God bless you, preachers who will address congregations this Sunday and in the Sundays to come. Here in the United States, things are broken, most people know they’re broken, and we all need healing and truth. It’s necessary, but so very difficult, to bring healing and truth together when the truth is painful.

For many of us, this moment feels somehow new; for others, it’s all too familiar. Some communities in our society, particularly black and brown communities, know the brokenness more acutely than those of us who are white. For many of us, the invasion of the Capitol and the response to it by people we know, love, and also admire, brings this brokenness to the foreground.

We learned the things. Don’t make it about you and your emotions. You are pastor to the whole congregation. You’re called to exegete the congregation. We know those things. We also know some congregations will need comfort, while others will need direction.

We know there are times when we must draw the line and speak the truth, come hell or high water. But it’s broken: so now what?

Jeremiah preached when Jerusalem was broken. We just witnessed the desecration of our Capitol; Jeremiah endured the absolute destruction of God’s dwelling place. Commentators remind us that Jeremiah features oracles of judgment alongside laments. Kathleen O’Connor notes how “messages of hope coexist with threats of doom.”* We’re also reminded that Jeremiah physically enacted his message and its consequences, from moldy underwear (ch. 13) to time in the stocks (ch. 20). We might not necessarily preach texts from Jeremiah during this season of brokenness, but our reacquaintance with the prophet may resource our preaching.

I don’t mean to turn Jeremiah into a hero or a role model. The book stands out for its misogynistic language and imagery, aspects of the book that cannot be redeemed. Moreover, it’s rarely helpful to imagine ourselves as biblical prophets. I simply suggest we may relate to the book in ways that lead to wisdom.

In this moment, I commend the voice of lament.

Lament allows preachers to take our place alongside our listeners rather than thundering down to them from on high. Just about everyone is hurting right now from Wednesday’s devastation, even when we disagree about what it means. Add on the pandemic and our economic dislocation, and preachers can speak as co-witnesses with their congregations to the pain this moment represents. Voice that pain, preachers. Speak those images. Name those feelings, not the emotions but their bodily manifestations. Name tightness in the gut, hot tears, pillows fluffed over and over again.

“My heart is beating wildly,” says the prophet. “I cannot keep silent; for I hear the sound of the trumpet, the alarm of war.” (4:19)

Lament opens some space for truth. During his election campaign, Rev. Raphael Warnock was attacked for his preaching. Warnock, pastor of Atlanta’s historical Ebenezer Baptist Church and a newly elected senator, decried the racial and economic injustice endemic to our brokenness. We name such preaching the jeremiad. But like Jeremiah, Warnock pronounced truth from within the location of brokenness, not down at it. We are not all victims in the same way, but preachers can voice that brokenness, can walk around in it, and can identify the need for rectification. We can diagnose the fractures, and having done so, speak the truth about them. We do so only as participants in the brokenness.

* Kathleen M. O’Connor, “Jeremiah,” in Women’s Bible Commentary (3rd ed.; ed. Carol A Newsom, Sharon H. Ringe, and Jacqueline E. Lapsley; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2012), 267.