My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
What tears at your heart?
From cradle to grave
for intimacy we ache;
that something amiss that keeps us awake.
And at the heart of our lives
an abyss abides,
that nothing or no one can fill.
For we are made for connections
beyond the bounds of affection,
and the dearest nearness we can know comes in sharing our pain.
Unless we learn how to transfigure pain (ours and others), we simply transmit it. Richard Rohr
Passion, the hard kernel of compassion,
draws us into grief’s gloom,
wherein a Presence hides;
One whose closeness
feels like absence;
who hangs with us and hangs on in us.
Thus, in lament we find a home
in companionship with all
who find themselves in the dark:
whose bellies or lives are empty,
whose days are toil or boredom.
whose relationships are severed by decisions or distance,
whose minds are tortured or numbed,
who are drawn to despair or driven by distraction.
And when the Chosen One breathed his last,
his final wail on earth was a lamentation,
a cry for all of Creation.
My God, my God why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? Psalm 22:1
Most creatures vocalize their distress.
Born breathless, we all cry out.
When wounded, we moan and loudly weep.
Lament is the breaking point
where we give up on reason, resolution and retribution
to lose ourselves in primal keening.
And there is liberation in letting pain out.
A first step toward healing,
grieving that moves us to move on.
For lament decries the privatization of pain;
a shared expression of sorrow that saves us
from being marooned on the shores of desperation.
So, we accept the hospitality of mourning,
not as an act of resignation,
but as a cathartic stride toward determination.
Now beyond protest, accusation and indignation,
we are free to bear witness
to violations and suffering universal.
Choosing to hold, to behold and to be moved,
bearing witness allows us to take off our shoes,
and step, with souls bared, into the crucible of suffering-love.
History says, Don’t hope
On this side of the grave,
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.
In its honesty,
suffering shapes us
as it breaks and remakes us;
not those tribulations we endure and bear,
but that suffering love we choose to share.
For it is only the pain we cannot share that turns into despair.
Nor are we meant to pass the years, unmoved, unaffected, unchanged.
We are made to be marked, shaped, scarred, wounded,
and broken to be mended.
What else do we bear from here to hereafter,
but the lightness of the love
that has wounded us in ways terrible and touching.
Find me on Facebook and Instagram: @InTheStormStill
Coming in November 2019, A New Book by Joe Grant