One of the great tools of our faith is something that we often do not express. Lamentations. There is an entire book of the Bible devoted to this exercise, this cathartic ritual of pain and loss and hurt and weeping. There’s also a pretty good song by a group I really enjoy, American Aquarium, by the same name. Lament comes in many times and for many reasons. But for many of us, lament comes most from a time of loss. 

This is true Biblically, for the book of Lamentations, is just that; it is the loss that the people had for many reasons. They have lost the land, yes, because they have been conquered by Babylon. But it goes deeper than that. When you read through the Old Testament, you see that the land was more than just a “place”; it was an identity. Along with the covenant of circumcision, it was one of the proofs that they were God’s people. How do we know that we belong to God? We have the covenant of circumcision, and we have the land. This shows that we are God’s very own and that He is here with us now. This is how we know. So, to be defeated and taken into exile it is more than just a military defeat; it is a loss of identity. The way that they knew they were God’s people is no more. The land is taken. They are rootless. 

In that place of pain, they lament. They mourn their loss. They give voice to the new reality of what they are now and what they no longer are.  

For me, this is what I think of with lament. Loss. Rootlessness. Loss of place and identity. A new reality and the pain that comes from things no longer being what they were. The pain comes from things changing, but the pain also comes from the fear and the uncertainty of what is not yet.  

I have told my wife recently that I feel rootless. I feel, in many ways, homeless. I have come to understand that I am in a time of lament, both personally and religiously. 

Personally, it makes more sense. Much of life has been a struggle to find that place of identity and belonging, but with the death of my mother, who adopted and raised me, I feel it more sharply. I have had people tell me that they find themselves wishing they could call their loved one just one more time, and I now understand that. I find myself on Sundays wishing I could call Mom and let her know how the church was or call her when I return to home to let her know that I made it home safe. This is a common feeling for any of us who have lost someone we love; in fact, it may be the most common of all human feelings. If you have not been here, you will one day. My mother was the dominant force in our family, and all her loved ones are trying to figure out what exactly life looks like now. 

But that is not the only sense of my lament. My greater sense is that spiritual or religious lament I mentioned earlier. I was truly coveted when I was a senior in high school. One can debate if I was “saved” at that point or just decided to take my faith seriously, but regardless, I was a different person after that. I fell in love with Jesus, with His Word, and with His church. These things have defined me. I have always been a “headfirst” Christian, as theology has driven my faith more than emotion or experience. My theological sojourns from Reformed to Anglican theology have been driven by a combination of search for theological depth and the brushing up against the divine mystery that I have found in the sacraments and in the liturgy.  

I have made my home in the church and theology of my childhood, the United Methodist Church. I have had my feet planted in many different worlds of our diverse church, but I have always, and most importantly, been drawn to the evangelical wing of our church. I believe, fully believe in our historic doctrines, I do not, as some have claimed United Methodists do, “recite them with our fingers crossed.” I remain theologically who I have always been – Dr. Tom Oden was a huge theological influence on me in my seminary experience. Bishop Scott Jones, now of the Glboal Methodist Church, really spoke to me with his understanding of the Wesleyan Center. 

In at any time and place in church history, I would be considered an evangelical. However, with where the American evangelical church finds itself in a general sense and in my call upon my life and ministry to remain United Methodist in our Wesleyan fracture, I do not believe that many people would consider me an evangelical. Nor do I know if that label fits me anymore, either. 

This leads to profound sadness and a feeling of homelessness.  

This has led me to a season of lament—lament of what is not more—my family is different; it has changed. My religious “home” is different; it has changed. It does not mean what is now and what will be is “bad.” It is just different. 

My church is different post-vote. It doesn’t mean it is bad. It is just different. 

My annual conference is different post-votes. It doesn’t mean that it is bad; it’s just different. 

I look with hope towards what we can be. But I lament what we are no longer and what we have lost. 

I look with hope towards what I am now and what, through God’s grace, I will be. But I lament that in this new season, I feel rootless.  

I think of the words of one my favorite Rich Mullins songs, “Here in America:”

​​But I am home anywhere if You are where I am

I think many of us may find ourselves there, unsure of the future, finding our sea legs, hopeful towards what God is going to do, but grieving what is no longer. I’ve always, always, always wanted a people. I have told my wife that my great fear in life is abandonment; I fear relationships ending; I fear this change. 

But I also know, and I hold to the truth of Lamentations, that God brings beauty from the ashes of the ruins: 

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

I know all will be well. I know God is at work. I know I will see my mother again in God’s eternal kingdom. I know that God is not done with the people of the United Methodist Church in Mississippi. I know good will come. I know, I know these things. 

I now live in the ashes of that change. I now see my fears being played out in front of me. I now feel I understand Jeremiah in the midst of the ruined Jerusalem, weeping at his great loss. 

But I acknowledge my profound sadness about what is no longer. I acknowledge my “rootlessness” amid new identities and labels. I lament.