Day Ten: Lament
Posted February 9, 2012on:
After the morning at the Holy Sepulchre and the early afternoon at Wujoud, I felt emotionally and mentally exhausted. It’s taken me all these days and hours of writing to begin to grapple with the information and experiences and revelations of that day. When a few members of our group planned to continue on to the Western Wall, in spite of the intensity and length of the day so far, I first thought they were crazy. I just wanted some time away to think and pray over everything we had experienced. In my writing up to this point, I have made sense of my feelings and had some time to process the day. On the day itself, and especially at this moment, I just felt worn down and broken apart by the experience. I wanted to huddle under the covers and cry. That’s when I realized that the Western Wall was exactly where I needed to go.
Of all the sites in the Holy Land, the Western Wall has always been the place I most longed to see. My spirit is captivated by the idea of a place where people go to mourn. I first learned of the wall as the Wailing Wall, where the Jewish people mourned the destruction of the temple. I think there is a part of me that has never felt like I had permission to lament, like weeping was somehow a sign of my failure, or that it communicated to the people around me that they had failed me. Yet the truth is that much of what is broken in our lives and in our world deserves lamentation. The older I get, the more I think that the world needs our weeping as much as our rejoicing, calling out all that is broken, crying over the pain and sorrow that afflict us, and mourning for what cannot or will not be. The Western Wall, in my mind, was the place to take our sorrows, cry out to God, and know that God hears our affliction.
I knew before we arrived that the Wall might not match my expectations, but I was still drawn there. The women’s side is only one-third the size of the men’s side, so it was crowded. There were women of every age—young mothers wearing their babies, old women with canes and walkers, and an enormous number of schoolgirls in uniform, each one bowing toward the wall with their faces buried in prayer books. I found my way to one of the plastic chairs, about three people back from the wall itself. As soon as I closed my eyes and opened my heart to God, the tears started to flow, just like I’d always imagined. Many others had tears on their faces, but no one was really wailing. Still, my sniffles and occasional sobs were drowned out by the mumbled prayers of the women around me and singing of the men on the other side, so I felt completely free to lament. My heart’s sorrows poured out before God, like crashing waves hurling themselves on the shore until they flattened out and returned calmly to the sea.
I began with my personal lament for the day—for the exhaustion, and for my longing for home and family and church as I knew it. Then I cried for the pain we had seen that day—for the brokenness and fighting at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, for the way that Christendom has piled gold on Jesus’ tomb rather than finding the living Christ, for the hardship of the Palestinian people in Noora’s community and the Jewish people praying next to me, for the convoluted and seemingly intractable conflict between the Israelis and the Palestinians, for all the wars of the world.
When I had finished weeping for those things, I drew myself together to find the prayers from my congregation. I had invited anyone to send written prayers with me, and promised to pray for each one of them and tuck them into the cracks in the wall. I had not opened the prayers at all until I pulled them out of my backpack at the Western Wall, and began to read the outpouring of people’s deepest concerns and longings. The tears began to flow again immediately. I have been the pastor of this small community for more than six years, and I have come to know each family very well. I know many of their pains and sorrows and struggles very well, and I love these people dearly. As I made my way through their prayers, I lamented for the brokenness that each one carries. When I finished the written prayers, I went through the list of names and imagined each person sitting in their place in the sanctuary. I cried for their sorrows, for their worries, for the heartbreaks of their lives. I wept because I loved them, and their pain deserved lament.
I moved on to my family, my friends, myself—just letting the tears and the grief flow freely. I felt like I was leaving the grief in the place where it belonged, with all the accumulated sorrows of others. I wasn’t leaving it behind, but I was sharing it with God, laying it out plain, refusing to hold it inside anymore. Lamentation was liberation, and the Wall was everything I needed it to be—a safe place to weep, for as long as I desired.
The challenge came when I was ready to leave. I made my way forward to the Wall itself, and found a hole big enough to hold the entire envelope full of prayers from my congregation. I noticed that the Jewish folks around me were walking backwards away from the Wall, as a sign of respect and deference for the former Temple Mount. I started to walk backwards away, keeping my eyes on the Wall, but my soul was ready to turn around. I wanted more than anything to turn my back on the weeping and face the world again. Backing up made me feel tied to the sorrow, to the longing, to the lamentation, rather than to the hustle and bustle of the people passing on the plaza. In spite of all that is broken in this pain-filled world, we have life and have it abundantly. As the Psalmist says, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy will come in the morning.” I was ready to turn toward the dawn.
I knew how to get to the lamentation at the Wailing Wall, but I didn’t know how to get out of it. As a Christian, my usual place of weeping is the cross, which always points to the resurrection. For those pious Jews around me praying at the wall and carefully backing away so as to keep it in their sights, what is the path from lamentation to joy? I know it is there (see Psalm above), but I don’t know the way. As I watched the schoolgirls backing away, I wondered how they turned mourning into dancing (again, a reference to the Hebrew scriptures). In deference to the traditions of the holy site of another faith, I dutifully backed away from the Wall, but what I really wanted to do was to place the prayers in the Wall, literally and figuratively, then turn and walk away without looking back. As important as it is to have a place of lament for this broken world, it is even more important to turn and face forward again with hope, to look toward the things of life and walk boldly into them.
When I was finally able to turn away from the Wall and face forward again, I felt exhausted, but somehow lighter than before. All the angst and conflict of the day had been left behind, but I was spent. I made my way back to the hotel for evening prayer, thanked God for familiar comfort food like spaghetti on the hotel buffet at dinner, and crawled in bed by 8:30 p.m. It’s taken me three days of writing to finally work through the power of that one holy day.