“Some believe laments are a crutch, or even a sign of spiritual immaturity. But it’s the opposite. A lament is soaking wet with faith: a rare, pure form of faith that longs for God to keep his word.” (The Art of Asking Better Questions, J.R. Briggs)
Last week in our Hope Workshop on lament, Pastor Mark shared something I have been
pondering. He shared, “sometimes our quiet time with God might look more like a rage room.” Not exactly the picture most of us have in mind when we think about “spending time with God,” is it?
We tend to imagine calm, composed prayers. A verse, a journal, maybe some worship music in the background. But what if real intimacy with God isn’t always quiet and polished? What if, at times, it’s loud, raw, and honest? What if it sounds like, “God, this isn’t right.” Because the truth is, things aren’t right.
We live in a world that is fractured by sin and weighed down by brokenness. You feel it in your body. You see it in your relationships. You carry it in your story. And when you cry out in lament, when you name the pain and say, “This is not how it’s supposed to be,” you’re not drifting from God. You’re actually agreeing with Him.
Lament is not a lack of faith. It’s an expression of it. It’s choosing to bring your disappointment, your confusion, your anger, your grief directly to God instead of away from Him. It’s trusting that He can handle your honesty. That He welcomes it. That He would rather have your real heart than your rehearsed words.
This is why the Psalms are filled with lament. The people of God have always needed language for their pain. They’ve always needed permission to say what’s true while still holding onto hope.
Psalm 13 begins with, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” That’s not polite. That’s
not filtered. But it’s faithful. Because it’s directed toward God, not away from Him.
Lament keeps us connected when everything in us wants to disconnect. And maybe that’s where some of us are right now. Tired. Confused. Carrying things that don’t make sense. Wondering why prayers feel unanswered or why circumstances haven’t changed.
Maybe your quiet time has felt empty because you’ve been trying to keep it clean instead of making it honest. What if this week, you gave yourself permission to show up differently? What if you walked into your time with God and said exactly what’s true? Not what sounds right. Not what feels spiritual. But what’s real: God, this hurts. God, I don’t understand. God, this is not how it’s supposed to be.
That kind of prayer isn’t pushing God away. It’s drawing near. And in a strange and beautiful
way, lament becomes an act of hope. Because every lament carries an unspoken belief
underneath it: that God sees, that He cares, and that He will one day make things right.
“When we are walking, limping, crawling, dragging – or being dragged – through the valley of the shadow of death, there is no energy to pray nice and polite prayers. Mourning takes practice. And this is why we need psalms of lament.” (The Art of Asking Better Questions, J.R. Briggs)
Peace,
Nick
***If you missed last week’s Hope Workshop on Lament you can watch it HERE.
Last week in our Hope Workshop on lament, Pastor Mark shared something I have been
pondering. He shared, “sometimes our quiet time with God might look more like a rage room.” Not exactly the picture most of us have in mind when we think about “spending time with God,” is it?
We tend to imagine calm, composed prayers. A verse, a journal, maybe some worship music in the background. But what if real intimacy with God isn’t always quiet and polished? What if, at times, it’s loud, raw, and honest? What if it sounds like, “God, this isn’t right.” Because the truth is, things aren’t right.
We live in a world that is fractured by sin and weighed down by brokenness. You feel it in your body. You see it in your relationships. You carry it in your story. And when you cry out in lament, when you name the pain and say, “This is not how it’s supposed to be,” you’re not drifting from God. You’re actually agreeing with Him.
Lament is not a lack of faith. It’s an expression of it. It’s choosing to bring your disappointment, your confusion, your anger, your grief directly to God instead of away from Him. It’s trusting that He can handle your honesty. That He welcomes it. That He would rather have your real heart than your rehearsed words.
This is why the Psalms are filled with lament. The people of God have always needed language for their pain. They’ve always needed permission to say what’s true while still holding onto hope.
Psalm 13 begins with, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” That’s not polite. That’s
not filtered. But it’s faithful. Because it’s directed toward God, not away from Him.
Lament keeps us connected when everything in us wants to disconnect. And maybe that’s where some of us are right now. Tired. Confused. Carrying things that don’t make sense. Wondering why prayers feel unanswered or why circumstances haven’t changed.
Maybe your quiet time has felt empty because you’ve been trying to keep it clean instead of making it honest. What if this week, you gave yourself permission to show up differently? What if you walked into your time with God and said exactly what’s true? Not what sounds right. Not what feels spiritual. But what’s real: God, this hurts. God, I don’t understand. God, this is not how it’s supposed to be.
That kind of prayer isn’t pushing God away. It’s drawing near. And in a strange and beautiful
way, lament becomes an act of hope. Because every lament carries an unspoken belief
underneath it: that God sees, that He cares, and that He will one day make things right.
“When we are walking, limping, crawling, dragging – or being dragged – through the valley of the shadow of death, there is no energy to pray nice and polite prayers. Mourning takes practice. And this is why we need psalms of lament.” (The Art of Asking Better Questions, J.R. Briggs)
Peace,
Nick
***If you missed last week’s Hope Workshop on Lament you can watch it HERE.