September 8, 2024
I Couldn’t Hear Nobody Pray
Matthew 26:31-40
Our second lesson is from the Gospel according to Matthew. Jesus has just told the disciples that they will betray him, and Peter, as David shared, insisted he would not. We pick up the story as Jesus is moving to a place of prayer.
Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.” He took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee and began to be grieved and agitated. Then he said to them, “I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here and stay awake with me.” And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not what I want but what you want.” Then he came to the disciples and found them sleeping, and he said to Peter, “So could you not stay awake with me one hour?”
This is the word of the Lord. Thanks be to God.
We are continuing today our series on the spirituals, “A Season with the Spirituals.” During this very tender children’s moment, I was reminded of a statement by a man named Soong-Chan Rah, who is a theologian, a Christian theologian from Asia. He wrote a book called The Prophetic Lament, and he asked the question: Is the American Church a safe place to cry? Within the walls of the typical church in America, is it safe to wail and mourn? Because if we look at the biblical tradition and the sweep of Christian faith, it is so, so important that we do and that it is.
Join me in prayer:
God, we give you thanks for this day and the chance to listen together for your word. Speak now through the words of my mouth and our hearts meditating together, a word that is directed for each one of us, so that each of us, wherever we are in life, hears your voice speaking to us, a word of challenge and hope. Through Christ, we pray, Amen.
The song that goes with the sermon today is a song of lament.
I couldn’t hear nobody pray, oh, I couldn’t hear nobody pray, couldn’t hear nobody pray, oh way down yonder by myself, and I couldn’t hear nobody pray.
The song speaks of the profound loneliness and feelings of isolation that are often our experience of lament. And yet, it’s not all despair or complaint or grievance. Lament is the expression of despair in the context of hope. Lament is not just complaint, not just groaning, not just grieving—though it is that. Lament is the heart-wrenching cry of complaint in the context of a faith that there is a God who hears and responds. The verses of this song capture this.
Verse one: In the valley with my burden and my Jesus, the experience is one of profound isolation, but Jesus is there. Chilly waters in the Jordan, crossing over into Canaan. Canaan, a biblical land and symbol of promise and hope and deliverance. Hallelujah, troubles over, in the Kingdom with my Jesus, a vision of deliverance and freedom and peace and wholeness and restoration and rest.
It is not all despair; lament is the healthy expression of despair in the context of hope.
Oh, I couldn’t hear nobody pray. I couldn’t hear nobody pray. Oh, way down yonder by myself, and I couldn’t hear nobody pray.
It is a gift of the African-American experience to the rest of humanity that it has brought into focus, through their suffering and pain, this profound aspect of our faith and common experience. Because most of us—myself at the very front of the line—are not that good at practicing lament. Now, this is not my insight; it’s an insight shared by many people of faith and no faith. It’s the insight that lies at the heart of this Asian theologian, Soon-Chung Rah, asking if the church is a safe place to cry.
Many have noticed that as modern people, as Americans, as people in Western societies, we aren’t very good at the practice of lament. We need it, but we don’t have it. We are better at repression than expression. We reach for distraction rather than experience.
All of us experience pain and loss; each of us has a wail in the soul. As a society, we are called to feel the pain and loss of our neighbors, whether they are next door—the family that is going through tragedy—or across the globe—the nation that is under attack or the students and families of Apalachee School in Winder, Georgia.
But what do we do with these feelings? We are often unsure what to do with them, and I know that I am. But one thing that I know for very sure is that the worst thing we can do is to continue to step over them as if they’re not there. I mean, sometimes you have to do that; you have to set aside these kinds of feelings because you have to go to work or get the kids to school or take care of business. But over a long period of time, if we continue to step over them—find something else to do to numb the feeling, turn on the TV, scroll the feed, go out to eat, put on some music, do some work, clean the house, go for a run—anything to not feel what we are feeling, if we continue to do that, our souls will become hardened and brittle.
Like rain, which we don’t have enough of right now, that keeps a plant healthy and flexible, tears water the soul. Weeping keeps the soul alive. And just like a drought creates plants that are brittle and fragile and break, refusing to weep over the suffering of life creates a soul that is brittle and dry and fragile.
And creates a person who is anxious. Why anxious? Because we have to spend so much time and energy protecting our fragile soul.
We must learn the practice of lament. We must learn the healthy expression of despair in the context of hope.
Now, I want to keep this a sermon and not a private experience of introspection in our time together, so I’ve passed out this handout of Psalm 42. If you would take it out right now, we’re going to kind of walk through this together, and this study together will keep us all on same page as we look at lament.
Psalm 42 is a wonderful psalm of lament—one of many—but it is a good example, and it teaches us the grammar of lament: the building blocks, the foundation pieces. If you were to go from here today and Google “what is lament,” as I did this past week, you will get a lot of bad information.
The primary thing I saw that I so deeply disagree with is the idea that lament is just a linear process of one step after another, proceeding through it step by step, until you’re done. Because that’s not how I’ve experienced it in my own life or seen it in others. It is a circling: first, you’re here, and then you’re here, and sometimes it goes this way and that way. Sometimes it’s a spiral, from farther away to closer in. Sometimes you step away from it and come back to it. It’s not a linear kind of prayer or practice, it does not proceed in steps. But it does have a grammar. There are building blocks to it, and the psalmist gives us what those building blocks are.
The psalm begins in longing. Look with me: “As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.”
Naming longing is the first step in the grammar of lament. Like learning “A” when you learn the alphabet, learning to recognize longing and desire is the doorway, the gateway to lament—a recognition that there is an emptiness, a hurt, an ache, a fear, a loss that cannot be distracted away or filled with anything available. Binge-watching Netflix and going to work and exercising don’t take it away; it just sets it aside. Recognizing that there is a longing is the gateway to lament. Being willing to sit with that longing is the beginning. The spiritual says, “In the valley with my burden and my Jesus, my soul thirsts.” This is where the lament begins, in the recognition of longing.
Let’s go from A to B. The next letter in the alphabet, the next part of the grammar, is memory. Look at verse 4: “These things I remember as I pour out my soul: how I went with the throng and led them in procession to the house of God with glad shouts and songs of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival.”
Memory is essential to healthy lament—remembering good times that are connected with our longing and desire. I remember when we were all together at the holidays. I remember a time in my life when we got together more for parties than for funerals. I remember a time when I only had one doctor’s visit a year on the calendar. I remember when all of life felt like potential in front of me, and I felt invincible no matter what happened. I remember when we disagreed but treated each other with respect. I remember when it rained more often. I remember when summer nights got cool. I remember when children did not have to do lockdown drills in school. I remember when teachers did not wear alarms around their neck. Memory is a key building block of lament. Memory helps us get in touch with what we have lost, that for which we are longing—our desire.
Let’s move from B to C. Self-talk is another building block of lament.
Look at verse 5 on your handout: “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise him, my help and my God.” Do you know what self-talk is, because it’s not exactly talking to yourself. Self-talk is when you talk to yourself in a healthy way. The psalmist is practicing healthy self-talk, unpacking the soul. And notice the question: “Why are you disquieted within me?” The psalmist does not ask what I so often ask when I feel low: “What’s wrong with me?” There’s no value judgment here. This is noticing; it’s curiosity. “Soul, why are you so low? Why are you cast down? What’s going on in there?”
The” psalmist tries to talk herself into hope, but apparently, it’s not time to hope in God because there’s not been honesty yet. You look down at the second part of verse 6; the psalmist now says, “My soul is downcast within me. That’s true with how I am, and this is an important part of lament. Honesy. I am feeling low; I am in the valley; I am still grieving.
We off brush people off with small excuses. “Well, what’s going on with you? You don’t seem like yourself.” “Oh, I’m just tired.” No, I am still hurting. “You know, you used to be a lot more joyful, and every time I see you now, you just seem kind of quiet. What’s going on?” “Oh, I’ve just been a little sick; I think I’ll get over it.” No, I am worried; I am afraid; I do feel lost. There’s honesty in lament. This self-talk includes introspection and curiosity and honesty with the self.
Lament includes self-talk, but it’s not all self-talk about the self.
The next building block expands the conversation, and is in verse 6: remembering God and who God is.
This is where lament finds its place in the context of hope. We remember who God is. Who is God? The God of your life, the living God, the good God, the God who’s been with you, the God of steadfast love, the God who brought you into being, the God who blessed you when you asked for it and blessed you when you didn’t ask for it, and blessed you when you needed it and when didn’t know you needed it. Who is God? The God who has not let you down, the God who has heard the prayers that you prayed and heard the prayers that you couldn’t pray. Who is your God? The God of steadfast love.
The psalmist writes: “Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your torrents; all your waves and your billows have gone over me. By day the Lord commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life.” This is the living God, the God of steadfast mercy and love. A very important building block, a very important part of the grammar of lament, is remembering the God of your life, recalling God to mind.
And that is when conversation of lament turns to honest complaint toward God.
Verses 9 and 10: the psalmist gets real with God. “Why must I walk about mournfully because the enemy oppresses me? As with a deadly wound in my body, my adversaries taunt me while they say, ‘Where is your God?‘” And you say to yourself, “I thought I was doing all the right things. How did I get here? I was going to church. Why did this happen to me? I’ve been a good person. I’ve helped other people. I’ve tried to be kind. I’ve asked for forgiveness. Why has this come upon me? Why is the world like this? Why does this happen to good people? I counted on God. We counted on God. God, where are you?
This is the honesty of lament—being courageous enough, faithful enough to trust God with our complaints, to wrestle with God.
But even then, after the wrestling, lament does not end there. Remember, lament is the healthy expression of despair in the context of hope. Verse 11—say it together with me: “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise him, my help and my God.” And there, now, is a return now to self-talk, the self-talk of faith, and of faithful encouragement.
“Self, hope in God. Self, you will again praise God. Self, why are you downcast? It will be okay. Self, you will praise God again. Rise up, get on your feet, self. All will be well.”
And so, what begins in desperate longing moves to faith and hope. The tears have flowed, and the soul is watered. Despair has been expressed, as it must be expressed, but it has found its limit. It is not a bottomless abyss; it is bounded by hope in the living God. There is a limit, and that limit is our hope in God. Hope in God is what lament is really all about. “With my burden and my Jesus, chilly waters into Canaan, in the kingdom one day.”
Jesus himself knew what lament was about. When Jesus was going into Jerusalem, he stopped, and he wept over the city. He said, “Would that I would gather you up in my arms, but you will not come.” When Jesus was facing the cross, as we read today, he went and found a place by himself to pray. He asked his friends to stay awake, but they wouldn’t do it. He begged for God to open up a different path, but it didn’t open. On the cross, he cried out, “God, why have you forsaken me?”
Jesus understands our tears. He understands our cries, our isolation and loneliness, our grief and our pain. God understands because God in Jesus has endured it with us and for us. Jesus is with us when no one else can understand. When we can’t hear nobody else pray, Jesus is praying. Jesus is for us when everything else is against us. God laments with us and with the world, God cries with the world and cries with us. And God, in his own suffering, redeems our pain and the pain of the world, and God’s redemption always stands on the other side of our despair as a bright and shining hope. Thank God for a living God who weeps with those who weep.
Let me finish with this quote from Nicholas Wolterstorff. He wrote a book many of you have maybe read called Lament for a Son, where he, as a theologian, wrestled with his own personal lament in the death of his son. He wrote this:
“How is faith to endure, O God, when you allow all this scraping and tearing on us? You have allowed rivers of blood to flow, mountains of suffering to pile up, sobs to become humanity’s song—all without lifting a finger that we could see. You have allowed bonds of love beyond number to be painfully snapped. If you have not abandoned us, explain yourself. We strain to hear, but instead of hearing an answer, we catch sight of God himself, scraped and torn. Through our tears, we see the tears of God.”
Let us pray: O God, help us to learn the language of lament, so that when sorrow and suffering come into our lives, we will not grow brittle or bitter. So that when our neighbors and our world experience tragedy and suffering, we will not turn away or reach for distraction, but open our hearts and our eyes to weep, for tears water the soul. And in our weeping, O Lord, may we encounter You who weeps with us, and whose goodness and promises are the hope of the world. Through Christ, we pray. Amen.
Rev. Patrick W. T. Johnson, Ph.D.
First Presbyterian Church
Asheville, North Carolina