A Lamen of Brokenness

The news surrounding Philip Yancey arrives not with shock alone, but with sorrow that settles deep and slow. It grieves us because his words once gave voice to our own wounded faith. We too are wounded because he taught many of us how to speak honestly before God. When such a voice is unmasked by failure, the pain multiplies. We do not only mourn the fall of a person, we mourn the harm done, the trust broken, the quiet devastation that sin always leaves behind. Scripture never permits us to call this anything but grievous. Sin is never abstract. It wounds real bodies, fractures real souls, and leaves consequences that linger long after explanations are exhausted. “My sin is ever before me,” David prays. This is not to minimize it, but because it refuses to be forgotten.

The Bible prepares us for this sorrow more than we like to admit. It does not shield us with illusions about wisdom or giftedness. David, the poet of God’s own heart, abused his power. Peter, the rock of the church, collapsed under fear. “All have sinned and fall short,” Paul writes, not as doctrine alone, but as lament. There is no immunity conferred by insight, no holiness that comes from articulation. If anything, the greater the light we carry, the more devastating the darkness when it breaks loose. Sin remains what it has always been. It is terrible. It is deforming. It is costly. It does not spare the brilliant. It does not bow before good theology.

And so we grieve. We lament. We cry out before we explain. We bow our heads before we speak of grace.

O God, how long will we keep learning this lesson?
How often will those who speak of light stumble into shadow?
We bring You no defense, no careful framing, only sorrow.
We mourn for those harmed, for trust violated, for faith shaken.
We confess that we are tired of the same old grief,
tired of sin’s predictability, tired of its wreckage.
Have mercy on those who carry wounds they did not choose.
Do not let our words rush past their pain.

We resist the temptation to tidy this moment with theology too quickly. Grace is not an easy fix or a cure all that spares us from the pain and the humiliation, and the emptiness sin brings. Grace is not a solvent that dissolves consequences. Forgiveness does not mean restoration to what was. The cross itself stands as proof: love poured out fully, and still the nails were real. Even resurrection did not erase the scars. When Jesus rose, He carried them into eternity. So too here—whatever mercy may come will bear marks of what has been lost. That is not failure. It is truth.

Lord, teach us how to wait in the ashes.
Teach us to sit with grief without resolving it.
Strip us of our need to fix, to justify, to move on.
Give us courage to stay where the pain is,
to listen longer than is comfortable,
to weep without calculating outcomes.

If grace is to speak here at all, it must speak quietly. Not as vindication, not as return, not as redemption neatly packaged. Grace, in Scripture, often comes as a slow, almost hidden mercy. Grace is future reshaped, not restored. Peter is forgiven, yes, but the road ahead is one of humility and costly love. David is not abandoned, but his house never escapes the shadow of his sin. Resurrection, when it comes, comes altered.

And so we cling not to resolution, but to God.

Faithful God, we have nowhere else to go.
Hold what is broken—especially what cannot be repaired.
Have mercy on the fallen, not to spare them from truth,
but to lead them into repentance deep enough to change them.
Have mercy on Your church, that we would learn again to tremble,
to speak less, to love more, to walk softly.

This is not a moment for defense. It is a moment for dust and ashes, for Psalm and tear. Yet even here. Especially here. We dare to whisper what feels almost unbearable: that sin does not get the final word. Not because grace is easy, but because God is faithful. The resurrection promised to us may not look like what we hoped for. It may come stripped of honor, shaped by loss, baptized in silence. But if it comes at all, it will come from God alone.

Into Your hands, O Lord, we commend what we cannot fix.
Teach us to lament without despair,
and to hope without presumption.
Amen.