The 40-day season of Lent gives us permission to lament, and not just because we maybe gave up dessert, carbs, or cocktails as our Lenten fast. But rather, because as we entered the season on Ash Wednesday, we were reminded once again of the truth about ourselves: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Sometimes we can face up to that fact, but most of the time we try like the dickens to ignore it, to deny it, or to escape it.

But now and then, we get in touch with our mortality, occasionally we own up to our brokenness, here and there we come face-to-face with our deep woundedness, and when we do, there is some languishing. We may discover that a lament begins to emerge. A dark and desolate night of the soul may ensue, and we find ourselves nearly inconsolable.

An old, old hymn invites us who find ourselves in such times to come, to gather it all up and to bring it all to God. Kindly take your hymnal now, and turn to Hymn 607. As Barbara introduces the melody, sit with the words for a moment, and we’ll quietly sing the first stanza. No need for robust Lutheran hymn-singing at this point. The person nearest you doesn’t even need to hear your voice. Perhaps you’d rather inwardly digest the words while others sing. Do as you like. Just keep the page marked, and we’ll return to again it in a few moments. No. 607.

Come, ye disconsolate, where’er ye languish;
Come to the mercy-seat, fervently kneel.
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish;
Earth has no sorrow that heav’n cannot heal.

Where is life causing you to languish? What wounds you presently? Over what does your heart anguish?

For Abram, it was doubt that God would make good on God’s promises. God had promised to give to Abram and his offspring all the land that his eyes could see, but at age 75 there was still no descendant, but only an adopted servant who was like a son. God promises, Abram doubts and protests, and God reassures.

“Do not be afraid, Abram. I am your shield.”

We too live in fear. We too doubt the promise. We too are vulnerable and, like Abram of old, we seek a shield.

“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?” sings the psalmist with seeming confidence. “The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” Unshakeable, so it would seem. But only a few verses later, lament begins to creep in once again. “Hear my voice, O Lord, when I call; have mercy on me and answer me… hide not your face from me, turn not away from your servant in anger. Cast me not away — you have been my helper; forsake me not, O God of my salvation. Though my father and my mother forsake me, the Lord will take me in.”  In one breath, the psalmist sings of God’s light and salvation.  And in the next breath, laments his own sense of desolation.

God’s faithfulness and our doubt are a perfect match. They go hand-in-hand, never to part.

We turn to stanza two of Hymn 607, and quietly sing.

Joy of the desolate, light of the straying,
Hope of the penitent, fadeless and pure;
Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying,
“Earth has no sorrow that heav’n cannot cure.”

There are times and seasons for everything in life, says the writer of Ecclesiastes in the Hebrew scriptures. “For everything there is a season,” she writes, “and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

And a time to lament that we are dust. And if there’s one thing dust does: it scatters.

The Gospel text from Luke reminds us this morning that Jesus, too, lamented. Like a mother hen trying to chase all her chicks into the safety of her wings, Jesus laments that Jerusalem chooses to scatter like dust, rather than to gather like as a beloved brood of chirping chicks at his breast.

“How often,” Jesus laments. With these two words, the wounded heart of Jesus is laid bare in anguish:  how often he would gather, but how often we scatter; how often he would draw near, but how often we distance ourselves; how often he would embrace, but how often we resist.

Jesus laments over us, “How often.” If we would but return, his wing awaits.

We turn to stanza three of Hymn 607, and quietly sing.

Here see the Bread of life; see waters flowing
forth from the throne of God, pure from above.
Come to the feast of love; come, ever knowing
earth has no sorrow but heav’n can remove.

We are called to follow Jesus, even in his lamenting. We all, like Jerusalem of old, wander from our mother.  As the church, we now become the wings of Jesus for all who seek shelter, shield, and sanctuary from the storms of life.

We may lament the storms, but we nevertheless trust the promise: that as we wait for the storm to pass, we most certainly wait in the wings — in the wings of God’s abundant grace, and Christ’s eternal embrace.

Amen.