How Should We Cry Out to God?
August 23, 2021 • by Lauren Bowerman
Tears spring to my eyes as the worship leader begins, “Do you feel the world is broken?” … “Do you feel the shadows deepen?”
My voice catches a bit as I join each resounding, heartbreaking reply, “We do.”
“But do you know that all the dark won’t stop the light from getting through?” … “Do you wish that you could see it all made new?”
Each time an aching, yet tentatively hopeful, “We do” follows, and my weak voice joins with the congregation as together we proclaim our steadfast hope in God, even in the midst of the brokenness, the pain, and the grief we see in the world.
The honest grief coupled with the steadfast confidence in the glory of God makes we weep every time I sing this song. So few of our worship songs lead us to lament, and I find that the ones that do elicit a visceral response in me, as if my heart has long been aching to cry out to God in this way.
A MODEL FOR LAMENT
This summer at Journeywomen we’ve been dwelling in the Psalms. I’ve read through the verses, listened to them on my morning runs, and tried to saturate myself in the psalmist’s frame of mind. And in doing so, I’ve found that my theology of lament has deepened. I’ve learned how to cry out to God.
For the last few years I’ve been deeply intrigued by the tension between grief and hope. I’ve felt this tension as I’ve engaged in beautiful ministry while also enduring painful relational brokenness. I’ve felt it too as I’ve navigated joyful seasons of pregnancy alongside friends while walking through my own heart wrenching season of infertility.
In so many ways I see the tension of brokenness and beauty, injustice and promised redemption, Jesus’ finished work and the pain that still exists in our world.
And as I wander through this broken world with my broken body, I am encouraged by the model I see from the psalmist: a model of honest, true, broken lament that leads to sure, true, steadfast hope.
I see him bravely enter into the grief, acknowledge the brokenness, and yet in the midst of it still cling to faith in God. My heart swells at the thought, “could my grief be the very path that leads me to deeper hope?”
“As I wander through this broken world with my broken body, I am encouraged by the model I see from the psalmist: a model of honest, true, broken lament that leads to sure, true, steadfast hope. ”
HOW SHOULD WE CRY OUT TO GOD?
So if we see the need to honestly face the sadness and the brokenness, how then do we cry out to God? Let’s look to the example of the psalmist. See his rawness, his honesty, and his comfort in sharing his deepest burdens (and even his doubts) with his God.
“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1)
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Psalm 22:1)
“My heart throbs; my strength fails me, and the light of my eyes—it also has gone from me.” (Psalm 38:10)
“Why have you rejected me?” (Psalm 43:2)
“O God, why do you cast us off forever?” (Psalm 74:1)
“Has his steadfast love forever ceased? Are his promises at an end for all time? Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has he in anger shut up his compassion?” (Psalm 77:8-9)
Have you uttered similar cries; voiced similar doubts? Do you feel the freedom to cry out to God in this way?
Notice the psalmist’s groanings. See his questions, his doubts, his fears, and his cries. But notice too how every psalm ends.
“But for you, O Lord, do I wait; it is you, O Lord my God, who will answer.” (Psalm 38:15)
“Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.” (Psalm 43:5)
“But I will hope continually and will praise you yet more and more. My mouth will tell of your righteous acts, of your deeds of salvation all the day, for their number is past my knowledge.” (Psalm 71:14-15)
“Nevertheless, I am continually with you; you hold my right hand.” (Psalm 73:23)
“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” (Psalm 73:26)
“Your way, O God, is holy. What god is great like our God? You are the God who works wonders; you have made known your might among the peoples.” (Psalm 77:13-14)
“We may feel abandoned, alone, and isolated in our suffering, but we have not been abandoned by our God. We never will be.”
LET YOUR GROANS LEAD YOU TO HOPE
Oh believer, hear this comfort: we groan but our groaning does not lead to despair. We feel the brokenness, the sadness, and the hurt, but we do not let our feelings cloud what we know to be true. We may feel abandoned, alone, and isolated in our suffering, but we have not been abandoned by our God. We never will be.
And so I let myself wrestle with the pain of infertility, I allow myself to feel the depth of the brokenness, all the while urging myself to remember, “It is not supposed to be this way.” I explore the questions that prick my heart, I ask the ‘where are you God?’s and the ‘how could you withhold this from me?’s.
I cry at the relational brokenness that threatens to steal the joy from the ministry God has given me. I lament the disunity I see in Christ’s body, the church.
But I turn. I must always turn. I search the Scriptures to remind my fickle heart of what I know to be true about God — that he is good, he is near, he is kind, and he is holy. That he is always working for our good and for his glory. That everything from God’s hand is a kindness and, as Charles Spurgeon says, “we do not suffer for naught.”
HOPE SUSTAINED BY CHRIST
And even as I turn from lament to hope, I realize that this very turning from groaning and crying is only enabled by the Spirit in me. It is he who is enabling me to hope, he who is sustaining my faith, he who is holding me fast.
Through nights of tears, he is holding me fast. Through lonely months of infertility, he is holding me fast. And through your dark nights and long, lonely days, he is holding you fast too. He is sustaining your faith, helping your groaning to turn to praise, enabling your darkness to be tinged with hope.
In the midst of pain and suffering, we can cling yet to God in love and obedience, and in doing so we can experience a depth of comfort and intimacy with God that is unlike anything else. Even in the brokenness and the not-yet-made-right, even as we long for the painful things to be redeemed, we can glimpse the eternal, beautiful, Christ-secured future hope we have.
And so, my friends, with hearts fully secure in Christ our Lord, let us lament honestly, grieve fully, and pray fervently, “Come, Lord Jesus.”
Lauren Bowerman is a writer and a wife to Matthew. She has called many cities, states, and countries home, and it is this transient lifestyle that led her to receive a Masters in Christian & Intercultural Studies from Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary. Lauren is passionate about writing on the intersection between grief and faith, specifically on how God’s goodness and grace has met her in seasons of depression, doubt, and infertility. You can find her on her blog and on Instagram.
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