Many of us have heard the adage, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Isn’t it striking how easily we can recall that familiar phrase, yet just as vividly remember the hurtful words spoken to us — words that have lingered in our hearts for decades? Scripture would disagree with the notion that “words will never hurt” and so would my own life experience.

In the Book of James, we learn that words can bring life or death – that the tongue isn’t something to underestimate.

Throughout the anti-Asian violence that heightened during the pandemic, when dehumanizing language like “China virus” was tossed around like confetti, I started rage-walking and I learned how to lament with others.

The problem with dehumanizing language isn’t just that it’s hurtful or that it’s a lie; dehumanizing language normalizes dehumanizing people who are made in the image of God.

In Asian American communities, many of us saw the impact of specific dehumanizing words. A quick look at national or international history will provide a plethora of similar examples of the dire harm of dehumanizing language and where it always leads if allowed to take root.

I experienced so much internal churning during that time that all I could do was move. This past month, my body, recalling that season and carrying the weight of grief and fear about what may lie ahead, has needed the same movement and prayer all over again.

Triumphant, cheerful worship and shallow platitudes didn’t help throughout that time and they still don’t do a thing to help me move through my grief, anger, or sadness. What does help is journaling my prayers, letting others know how I actually feel, and inviting them into the expression of those feelings. And I rage-walk to pray when I need to. What begins with rage — sadness like a storm stuck under my skin — is given to God, one step at a time, until my body can slow down and rest; until I’m aware of how safe and held I am by God, who isn’t displeased with or overwhelmed by my rage, and whose arms are open wide to my lament.

There was a time when I thought that standing up and slapping on a smile was spiritual. There was a time when I felt I had to keep my sadness, and especially my anger, to myself, lest I disrupt some appearance of unity or reveal that something was wrong with me. I lived as if I had to prove to God and others how faithful or faith-filled I was — how nice and pleasant I could be.

Spoiler alert: it proves nothing except that one can learn to pretend. And beyond that, it is utterly exhausting. No one, and I repeat, no one, is drawn to people who seem so out of touch with their own lives and the lives of their neighbors that they smile and carry on while the (figurative) houses around them burn down.

Can you imagine how different the story would be if Jesus, instead of weeping alongside His dear friends with the news of Lazarus’s death, was smiling, with eyes toward heaven, and said something like, “Don’t worry, God is still on the throne!”

I know things like that are often said to offer encouragement. We smile or bypass the pain of others with spiritual nuggets because we don’t know what else to do. Maybe our own pain has been bypassed in this way for most of our lives.

I love how Dr. Alison Cook, author of I Shouldn’t Feel This Way and The Best of You, defines spiritual bypassing: “Spiritual bypassing simply means that you use spiritual concepts, platitudes, or activities to “bypass” or avoid dealing with your true feelings, especially the hard ones like anger, grief, fear, loneliness, envy, and shame.” 

A month ago, I was having a terrible week. I found myself whispering countless breath prayers of “help” and “why” with plenty of rage-walking — until I finally felt held.

At some point, I invited others into my rage and grief. I asked others to lament (express grief) with me. A group of women showed up on an otherwise ordinary Wednesday, and for hours we sat around my dining room table, refiling our coffee and tea as needed while sharing our fears, outrage, loneliness, and grief. All of it was welcome.

What’s true and bears repeating is that sticks, stones, and words can damage all of us.

What’s true and bears repeating is that it’s okay to feel rage.

What’s true and bears repeating again and again, is that communal lament is a womb for collective hope.

What’s true is that God comes and stays close enough to each of us to catch all of our tears, no matter how many. And not just the tears that fall pretty.

As my friends and I sat and ate and held space for one another, I silently wondered, “Who holds the tears of God?”

And as I listened to my friends, I thought, It’s us. All of us. We hold God’s tears when we hold the tears of one another.

 

Listen to Tasha’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts. 

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