Dear friends,
If you were in worship on Sunday, you saw me cry. More than once. I teared up during the third verse of the opening hymn – “Arise, your light is come! All you in sorrow born, bind up the brokenhearted ones and comfort those who mourn.” I couldn’t help but think of the brokenhearted in Minnesota, and the parents and friends of Alex Pretti, the man who had been killed by Immigration and Customs Enforcement Agents the day before. I wept more openly during Pastor Nick’s powerful word about the violence, our Christian response, and our trust in God’s deliverance. My tears during that time in the service were complicated. I cried out of my own grief for the state of our nation, but I also wept out of gratitude and conviction. Pastor Nick articulated with authority what I believe to be true. I had finally pulled myself together when the Lawrence Scholars performed their anthem, based on St. Francis’s prayer: Lord, Make Us Instruments of Your Peace. It would have been beautiful on any Sunday. But last Sunday it was providential. A balm. A gift.
The first time I cried in church – after becoming a pastor, that is – was in 2006, the Sunday after our beloved dog Deacon was diagnosed with terminal cancer. A well-meaning church member who had heard the news lifted it up during the time for sharing joys and concerns, not realizing it would trigger tears. I was horrified. I had just turned 26 but as everyone reminded me allllll the time, I looked 19. I felt like a little girl, and was afraid that no one would ever trust me to be their pastor again.
In the nearly 20 years since we buried that very good dog, I’ve learned not to shed a tear over shedding tears. There is nothing wrong with crying – no matter your gender, no matter your age. I am a crier and I am not the least bit ashamed of it. It doesn’t mean that I’m not okay – at least, not any less okay than anyone could be in these troubling times. I am just sensitive. Sorrow and joy, empathy and gratitude – all these and more get metabolized into saltwater that overflows. Sometimes I will cry with you and for you. It rarely gets in the way of my ability to speak and I am usually good about remembering tissues.
What freed me of my fear of crying in public is the Word of God. Not only did Jesus weep at the death of his friend, but the Bible is full of prayers literally crying out to the Lord. In Psalm 56, the psalmist imagines God collecting his tears in a bottle – so great is God’s compassion for us. Scriptures such as these have helped me understand that just like prayers can include sighs too deep for words, sometimes my praying takes the form of weeping.
These days there is much to pray about and there is much to weep about. But one of the best proclamations scripture has to offer comes to us from Revelation 21, when God “will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.” Whether your weeping is literal or metaphorical, God promises that we won’t be weeping forever. Everything that is terribly wrong will be made gloriously right. In the fullness of time, death itself will be destroyed through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
It’s enough to make me cry.
Peace,
Pastor Katherine
