How Long,O Lord? Fairbairn’s Object Relations Theory and the Practice of Lament

Biblical Lament

Lament is a practice deeply rooted in Christian scripture. For instance, in the Old Testament, laments make up a significant proportion of the psalms, and lament is a key feature in the book of Job, Lamentations, and in the writings of the prophets (Wilson, 2019). The psalms in particular are a helpful resource for finding words to bring even the most painful parts of our experience before God. Walter Brueggemann (1984) categorized the psalms as falling into one of three different types, with each type helping give voice to a different experience or season of life. These categories include psalms of orientation, psalms of disorientation, and psalms of new orientation. In brief, psalms of orientation give voice to seasons of life when we experience a sense of well-being, coherence, and the reliability of God and His world (e.g., Psalms 1, 133, 145). By contrast, psalms of disorientation give voice to seasons of life marked by suffering; where what was settled now feels thrown into painful disarray (e.g., Psalms 13, 35, 88). Finally, psalms of new orientation give voice to seasons of life where light and joy break through painful darkness, and a new sense of coherence is experienced (e.g., Psalms 30, 34, 124). Such experiences of new orientation are often experienced as a gracious and even surprising gift from God and result in thanksgiving and praise. Within this framework, the psalms of disorientation are particularly rich theological and pastoral resources for the practice of lament in the life of the church.

Lament is a practice also commended by the New Testament, including in the writings of Paul as well as the gospels (McDonough, 2019). Most notably, Christ himself quoted a lament from Psalm 22 when dying upon the cross (“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”; The Holy Bible, English Standard Version, 2001, Matthew 27:46, Mark 15:34). In reflecting on this cry from the lips of Jesus, Miller (2005) asserts that Christ voicing this lament serves as a model that also invites his followers to pray in a similar manner from their own place of suffering. In addition, some have argued that the rending of the curtain in the temple upon the occasion of Christ’s death (Matthew 27:51, Mark 15:38) may be viewed, in part, as an act of lament by God the Father over the death of God the Son (Dykstra, 2005), paralleling the Old Testament practice where a lamenter would rend their garments in anguish (Jerome & Uroko, 2018). Finally, McDonough (2019) points out that “the Old Testament was the Bible of the early church” (p. 53), with the psalms of lament and other lament writings likely playing an important role in informing the early church’s response to suffering.

The laments found in the Bible also tend to take on a particular form. The fact that there is a form to lament is important, as the language and structure of the lament help give shape to an experience that can otherwise feel like a meaningless chaos or abyss. Brueggemann (1977) asserts that the form of lament “makes the experience formful just when it appeared to be formless and therefore deathly and destructive” (p. 265). He argues that this form not only provides a meaningful shape to the experience of the individual, but it also helps preserve the suffering one within a faith community by giving validity to their expression of lament. The community shares knowledge of the form of lament, which means that the lamenter’s experience “does not lie outside the legitimate scope of the community” (p. 265).

Examining the form of lament found in the psalms has been a particularly fruitful area, with authors making observations about the typical elements and movement of these laments (e.g., Brueggemann, 1984; Gunkel, 1930/1967; Westermann, 1981). For instance, Brueggemann (1984) suggests that laments typically include (a) an address to God, (b) complaint, (c) petition, (d) motivation (i.e., a statement of why God should act), (e) imprecation, and (f) praise or a vow to praise. Villanueva (2008) offers a critique of an overly rigid application of these types of forms, especially in terms of any insistence on a sudden change of mood to praise. He notes that the flow between lament and praise is dynamic, and he points to biblical laments where, in addition to the movement from lament to praise, we also see alternation between lament and praise, as well as a return to lament after praise. He argues that these other lament forms are essential, as an overly narrow focus on the turn from lament to praise actually can undermine lament by making it a mere precursor to praise. Thus, while these lament forms provide helpful language and structures for experience, their dynamic nature must be held in mind.

Despite the potential goods that may come from engaging in such lament, meaningful accounts have been given for why lament has often been neglected in many modern protestant evangelical contexts in the United States. Bezzant (2019) offers a helpful cultural and historical analysis, asserting that the historical development of evangelicalism in the United States was often characterized by enlightenment values, a revivalist focus on triumph and the power of God, an optimistic spirit of social progress, and the church’s grappling with its own shifting position of power within the broader cultural context. He provocatively concludes that modern evangelicals may find it hard to lament because the history of the movement reveals “an allergic reaction at almost every point to feelings of powerlessness” (p. 49). Within this cultural context, individuals who engage in lament may be viewed as lacking in faith, doubting God’s power and goodness. One experiencing suffering may be “urged to ‘claim the victory,’ rather than complain or lament” (Wilson, 2019, p. 6). In a telling survey, Exline and Grubbs (2011) found that when people disclosed their feelings of anger toward God to another person, many people said they were responded to in a way that made them feel judged (41%) or guilty/ashamed (37%). Perhaps anticipating such reactions, 35% of those who had experienced anger toward God never told anyone.

Importantly, such neglect of lament is not without cost. In a classic essay, Brueggemann (1986) argued that there are two especially notable costs to the loss of lament. First, there is a loss of genuine and honest interaction with God. An individual risks living inauthentically before God if the painful reality of one’s life must be disavowed, with the only acceptable dialogue with God being one of acceptance and praise. Drawing on concepts from object relations theory (cf. Winnicott, 1965), Brueggemann argues that such false self interactions with God not only impede coping and hinder one’s relationship with God, but they also impact the continued development of the true self. Bringing only part of one’s experience to God may leave one with a sense of alienation from God and others, and even from oneself (Byrne, 2002). In addition, it may contribute to a rift between one’s beliefs about God and one’s experience of God (Dickie, 2020). There is some evidence to suggest that such incongruence between positive explicit beliefs about God and more implicit negative experiences of God is associated with more depression, internalized shame, and lower existential well-being (Hart et al., 2024). In contrast to genuine interactions with God about the full range of human experience, the absence of lament ultimately becomes “a practice of denial, cover-up, and pretense” (Brueggemann, 1986, p. 60).

The second cost to a loss of lament is that it stifles questions of theodicy (Brueggemann, 1986). A major implication of such stifling is a weakened pursuit of justice. If anger over being wronged must be disavowed, then we cannot petition God for justice. Thus, there is a clear social ramification of the loss of lament, for it not only weakens the pursuit of justice by the suffering individual, but it can ultimately weaken the pursuit of justice by the community. Lament calls out injustice. It names a wrong and petitions God for action. In this way, lament keeps questions of justice “visible and legitimate” within a community (Brueggemann, 1986, p. 63). Of course, not all experiences of anger toward God are due to experiences of real injustice, as a person’s sinful heart may also balk at God’s perceived activity for a myriad of reasons, including having one’s pride offended or one’s autonomy or wrongful desires thwarted. These issues are also important to grapple with before God and within one’s faith community. However, the modern Western church may be more fluent in addressing such issues of personal sinfulness than engaging in lament and petitioning God for justice (Westermann, 1974; Wilson, 2019). In a striking conclusion, Brueggemann (1986) asserts:

A community of faith that negates laments soon concludes that the hard issues of justice are improper questions to pose at the throne, because the throne seems to be only a place of praise . . . [Thus], they soon appear to be improper questions in public places. (p. 64)

In this way, the loss of lament is costly both to the individual as well as to the community.

Especially important for the present analysis, it is essential to understand lament as an emotionally dynamic relational act. First and foremost, lament is a practice undertaken in relation with God. As the previous discussion of lament forms highlighted, laments begin with an address to God. Lament is relational speech. Importantly, this speech in relation to God may feel risky, especially when the lamenter is expressing vulnerable emotions and even perhaps holding God accountable for the experience of suffering. Such speech may feel “exceedingly dangerous” (Brueggemann, 1986, p. 62) and may contain “bold questions” (Wilson, 2019, p. 8) and articulate a “vulnerable plea” (Price, 2019, p. 98). Clearly, such relational speech requires courage and trust (Miller, 2005), and how trusting one feels to engage in such vulnerable relational action may vary from person to person. There is a well-established literature demonstrating that one’s history of interpersonal relationships exerts a meaningful influence on the way one relates to God (e.g., Granqvist, 2020; Hall et al., 2009). This literature has frequently drawn on psychodynamic concepts from attachment, object relations, and contemporary relational psychoanalytic theories (see Davis et al., 2013; Granqvist, 2020; Hall, 2021; Rizzuto, 1979; Sorenson, 2004 as relevant examples). These models would suggest that to the extent one has experienced more painful and unsupportive interactions in their human relationships—especially in formative caregiving relationships—the more likely one is to approach God in an insecure manner. For such individuals, the vulnerable relational act of lament may be particularly challenging.

The relational nature of lament also includes others in addition to God. In emphasizing this fact, Westermann (1981) asserts, “the one who utters the lament is never an isolated individual standing alone; the lamenter is always a member of a group” (p. 170). Individuals may bring their laments into their faith communities and even enter into the communal practice of lament (Price, 2019). In such contexts, one’s comfort with emotional vulnerability, interpersonal trust, mutuality, empathy, and dynamics of giving and receiving care would be influential for determining one’s level of engagement in this practice.

In addition to this overtly social dimension to lament, lament also involves the intrapsychic representations of others and their related dynamics. For instance, Brueggemann (2007/2022c) notes that biblical laments contain a plurality of figures and voices. These voices include not only the voice of the speaker but also the voice of God, the voice of the adversary, and the voice of the community. As the speaker engages in lament, they may give expression to each of these voices, drawing on salient internalized representations of self and other. In this way, the lamenter is one “haunted with all of these voices” (p. 159) who needs to give them free speech as they grapple with God. In making this observation, Brueggemann is careful to note that he is not reducing these voices to mere psychology, thus denying the external reality of such voices. However, his observation makes a powerful point regarding the interplay between inner and outer worlds in the relational act of lament.

Given the relational nature of lament, relational psychodynamic/psychoanalytic models may be particularly helpful for understanding the dynamics, challenges, and potentials that are involved in lament. For instance, it has already been shown that psychodynamic models have played a formative role in the literature exploring how we come to relate to God in general. In addition, it has already been argued that in the avoidance of lament, one may neglect genuine relating to God by disavowing meaningful parts of one’s experience. Psychoanalytic models may be helpful in illuminating these issues, as one of the defining features of psychoanalysis is its recognition of the importance of honesty for a life well lived, as well as the difficulties involved in maintaining such honesty not only with others but even with oneself (McWilliams, 2004).

In light of this potential, there is a small but emerging literature giving psychoanalytic accounts of lament. For instance, Dykstra (2005) discusses how lament involves vulnerable acts of aggression and self-revelation, which may involve one’s related psychosexual conflicts. Houck-Loomis (2012) offers a Kleinian reading of the book of Lamentations, with a focus on the concept of splitting. Torr (2019) uses Winnicott’s object relations theory to discuss lament through the lens of true-self and false-self dynamics, as well as the importance of experiencing a holding environment in which lament may unfold. Finally, Gioielli (2021) draws on an intersubjective psychoanalytic approach, using insights from Jessica Benjamin’s concept of mutual recognition to discuss relational dynamics implicit in the psalms. Each of these accounts provide valuable psychoanalytic insights into some of the dynamics involved in lament that enrich more exclusively theological accounts. At the same time, these initial accounts have primarily emphasized the nuanced texture of the process of lament and how it may be helpful emotionally and psychologically. They have not typically focused on the internal and relational obstacles that may prevent someone from engaging in lament in the first place. In the remainder of this article, I will use Fairbairn’s seminal contributions to object relations theory to explore this relatively unarticulated facet of lament and its practical implications. So far as I know, this will also be the first account of lament drawing primarily on Fairbairn’s thought.

Fairbairn’s Object Relations Theory

William Ronald Dodds Fairbairn (1889–1964) was a Scottish psychoanalyst who rejected the psychosexual tenets of classical psychoanalysis and was a key figure in ushering in a focus on relationships as being at the heart of human experience and mental life (Greenberg & Mitchell, 1983). Rather than viewing the mind as an evolutionary endowment primarily geared toward helping people adaptively navigate innate animalistic urges, Fairbairn viewed the mind as helping us navigate our relational world. Drawing on Freudian terminology, Fairbairn (1946) famously cast a new vision of human motivation, asserting that “libido is not primarily pleasure-seeking, but object-seeking” (p. 30). That is, the main motivation for humans is the pursuit of relational intimacy, not instinctual gratification. Within this framework, other people are not merely a means to an end (viz., tension reduction), but relational intimacy is a motivational end in itself (Mitchell & Black, 2016). Fairbairn’s (1952) important contributions to object relations theory prefigured later emphases on attachment (Mitchell, 1999; Schwartz, 2015), multiplicity of the self (Bromberg, 1996), a renewed interest in trauma and dissociation (Davies, 1998), and intersubjectivity (Poulton, 2014). His work has influenced many contemporary psychoanalysts, and his contributions remain a subject of scholarly and clinical interest (e.g., Celani, 2010; Clarke, 2018; Clarke & Scharff, 2014; Grotstein & Rinsley, 1994; Pereira & Scharff, 2002; Skolnick & Scharff, 1998).

Fairbairn (1941) articulated a new developmental perspective in keeping with this relational emphasis, where the key task of development is to progress to increasingly sophisticated and mutual relationships. He described this process as a move from relationships marked by infantile dependence to those marked by mature dependence (Fairbairn, 1941). Starting from birth, one’s earliest relationships are marked by infantile dependence. This type of relationship is characterized by primary identification, merger, and a relational stance of taking in. In this mode of relating, one’s dependence is unconditional, need is more absolute, and there is little sense of any option of object choice (Rubens, 1994). Mature dependence, on the other hand, is marked by differentiation between self and object, mutuality, and a capacity for giving as well as receiving (Fairbairn, 1941, 1946). Importantly, differentiation between self and object does not imply separation from the relational matrix but involves coming to see others as subjects with whom we relate. In reflecting on Fairbairn’s developmental model, Rubens (1994) clarifies that mature dependence involves “the recognition that the other is a center of experience and intentionality, feeling and will, thought and purposiveness” (p. 171). Thus, what optimally emerges from the process of development is a capacity for more sophisticated, reciprocal, intersubjective relationships.

To progress beyond infantile dependence during the course of development, we need a certain type of exchange with our caregivers. Specifically, Fairbairn (1941) asserts that one needs “conclusive assurance” (p. 261) that they are genuinely loved as a person and that their love is also accepted. The consistent experience of this exchange of love facilitates the movement toward mature dependence. It was Fairbairn’s (1946) view that this loving exchange is never perfectly realized with our caregivers, such that there is “no one whose libidinal development proceeds wholly without a hitch” (p. 34). As a result, the full attainment of mature dependence is a hypothetical ideal, with all people dealing with some level of frustration in object relationships with which they must grapple as they pursue the best intimacy possible in their relational world. Thus, Fairbairn (1941) also speaks of a transitional stage, which is characterized by being in the throes of relinquishing infantile dependence and moving toward mature dependence.

In two of his most seminal articles, Fairbairn (1943, 1944) draws out the implications of this relational model for the nature of the unconscious. Rather than the unconscious consisting of unacceptable impulses that have been repressed, Fairbairn viewed the unconscious as consisting of the intolerably painful facets of our object relationships. Relational experiences are intolerably bad if they signal an inability to turn to the other for safety and love and do so in such a way that overwhelms our ability to integrate these experiences fully into awareness (Celani, 2014). In particular, Fairbairn (1944) noted the preponderance of intolerably rejecting and exciting relational experiences that populate the unconscious. The frequency and severity of such painful relational experiences vary from person to person and depend on the nature of their objects. Some relational experiences are clearly traumatic and overwhelming, such as those which occur in abuse and interpersonal violence. Yet, even ostensibly milder forms of object frustration may be experienced as intolerably bad, especially when experienced through the mind of a child, who may lack the psychological resources to cope with the attendant anxiety of such experiences (Fairbairn, 1946) and thus may internalize these experiences in an “exaggerated form” (Fairbairn, 1958, p. 377). Thus, all people not only deal with some degree of frustration in their object relationships, but aspects of these relationships are also experienced as intolerably bad by all people, prompting their lack of full integration into the conscious self. The resulting self consists of a central ego that seeks relational intimacy with real, external others, alongside dissociated painful self-other representations that may intrude and shape our relational exchanges (Fairbairn, 1944). These dissociated self-other representations constitute splits in the self, which Fairbairn referred to as a basic underlying schizoid organization of the personality.

Fairbairn’s view of development and psychic structure, although theoretically and clinically astute, also bears brief theological consideration, especially as it pertains to the doctrine of sin. By focusing on the impact of imperfect caregivers on the developing infant, Fairbairn’s model may be viewed theologically as focusing primarily on the vicissitudes of living in fallen world full of broken and imperfect people. While the impact of being sinned against certainly falls within the bounds of an orthodox Christian perspective of sin (Plantinga, 1995), some may argue that such a focus neglects due consideration of one’s personal contribution to disordered relations to God and others, such as may be suggested by the doctrine of original sin. For instance, in Fairbairn’s (1954) description of the developing infant, he describes the original state of the ego as “pristine” (p. 107). This claim may be seen as at odds with the theological view of people as having an innate sin nature, which inclines them to usurp God’s position (Jones et al., 2011) and to experience disordered love (Augustine, 426/2000). While working through the full implications of this theological tension goes beyond the scope of this article, it may at least be noted that a Christian theological view would likely argue for the importance of one’s own sin nature, as well as the sin nature of others, in a complete account of disordered relations. Perhaps there is room for this theological critique, at least in part, in Fairbairn’s (1958) notion that relational experience may be internalized in an “exaggerated form” (p. 377). This notion suggests that relational experiences are not internalized in a passive, objective manner. By contrast, this notion suggests there is an active subject who brings their own psychology—and perhaps even their own spiritual condition and sin nature—to the relational encounter. While such reclamation of personal responsibility is likely a helpful amendment to aspects of Fairbairn’s thought, there is also a need to be vigilant against blaming victims of relational trauma for their experience, remembering that Fairbairn’s thinking was influenced by his work with abused and neglected children (e.g., Fairbairn, 1943).

Fairbairn’s view of the underlying schizoid dynamics of the self has implications for understanding one’s emotional and relational health. To the extent that one’s central ego is actively engaged in pursuing relationships with others as real subjects, and one is meaningfully relating their inner and outer worlds, one is functioning as an open system (Fairbairn, 1958). By contrast, to the extent that dissociated painful self-other representations intrude and negatively dominate our relational exchanges, we are functioning as a closed system. Thus, mental and relational health—including how open one is to continued relational input and growth toward mature dependence—lies upon a continuum. Where one falls along this continuum is largely contingent on how much one has been able to integrate (vs. split off) relational experience into the central ego (Fairbairn, 1944), which inherently involves the degree to which one has internalized bad objects, the level of badness of these objects, how much of the self is identified with these bad objects, and the defenses used to manage them (Fairbairn, 1943).

A key defense identified by Fairbairn (1943) for managing internalized bad objects is the moral defense, which has notable implications for the present article. Fairbairn observed the tenacious loyalty of children to their caregivers, and he noted that even children from traumatic and abusive homes were often reluctant to admit their caregivers were bad objects. By contrast, these children were often ready to view themselves as bad. Fairbairn concluded that children were defensively motivated to take “the burden of badness” upon themselves (p. 330). He astutely noted the benefits of this maneuver, even if it came at the cost of feeling oneself to be bad. Specifically, he noted how important it is for the child to preserve a positive view of their caregiver. The caregiver is one upon whom the child depends not only for emotional and relational well-being but even for basic material provision and survival. Simply put, the child needs them. Fairbairn (1943) persuasively argues that even under conditions of neglect, a child cannot reject their caregiver, for the neglect serves merely to increase their need for the caregiver, not diminish it. Thus, if a child is able to strip their caregiver of intolerably painful features by viewing themselves as bad instead, this serves the vital function of preserving a sense of the caregiver as a good object. Fairbairn (1943) aptly notes that, “Outer security is thus purchased at the price of inner security” (p. 331).

Taking the burden of badness upon oneself by internalizing the bad object confers additional advantages beyond preserving the good object. By internalizing the bad object, one can also attain a fantasy of omnipotent control (Mitchell, 1994). The problem is no longer outside the self (i.e., in the caregiver), where it cannot be controlled; rather, the problem is inside the self, where there can be a sense of agency in the face of pain. That is, the moral defense “substitutes[s] a sense of guilt for a sense of helplessness” (Padel, 2014, p. 283). As painful as it is, one would rather feel bad with a sense of agency, than helplessly at the mercy of a bad object.

This feeling of control is associated with a final, important benefit of the moral defense, which is a sense of hope. This hope is related to the internalization of an idealized object. Specifically, in addition to the internalization of the bad object, Fairbairn (1943) asserts that after the caregiver has been stripped of their intolerably bad elements, the now idealized object may also be defensively internalized. Now there is not just internal badness, but there is also an internal potential for goodness. The greater the extent that one is able to identify with and live up to this internalized ideal, the greater the hope that one will be able to rectify the bad relationship and attain the intimacy they have desired. By internalizing and identifying with this internalized ideal, one becomes conditionally bad, which is preferred to being unconditionally bad (Fairbairn, 1943). That is, the state of one’s badness does not have to remain absolute. One may feel that they have been bad in the past and thus undeserving of love, but now there is the hope that one can be good (Mitchell, 1994). The relational hope engendered by good behavior is why this defense is moral in nature. If one can merely strive hard enough and act good enough, love will be forthcoming. This formulation has been found to be helpful for explaining a range of common clinical phenomena, particularly certain forms of depressive reactions (e.g., de Matos, 2002; Rubens, 1998), and it has notable potential for illuminating obstacles to engaging in lament.

An Application of Fairbairn’s Moral Defense to Lament

When one is facing a situation where lament may be an appropriate response, one’s internal object relations and associated defenses are active. Specifically, the occasion to lament is often precipitated by some form of disorienting personal crisis or hardship. Fairbairn (1943) argued that traumatic situations are often experienced as such, at least in part, because they correspond to one’s dynamics around painful object relations. He asserted that “an unconscious situation involving internalized bad objects is liable to be activated by any situation in outer reality conforming to a pattern which renders it emotionally significant in the light of the unconscious situation” (p. 338). Thus, the disorienting event is not merely painful due to the event itself but also due to how it corresponds to and activates painful dissociated self-other representations. For example, in addition to the hardship, there may also be an evoked sense of oneself as vulnerable, needy, and unloved and of the other as a rejecting bad object. In this situation, the identity of the rejecting “other” may vary. It could include the offending party who in some way caused the hurt, or even members of one’s community or congregation, whose response to the injured individual is anxiously anticipated or implicitly assumed to be one of rejection. Importantly for the practice of lament, God may also be experienced as the bad object who must be defended against. As Brueggemann (2007/2022c) noted, a lament contains many figures and voices to which the speaker gives expression. As these bad objects are activated, a person may experience diminished capacity to reflect on the interplay between their inner and outer reality, thus losing the authentic subjectivity of the other and lapsing into closed system functioning where internal bad objects dominate. In this way, the very event that may occasion a lament also threatens a return of repressed bad objects that need to be defended against. As will be discussed shortly, the nature of the defenses involved may impede one’s ability to engage in lament fully and authentically.

Of course, the extent to which open system functioning is lost and threatening bad objects must be contended with will vary from person to person. This variation will depend on a number of factors, including the potential correspondence between the triggering event and one’s internal object relations and the extent to which one has experienced a history of relational hurt that has yet to be processed and more fully integrated into the central self. For instance, an individual with a pronounced history of trauma in relation to their caregivers that remains split off from the central self may be more prone to have internal bad objects dominate in their experience of trauma. Such closed-system functioning may be especially likely for this individual when an authority or caregiving figure—including God—is viewed as responsible for the suffering that occurs. For these individuals, the threatened return of bad objects is likely to be especially pronounced. Such an individual may be especially prone to unconsciously cast the shadow of past rejecting objects onto their experience of God, rendering God as malevolent, harsh, or indifferent.

As Fairbairn (1943) noted, a key way the threatened return of bad objects is managed is the moral defense. Indeed, it is a threatening psychological experience to feel that God is a bad object who is rejecting, perhaps punitively inflicting pain or suffering. In the face of such an anxiety-provoking experience of God, one may be motivated to preserve a sense of God as a good object. Thus, when an event that may invite lament occurs, one may be unconsciously motivated to blame themselves for the suffering. By taking the burden of badness on themselves, they may feel that they somehow deserve what has occurred. Given the preceding discussion of original sin, such a maneuver may have a compelling sense of felt truth to it, resonating with perhaps even an inchoate recognition of the reality that there is something disordered within, which can become complexly intertwined with defensive self-blame. In addition, one may feel compelled to dedicate themselves to right action and a “proper” response to their suffering, thus enacting the unconscious fantasy of control and hope for repair in their relation with God, and perhaps even an end to the painful experience. As Fairbairn (1943) has famously stated, “it is better to be a sinner in a world ruled by God than to live in a world ruled by the devil” (p. 331). That is, it is better to view oneself as the problem and preserve a sense of outer security from a good God, than to deal with the anxious feelings of loss of control, hopelessness, and being at the mercy of bad objects, including a malevolent God.

Such a response may even be encouraged by one’s faith community, who may view lament as evidence of a lack of faith, and whose members may even be defending against their own vicarious activation of internal bad objects. For instance, in the book of Job, when Job experienced incredible suffering, his friends were insistent that Job must have done something to deserve his suffering (see Byrne, 2002). While Job pushed back against this counsel from his friends, it is easy to imagine others whose psychology may prompt them to more readily succumb to this pressure from the community in collusion with the moral defense.

While this defensive posture may help maintain a sense of God as a good object and may preserve unconscious fantasies of hope and control, it goes directly against the grain of lament, which often contains protest, complaint, and the expression of anger—including anger toward God—as defining elements (Brueggemann, 1984; Gunkel, 1930/1967; Westermann, 1981). When someone is defensively invested in avoiding the specter of a rejecting God cast in the image of one’s old bad objects, it is hard for them to boldly pray, “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1a) or “I suffer your terrors; I am helpless. Your wrath has swept over me . . .” (Psalm 88:15b-16a). To utter such words with the full force of emotion would be to undo the moral defense.

In addition to protest and complaint, there are other features of lament that are in conflict with the moral defense. For instance, laments often also include giving motivations for God to act, which can include assertions that “the speaker is innocent and so is entitled to help” (Brueggemann, 1984, p. 55). For instance, in Psalm 17, the speaker asserts, “My steps have held to your paths; my feet have not stumbled” (v. 5), and this statement of innocence is used to move God to hear the speaker’s prayer (v. 6) and to deliver him from his enemies (vv. 13–14). In Psalm 86, the speaker similarly states, “guard my life, for I am faithful to you [emphasis added]” (v. 2a). Imploring God to act on the basis of one’s innocence is in direct opposition to defensively taking the burden of badness upon oneself; feeling the self to be responsible for one’s suffering.

This is not to say that self-inspection and repentance are never called for in the face of suffering. Indeed, in some circumstances, suffering can be understood as a marker for disordered living (Hall et al., 2010), and psalms of disorientation and lament also include statements of confession and repentance (e.g., Psalms 32 & 51; see Brueggemann, 1984). Thus, mature contrition may be an appropriate response to suffering at times. Importantly, the moral defense may be distinguished from such mature contrition by consideration of the context and the extent to which self-blame is automatic, compulsive, and rigid. For example, the moral defense is more likely operative than mature contrition if a person reflexively and indiscriminately blames themselves for experiences of suffering regardless of surrounding interpersonal circumstances and if they also struggle to give adequate weight to the responsibility of potential offending parties. In this way, mature contrition requires more nuanced and contingent accounts of responsibility. In this analysis, it is clear that imploring God to act based on one’s innocence in some circumstances as part of a lament does not preclude the appropriate practice of repentance when indicated. Rather, with the dynamics of the moral defense in view, one can see how many people may experience internal and relational obstacles to giving full voice to lament as part of a faithful Christian response to painful events. In so doing, they may avoid painful internal bad objects, but at great expense to their sense of self and their capacity to fully process their experience with God and others.

Implications for Mental Health Practice and Soul Care

Fortunately, by understanding these obstacles to lament presented by the moral defense, there are implications for how to come alongside someone who is suffering and who may helpfully avail themselves of the Christian practice of lament. For these people, a season of orientation has passed, as they now feel thrust into a disorienting season of painful psychological and spiritual disarray (Brueggemann, 1984). When considering how to come alongside such individuals, it is hoped that aspects of the following recommendations may be helpful to a variety of people involved in soul care (e.g., spiritual directors, pastors, lay counselors, etc.). However, given the complex unconscious and relational dynamics involved, the following recommendations are primarily addressed to professional therapists, especially when working with those who have experienced more notable trauma or more problematic object relations.

To begin, as other authors have noted (e.g., Brueggemann, 1984; Hall, 2016), it can certainly be helpful to encourage the one who is suffering to read, and perhaps even pray, the psalms of lament. These psalms can provide language that give form and voice to the experience of suffering, aiding the sufferer in articulating all the “hidden, dark, painful, needy secrets that we prefer not to have or acknowledge” (Brueggemann, 2014/2022b, p. 113). As a person engages with these psalms, they can also be made aware of the typical form of biblical lament and even invited to compose their own laments. The writings of Dickie (2019a, 2019b, 2020) may be especially helpful resources for accounts of helping people compose their own laments.

That said, it is a central contention of this article that merely commending lament and its virtues to someone is often not enough. Rather, familiarity with the dynamics and motivations of the moral defense provides important sensitivity to how an individual may even unconsciously resist the lament process. On this matter, there is a notable absence of clinical literature, a gap to which this article hopes to make a contribution. The language of lament can be provocative and can directly confront one’s defenses. As Brueggemann (2014/2022a) states, “The counterworld of the Psalms contradicts our closely held world of denial by mediating to us a world of abrasive truth-telling” (p. 53). Thus, being faced with stating these words of anger and protest in itself constitutes an assault on the moral defense. It invites one to state painful emotion toward God and others, rather than blame oneself and engage in striving to earn a restoration of love. It invites one to acknowledge the limits of one’s control and the misplaced hope in their own striving to be good enough.

Given this confrontation of the moral defense, it can be helpful to notice and facilitate curiosity around avoidance evidenced by the sufferer when approaching lament. For example, when relationally bearing witness to one’s efforts to engage in lament, it can be helpful to observe and explore reluctance to express anger at God or others. Such avoidance may manifest in overt statements of discomfort, or it may manifest in more subtle ways, such as going through the motions of stating anger and protest without emotional engagement. One common response in these circumstances is the person may invalidate their own anger, questioning the appropriateness of their feelings and the legitimacy of expressing anger toward a perfect God. Of course, traditional Christian theology would agree that God is perfect and incapable of wrongdoing, but such theological claims do not erase one’s subjective experience of suffering. The invitation to lament is not to conjure feelings but to give authentic expression of one’s heart before God in a painful season of disorientation. Noting the prevalence of emotionally raw statements in scriptural laments (especially the psalms) may help alleviate some theological reservations about the appropriateness of expressing painful feelings like anger toward God; however, when the moral defense is operative, such intellectual and theological interventions are unlikely to be wholly persuasive because the motivations for such avoidance are not just theological but may also involve one’s object relations. In these circumstances, it may be helpful to reframe the issue of what “should” be felt to an exploration of potential anxiety around honesty before God, and implicit negative God images the person may be attempting to ward off, which may not correspond to the person’s conscious view of God or the reality of who God is in an objective sense.

In addition, it can be helpful to observe and explore the corresponding readiness with which someone turns their anger against themselves in self-punitive blame and engages in striving. A helper may attend to and be curious about even implicit low views of self or increases in behavioral striving that may manifest during a season of suffering. Using Fairbairn’s theory as a guide, empathic interpretations may be gently offered regarding how such psychological maneuvers—even if they contribute to a painful sense of self—may still feel safer than even more feared alternatives. Such interpretations can facilitate collaborative curiosity into ways self-blame and striving may be serving to potentially avoid a negative subjective experience of God and preserve a sense of control and hope. Such exploration must be undertaken gently and collaboratively, with an empathic understanding of the anxiety-managing function of the defense. If interpretation or exploration is undertaken in a way that is implicitly blaming or engendering of guilt, it may only serve to reinforce a low view of the self and perpetuate the moral defense (Fairbairn, 1943). By opening up such avoidant processes to empathic and collaborative exploration, there is an invitation to slowly unwind the moral defense and invite deeper and more authentic relational and spiritual engagement around lament.

To engage in this sort of exploration and relinquishing of defenses, a person needs the presence of a supportive and loving other. Fairbairn (1958) asserted that if relationships form the self, relationships are also the decisive factor in the growth and change of the self. Thus, interpretation and insight are not enough. By embodying empathic attunement, care, and support to one who is endeavoring to risk lament, a helper may offer an experience of love that is crucial to that process. In particular, when seeking to establish relational safety in the context of facilitating lament, it may be especially helpful to attend to anxieties a person may have about disclosing vulnerable feelings of anger toward God, as many people have experienced negative judgment from others for sharing such feelings (Exline & Grubbs, 2011). If such a loving relationship of safety and support can be established, it can offer corrective experiences that are contrary to one’s internalized bad objects and provide the required environment for growth (Fairbairn, 1958).

As painful situations often linger, lament is often not a brief, one-time experience. While sometimes there is a relatively quick assurance of being heard by God and a corresponding turn to praise, the process of lament can also be a long and difficult road before any such assurance or praise is forthcoming (Villanueva, 2008). For some, lament is the very language of dialogue with God during a prolonged season of disorientation (Brueggemann, 2007/2022c). Thus, the reality is that many who are suffering may need the presence of a supportive good object over time, and sustained help may be needed to help them navigate their defenses and authentically bring their experience before God in lament.

Especially for those who have more traumatic relational histories, the level of bad object internalization and corresponding defenses may be especially entrenched and take time to work through. In these cases, working through the present suffering and defenses will likely also require processing painful elements of one’s relational past. At the most basic level, this can entail being curious with the individual about how their experiences in formative relationships may impact how they relate to God. This process can help form a shared, illuminating narrative that helpfully frames the link between one’s relational past and one’s current challenges (Celani, 2010). Yet, this process can also become quite complex and a source of resistance to change. By pointing out the defensive internalization of bad objects, Fairbairn (1943, 1944) showed how one’s self-defeating dynamics and defenses are wrapped up in emotional ties to old objects. Thus, to grow in the integration of the central self and to relinquish rigid reliance on defensive processes, one has to loosen the emotional bonds to old objects. In this way, growth requires grief. The dynamics around the moral defense against internal bad objects is often characterized by the non-acceptance of loss (de Matos, 2002). It is painful to give up the intimacy and connection unconsciously hoped for (but not fully experienced) with one’s early objects, especially when such dynamics may have been set in motion when one’s dependence on them was absolute. To loosen these emotional ties through mourning is not only painful, but it can also provoke core anxieties of abandonment and isolation. This anxiety reflects another important role the helping relationship plays in the process of change. In addition to the provision of support and a growth-inducing relational milieu, a relationship with a good object is also needed to avoid a painful sense of aloneness that comes with the release of bad objects. To release them is to risk psychic aloneness and loss of parts of oneself tied to those old objects. Mitchell and Black (2016) make this point clear, asserting that “no one can give up powerful, addictive ties to old objects unless she believes that new objects are possible” (p. 122). In this way, for some people, doing the hard work of facing their pain and overcoming obstacles to lament means engaging in mourning the failures of past relationships, perhaps even giving rise to a new cause for lament in the process. Indeed, for a season, such a process of confronting one’s past and internal object world gives added psychological depth to the spiritual experience of disorientation described by Brueggemann (1984), as it calls into question the meaning of one’s previous relational experience of God and others, and it invites reorganization of one’s established internal coherence.

Yet, the fruits of such an arduous journey are potentially great, including greater self-acceptance, expanded capacity for relating, increased assertiveness in the face of injustice, coming to terms with one’s past, and more authentic engagement with God. While a renewed sense of orientation cannot be formulaically imposed upon one who is suffering, we can hold hope with them, knowing the lament process is not undertaken in a naturalistic universe, but in relation to a transcendent God. Thus, when such a season of new orientation may appear, it can be recognized there are words for that experience too. These words “are not about the ‘natural’ outcome of trouble, but about the decisive transformation made possible by this God who causes new life where none seems possible” (Brueggemann, 1984, p. 125).

Conclusion

The practice of lament is an important spiritual resource as Christians inevitably face pain and hardship in a broken world. This practice can give meaning and form to painful experiences, preserving connections to both God and community in the process. Importantly, lament may be understood as a relational act. As such, relational psychoanalytic concepts, including Fairbairn’s concept of the moral defense, may help illuminate internal and relational obstacles to engaging in lament practice. In so doing, such concepts also help chart a course for how to come alongside others and aid them in more honestly engaging themselves and God in the midst of suffering.