Tag Archives: lament

Time out in my own backyard … or today would be a good day to be in the Clare Valley

My Monday travel posts have seen me revisit cities all over the world – times and places that feel a world away right now. Perhaps it’s not a bad season in which to remember and celebrate the beauty, culture, and diversity of places far and wide. But for today, it’s where I spent the past week that has brought me back to blogging after a hiatus during these strange and constantly changing months.

While like so many I carry sadness for changed plans and lost opportunities, and grief due to the indeterminate separation from friends and family, like most South Australians, I am feeling exceedingly grateful, slightly guilty, and a smidge apprehensive to be enjoying easing restrictions unavailable to too many in our own country, let alone the world.

With international travel off the cards and even state borders currently closed, a holiday in my own “backyard” becomes the only option available.

I sought to take with me the perspective I have when visiting a brand new country or culture. To see with new eyes, to appreciate the simple pleasures, to notice the unassuming beauty, and to get lost in the little moments.

What did I love about spending time in the Clare Valley this week?

I am privileged to live in a land of incredible natural beauty.

I marvel at the variability I can too easily miss.

I listen carefully, inhale deeply, walk softly.

I reflect silently as each day passes from me.

I wonder about the stories of all those who have journeyed through these places.

I join them in worshiping the all-creating One in response to what I perceive.

And I acknowledge that I am interloper, walking on country not first my own.

What am I learning from taking time out in my own backyard?

There is much that I don’t understand about how this world works.

Even as I enjoy the solitude, there is plenty to ponder, to lament, to mourn.

The space and the quiet bring acute awareness of my own limitations, my loneliness, my mortality.

Awareness and reminder of the world’s current uncertainty, sorrow and lament is never far away.

And yet there are gifts of grace to be found even in the darkness.

The sun rising anew each day is a promise of new mercies and great faithfulness.

And there is always someone who has walked these paths before to point me to the presence of the One always in the midst of all things.

Thinking about words in this season …

There are so many words that could be said, and are being said, about living in these difficult coronavirus times. We’re learning new words and phrases like  ‘covidiot’ and ‘zoomed out’,  we’ve understood the meanings of  ‘pandemic’ and ‘flattening the curve’, we’ve endured the unprecedented use of the word ‘unprecedented’. A number of conversations and experiences over the past month have got me thinking (out loud) today about the power and importance of language in all this.

Some of the words we use no longer seem relevant, perhaps revealing the cavalier and even meaningless ways in which we too often use them. Conversation starters like ‘how are you doing?’ and ‘what are you doing?’ sound jarring as we realise the answers are, respectively, everything and nothing. We need to find new words to connect with one another … and hopefully move beyond starting every online meeting with a literal ‘can you hear me?’ to words of genuine affirmation:

‘Yes, I hear you.’

Some of the words we share need to be more carefully parsed or compassionately toned. With different people and different places at different stages of response in my community, how do we avoid judgement and finger-wagging while sharing community wisdom and best practice? A friend shared her challenge in knowing how to tactfully respond to someone asking her family over for dinner. Is it simply, ‘No, we can’t do that anymore,’ or is there an opportunity to dig deeper and ask, ‘what is the heart of what we’re missing’ and ‘how can we do life together in new ways?’ Online, the disparity between where people in different countries are at amplifies the need to use our words with grace and care.

Some of the aspirational words we have been using about our communities are now being tested in the fire of new situations. Or as my pastoral colleague says, now is our opportunity to live out who we say we are. Our church has been deliberately using the word ‘gathering’ rather than ‘service’ for a few years, how does this helpfully shape our choices in how we move online?  What does it really mean to call our church ‘family’ in a time when we are advised to only have contact with those who live in our household? And on a global scale, how do we even begin to talk about the coming impact of this disease on poorer communities and recognise the privilege inherent in language like ‘social distancing’ or ‘lockdowns’?

In my own small ways, I’m finding that giving people space to use words in creative ways has seemed to resonate for many. Our gathering last Sunday included the creation of a word-cloud where we each contributed words that captured something of where we have seen God at work in the midst of this difficult season (picture at top). The resulting image has been widely shared and provides a picture not just of our shared language, but our shared experience of grace and hope in the midst of the darkness. A performance poet friend inspired me with the idea of #bookspinepoems, creating a poem out of the titles of books on your shelf. I enjoyed and found it strangely moving to create my own and have taken much delight in seeing those of my friends; gaining glimpses into how they are travelling at this time (or at least what their preferred reading genres are). As a verbal processor, and for all of us in wrapping our heads around things, I hope there are many more of these ideas to come.

And then there are the words we pray in this season.

We continue to proclaim the truths we believe even when they are difficult to see. Last Sunday, I had one of the most awkward and yet beautifully profound worship experiences of my life, with our worship leader on my computer screen, an older member of our congregation on the other end of my phone, and me in my living room, all singing out of sync, and yet affirming the same words of hope and truth about the Cornerstone in whom we find hope through the storm. I’m intrigued that Nigerian singer Sinach’s Waymaker went ‘viral’ among churches in the months leading up to this season, with its declaration of a promise-keeping God who never stops working, even when we don’t see or feel it.

The words of the Psalms continue to provide comfort and point the way. I taught a class last week on lament and I know this is a language we will embrace more and more in the coming weeks and months. The lament psalms give us permission to name our sadness, anger, doubt, confusion or fear; to wrestle honestly with God in an act of bold faith that declares nothing is out of bounds when speaking with him. Making these words our own declares our conviction that we have a God who hears our deepest and darkest groans, who is present with us in the darkness, and who enters into the darkness with us. As we prepare for Good Friday this week, the truth of a God who participates fully in our suffering may be more important for us than ever.

And of course, there are many times when words simply fail us. In numerous settings over the last few weeks I have found myself starting a prayer with and for others with a simple, honest, ‘I don’t know what to say God…’ as we sit in these unfamiliar and uncomfortable spaces and listen for his still small whisper. Praying for a friend in Africa waiting for the ‘tsunami’ that is coming left me grasping for words and babbling like a toddler.  I wonder if naming that I have no words is sometimes the most significant language I have to offer.

And for no one but myself, a simple practice these weeks has become to light a candle each night before I go to sleep, and simply sit in the presence of Jesus with the gift that is wordless prayer. There I am finding a peace that passes understanding, which I’m quite sure no words of mine will ever be able to adequately explain.

 

A Christmas Eve Lament

God, we are longing

O how we are longing …

Fires rage and smoke fills the air

we weep for all that has been lost

we fear for what is still to come

and we thirst for relief

Loneliness engulfs us

the hype fails to distract us

the crowds pass us by

and we yearn for more

Grief crashes anew

we feel cheated again by death

robbed of one more day

and we groan for resurrection

Sicknesses ravage us

our bodies aching

our minds afflicted

and we cry out for healing

Conflict surrounds us

wars in our world

tensions in our families

struggles in our souls

and we ache for peace

Sadnesses consume us

for what we have lost

for what we never had

that what we have is not yet what it could be

and we crave what we cannot quite name

We are longing …

desiring

wanting

needing

hoping

expecting

yearning

We are waiting

waiting for you to come.

O come.

O come.

Emmanuel.