“How long Oh Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” Psalm 13
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” Psalm 23:4a
“What is the greatest thing in the Psalter but this earnest speaking amid these storm winds of every kind?” — Martin Luther
No disciple of Jesus avoids the pain of life in a world marked by chaos, sin, evil, and death. The devil prowls. Our frail bodies fail. We wrong others and they wrong us. There are things we have done and other things we have left undone. Life is hard, and a walk through a valley of the shadow of death is the necessary route of every Christian’s sojourn through this life (Psalm 23).
This cannot be avoided. There are not shortcuts. These badlands must be walked through. We do not know why this must be, but we do know that this must be.
We have been given great gifts, however.
Poems that offer a way to pray in the pain, and a way to worship in the writhing. There are songs to sing, even in the dark (Psalm 42:7–8). These gifts are called the psalms of lament. It is noteworthy, that more of the psalms are laments, that any other kind.
Too often, we assume that a walk through the shadows implies that something has gone wrong in our communion with God. That we are cut-off, somehow. That we are being punished, or that we have been temporarily removed from access to, and fellowship with God. That we must acquire a stiff upper lip and the clarity to see a redemptive silver lining, first.
The book of Psalms, of course, teach precisely the opposite: that the whole of life is to be lived before God’s presence. They teach us that this is not just permitted, but possible.
The Psalter gives language for these difficult moments in faith’s journey. There is an honest song to be sung in the walk through the dark wood. There is a way to worship God midst of difficulty and trial of every kind. We are not left alone in silence, but, instead, we have access to the Lord at these exact moments, and these poems of pain become companions for us. If we think it we can pray it. Imagine that.
This is a particular kind of comfort and a good medicine for the soul.
It is one thing to believe that God uses the wilderness in a redemptive way to shape our character and our loyalties (this much is true). It is another thing to know that in the valley of the shadow of death we have a custom-made prayer book in which to worship our way through.
We can also stay in those places for as long as it takes. In fact, we are mostly unable to pass through those places quickly, despite what some might try to tell us.
We are allowed to limp, however. We are permitted to sit down and wait until we muster strength to keep walking. Sometimes these hikes will take years, decades, or lifetimes. But pass through theses places, we will.
In doing so, we can be in the company of one who knew, and was faithful in, the wilderness too. One who was overwhelmed at Gethsemane. One who had a classic song of lament on his parched lips, while hanging from his cross. One who could listen to you let out weepy, angry, frustrated, words of lament and sit there, wait with you, and say, “I know.”
And when he is ready he says it again, and adds, “But, behold, I’m making all things new” (Revelation 21:5).
When you see his face one day (Rev. 22:4) you’ll know he was right, and you’ll know you have made it home.