My Theology of Tears

On a recent flight from Ashville to Fort Myers, having spent a few days at Quiet Rest preparing the gardens for the winter, I immediately thought of  my two daughters first cries when I was overwhelmed by the plaintive cries of a young child in two rows behind me.  I remembered how they typically made all those sweet coos and sound that endeared them even more to me during those first few months of not being sure what I had gotten myself into.  They would even offer a tiny laugh when I would make a silly face at them.

And then, seemingly out of the blue, they would cry. I remember being amazed of how Bettyann knew just what the cries indicated. Sometimes it was anger at being put on their stomach; sometimes it was a cry for food; other times, it was the weary crying of fighting off inevitable sleep. Added to my amazement as a new father was; as I listened carefully, I could begin to hear the difference between the various cries of each one’s limited, yet profound vocabulary.

On the air flight, like my newborn daughters, I thought of how the child was trying to communicate with his mother through the only means available to him. With each piercing wail, the tears suddenly streamed down my own eyes. And I thought about how my own tears were the only way I could express the place of deep sorrow that arose in me as I listened to wave after wave of his sobs.

There is something about a baby’s cries that connects to someplace deep inside of me. For most, especially when sitting on a crowded plane as I was, the sound of a baby crying pierces ears like a scratch on a chalkboard or the siren of an emergency vehicle. But for me, the cries of all young children vocalize all that I cannot say and all that I feel inside. From plaintive wail to frustrated, angry cries, whether they emerge from my own grandchildren, a child beside me on the plane, or at a presentation of Frozen at Disney, these cries articulate the deepest yearnings of my own heart.

In this particular case, the young child’s cries connected to deep losses I have suffered. His cries told stories of grief and heartache I bore in my own spirit on behalf of friends and loved ones. His tears expressed for me the bitter sorrow over lost opportunity, frittered years, idle moments when opportunity might have been seized rather than squandered. And so, I cried with the child—the child vocalizing all that I could not say, but that which I deeply felt and I don’t know but I think the two ladies sitting on the inside and across the aisle where uncomfortable as the one ask me if there was anything she could do and the other reached for something to whip my tears.

I have learned over the years that the response to tears is to admonish them away. “Don’t cry,” “be thankful” or “look on the bright side” are dismissive statements, as much as they are meant to comfort. Yet, there are so many moments in life that cannot be expressed or soothed by words. They are too deep, too visceral to be simply captured by a clever turn of phrase. Instead, tears have become a necessary articulation of my heart, speaking out the groans too deep to be uttered.

I believe tears are a language of their own. Whenever I am tempted to dismiss them or to try to overcome them, I am encouraged towards their free expression because of the way in which my Christian faith values them. Throughout the sacred pages of Scripture, there are tears. The tears of the grieving, the weary, and even the joyful—tears speak what the mouth cannot say.

The psalmist speaks of God gathering up tears in a bottle, writing them in a book, as if they tell a unique story. The apostle Paul speaks of the Spirit groaning with utterances too deep for words. The ancient Hebrew prophet, Jeremiah, is often called “the weeping prophet” and Isaiah characterizes the “suffering servant” as “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.”

Then, I don’t think it was just a sentiments event when this suffering servant, Jesus, who wept at the tomb of his friend Lazarus, moved by the weeping of Mary, Martha and all those who had gathered to mourn his loss. He didn’t just shed a single tear; he wept, crying out in anguish over the death of Lazarus. In a world that values strength, stoicism, and in contrast to those traditions that espouse detachment, I find myself comforted that there is room for my tears, value in grief, and a God who comes near to the brokenhearted.

Father, God, I affirm Jesus presenting a living picture of what You are like,  and tears are not foreign to You.  You are not removed from human pain, but have borne under it in the flesh, in Jesus. I believe my tears are understood, welcomed and honored by You who  feels. And this gives me great hope these later years of my life for the all too frequent days when tears are as much a part of my days as laughter. And it helps me better understand Jesus’s own words of blessing on those who mourn: Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted. If all of this is true, then let the tears flow freely, just as they do when the young child cries.