A Time to Grieve (from August 30, 2020)

Out of the boldness of our fear
We scream into the darkness
Cries of help that are swallowed by silence
We are only left to grope
Unsure of what is around or beneath us
We only know to keep moving forward
If we are able to strain our ears just enough
We can hear the echoes of our cries return to us
Unaccompanied and hollow
Yet we press on,
Into that space where we are the most unsure
The most unsafe
And in doing so,
We find our hope
Patiently awaiting our return.

A Call to Worship, Tamisha A Tyler

I wrote this poem a few years ago for a liturgy of lament, and I have returned to it many times since then. Oftentimes, I struggle with giving poems a happy ending. I feel as if we want to move away too quickly. I often find myself searching to meet the eyes of my pain, hoping to find a piece of my humanity there. Some say it’s because I’m a 4, or a middle child, or a Black woman in America, or any number of categories that attempt to explain why I’ve had to face so much pain. I believe it could be any combination of those things, but really, I’m just tired. The kind of tired that looks to pain and says, “well, if you’re not gonna go, you might as well tell me what you’re doing here and what it is that you want.”

2020 has been a hell of a year. Everyone has lost something; a loved one, a cultural hero, rhythms around work and life, friendships, jobs, economic security, hope. I laugh when I think of all the declarations of “this will be my year!” and even look back to my own promises and goals I made at the end of 2019. But time is not a genie and the chimes and cheers that brought in 2020 did not wash away all our problems, nor did it usher in all our blessings. Time doesn’t work that way. In fact, it feels like it did the exact opposite of what any of us wanted. And yet, being more than halfway through this year, and facing some circumstances personally and nationally that at times feels insurmountable, I look at that list of goals and promises and am amazed to cross some of them off. How am I supposed to feel about that? I’ve been so busy searching for the face of my pain that I forgot that joy was also in the room.

If I am honest, I am not sure what this blog is about. Maybe I just needed some space to write and try to weed through all that I am feeling. I am tired of crying for faces I will never touch, for people I will never get to know. I am tired of hashtags, and COVID, and cancer. Fuck them all. I am tired of racism. Tired of its insidious illusions, the way it chips away at you in plain sight with everyone watching, but no one really sees. I’m tired of theologizing why I should breathe. I’m tired of navigating a foundation of fragility, a landmine that has learned to gaslight me as the bomb. I’m tired of catering to a field, a system, a nation, and a world built on my back yet insists it has no real need of me. I’m tired of arguing about whether death is justified. I’m tired of the misuse of our beautiful Earth, of the denial of climate change, and the pitiful offers of prayers when those caught in the wake lose everything, including their lives. I’m tired of Black folks always having to say “I told you so.” It always means two things: we were right, and you weren’t listening.

I’m tired of so many things and all I can do is scream. Now I know many of you will say scream, and move forward. Scream, but don’t give up. Therein lies my problem. Everyone wants to make space for the step, but no one wants to create space to scream. Especially in Christian contexts. We are obsessed with what happens after, the resurrection, the hope returned, the happy ending. We go so far as to police anyone who is screaming without moving. “What are you doing? Don’t give up! Trust God! Joy comes in the morning!” You know what, FUCK YOU. Fuck you and your pretty theological bows of a perceived Christian perfection, your cheap interpretations of my experiences, your demand that I assist you in keeping your own fear at bay. I am not responsible for your shallow theological constructions that cannot hold my screams.

By now you are re-reading my poem and scratching your head. Yeah, I struggle with it too. Cause at the end of the day I want to believe that hope is waiting for me at the end of it. I want to keep moving forward. I want my work to contribute to the worlds of justice and hope we are collectively creating. But I still struggle with joy and pain being in the same room. I get hyper focused on one or the other; so focused on joy that I ignore my pain, so focused on my pain that I forget my joy. I am stuck, not knowing what I should be doing, who I should be giving my attention to.

As a liturgist, I struggle with what kinds of spaces to help usher people into. Lament? Joy? Screaming? Laughing?

Yes.

Liturgy helps us to step into the messy rhythms of life. It allows us to catch a 4-D rhythm with our 3-D hands. Line by line it teaches us how to play along. How to dance. How to listen. It is never fully obtainable. But that isn’t the point either. Because we can’t hold everything, liturgies teach us to hold and lean into what we can. This is why we need many liturgies, not just one style or doctrine. In our desire to remain comfortable, we’ve only listened to the liturgies that are easier to hold onto. Screaming was never meant to be held. It shatters. It disrupts. We lean in, it pushes us back. We are left unsure of what to do next. Despite all this, now is our time to lament. To scream. To grieve. Now is the time to lean in and get pushed back. Lamenting is not about feeling better, it’s about being heard.