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Summer in the Psalms Series
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We're continuing our Summer in the Psalms series, and today we're exploring a topic that doesn't often get talked about in church: lament. Last week we focused on praise, but today I want to address something equally important—what do we do with our sorrow?
Lament is sorrow and grief anchored in honesty toward God. It's not complaining. It's not pretending everything is fine. It's raw, honest emotion directed toward the One who loves you.
Here's what I need you to understand: God does not need you to lie to him to have a relationship with him. He will never relate to you in any way but honesty. He doesn't want the Instagram version of you or the curated self. He wants to meet you in spirit and in truth—where you actually live.
One-third of the Psalms are lament psalms. That's 50 out of 150 psalms where the writer is processing pain, confusion, and grief before God. Why did God preserve these in Scripture? Because he wants us to know what honest prayer looks like.
Our culture has a complicated relationship with emotions. On one hand, we talk constantly about feelings. On the other hand, we tell ourselves that if we just look inward, we'll find the answers. The gospel says something different: the true answers to life's hardest problems are not found going inward, but going toward God.
The church can sometimes become a place where only victory stories are welcome. But a church should be a community where people can come when they're struggling, when they're grieving, when they're trying to process their pain. Not every testimony needs a happy ending tied up with a bow.
Yes, we need testimonies of miraculous healing. We need to be reminded that God is a God of miracles. But we also need testimonies like this: "I'm here today and I'm in the middle of losing my job, and I don't know what I'm going to do."
Those testimonies can be more impactful because when you're in the middle of the storm, hearing only victory stories can feel isolating. You might think, "Why did God do that for them but not for me?"
Some stories go like this: "I prayed for someone and they died. I'm processing that grief, but I know one day I'll be with them again because the gospel reminds me that this life is not all there is." That's a real testimony too.
We need faith that lives in every season. Faith before the storm, faith in the middle of the storm, and faith that can look back on hard times and see God's hand.
When we encounter people in deep pain, we often respond with Christian clichés. "They're in a better place." "God works all things for good." While these are true, God wants to meet you before we spin everything into something we can feel better about.
C.S. Lewis, one of the greatest Christian thinkers, lost his wife—ironically named Joy. In his book A Grief Observed, he wrote: "No one ever told me grief felt so like fear."
Here's what concerns me: there are many people in this church dealing with deep pain—miscarriage, loss, cancer, family trauma—but they don't feel they can bring it here. They don't feel welcomed in their pain.
Psalm 88 is the darkest psalm in all of Scripture. It was written by Heman, a chief musician, one of the sons of Korah. What's remarkable? It's one of only two psalms in the Bible that don't resolve. It ends in unresolved grief.
Listen to what Heman prayed:
For my soul is full of troubles and my life draws near to Sheol. I am counted among those who go down to the pit. Your wrath lies heavy upon me. Every day I call upon you, O Lord. I spread out my hands to you.
Notice what he did—he didn't sanitize his prayer. He didn't filter it. He was brutally honest about his pain.
As the psalm continues:
My soul is full of troubles and my life draws near to the grave. Do you work wonders for the dead? Do the departed raise up to praise you? Is your steadfast love declared in the grave? Are you faithful in Abaddon?
Heman was asking hard questions. And here's what I want to tell you: ask great questions. Questions invite relationship. When you're in conversation with someone and you ask thoughtful questions, you're inviting them into connection.
Pain and grief is just pain and grief. But lament is when you take that pain and process it before God. You lift it to him. You ask your questions. You don't just sit in it—you process it and cast it all on him.
That's worship. That's not sulking. When you're questioning God, throwing your pain at him, and staying in relationship with him through it—that's worship because you're following him through it.
Praise happens when we rehearse God's goodness. Lament happens when we rehearse our pain before the God who loves us.
Here's the miracle in Psalm 88: even at the end, in his deepest pain, Heman never stops talking to God. He ends the psalm still praying, still bringing his requests before the Lord.
I meet so many people who have been through terrible things and have stopped communion with God. They prayed once, didn't get the answer they wanted, and now they're waiting. But God wants you to keep volleying. It's in the volleying, in the daily routine of bringing your requests before God, that you'll find yourself able to process what causes you pain.
What we suppress doesn't heal. What we bring to God can heal.
I used to think being a good soldier for God meant having a stiff upper lip. When hard times came, I'd say, "Praise God, I'll get through it. There's a better day." I thought that was faith. But what I was actually doing was suppressing doubt, disappointment, sadness, and grief.
My body was trying to tell me: tank's full, bud. I had accumulated so much unprocessed anxiety and worry that my body finally said, "No more."
God gives you a mechanism called prayer and lament because he loves you. He wants you to process your pain, not bury it.
Jesus lamented on the cross. He quoted Psalm 22: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"
Here's the beauty: not only did Jesus know what lament feels like, but he is the only truly safe space where you can bring all of this. Community matters—healing comes in community. But people will sometimes give you a Christian cliché. Christ never will. Through the power of the Holy Spirit, he ministers directly to your need because he understands death, grief, resurrection, eternity, and hope all simultaneously.
I want to end with an old Puritan prayer called The Valley of Vision:
In the daytime, stars can be seen from the deepest wells. During the day, the sun is so bright you can't see stars. But if you went deep enough into a pit, even in daytime, you could see the stars. The deeper the well, the brighter the stars shine.
Lord, let us find thy light in our darkness, thy life in our death, thy joy in our sorrow, thy grace in our sin, thy riches in our poverty, thy glory in our valley.
As we take communion, remember: his body was broken for you. His emotional life—rejection, loss, sorrow—was real. And his blood secures you in covenant. You cannot push him away. Not because you're perfect, but because of the blood that was shed for you on the cross.
If you're struggling today, you're welcome here. All parts of you are welcome. Stop pretending. Bring your honest self to God.
