Lament is faith refusing to pretend.

The last few weeks have been tough.

Nothing in particular happened. There was no single event I can point to and say, “That is where this started.” And maybe that is part of what makes it so difficult. I do not understand this seemingly unprovoked sadness, this heaviness, this pain that seems to arrive without knocking.

Maybe it was the birthdays of our other children. Birthdays are beautiful. They should be celebrated. I am grateful for my children and for the privilege of watching them grow. But grief has a strange way of sitting down at the table during celebrations. You can be genuinely thankful for the children who are with you and, at exactly the same time, ache for the child who is not.

Maybe it was that.

Or maybe it has been the news of too many young people dying in our community. Too many parents burying children. Too many families having their worlds torn apart. Too many funerals…

I don’t know. Nevertheless, the pain and the questions are real.

As is my custom, I want to relate what I am feeling to Scripture. Usually, somewhere in the wrestling, I find a text. A verse. A story. Something that helps me name where I am and reminds me where God is.

Today I don’t know how to do that. I probably should. I am a pastor, after all.

I should be able to find the right passage. I should know what to say about suffering, death, hope and resurrection.

But today I don’t.

I am writing these words while sitting in a memorial service for a young boy who was brutally murdered. I am looking at grieving people trying to make sense of something that makes no sense at all.

Perhaps that is the problem.We are always trying to make sense of the senseless.

Sometimes Christians are too quick to explain pain. We reach for phrases about God’s plan, God’s timing and God’s purposes because silence makes us uncomfortable.

But some things should not be explained.

A child being murdered is not something I want to make spiritually reasonable. A parent burying a child is not something I want to tidy up with theology.

There are moments when theology must stop trying to explain God and simply help us cry before God.

Perhaps that is where Scripture meets me today.

Not with an answer. With a cry. “How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever?” Psalm 13:1

Those words do not solve anything, But they give me permission. Permission to ask. Permission to hurt. Permission to be confused. Permission to sit in church and not know what theological conclusion to draw from what I am witnessing.

The Psalms remind me that lament is not the opposite of faith. Lament is faith refusing to pretend. It is saying, “God, I still believe You are there, which is precisely why I am bringing this pain to You.”

Maybe today that is enough. I do not need to understand everything. I do not need to turn every wound into a lesson. I do not need to manufacture hope before I am ready.

I can simply sit here. Grieving for a family. Grieving for a community. Grieving again for my own child.

Grieving perhaps for all the things we carry quietly until something suddenly opens the door and they come rushing back.

Somewhere in all of this I still believe God is present. Not standing above the pain offering explanations… But, as the Gospel continually reveals… that Jesus entered our pain. Jesus weeps. Jesus suffers. Jesus cries out. Jesus bears wounds, even after resurrection.

Maybe Christian hope does not mean that we stop hurting. Maybe it means that our hurt is held by a God who knows what wounds feel like.

I still have questions. Honestly, today I have more questions than answers.

And perhaps this blog entry does not need a clever conclusion. Perhaps today faith simply sounds like this:

God, I don’t understand. This hurts. I am tired of death. The I am tired of watching people bury their children.

I miss my own child and I don’t know what to do with all of this… But I am still talking to You.

Maybe, for today, that is faith enough.

 

 

Wholeness Is Brokenness Owned: Lessons I Learned from Funerals

“Wholeness is brokenness owned and thereby healed.(Henri Nouwen)

Over the past few weeks, we have buried too many people.
 
I have sat with families in their living rooms, stood with them at gravesides, listened to stories that carry both love and pain. I have also sat in silence when there were no words left to offer.
 
Somewhere in all of that, something unsettled me.  Even in grief, we are still trying to appear whole.

 
There were moments, sitting with grieving families, where I felt my own ache rising. Moments where I wanted to speak about my own longing, my own tiredness, my own questions. Instead, I held it together. I chose to appear strong. Not even consciously. It is simply what we do.
 
We learn how to carry ourselves in ways that reassure others. We manage how much we show. We keep certain things tucked away. Sometimes we tell ourselves it is for the sake of others. Sometimes it is. But often, it is because we do not know what to do with our own wounds.
 
I find myself returning again to Henri Nouwen’s idea of the wounded healer. Not as a concept, but as a lived reality.
 
Wholeness is not having everything together. It is facing what is broken and refusing to hide it from God.
 
I keep coming back to that moment in John 20. Jesus stands before Thomas and does not hide His wounds. He does not pretend the cross never happened. He shows the scars. And strangely, that is what convinces Thomas. Not a polished explanation. Not a display of power. The wounds.
 
That stays with me.
 
People do not trust strength that feels distant. They trust what is real. They trust someone who has suffered and is still standing. Not because they are strong, but because grace has held them.
 
At the same time, I am learning that honesty is not the same as exposure. Let me try and explain… This is not about spilling everything everywhere. It is about bringing our wounds into the right spaces. Before God first. Then within safe and accountable community. Always with the intention of healing, not just release.
 
The truth is, many of us want healing without honesty. We want God to fix what we are not willing to name. We want to move forward without going through.
 
It does not work like that. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” Not those who have it all together. Those who know they do not.
 
Paul’s words about power being made perfect in weakness are not sentimental. They are confronting. Weakness is not something to be avoided at all costs. It is often the very place where God meets us most clearly.
 
David Bosch reminds us that mission is not about strong people helping weak people. It is about all of us, in our shared brokenness, being drawn into what God is restoring. The Church is not a gathering of polished people. It is a community of honest people learning to live in grace.
 
In our African context, this truth deepens. Mercy Amba Oduyoye speaks about healing as communal. Not hidden, not individualised, but carried together. It is seen in how we speak, how we forgive, how we bear one another’s burdens.
 
We  need that, because  what we refuse to face does not disappear. It reappears. In frustration. In control. In gossip. In distance between people who should be walking together.
 
So the question is not whether we are broken. The reality is that we are broken. The question is whether we are willing to bring that brokenness into the light. Before God and with people we trust. So that healing can begin.
 
Jesus’ invitation remains: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
 
Not come as you appear. Come as you are. Because the version of you that keeps everything together does not need rest. It needs to be maintained and that is exhausting.
 
The real you, the one beneath the strength, beneath the control, beneath the silence, that is the one Christ calls and until we bring that self into the light, we will keep circling the same wounds, calling it strength, calling it faith, calling it moving on. It is not, it is avoidance.
 
Christ is still standing, wounds visible, inviting us to come to Him in all honesty