Walking With Christ

Psalm 88:1  O LORD, God of my salvation, I cry out day and night before you.(ESV)

There are songs of praise that sound exactly like we expect praise to sound.  They’re filled with thanksgiving, celebration, victory, and joy.

Then there are songs like Psalm 88.

Psalm 88 hurts.

The writer speaks of a soul filled with troubles.  He feels near death.  He describes himself as abandoned, overwhelmed, isolated, and surrounded by darkness.

He asks God questions.  He cries out.  He complains.  He grieves.

And unlike many other psalms of lament, there’s no dramatic turn at the end.  No enemy is defeated.  No circumstances change.  No sudden declaration tells us that everything’s going to be fine.

The psalm ends with darkness still present.

That makes Psalm 88 uncomfortable.

It also makes it incredibly important.  Because God allowed this song into Scripture.

This is part of the worship of His people.  We’ve sometimes narrowed worship until we recognize only certain sounds as praise.

Joy sounds like worship.  Thanksgiving sounds like worship.  Celebration sounds like worship.

But what about sobbing?

What about the voice that can barely speak?

What about the person who’s cried until there seems to be nothing left and then discovers there are somehow still more tears?

What about the prayer that consists mostly of:  “God, I don’t understand.”

Can that be worship?

Psalm 88 says yes.

Not because pain is good.  Not because tragedy should be celebrated.  Not because Christians are supposed to pretend suffering doesn’t hurt.

The lament becomes worship because of where it’s directed.

The psalmist is devastated, but he’s still speaking to God.

He hasn’t cleaned up his emotions before approaching God.  He hasn’t waited until he can produce a respectable testimony.

He brings the darkness with him.

There’s a strange tendency among Christians to believe that faith should eventually make grief sound less like grief.

We want the testimony to reach the victorious paragraph.  We want the song to change keys.  We want the grieving person to say that they finally understand God’s purpose.

Sometimes that happens.  Sometimes it doesn’t.  And sometimes expecting it too quickly adds another burden to someone who’s already carrying more than they can bear.

Now they’re grieving the loss, and they’re also wondering whether they’re grieving incorrectly.

They wonder whether their tears show weak faith.  Whether asking why means they don’t trust God.  Whether continuing to hurt means they’ve failed to surrender something.

Scripture doesn’t demand that performance.  There’s no command to pretend.  There’s no requirement that every lament finish before sundown.

Some wounds change us permanently.  Some losses create empty places that remain empty.

The pain may change with time.  It may become less constant.  We may learn how to carry it differently.  But love remembers absence.

There may be laughter again and still be tears.  There may be joy at a birthday and grief over the person who’s missing from it.

A child may take a first step, and everyone in the room may rejoice while someone quietly remembers another pair of feet that should’ve been there to see it.

Joy doesn’t betray grief.  Grief doesn’t invalidate joy.  Both can exist in the same heart.

Paul described himself as:  “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing” (2 Corinthians 6:10).

Not sorrowful until rejoicing.  Not sorrowful instead of rejoicing.

Sorrowful, yet rejoicing.  That word leaves room for both truths.

There are moments when worship sounds like celebration.  There are other moments when worship is simply the decision to keep facing God.

Sometimes worship says:  “Thank You.”

Sometimes:  “I trust You.”

Sometimes:  “Help me.”

Sometimes:  “Why?”

And sometimes there may not be enough strength left for anything more complicated than:  “God.”

That can still be prayer.  That can still be worship.  Because worship was never dependent upon our emotional condition.

It’s a response to who God is.  There’s an enormous difference between saying:  “Everything is good.” and saying:  “God is good.”

The first may be obviously false.  Everything isn’t always good.  Some things are horrific.

Death is an enemy.  Loss hurts because love was real.

There are events in this life that we should never soften with religious language just to make ourselves more comfortable.  But the second statement can remain true while the first one collapses.

God is still good.

A grieving person doesn’t need to call tragedy good in order to call God good.  That distinction gives lament somewhere to stand.

The tears don’t have to stop before worship begins.  The pain itself can be carried into worship.  A song can be sung through a throat wrecked by sobbing.  A prayer can tremble.  A believer can feel exhausted nearly beyond endurance and still be resting somewhere deeper than the exhaustion.

That isn’t shallow faith.  It may be one of the deepest forms faith ever takes.

Psalm 88 begins:  “O LORD, God of my salvation…”

Don’t miss that.

Before the psalmist tells God how terrible everything is, he calls Him the God of my salvation.

The darkness is real.  So is the relationship.

The anguish is real.  So is God.

The psalmist may not be able to see the way out, but he still knows where to direct the cry.  And then the song ends in darkness.

We should let it.

We don’t need to rescue the psalmist with a happier verse from somewhere else.

There are days when people aren’t ready for the resolution.  There are graves too fresh.  Questions too new.  Rooms too suddenly empty.

On those days, perhaps the church doesn’t need to drag grieving people toward celebration.

Perhaps we should simply remind them:  You can cry here.  You can hurt here.  You can ask questions here.  You can sit before God without understanding anything that’s happened.  Your lament doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned worship.

If the only song you can sing today ends in darkness, sing it to Him.

He’s still listening.