Let the Christians be Sad

Every human being knows what it means to be sad. And it is precisely because we know what it means to be sad that we try to avoid it—perhaps even at all costs. Yet, what if the cost is actually greater to avoid sadness than to lean into it?

I didn't realize that I had been indoctrinated into an avoidance of sadness until my second year of college. I attended a conference for Christian college students which covers what is called the four-part Biblical meta-narrative: Creation, Fall, Redemption, and Restoration. That Saturday morning we launched ourselves into The Fall, the moment humankind rejected God, His design, and His goodness for their own glory. From racism to human trafficking to pornography to natural disasters to pride we spent the better part of three hours weeping and allowing ourselves to be broken over the sin in us and the world. Only after this did the celebration of Saturday night—Redemption—have any meaning. Only after the despair of darkness did light seem so bright and glorious. How could Jesus Christ leave Heaven to redeem something that wasn't broken? What is there to restore if nothing has been destroyed?

But I had always skipped this step. Growing up in the Independent Baptist denomination, I saw little to no congregational confession and lament. Outside of annual Good Friday services and monthly communion, I rarely, if ever, experienced a time set aside to ache over sin, to question, or to petition God for holy vengeance and justice. Rather, I tended to feel guilty if those sentiments ever crept into my heart, and felt that a "good Christian" should know that God is in control and therefore should never be discouraged by the world's brokenness. Other denominations, such as Anglican, Presbyterian, and Lutheran, have times of confession and lament quite literally written into their liturgy; and while my convictions still align me with the denomination I have known my whole life, I have realized of late that there is a cost to our independence.

The cost? An incomplete worldview. And with that, a small view of the extraordinary, nefarious seriousness of sin and the superior greatness of God.

Throughout the Bible we see countless examples of the explicit ways ancient Near-Eastern culture displayed lament and anguish: Israelite kings and prophets would tear their clothes, cover their heads with ashes, and cry out to God bitterly in a way which would only garner embarrassment and judgmental scoffs in our modern day. Faithful followers of God were never afraid to remind Him (and in so doing remind themselves) of His promises when they saw rampant evil and found a disconnect between the two. They boldly put God's character before Him—not because He had forgotten, but because the world around them was showing subjection to sin, and not its Maker, the way it was designed to.

Only after this could they say with confidence, "Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him, my salvation and my God."*

The temptation is to skip facing the uncomfortable reality that things are not how they ought, for doing so reminds us that we're powerless; it reminds us that sin is powerful; it reminds us that we ourselves are part of the problem; it reminds us that we are privileged.

It reminds us that we are sinful.

And thus we allows ourselves to be deceived.

We allow ourselves to fall into the deplorable and shamefully prideful line-of-thinking that sin is not that bad, that fighting for justice and holiness can wait, that the cross is not that big of a deal, and that hope is a will we ourselves can conceive at any moment.

May it never be. Perpetual, chronic sadness gives way to hopelessness; contrived, ignorant happiness gives way to cowardice, but well-placed sadness brings forth hope.

Today, according to Christian tradition, is the beginning of the Easter season, and maybe with good reason. Maybe church leaders realized the fruitlessness of skipping lament, of foregoing sadness. Of arriving at Easter with an attitude of "Oh, that's cool," like we do when we pass a slightly better-than-average street performer.

And yet even outside this season, the other 325 days of the year, let the Christians be sad. Let them cry out bitterly and question humbly and petition boldly and ache deeply and soften easily and worship truthfully. Let them give sin the response it deserves and in response give God the praise He deserves. And as they do this with one another, to one another, and in the solace of their own lives, may hope abound.

*Psalm 43:5 ESV

The night is darkest just before dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming.

- Harvey Dent, The Dark Knight

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