The Goodness of Grief, Pt. 1
Kyrie Eleison
God
There are days when my life feels too flat for the world to be round—
The earth too sharp, too violent to be called “Mother.”
Do you see the tomb we have made of your womb-shaped world?
If it is true that you hold the whole
Of our hardened world in your hands, I think that you
Must always be bleeding. How we must grieve you,
An us-shaped wound in each of your holy, aching palms.
Oh Father, do you weep over us?
I have always been ashamed of how easily I cry. If it occurred in private settings only, that would be fine. But the number of times I have cried in public when speaking at a microphone and/or in front of more than five people who are not family or friends is. . .embarrassing. It usually happens when I talk about God.
Before speaking, I pray, “God, please don’t let me cry this time.”
This is what happens: When sharing the brief message I am there to share, I either go stone-faced and sound robotic in an effort to control my tears, OR I start thinking about how well I’m doing not crying, which inevitably leads to. . .yes. More crying.
Public Speaking + Sharing about God = Tears. This is how it has been my whole life.
But there was one time six or seven years ago that did not conform to my typical public crying equation. I was sitting in a day-long volunteer training hosted by a Seattle area anti-trafficking organization. Serving on behalf of sex-trade victims and survivors had long been on my heart, and it felt good to finally take steps in that direction. Throughout the training, I’d remained silent; I tend not to speak in new settings unless I am confident that what I say will not make me look foolish or (horror of all horrors) ‘too emotional.’ We were sitting at round tables, and a survivor was sharing her story and educating us about the harsh realities of the sex trafficking in Seattle.
It was the fifth hour of the six-hour training required to serve with this particular organization, and I noticed with alarm as a few tears splashed on to the notes I was copiously taking, making the black ink run down the page. I kept my head down, hoping this too would pass.
Nope.
The dam broke, and I began weeping uncontrollably to the point that I needed to excuse myself from the room. I stood in the hallway outside the classroom, my shoulders shaking and tears falling like Niagara Falls in spring, wondering why I couldn’t just keep. it. together.
A concerned leader came out to check on me, and I nodded as she asked if I was okay.
I wasn’t. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to staunch the flood, I drove home, feeling baffled and ashamed that my tears had kept me from completing the training.
A couple of evenings later, I had some friends over for dinner. I shared with my friend what had happened, expecting him to nod sympathetically and give me some sort of generalized encouragement. His response surprised me.
“That happened to me, too,” he shared.
He then described a time when he was forced to pull his car over on the side of the road because his inexplicable, full-bodied weeping was impairing his driving.
“I wonder if you experienced what I experienced,” he said.
“Maybe God was allowing your heart to break with the injustice that breaks his heart.”
My friend’s invitation to view my tears differently eased the burden of shame I’d been carrying over feeling too weak to serve. His words prompted me to ask better questions, such as:
What if God is not ashamed of our tears, but is the Author of them?
What if weeping over the pervasive influence of sin, death, and injustice in our world is not a hindrance, but a holy invitation to go deeper into the heart of God?
***
In the Old Testament, the prophet Jeremiah (also known as “The Weeping Prophet,” bless his heart) sets a precedent for keeping our hearts open for God to grieve through us. In Jeremiah chapters 8 & 9, he learns of the coming destruction of his people, Israel. Even though he was conversing with an all-powerful God, this was his bold response:
I hurt with the hurt of my people.
I mourn and am overcome with grief.
Is there no medicine in Gilead?
Is there no physician there?
Why is there no healing for the wounds of my people?
...
If only my head were a pool of water
and my eyes a fountain of tears,
I would weep day and night
for all my people who have been slaughtered.
Jeremiah’s lament shows us that it is not unfaithful to grieve over all that remains broken in us and the world. Six hundred years later, God himself came to earth and entered our mess. The prophet Isaiah describes this God-who-became-man as “A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” who has “borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.”
Jesus is both God’s answer to the grievous realities of this world as well as the perfect example of what it looks like to grieve faithfully.
***
I will explore this more in next week’s post, but until then, may you receive these words from the liturgy “For Those Who Weep Without Knowing Why” as both a blessing and an invitation:
Is it possible
that when we weep and don’t know why,
it is because the curse has ranged
so far, so wide? That we weep at that
which breaks your heart, because it
has also broken ours—sometimes so deeply
that we cannot explain our weeping,
even to ourselves?If that is true,
then let such weeping be received, O Lord,
as an intercession newly forged of holy sorrow.
Amen.