The Silence of God, the Opportunity of Lament

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?” — Psalm 22:1

In Bon Iver’s latest album, 22, A Million, one I enjoy tremendously, careful observers will have noticed the inclusion of part of the first verse of Psalm 22 in some of the album material, and specifically in the song “33 “GOD””: “Why are you so far from saving me?”

A robust album that carries far more than that the sentiment contained in that verse, it nonetheless holds such sobering concepts close to heart. It is something that is doubtless on the minds of many, the faithful and faithless alike. It’s been hard for many to feel like God has been listening in 2017.

As I seek growth in the Christian faith, and a surer representation of Christ’s likeness, a barrier that I encounter which makes it difficult is the presumed silence of God. Though I have been provided exceptional displays of God’s presence and character, provision and love, I can grow profoundly disillusioned when I cannot hear him. I enjoy prayer, and it soothes me. But when I continue, pursuing a steadfast and patient spirit, while listening and hearing no discernible response, my faithfulness, whatever I have of it, fades, and my hope dwindles.

I recently saw the film Silence. Poignant beyond anything else in my recollection. It was not as much convicting as it was shattering to presumptions of what strength of faith looks like. Such a depiction is not compatible with the world views of many; it is simply too harsh and complex to fit within their belief system. As I discover God to be larger and grander than I previously thought, my own faith is burst open with regularity, and mended and expanded once again. With some time I’ve come to feel emboldened by the perspective Silence offered.

“He’s here; I just can’t hear him.”

The Psalms take seriously such concerns. I used to think they were only fluffy and neat pieces of encouragement, detached from real experiences with accurate human expressions. Yet there is hardly a common — or even rare — perspective that one can hold which is not represented in that comprehensive series of prayers and praises. Though this is supposedly common knowledge, I am continually surprised when I find emotions and responses to life’s challenges that are similar to my own in Biblical figures. I am floored by such unvarnished discourse are at the center of Christianity’s canon. It is not an exceptional inclusion, to simply round out an otherwise sterile and gentle compilation of ancient religious practices. The power of the Psalms is integral to an understanding of God, not peripheral, as I’m coming to understand. Not a few words of hope or peace for pep-talks, but an account of grappling with who God is.

It is almost a scandal how little the realism of the Bible is promoted, and makes it into our modern minds. I could have used far more realism in my faith growing up; I’m just now getting to the point of finding my expanding emotional needs matched by an expansive Gospel. The closer I get to the truth, the larger it grows.

I deeply revere the life of David in the Bible, author of many of the Psalms. A marvelous figure of triumph and tragedy. We often speak of him in a strangely disjointed way. The accolades that fell upon him early in life are not afforded him later, and understandably so. He is typically associated, primarily, with his most stunning achievement, killing the enemy Goliath, and his most shocking shortcoming, adultery and murder. But his life provides far more than a warning to me, one I receive and think on often. I find his devotion inspiring, and all the more so because of the moments where his life was in shambles — wanted dead and hunted with vengeance. His faith could have been in pieces as well, but he didn’t rely on platitudes or general encouragement to fuel his heart, but pressed God for both answers and support.

“Why, O Lord, do you stand far away?
Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?” — Psalm 10:1

“David knows that God is near, but he doesn’t sense that God is near” (Twit). The adversity David faced throughout his life could have created a complicated relationship with God — and indeed it was intricate — but it contained incredible consistency, and was ultimately built on simplicity and trust. The doubt and fear he felt along the way did not disqualify him, nor bespeak a weak faith. When taken to God directly, not hidden or minimized, questions did not separate, but bound him to God all the more. Complaint is safe with Him.

“Though we are not promised clarity in this life, if faced rightly, suffering can drive us like a nail deep into the love of God, and into more stability and spiritual power than you can ever imagine.” — Kevin Twit

The intimacy has more heft and utility, as well as beauty and wonder, because of the honesty from which all David’s words emanate. David had been guaranteed of God’s favor and help, and therefore does not generalize or soften the truth of his experience.

What has sustained me in great doubt is the precedent set by entire disclosure, and the kindness God has shown to those who do not believe, are disillusioned, or are even vocally angry with Him. David and others in Scripture even accuse God of doing them wrong, of not caring. The patience to allow skeptical believers to emotionally, hysterically speak to Him, even out of ignorance and error, and the restraint/mercy to help them rather than harm them, answering tenderly, is extraordinarily relieving, and indescribably welcoming.

The prophet Jeremiah spoke to God in a shockingly direct way. The intensity of his words to God were recently illumined by Kevin Twit, a minister I return to in search of honest teaching, and quote liberally. He noted how Jeremiah is unfiltered in speaking to God from a position of anguish. In the original text, the language Jeremiah uses goes so far as to carry the connotation of sexual abuse. He dared to level a charge akin to rape.

Impudent? Blasphemous? Perhaps. But accepted.

Scripture records many answers to prayer, in circumstances both extraordinary and mundane, which can set a difficult precedent for us modern people dealing with the presumed silence from above. Discernment is a process, no doubt, not a singular achievement, so drawing close to God and remaining near will bring spiritual maturity which yields insight. It’s not a formula, of course, and I am early in the process myself, so discouragement can arise.

It is possible that David knew God as I never will. That I cannot expect such union and delight in God, hear as he did, or feel such reciprocity. But his consistent returning to God’s goodness, his insistence that God is faithful and loving, instructs me to at least reach for it.

When I have prayed for wisdom and discernment, as instructed, for which Solomon, a man favored by God, was commended, yet have not received clarity in the slightest. When I have asked to be delivered from addiction and depression yet still remain in those states of misery. When I have genuinely sought healing and progress, with the acceptance of sacrifice and discipline, yet have been met only with more failure. At these times, though having no merit with which to feel entitled to a response, I find the silence of God unbearable.

Yet, again and again, seeing the honesty of the Bible keeps me from despair.

After verse 1, Psalm 22 continues, taking a different course:

“For he has not despised or abhorred the affliction of the afflicted, and he has not hidden his face from him, but has heard, when he cried to him.”

The security that allows the Biblical figures to be bold with God allows them to collapse into God as well. Not antithetical concepts, but a fitting pair.

In the new Julien Baker song “Happy to be Here,” I love how she describes a simple, honest dialogue with a creator:

“A diagram of faulty circuitry
Explains how I was made
And now the engineer is listening
As I voice all my complaints
From an orchestra of shaking metal keeping me awake
I was just wondering if there’s any way that you made a mistake”

Questions. Refreshing that they do not have to come through a process of review or censorship. Not brazen, but welcome in the context of making requests of God — Scripture encourages it. I think it is important that speaking to God ends in composure, trust and reverence, but I understand that it may not begin there, which I believe is alright. I think God welcomes what is authentic, however unrefined, more than what is false and contrived.

If you have been told you cannot speak to God what is really in your heart and mind, I would say that you have been misled, as in the past I have been. “Lament invites us to tell God how we really feel” (Twit). Maybe we have spent time leaving packages at God’s door when He is actually inside and waiting to receive them in person. Such are the prayers of the discouraged and doubtful; I know them well. Additionally, I often overhear prayers that are given like a politician’s speech, or a diplomat’s address to a foreign audience. Distant, as if earning an audience with God rather than speaking to someone who expects you and wants your company. If God indeed knows and loves us completely, is this not a cumbersome, unnecessary practice?

I strongly hate the pat-answers — token consolation used when addressing instances of disillusion and hardship — that can be popular among Christians. You know them. They may be innocent enough, and they are not wrong, but they can at times betray the fact that God is a being of specificity and nuance, dealing with our circumstances in imperceptible ways, unmeasured and possibly unknown.

In a roundabout way, we can do harm by speaking what it seems we should say in order to be “good Christians” rather than what is fair for us to feel and thus verbalize. If we presume to represent God well, it can be valuable to note that He does not always speak quickly. And hurrying healing can hurt. If we try to patch someone up quickly, we can preempt God’s care in a particular scenario, though we are allowed to act and shouldn’t remain idle. He is interested in meeting us more deeply and tenderly than quick-fixes.

God is creative and mindful of our individual circumstances, able to act in ways not expected, or matching anything we would perceive to be a useful answer, for that matter. He does not deal in generalities; His comfort is unique for us all. Our resources of faith are so rich and abundant, that we don’t have to resort to cheap answers — His answers are deeper than our categories for answers. So when lacking what we think we need, and at our limit, we have too many great examples of champions of faith who lacked the answers they wanted, yet persevered under trial, to fear being overcome or abandoned.

I’ve subconsciously absorbed the idea that the silence of God I encounter is a wall that keeps me out of intimacy with Him. Others have not regarded it so. Any lack of action on the part of God, or even something from Him that seems to us improper or wrong, can be viewed as an opportunity to dig into depth that only patience and trust can provide. This can be horribly difficult when you’re afflicted, and thus I am cautious to say this to someone in the midst of anguish, but I simply promote the idea that God listens as does take our cries and complaints into account.

“The good news of the gospel is that you don’t have to muffle your cries.” — Paul David Tripp

It is of the deepest interest to me that, long after David struggled to hear God and feel his presence, Jesus Christ, God’s own son, would struggle to an even greater degree. He would cry out in a similar way to God, when dying upon a cross. “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt. 27:46)

He was not answered.

As Tim Keller has said, Christ called out and was not answered so that we may call out and always be answered. He was familiar with silence.

“If the Lord had not been my help, my soul would soon have lived in the land of silence.” — Psalm 94:17

Mysterious provision.

I’ve been recently reminded that Psalm 88 ends in utter dejection. “Darkness is my only companion.” The psalm is filled with raw confession — blunt and earnest — as pained as can be. It doesn’t end on a hopeful note, nor answer the questions David asked throughout.

Far from discouraging me, that offers hope. The practice of ignoring the trauma and disorder of life in favor of plastic, cheery claims is far too prevalent and of no comfort to me; I submit that it is very unChristian, and actually un-human. If the Bible taught that every trial could be concluded timely and with ease, and that disillusionment and distress were not allowed to be experienced, that would soon prove to be a crippling yoke when life did not afford me such convenience. Instead, we have a guide to living within reality, not in fantasy. We don’t have to escape ourselves; we can be rescued. The power of healing and overcoming is not diminished by recognizing the facts of life; rather, empowerment and divine aid in Scripture is revealed as having the faculty to meet opposition in its raw form, not in its sugar-coated construction. This is supernatural, and allows both true bravery and honesty.

It is possible that there may be a bow in this package of thoughts somewhere, but I’ll allow you to tie it. I’m not interested in promoting a generic, nebulous optimism that we often come to expect. It isn’t in keeping with my feelings of late, nor with the reality of life or the character of God as I’m discovering it, to feel like presenting you with neat, digestible collection of assorted pieces of encouragement, though I hope you’ve found some, as I have in writing this. I believe there is much that we have yet to hear from God, and I wait for it.

“But even if God had been silent my whole life, to this very day, everything I do, everything I’ve done… Speaks of Him.

It was in the silence that I heard Your voice.”