Let’s be honest: when most of us hear “spiritual discipline,” we picture someone waking up at 4 AM to pray for three hours, or maybe a monk fasting in a cave. We think of Bible reading plans that fizzle out by February, or prayer journals that collect dust. And honestly? That’s why so many of us have abandoned the whole concept. We’ve been sold a version of faith that feels like a chore list.
But there’s one discipline that’s been quietly making a comeback, and it’s the one nobody talks about. It’s not trendy. It won't get you Instagram likes. In fact, it’s the spiritual practice that feels like failure when you’re doing it right.
I’m talking about lament.
Yes, lament. The ancient, raw, gut-wrenching practice of bringing your pain, anger, and confusion directly to God. And here’s my controversial opinion: If your faith doesn’t have room for lament, it’s not mature—it’s just polished avoidance.
Why We Buried Lament (And Why It’s Dangerous)
Let’s rewind. For centuries, lament was normal. Over a third of the Psalms are laments. The book of Lamentations is literally a collection of funeral dirges. Job spent chapters screaming at the sky. Jesus Himself cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Then somewhere along the way, the church (especially in the West) decided that suffering was a problem to solve, not a reality to process. We built a culture of “positive confession.” We told people that if they had enough faith, they wouldn’t feel pain. We replaced honest grief with platitudes like “God’s got a plan” and “Just trust Him.”
Here’s what most people miss: suppressing lament doesn’t make you stronger—it makes you brittle. I’ve seen it in my own life. When my best friend walked away from the faith after a tragedy, I didn’t know what to do with my anger. So I stuffed it. I smiled through Sunday services. I memorized verses about joy. And inside? I was a ticking time bomb.
Suppressed pain doesn’t disappear. It metastasizes. It turns into bitterness, doubt, or—worst of all—apathy. And that’s exactly why lament is making a comeback. We’re finally realizing that pretending everything is fine is the fastest way to lose your faith.
The 3 Things Lament Does That Positivity Can’t
I’ve been practicing lament intentionally for about two years now. Not as a religious ritual, but as a survival mechanism. Here’s what I’ve found:
1. Lament gives your pain a voice without giving it the throne. When you lament, you’re not wallowing. You’re not being ungrateful. You’re doing what every Psalmist did: you’re taking your raw emotion and handing it to God. There’s something powerful about saying out loud, “I’m angry. I’m confused. This hurts.” You’re not denying reality—you’re inviting God into it.
2. Lament protects you from toxic theology. Ever heard someone say, “You just need to rebuke that spirit of sadness”? That’s not biblical—that’s spiritual bypassing. Lament is the biblical alternative. It says, “God, I trust you enough to tell you how I really feel.” I’ve found that the people who lament most honestly are the ones who stay in faith the longest. They don’t burn out because they aren’t pretending.
3. Lament reorients your hope. Here’s a weird paradox: almost every lament in the Bible pivots halfway through. The Psalmist starts by screaming about enemies and suffering, but ends with praise. How? Because lament clears the air so hope can breathe. When you stop trying to manufacture joy, you create space for real hope to show up.
How to Actually Do It (Because Nobody Taught Us)
Let’s get practical. Most of us were never taught how to lament. We were taught to pray for solutions, not to sit in the problem. So here’s a simple framework I’ve stolen from ancient Jewish practice—it’s called the Psalm 13 Method:
- Address God honestly. Start with raw honesty. “God, how long will you forget me?” That’s literally Psalm 13:1. Don’t clean it up. If you’re mad, say it. If you’re confused, say that.
- State your complaint specifically. “My enemies are winning.” “This sickness is destroying my family.” “I feel abandoned.” Get specific. Vague prayers produce vague faith.
- Make your request. “Look at me and answer.” It’s okay to ask for relief. That’s not selfish—that’s relationship.
- Choose trust anyway. This is the pivot. You don’t have to feel trust. You just choose to say, “But I trust in your unfailing love.” Even if your emotions are still a mess.
The Comeback We Didn’t Know We Needed
I’m seeing lament pop up everywhere now. Books like The Songs of Jesus by Tim Keller. Podcasts about “emotional honesty in faith.” Even some churches are starting to have “lament services” during hard seasons. It’s not a fad—it’s a reclamation of something we lost.
Here’s why this matters more than you think: the next generation is leaving the church not because they have too many questions, but because they feel like they can’t bring their pain into the sanctuary. They see polished worship and hear five-step solutions to suffering. They need a faith that can handle their grief.
And honestly? So do you.
If you’re in a hard season right now—a broken relationship, a chronic illness, a betrayal, or just the weight of the world—I want to give you permission to stop pretending. You don’t have to have it all together. You don’t have to “just trust God” through gritted teeth.
You can lament. And it might just save your faith.
A Final Challenge
This week, carve out 15 minutes. No phone. No worship music in the background. Just you and God. And start with this sentence: “God, here’s what I’m really feeling…”
Fill in the blank. Don’t edit yourself. Write it, say it, or scream it.
And then—just sit. Wait for the pivot. It might take five minutes. It might take five days. But I promise you: God can handle your honesty. It’s your silence He’s waiting to break.
The forgotten spiritual discipline isn’t forgotten anymore. It’s time to bring it back.