This week we are studying nine verses in the first half of the third poem in Lamentations, Lamentations 3:16-24. These include the famous verses that we are likely to know from this book, that have made it into a beloved hymn: “great is thy faithfulness” and “morning by morning new mercies.” That sentiment is even more profound in its context than it is on Sunday mornings in congregational singing. [Some questions on the text are here.] Here are [a very few] notes on this text:
BACKGROUND AND CONTEXT: Our verses are a few lines near the “geographical center” of Lamentations 3, which is the central poem in the collection of 5 poems that make up the short book of Lamentations.
The historical context is the immediate aftermath of the final Babylonian siege of Jerusalem, and the final destruction of the city and its temple by the Babylonians in 586BCE. For that background in Biblical form, see Jeremiah 52 or 2 Kings 25. Both of those chapters are more like reportage. The poetry in Lamentations is more humanly expressive, and appalling.
Traditionally, people ascribed the book to the prophet Jeremiah. Contemporary scholarship doubts that. Whoever wrote these poems, they are eyewitnesses to the historical event they describe and lament.
The poetry of Lamentations (with the exception of chapter 5) is in the form of acrostic – one or more lines beginning with consecutive letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Our chapter is specifically a triple acrostic – three lines beginning with each Hebrew letter.
We know acrostics mean something special, but what exactly that meaning is does not seem entirely clear. [They may even mean different things in different contexts. Consider, for instance, “L is for the way you Look at me; O is for the Only One I see …”] In the context of the effort that is the book of Lamentations, the effort to process the horrors of ancient siege and defeat in light of the role being played by the God of Israel in the experience of His defeated people, various meanings have been suggested. Maybe the [Hebrew alphabetic] Aleph-to-Tav form provides a sense of completeness; everything has been listed. Maybe it’s an aid to memory. Maybe – I think this notion has some merit – it’s a focusing device, a way of imposing some coherence on a trauma that threatens to fragment thought and experience.
Part of the challenge for us, in the context of our quarter-long study focusing on “hope in the Lord,” may be to keep the human situation of these verses in mind, and not to yank them out of context. It is easy to read vv21-24, in particular, as a ringing victorious expression of indomitable faith. This is easier if these are the only verses in Lamentations we ever read, and even easier if we only know them through the hymnal.
I myself, however, have a hard time reading them quite this way. Somehow, to me, they are more like the kind of beleaguered faith more of us tend to express – “I just can’t believe – I can’t bring myself to believe – that in spite of this gruesome disaster we’re living through – even this – that God is not good … surely … that can’t really be the conclusion. It just can’t be. Because I just have to believe that God is good. Despite all this evidence to the contrary …” There is more resistance than certainty or understanding or anything we could call “confidence” in this way of thinking, it seems to me. And I’m not saying that as if that’s a bad thing, either.
We studied Lamentations 5 about three years ago; those notes are here, and the comments are particularly interesting. David Lee’s incredible acrostic and rhythmic translation of Lamentations 3 is online here.
Most of these verses are in the lectionary, every year on Holy Saturday, and also a couple of times during the Season after Pentecost (like this past week – note the editing and how that particular extract of text reads …). Verses 16-18 never appear, so that thing about God breaking the poet’s teeth on gravel would be something we wouldn’t know was in the Bible if all we knew were the lectionary. Bible Content Examinees, be warned.
CLOSER READING: Everyone talks about how hard it is to translate Lamentations. And about how much gets lost in translation. [Do go look at David Lee’s work. Seriously.]
In v16 the word for gravel – which in English is a really smooth word – is chatzatz, which is a really gritty word to try to say. Especially with broken teeth. It’s a vivid image.
The ashes are a traditional symbol of grief – and also, sometimes, specifically, sorrow for sin and a repentant appeal to God. Normally, people put ashes on their own heads. Here, God has covered the poet with ashes. That seems important.
In v17, the poet’s life / soul (nephesh) has moved a long way from shalom – so, not only peace, but well-being, the good that people attribute to God – and has forgotten good. This seems to be a vital statement, because the next verses (19 – 27) will revolve around remembrance (vv 19-21) and then around good (vv25-27).
The remembering in vv19-21 is competitive: the poet tells himself, with an imperative, to remember his affliction and displacement – NRSV uses homelessness, Robert Alter translates wandering. His life / soul, who has forgotten good in v17, remembers yes remembers in v20, using a grammatically strong form of the verb. And bends low, or bows down. But then, in v21, the poet makes this return (the shuv, “turn,” word), and so, makes himself hope on this:
Chesedei Adonai. [It’s to weep.] The steadfast love of the Holy One of Israel never ends. His womb-like compassion never ends.
New and fresh every morning. Great is your faithfulness.
My portion [remember the homelessness? This is a word that has a sense of territory or place – my place] is Adonai. My life/soul says this. It’s like a slogan, or a mantra. The hope is, then, a conclusion from that turning back, that returning, the poet has pushed on his life/soul.
The next three verses (not in our selection of the week) begin with good – tov – there is this insistent goodness that the poet holds fast to – or, has returned to – in the midst of this awful situation. The very thought of God is the good in that goodness. Even when the thought of God only connects with a kind of absence or negative space.
“I believe in the sun. Even when I can’t see it.”
Image: Daughter Zion laments – a detail from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo, public domain
