A Theology of Tears

Why do we believe there’s no crying in ministry?

I cry.

A lot.

Jesus wept.

One of these is known as the shortest and most poignant verse of Scripture. The other two are a source of shame.

Why the disconnect?

In theory I totally affirm that tears are normal, healthy and helpful. So why am I so uncomfortable crying in leadership situations? What if others see it as a sign of emotional instability? A lack of self-control?

At a recent Christian event, a leading Christian thinker teared up during his presentation. He described the moment when he realized he had tried to fix a community problem without acknowledging his need for the community. As he did, he cried tears of repentance for assuming he had all the answers. It was powerful. The audience was moved. But when he returned to his seat afterwards, I heard him mumble, “That was embarrassing.”

I leaned over and, with a crooked grin, said, “Welcome to my life!” then pointed out the boxes of tissues I’d already spotted by the stage.

(Some people look for fire exits as soon as they enter a new space. I look for tissues. And when I see them, I know this is a place I’m welcome.)

I was especially comforted by his tears because just that previous Sunday, I’d broken into tears during our Sunday service. My associate pastor’s sermon spoke directly to a pain I didn’t even know I’d been feeling. Often tears come in a way which I can tame—a poetic welling up that soon subsides. But this was more like a river that swept through the sanctuary and knocked me off my feet. There was sobbing, there was snot. And in addition to needing to figure out why this moment had meant so much to me, I felt anxious. Because I knew that with the end of his sermon came my cue to pray, lead the offering, do announcements and sing the doxology. I wouldn’t have time to explain why the lead pastor was in floods of tears. Which is just as well since I didn’t know.

So I hoped his sermon would last a little longer and stepped out onto the street where I looked up at the sky and asked God why he made me like this.

I sensed him smiling down in a condescending way and ushering me back into the building and onto the stage, tears and all.

I don’t use the word “hate” lightly. But I hate crying in front of people. Especially people I’m trying to lead. How can they take me seriously if they see me leaking? (Not to mention all the questions related to gender stereotypes.)

What’s wrong with us? Even those of us who acknowledge it’s good for leaders to cry don’t want to be those leaders.

But the Bible is soaked in tears. And they’re cried by all the heroes of our faith.

Joseph weeps so loudly that his cries fill the whole household of Pharaoh.

Jesus weeps with grief over the death of Lazarus. He weeps with longing over Jerusalem. His deepest prayers surface as tears.

Prophets weep, priests weep, kings weep, apostles weep.

They cry tears of remorse, grief, longing, pain, repentance and joy. They cry in wars, at reunions and births and marriages and deaths. They cry because they don’t understand and they cry when understanding comes. They cry when they don’t see God at work and they cry when they do.

If we acknowledge that our heroes did it but we’re still ashamed when we do it, what does that reveal? If we aren’t willing to cry like David, like Jesus, like Paul then who are we modeling ourselves after? What cultural baggage are we bringing to this life of leading as humans?

Perhaps our theology of tears is not something we’ll fully understand by studying it. Maybe a sound theology of tears is a cried theology.

My tears are teaching me that when we lose emotional control, God can reveal his power. My tears are teaching me that those we lead are moved to see His message is still meaningful to us. My tears are teaching me that when we cry, we tell those who cry that it’s okay to cry. (And we tell those who don’t that it’s okay to cry.)

The writers of the Bible included the tears of leaders to reveal moments of significance. When leaders were moved to repent or mourn or rejoice, it was not a private matter but an invitation for the people to join in that response. In the same way, our tears teach our people what is important, help them to stop and sense that something significant is happening, even if we ourselves don’t yet know why it’s significant. As much as we’d like to figure that out alone and return, when composed, to dryly pronounce it, by then the moment has passed. And we have denied the community the opportunity to listen together for what God is doing.

As much as it makes us uncomfortable, it’s part of our call to let our people see us when we weep because of the injustice, the remorse, the joy, the frustration, the pain, the beauty. When we do, we teach them to care deeply, to be wholly present.

If it’s our job to let our very soggy selves reveal that something significant is happening, maybe we should get comfortable with tears. Or at least get used to being uncomfortable.

This article originally appeared on CTPastors.com and can be accessed here.