest lost its capacity to hold them in. Her grief poured out in torrents, and she spoke of the hardships she had endured while gleaning. She recited words from the Psalms and from the hymns she could often be heard singing – or ‘la-la-la-ing’. Throughout her lament, cries of "O Lard, O Lard, O Lard, O Gad" punctuated her wailing.

Today, and I am serving a congregation that is predominantly White, in a community that includes more than 40% people of Color. Before this, I served in a similar setting for a year, and before that, in a congregation entirely made up of people of Color from the Afro-Caribbean diaspora. The demographics, culture, and pace of life in my current community are significantly different from my previous appointments. Just like any other community, the congregations I served have their share of individuals who are carrying deep pain, which often gets transmitted because there seems to be no outlet, utility, or framework for transformation.

As I delved deeper into the concept of recasting lament as an act of worship, I couldn't help but revisit some traumatic experiences in my own life. It's like starting with my grandmother's grief over the deaths of two of her children, then moving to my mother's death at the age of forty-three, followed by my grandmother's death, and finally, the death of my own son at the young age of twenty-three. These experiences, combined with my role as a pastor, forced me to confront painful realities head-on. I really feel as if grief has grabbed me by the neck and is dragging me.

I began to draw connections between my experiences and the stories in the Bible, particularly Psalm 137, with its poignant verse 9, and the women's stories in the book of Ruth. I also encountered people who shared their experiences of feeling that the church's worship life lacked space for grief, trauma, and lament. It seemed as though the church had willfully turned a blind eye to people's pain, sticking to a narrow reading of Scripture that goes from a troubling beginning to a rejoicing end, without addressing the painful parts in between – or their Holy Saturday.

What struck me even more was the number of people who sought me out to have these conversations. It was as if I had become a magnet for others' pain and need. Complete strangers would approach me in stores and begin sharing their traumatic stories. Some of these stories had been held in silence for decades, with these individuals receiving not much more than the church's customary band-aid response of "Just pray about it." I discovered that I wasn't the only one who felt the weight of the church's limited expressions of worship; many others longed for a space within the church where they could bring their whole, authentic selves, pain included, so they could reconstruct Zion which was forgotten by many.

And so, my exploration of Psalm 137 and the women’s stories in the book of Ruth through the lens of the Afro-Caribbean diaspora, was quite eye-opening even for me who generally employs a hermeneutic of suspicion as a theological tool. The constant pressure to "be strong" needs to be stopped because it is both traumatizing and inhumane. I mean, why the heck aren’t we paying attention to Jesus? Is it that we don’t really believe that he wept? (John 11:35)

I am wrestling with the following:

1. How might the incorporation of lament and a space for authentic grief within religious communities contribute to the healing and spiritual growth of individuals, particularly those who have traditionally been discouraged from expressing their pain openly?

2. Considering the increasing diversity (and the need for it) within congregations and communities, how can religious institutions adapt their practices to better serve the unique needs and experiences of people from diverse backgrounds, acknowledging that grief and trauma are universal yet deeply personal aspects of the human condition?

Help this Black woman and talk to me. Play nice in the comments. Also, register for the six-week course "The Bible and Trauma" at the Candler Foundry. Use the code: CommunityUMFP to pay only $24.99

#grief #lament #griefinthechurch #lamentasworship #thebibleandtrauma #candlertheology #candlerfoundry #ShellyRambo 

*Shelly Rambo, Spirit and Trauma: A Theology of Remaining (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 09.02.2010).