It's ok to cry...

I attended a women's conference a couple weeks ago at my sister-in-law's church. It was a day-long event for women, with speakers, worship, fellowship and chocolate...plus, her church has a bookstore, which, for me, is like an opium den to a heroin addict. Lots of things from that day touched my heart and left me with a longing for more of God. One thing happened, however, that made me think, "I might just blog about that someday". A woman at my table started to cry after one of the speakers. Another woman--kind, well-intentioned, fluent in "Christian-ese"--attempted to comfort her by saying, "It's ok. God loves you. You are beautiful to Him".

Our dog, Molly, when she does not like something, has this interesting habit. The hairs on the back of her neck spike up, like a little mohawk. It happens when small children smother her with love, when she is taking a nap and we try to talk to her, and when other dogs try to sniff her in more than just a cursory greeting. When I heard the woman's platitudinous attempt at comfort, I felt like Molly. The proverbial hair on my neck started to form a "Molly mohawk".

My first objection to what she said was that she didn't know what the crying woman was feeling. She had no idea. Nor did she ask. While it is true that God loves us each intimately and deeply and that we are beautiful because of His love, I am not sure that saying that to someone you barely know is going to heal the deepest hurts of a heart. In fact, I am sure that it won't. Why isn't it ok to hurt...to cry...to just plain need God? Why do we rush to "fix" people and stop tears? Why couldn't that woman sit there and cry and we could just sit there with her, in silence, with a hand on her back to let her know she is not alone.

I guess it bothered me so much because I see that tendency in myself to want to rush people through pain. "God loves you"; "Have faith"; "I'm praying for you"...all of those are true and wonderful things, but I think we often say them more out of our personal discomfort than because it is what a hurting person really needs to hear. We don't know what to say, so we pull out a platitude. We have our own hurts that we don't know how to deal with--things that start to come to the surface when others around us are hurting or in need--and we want to squelch it back down and make things comfortable again.

I am always struck by the Psalms for that very reason. Nothing is anesthetized, nothing is "safe". It is raw and awkward and uncomfortable...and for some reason, that is ok. That is different than my experience of the Church a lot of times. Especially at funerals. How many times have I heard mourners say, "They wouldn't want us to cry" or "I have to be strong for my loved one; that is what he/she would want me to do". Really? Is that true? I'll be honest and say that when I die, I expect some tears, people. I want to be missed...just like I will deeply and desperately miss the people that mean the most to me. Even Jesus wept over sin and death. When His friend Lazarus died, Jesus cried...right before He brought him back to life. I could analyze why Jesus cried, but I'll save that for some other post. The point is, He cried. He mourned. He felt. Tears are not a lack of faith. Feeling pain is not a failure on our path to spiritual maturity. It is part of being alive, part of being real, part of being connected to (as well as disconnected from) others.

I remember being a chaplain intern at a hospital one summer. For some reason, I was the "angel of death". I had friends that never experienced one death as a chaplain. I'd have 50 deaths a night...ok, maybe not 50, but some statistically impossible number of deaths again and again, night after night of being "on call". While the world slept one dark night, my beeper went off. An older man had passed away--a man who was old enough for death not to be an impossibility, yet still unexpected in this particular situation. I came into the room, introduced myself as the chaplain, and kind of stood in the room, waiting to see what the family needed. They were loud and sobbing. At one point, a daughter (in her 50s or 60s), literally climbed on top of her father's dead body and sobbed more loudly than I have ever heard anyone sob. The other mourners in the room joined in the melancholy chorus. It was deafeningly loud and uncomfortable and awkward. Everything inside me wanted to yell: "Stop!" I had never seen anything like it. It was too raw. You are supposed to control yourself in front of others. Deal with your pain in private and in public, act in a controlled, respectable manner. That was how every death I experienced went. You didn't sob and throw yourself on the body, even if you wanted to. At some point, I suggested we pray, and we did, amidst even more sobbing. Then I got out of there as fast as I possibly could. Great chaplain, I know!

Over the years, I have reflected on that experience. I am not sure where and how I learned that too much emotion is bad, but it seems to be commonplace in the Church. We have to act happy, act "Christian"--even when everything is falling apart. We put on faces and play a part. That is what it means to follow Christ--at least that is how we act it out, regardless of what we really believe. I wonder if that family was closer to the truth than I am, than we are. Maybe it is alright to sob and wail when you feel your heart breaking. Maybe being real and authentic is ok. Maybe it is even "Christian" to be that way. Maybe we need to stop rushing people through their uncomfortable emotions so that we feel better, safer, less out of control. Maybe it is ok to just let someone cry--even sob--and not have to say anything to "fix" it at all.