Asaph's Psalm 77: The Right Way to Lament

And so Asaph remembers. Despite the trouble, the restlessness, the weariness, the depression, the torture, something in him drives him to remember, to retell, to recount.

I will remember the deeds of the Lord;
    yes, I will remember your wonders of old.
I will ponder all your work,
    and meditate on your mighty deeds.
Your way, O God, is holy.
    What god is great like our God?
You are the God who works wonders;
    you have made known your might among the peoples.
You with your arm redeemed your people,
    the children of Jacob and Joseph.
  
And here we pause again, do a double-take, scratch our heads and ask, Is this the same person? Is this the same psalm? Did the editor get a hold of this? Surely this is a misquote.

But don't get me wrong, we're relieved. Here's where we prooftext, where we read selectively. Here's where we conveniently pull a few verses from the Psalms for our Call to Worship, forgetting the context, forgetting the setting. Because yes, this is still Asaph, and yes, this is still the same Psalm, this is still a lament.

Remember, this is Asaph reflecting on what God used to do. This is Asaph wondering if God will keep working in the same manner, and if he will, just how long it will take. Yet he's seeking God, and in so doing is essentially saying, "Maybe God has changed, but God still exists, and he is still God." This is Asaph collecting clues, gathering evidence, rehearsing what he's sure of. And it's all he's got.

But what a wonderful way to lament! This is not a human way of complaining. These verses show us the disposition of the psalmist's heart, revealing that the questions and accusations in the first 10 verses are not a human heart waging war against God as is often the case, but seeking him in all desperation. A depressed human heart does not naturally affirm God's wonder, might, and holiness. That is often the last thing we'd dream of doing as we shake our fists at God. This is, then, Spirit-filled and Spirit-led lament.

Neither the tough, honest questions of doubt nor the blunt expressions of anger and depression are to be feared. The thing to fear is the disposition of the heart from which these overflow.

Does our lament drive us away from God, putting up barriers, seeking independence, fleeing, rebelling, resisting, hiding? 
Or does our lament drive us toward Him, persisting, wrestling, fighting, chasing, waiting, hoping?

In personal suffering, it's an empty-handed Job asking question after question of his Creator.
In national suffering, it's Habakkuk boldly complaining to God, then camping out until he gets an answer.
In doubts and second-guesses, it's John the Baptist asking, "Are you the One?" or Thomas asking, "Can I see your hands?" and believing after receiving the answer they needed.
In the daily grind, it's a simple man pleading, "I believe! Help me with my unbelief!"

Sometimes I wonder if we Christians have bipolar disorder, a bunch of manic-depressives, happy or sad, hot or cold, one or the other. And once again I'm wondering if the Christian experience isn't meant to, a bit like Asaph's Psalm 77, always embody both at the same time. Lament doesn't mean an absence of hope, and hope doesn't mean an avoidance of lament. We're to be sorrowful yet always rejoicing.