Rather than a sign of weakness, tears sometimes flow from having the strength to be yourself.
Originally posted July 24, 2012, at Narrating Grace. Republished with permission of the author.
I was never a crier. I didn’t even cry at my own wedding. I’m not sure what has happened to me in the past few years, but I find myself crying much more often than I used to.
I also tend to cry in public places, which is quite a challenge for me (a hilarious challenge, according to my emotion-loving husband who knows my stoic ways too well). I’ve always hated crying in front of people, yet this is slowly becoming a part of my life.
At my sister’s wedding last summer, I could barely make it through my toast. In worship last fall, I cried through the service. Is it because I’m now a parent? Am I just getting older? Who knows?
What I do know is I have to accept this new part of myself because it’s clearly not going away.
I’ve had trouble integrating this new part of myself with my professional identity. Pastors don’t cry. We’re supposed to be the solid presence, the comforting balm in crisis, and the one to lean on. We have to keep ourselves together. Often this is necessary and true.
Yet the more I do this job, the more I realize there’s a time for everything (thank you, Ecclesiastes). I thought it would get easier, and, in some ways, it has. In other ways, it hasn’t.
The longer I’m in this congregation, the closer I get to the people and the more I learn about their lives. I can’t help but be connected to them. Evidently I occasionally display my compassion through public tears.
I was deeply touched by a sermon given by Presiding Bishop Mark Hanson last year at our annual St. Paul and Minneapolis synodical theological retreat. He became emotional during it and had to take a moment to collect himself.
He explained to us that the topic he was addressing was close to his heart — his own child struggled mightily with it, and he couldn’t help but get choked up when he spoke about it.
I still hold this moment in my heart as I grapple with my own public emotions. I thought no less of him as he admitted feeling his emotions. I felt a connection with him as a true person. If the presiding bishop of the ELCA can be authentic with his tears, why can’t I?
I still believe there are times when I need to keep my emotions in check. This is (usually) not hard for me. But the longer I serve the church, the more I realize how important it is for me to be authentic.
When I am leading a healing service and am honored to individually lay hands on and pray for people, I can’t keep my tears at bay. I see their tears, their pain, their struggles — not only see, but also feel them.
When a boy comes to me at the end of the line and shyly asks for a prayer — a prayer I know well, a prayer I can relate to in my deepest of hearts — and I am able to give him that prayer, well, that’s more than I can handle.
When I witness God giving peace and comfort, I think it’s permissible for me to shed a few tears. How can I not be overwhelmed by this God?
“… a time to weep, and a time to laugh …” (Ecclesiastes 3:4).
Find a link to Jennifer Hackbarth’s blog Narrating Grace at Lutheran Blogs.
You might also want to read:
Keep crying
The Way of the Cross
Just like a star
Hopefully you don't end up in a Swedish congregation. Tears are one of the Seven Deadly sins.
On a more serious note, you might find John 11:35 important: "Jesus wept"
I used to be the person who cried (I thought) too easily. My daughter would look at me and say, "Mom, are you crying AGAIN?" when I'd respond tearfully to something that moved me. Then, my daughter developed Leukemia and, in six months' time, she died. I cried so many tears that I had no eyelashes. I cried so much that I became sick of crying. And eventually, my tears stopped. I stopped crying.
Now, I feel like a hard shell is coating my heart when, even in a particularly difficult pastoral care moment, when someone I love is suffering, I have no tears. It's not that I'm physically unable to make tears. I just don't. The tears don't come. I'm beginning to miss them. And I fear that, maybe one day, when they come back, I'll drown myself or someone else.
I envy your tears, your ability to feel deeply and respond appropriately. Just keep plenty of tissues around.