It Still Hurts: Toward a Theology of Hopelessness

Churchy Sermon Sundays are focused on James the “Just”, with the latest monologue on the subject of generosity. None of it is relevant. Or, maybe it all should be relevant. I don’t know. Despair surges past our hope.

James 5:4 “For listen! Hear the cries of the field workers whom you have cheated of their pay. The cries of those who harvest your fields have reached the ears of the Lord of Heaven’s Armies.”

His phone beeps.

The text: “You should have planned better.” Luis slides the phone over to me across our dining table. I read his employer’s text in response to his request to come back to work this week. Things at work had been slow, in-between permits, and he volunteered to work his side job for two weeks. Two weeks are up. Apparently, his show of understanding the “slow-ness or, eb-and-flow of work” at his new place of employment is going to be met with frigid, cold capitalism.

“Welcome to America” I say.

We share a look of terror, rage. It’s a combination all too familiar. A pull between hustling for dollars to feed our family and a new, stronger conviction — that neither of us will continue to sacrifice our souls – integrity, desire, or will, to men in power who expect apologies or explanations about things that never happened to be appeased. We won’t align with power tonight.

I am shouting into the wind. Whether it’s economic instability, racism, or poor planning, injustice stings.

I think on the old days. I would have immediately started scheming a well-crafted conversation to try to get my husband to align with power, and gain favor to provide for our family. I’d suggest, “Apologize. Ask if you can sweep the floors. Anything. Please?” The memory twists in my stomach. I don’t do that now. I remain silent. Fire runs up my throat, chasing anxiety. It burns. His eyes stare into mine. He doesn’t reassure me. I don’t encourage him. Seconds pass. A few minutes.

We don’t talk any further. Sometime past midnight, I feel the fire tearing through my gut and wake in sweat and fright. Who will answer at 12:35 a.m.! I need help. I dial once. I dial twice. Her phone rings through the “do not disturb” mechanism.

“Hello, Danielle?”

….I release my breath, and it starts…heaving, gut-cries, tears.

“Sweetie, what’s going on?” her groggy voice cares.

Somewhere, I know, but somewhere I don’t know. More heaving, muted bursts of noise, sobs of knowing it might not be alright.

My tears are fire. They burn holes inside, searing tracks in the cold air.

“I don’t know if we will make it. I don’t know.” I hear my voice squeak, more like a child-adult-lost human.

“I am here. I am with you.” She whispers.

There are words I have spoken toward my own past experiences of hopelessness – from sermons, essays, and conversations. They don’t matter right now. And, the heaves of despair, gut-cries, squeaks of pain, keep coming – hopeless to change hearts of men, and push systems of oppression, that crowd our culture.

Are the ears of the Lord of Heaven’s Armies listening?

Concrete blocks rest on my shoulders. My education. My writing. My work. Responsibility.

“Will any of it be worth it?” I ask (explaining will be too much).

She can give me her best guess. She can give me her beliefs, her care, her warmth. It won’t be enough. It will never be enough, not while I despair. I don’t want her to. I want her to cry, sob, grieve the impossible.

And, she will.

Her head hurts, she says. It started when I told her about my own headache in the afternoon, thinking through other issues we are facing: car troubles, and anxiety about finishing grad school. Through my sobs, she tells me she’s holding back the pain, wanting to throw up because her head hurts that badly.

Lord, why do we have to suffer? Will your justice ever roll down? Some sense of break in the cries comes before more wash over me uncontrollably. I can’t cry this way in the light, at church, or with my children. The cries turn to anger, and back to hopelessness. But, wherever they end, they don’t stop. She stays with me on the phone. We are joined by not knowing and by knowing.

James preaches 5:7-8: “Dear brothers and sisters, be patient as you wait for the Lord’s return. Consider the farmers who patiently wait for the rains in the fall and in the spring. They eagerly look for the valuable harvest to ripen. You, too, must be patient. Take courage, for the coming of the Lord is near.”

And, I resist hope, belief. My nighttime cries subside. I curl up under covers in the black of night, hanging up the phone. The deep grip of fear releases my throat. I press into sleep – to the knowing of this one moment. Her headache and my cries, with my friend, in the dead of night, the “dirt of the earth” kind of belonging.

Yes, it still hurts.

It still hurts.

Night.

Sleep.

Cries.

Life.

New.

To the Lord of Heaven’s Armies, I believe in you.