Broken Hallelujah

One of my favorite bands right now is called The Afters.  Modeled in the contemporary Christian rock genre, they are lyrically better than most; they think deeply, sing in arching high voices and portray the emotion of the common Christian that most bands only pretend to get to.  Where I have heard many musical groups, some which I listen to regularly, stop at the only emotion that seems to matter in our contemporary culture

Anger

The Afters have found and avenue to talk about pain.  Here are some lyrics from one of their best songs:

I can barely stand right now.
Everything is crashing down,
And I wonder where You are.

I try to find the words to pray.
I don't always know what to say,
But You're the one that can hear my heart.

Even though I don't know what your plan is,
I know You're making beauty from these ashes.

I've seen joy and I've seen pain.
On my knees, I call Your name.
Here's my broken hallelujah.

With nothing left to hold onto,
I raise these empty hands to You.
Here's my broken hallelujah.

The song continues, but I pause here because this song came to life today.  As if miraculously shimmering from a bad dream, I drove to the house of a young man, early thirties, who must learn to be a new parent by himself.

As I entered the house, the funeral home director sat opposite Ashley, the husband.  The funeral home director has the unenviable job of trying to help the grieving family process the funeral arrangements and in the midst of the tragedy that has just occurred, it was obvious that Ashley couldn't concentrate.  Somewhere in the midst of his deepest soul he couldn't find any emotion to help Paul, the mortician, to choose the casket, the spray of flowers, or the endless other details that come after the loss of a loved one.  He stared vacantly at his hands which fumbled with a torn Kleenex.  He'd been hugged to death in the last week, but those hugs were not from the one that he wanted.  His thoughts were of his twenty-nine year old wife who had died hours after childbirth.  These things don't happen anymore, he said.  It's not supposed to be like this.  His first born daughter, Sophie, came into the world last Thursday
...and Sophie's mother left it. 

So now we sat, wrapped in quilts of grief and confusion, disappointment, anger and pain, trying to make any sense of why our hallelujahs are broken.  I watched Ashley attempt to make sense of anything, not just the fact that he and Sophie had left the hospital less than a day after she had been born; he not only was trying to learn to be a new dad but also how to be a widower.

It's not fair. 

Where did the Hallelujah go?  Where do we find joy in a world when this happens?  Every word I say would ring strange to his ears - this loss confounded every sense of faith: why, God?  Why?  There are so many more people deserving of death, why this woman?

It's a question that rears its ugly head every minute, day and night, all year long.  Death puts its stamp on unprepared lives and that question bubbles up between the bouts of sobbing.

We talked about the funeral.  Ashley and his parents, Kylie's parents, and I sat around the rectangular table with the yellow checkered table cloth looking through my funeral notes knowing that we had to talk about the particulars of the worship service but knowing that no one at that table, including me, was ready to choose songs, hymns, photos, scriptures, pall bearers etc...  So I did the only thing that I knew to do.

I prayed for them ... us.

Perhaps I should have started earlier, but I think God knows the right time.  We bowed our heads not sure what would come out, but the Spirit spoke the words that only used my lips as a conduit for the beginning of healing.  Ashley's last words to his wife were, "I'm so proud of you.  I'll see you soon."  Funny how those words have so many different meanings.  I prayed that the soon-ness that is never soon enough, would be replaced by a presence of the Holy One who embraces us in our grief and brings us to a reminder of the promise of God in the cross.  We prayed for a while, I spoke the words and they provided the receptacle for God's healing, and after the 'amen' was spoken, I looked up at the wet faces, tear streaked and broken and I saw, just for a moment, the beginning. 

The beginning of reconstruction of the 'hallelujah.'  Even in its present broken state, just like the season of lent that we are in, where 'hallelujah' is buried beyond reach, we find the stirrings of hope in the promise.

Even though I don't know what your plan is,
I know you're making beauty from these ashes.

Heal our broken hallelujahs.