This Is the Place for Shouting

On grief, anger, and a God who can take it

The fear of God is not fear.

It is recognizing God as the one who is above and beyond all. Wholly other, and yet intimately concerned with the creation. I keep coming back to that, because of what it implies. If God is that far beyond me, beyond the reach of anything I could say or scream or curse, then God is also large enough to absorb my anger. My cursing. My bitter lament. The God who is wholly other isn’t offended by my rage.

I know I’m not perfect. And certainly God knows. I suppose it’s possible I could end up damned for eternity over the way I feel and the way I express those feelings. But I don’t believe that is the action of the God I confess and worship.

Abyss

I wrote a lament record.

My firstborn son, Titus, was killed in a tragic accident at nineteen months old.

I won’t take you through the sleepless nights or the tear-filled cries of anguish and prayer. I’ll just tell you that he loved French fries more than anything, and would have eaten them at every meal if we’d let him. He was a music fan from the start. He wore out a little radio that played classical music, and we had to buy him a second one. He loved dancing with me in the living room, and he loved strumming my guitar whenever he could get his hands on it. He waved at every stranger he passed and offered high fives to anybody who would take one. At church, his favorite job was receiving the offering, and he carried the little collection plate with reverence and care. Every time we went outside, he looked next door to see if our neighbor Glenn was sitting out, and some days, when the chair was empty, he waved and said hi to it anyway. The world is dimmer without him.

It’s a blow I will not ever fully recover from in this life. But I’m doing my best to heal to the extent that healing is possible. And screaming at heaven—bringing my cursing, flailing, despairing argument directly before God—is part of that healing.

This is the part the modern church doesn’t know what to do with. We know what to do with guilt. We know what to do with doubt. We even know, at least in theory, what to do with grief. But rage? Despair aimed upward, at God? We’ve gotten very good at giving God our best behavior. Our polished prayers. Our grateful hearts. Our measured emotions. We hide the parts of ourselves we’re most ashamed of and call the hiding faith.

I don’t think God wants the hidden version.

Music for lament

I’ve been a musician just about all my life. And I’ve been writing songs for going on thirty years now. My latest project, Ash to Ember, is different from anything I’ve done in the past. In some ways it’s the most complete version of my musical vision. It’s also the most searingly honest songwriting project I’ve ever undertaken. The first Ash to Ember release is an EP called Abyss.

These songs are harsh in places. Sweet in others. Honest everywhere. They document my grief and my dismay.

They are loosely connected to the traditional five stages of grief, experienced the way grief is actually experienced: simultaneously and distinctly, all at once. Not a tidy staircase from denial up to acceptance. All of it, all the time, in no particular order. You don’t finish one and graduate to the next. You live in all of them at once, and they take turns dragging you under.

I think this is a work of art. It’s fun to listen to in places. In others it’s heartbreaking. And in many places it’s difficult. That’s on purpose.

No answers here

My hope is that the listener will be as disoriented and off-kilter hearing these songs as I have been in the wake of losing him.

This is not an album full of hope. There are no answers here. I explore answers elsewhere. This is the place for shouting and anger and pain.

I feel the pull to resolve it myself. To land the plane. To get to the part where it all means something and the grief gets redeemed and you walk away comforted. That essay exists. I’ve written it. This is not that.

This is the depth I cry from, set to music. It’s the argument I’m still having. And if you’ve buried someone you can’t get back, I suspect you have an argument like it of your own, one you’ve been told to keep quiet because good people don’t talk to God that way.

You can talk to God that way. God can take it. That’s not me being reckless with the holy. It’s the opposite. It’s the most serious thing I believe about who God is: that the One who is wholly other, beyond all of it, is also near enough to be shouted at and big enough not to be diminished by the shouting.

So here it is. The real version. From the depths.