Sermon given at a Service of Lament for Homelessness, Leicester Cathedral – 2 October 2024
We’ve called this 'a service in lament of homelessness', but what is lament? It’s an unusual word, not often used today. It sounds a bit old-fashioned, and the sort of word only used by people who have read too many books. So let me try to describe it with a story.
Some years ago, my wife and I lived and worked in West Africa. I was working with the local Church, and my wife, who is a doctor, trained healthcare workers. We lived in a small village, and we regularly had people calling at our door asking for medical treatment. They would come at all times of day and night, even though my wife had very little equipment or medication, and we lived miles away from the nearest hospital.
One night as we were preparing to go to bed, there was a knock on the door. As I opened it, I was greeted by quite a large crowd standing on our veranda, and a mother holding her small child in her arms. It was immediately clear that the child was seriously unwell, so I ushered the mother into the house, and my wife took her into a side room. After some time of waiting, I heard sobbing coming from the room as my wife emerged with the mother and child, I knew from her face that the child was dead. The friends and family crowded around her to comfort her as best they could. Together, they mourned and lamented the passing of this precious life.
Unsure about what I could do in this situation, I simply asked one of the relatives which village they came from and how they had come to our house. They had walked several miles in the dark as they had no other form of transport. So I asked if I could take them back in my car – we had a pick-up truck to cope with the terrible roads – and they carefully placed the girl’s body in the back, and some of them climbed in the cabin and some sat with her in the back. We set off in the pitch dark with only the headlights of the car showing the way.
Some way down the dirt track, a cry went up as someone spotted a figure coming towards us on the track. It quickly became apparent that it was the girl’s father riding his bicycle. He had no doubt come in from a day working in the fields to hear that his wife had taken their daughter to see us, and so he set off on his bike to find us. Again, there was much wailing and crying as he heard the news; and again, I was left wondering what I could do to help.
Realising that the car was already full, and there was no space for either the father or his bike, I signalled to my wife that she should drive, and the father should take my place in the car. And so they drove off, leaving me, alone on the dirt track holding the man’s bicycle. And as the car’s taillights faded into the distance, the darkness enveloped me.
I don’t mind telling you that I was immediately afraid, thinking ‘What have I done?’ It was pitch dark – there was no moon – and I had never felt so alone. But I did the only thing possible, which was to start walking, putting one foot in front of another, and wheeling the bike beside me.
Now you know how your mind plays tricks on you in the dark, when you’re afraid – well, every bush by the side of the track took on the form of a wild animal about to jump out at me and every fallen branch on the track took on the form of a snake. So I kept my head down, staring at the dirt in front of me and not looking to the left or right, I continued to put one foot in front of another and keep walking.
After what seemed like an age, I finally saw a tiny glimmer of light up ahead. And as I kept plodding, the light grew brighter, until eventually I could make out the shape of a person holding a torch. Clearly the car had arrived at the village and they had sent someone with a torch to find me. I can’t tell you how relieved I was.
Sometimes, in the face of suffering, all we can do is to keep walking – to put one foot in front of another and walk towards the glimmer of light.
In a sense, this is what we mean by lament. It is a form of mourning, a form of grief for the suffering and pain of this world. And in the context of today’s service, it is mourning for those who have lost the safety and security of their home – a place where they can be themselves and know themselves loved and cared for.
It’s mourning for a society which simply accepts homelessness as a reality and is no longer scandalised that people are forced to sleep on the streets or move from one sofa to another; dependent on others for food and a hot shower.
And in the Jewish and Christian traditions, it is even more than this – for the Bible contains many stories and poems of lament – people setting out their complaint to God, arguing with God, wrestling with God. It is more than the question why? Or why me? It is the question, why God, when you have filled this world with so my beauty and goodness, why have you also allowed so much suffering and pain? Why is it that someone who is doing well in life can suddenly have a change of circumstances which leaves them homeless, with nothing but the clothes they are wearing, feeling all alone and not knowing where to turn for help? Why God?
Lament then, is all about arguing with God, knowing that we won’t necessarily get easy answers to our questions, but that the process of being honest with God about ourselves and how we are feeling is the first step to finding wisdom – the first step along a dark road which leads eventually to the light.
In the Bible, this often takes the form of words, but it also takes the form of action. As our Bible reading said:
Is not this the fast (or religious ritual) that you desire:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to let the oppressed go free?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house; - Isaiah 58:6-7
So, even in the face of suffering and pain, even with many unanswered questions in our minds, we go on doing this work, believing that it is a form of lament – a form of protest – a way of saying, I will not accept that it has to remain this way.
So whatever your circumstances here today, I hope you will be inspired to keep on putting one foot in front of another, walking towards the light. One day, we trust, the light will shine so brightly that the pain of this world will disappear, and God’s justice will be seen in all the world.
+Martyn Leicester