For whatever reason, I don’t love liturgical experiences. I can be ok with liturgy in some contexts, but I usually find it too confining, too structured for my heart to feel at home in.

There. I said an uncool thing.

Even so, I love following the church calendar. Especially I love following the seasons of Advent and Lent. Western Christianity tends toward appearing glossy, smooth, smiley, and satisfied, and it tends to not account for or acknowledge the crazy hard, bewildering, unfair parts of life. It sings “trust and obey, for there’s no other way to be happy in Jesus” but I often wonder–what does ‘happy in Jesus’ even mean?

And if you sing the more of that song, you come to “Not a shadow can rise, not a cloud in the skies, but His smile quickly drives it away” and you think, “Well… it’s not always been that quickly for me.” However, sloppy theology in songs is another subject for a braver day.

Advent and Lent give 28-40 long days to sit with the unaskable questions we hold. Advent and Lent let us name our hopes and fears, our anxieties and obsessions, and our longings in a dark season that is aching for the light of Christmas and Easter. These generous weeks in the church calendar give us space to lament–an essential part of the human experience–at least for the human who wants to be whole and healthy.

Lament is not a pity party or a sob story that wallows in misery. Lament is a gutsy wail that says not all is as it should be and I don’t like it and this stinks. People who deserve babies can’t conceive and people who deserve to die keep on living and people who deserve to live suddenly die and none of it’s fair or right or beautiful.

Maybe you thought being happy in Jesus means never saying any of this out loud and especially not to God. But if you can’t name your questions and put words to what feels grossly unfair, what does ‘healthy relationship’ even mean?

The difference between lament and self-pity is that lament turns toward Jesus and self-pity turns inward and spirals down. Lament goes somewhere with its sorrow and it wrestles and groans, sometimes for a very long time. It does not insist on always being polished and presentable and it does not follow a timeline.

But lament is a season, even though it doesn’t listen to any kind of time limit. Christmas and Easter come at the end of that season, and they remind us that it won’t always be winter, barren, dark.

Lament howls around for however long it needs to but because it turns toward Jesus, it finds comfort and soothing–eventually. This is a deep knowing, a solid confidence, a quivering consolation in the person who knows so much about grief that He’s called the “Man of Sorrows.” You can hold that reality close forever, and you have my permission to never sing “happy in Jesus” again.

If we’re honest with ourselves, we’re not always happy, and we are all waiting. We are waiting for many joys that Jesus also longs for. Just because He’s God doesn’t mean He gets what He’s waiting for either.

When Lucy met Mr. Tumnus in Narnia, he told her that it’s always winter and never Christmas. I think about that these days on my walks in the icy cold and I hear a stream trickling under the snow. The sound tells me that Aslan is on the move and Christmas–joy and feasting and merriment–is coming, and I don’t only mean smoked salmon at breakfast and turtle cheesecake for second breakfast.

This last night of Advent, I wish for you bright, shining tomorrows and the dripping of ice even in your lamenting, even in your waiting.

Related post: Hope Opens Every Door