David’s Lamentation – a sermon preached on 12 August 2024

David the King, was grieved and moved
He went to his chamber,
his chamber and wept
And as he wept, he wept and said…

Oh, my son, oh, my son
Would to God I had died
Would to God I had died
Would to God I had died
For thee, oh Absalom, my son, my son

Victory that day was turned into mourning
When the people did see
how the king grieved for his son
He covered his face and in a loud voice cried…

Did you ever meet someone who was better at something that you are and admire them just for that?

Meet David King of Israel who is better at doing something than I am and I love him for it.

We’ve been reading stories of David for the last couple of weeks and seen much that is unlovable. Much that we would turn our eyes from.

Two weeks ago, we heard of him sending a man to certain death in battle so that he could make off with his wife.

David’s behaviour in that reading is so outrageous that I had complaints from members of this congregation for allowing it to be read.

I tend not to believe in providence but I do believe in comeuppance and last week we saw David being confronted with righteous anger by Nathan the Prophet pointing the finger at David for his wicked behaviour. And turning David into a snivelling wreck.

David often isn’t a terribly attractive figure.

And yet he can do something that makes me admire him 3000 years since he last drew breath.

David could lament like no-one else. His cries of lament over Saul his mentor and David is lover and Absolom his son move me. Move me very deeply and make me love him despite all else we know of him.

The version of David’s Lamentation that I just sang is just one of many settings of his words thoughout the ages. His sorrow is written in the history books of the scriptures and recorded in the Book of Psalms, the hymn book that Jesus sang from.

And lament is important.

It is sometimes said that we have forgotten how to lament. Maybe we have forgotten how to lament in public, but I know that this congregation is one where lament is seldom absent in private.

Lament for the horror of wee girls killed at a dance class.

Lament for the horror of fascists turning that into something to attack those who have come to this country seeing refuge and safety.

Lament for those the stirring up of race riots online.

And Lament for schools hit by missiles in Gaza.

And people who are members of this country express lamentation for events that go back months and years as well as weeks.

Lamenting over the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

Lamenting for the national boundaries that Britain left behind in Africa.

Lamenting for a world being roasted by the sins of climate change denial and ignorance.

And lament for ourselves and our own sins.

For we like David have done things which we ought not to have done and no done things that we ought. And there is no help in us.

And lament for our griefs for all of us bear them.

David puts into verse his grief, He lets his troubled soul sing.

And it makes me love him.

It makes me love him because lamentation is the expression of the depth of our capacity to love. For grief is the name for love that is stronger than death.

Lament is the song of the hopeless and the despairing. But it is an urge to give voice to the deep, deep knowledge that things should not be this way. Paradoxically it contains within it hope. Hope that it will not always feel like this.

Deep in the pit, lament shines a little light on sadness and from that light, please God may seeds of hope be nourished. That knowledge that things should not be this way is the beginning, the fragile and tender beginning of doing something with the recognition that not only will all things pass but that all this could be different, better.

The hope that justice may be known.

The hope that righteousness may flourish.

The hope that peace will prevail.

The hope that the rawness of grief might change.

These are the seeds nourished by lamentation.

Christianity never denies death or grief or tragedy. Indeed, it says that all of these are all too real.

However, it says that they will not win in the end. It says that resurrection isn’t just possible but inevitable. And it says that a world put right is not just something we are called to make real but that we are called to enjoy and delight in it forever.

“Love wins” isn’t just a slogan that some of us carry about in rainbow colours at Pride. It is also the truth that those of us who bear the name Christian live by. It is our two word creed.

In the gospel reading this morning, Jesus talks about eternal life being our destiny. I am the bread of life he says. And whoever eats of me will have eternal life.

We eat of him week by week and are nourished by the comforts of the Eucharist at this table. And as we receive the bread each week we receive the challenge to make the world one in which everyone has enough to eat, people to love them and joy in great abundance.

I believe that lamentation is important and needs to be part of our song. But I also believe that lament will not be the last song that we sing.

There are alleluias to be had in putting the world to rights. There are hosannas to be sung in worship in sharing the business of a God who wills goodness and love for everyone who draws breath.

I am aware of the deep despair that people have been feeling about the world recently.

Lament and do it well. But lament and live.

In this place, every week, before we eat of the bread of life, we hear the bidding, “Lift up your hearts!”

As we hear that this week, let us hear it as a command.

For God is good. And goodness will prevail. And love wins.

Always and forever, love wins.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the holy Spirit. Amen.