When was the last time you had a good cry?
I’m serious, I’m talking about leaned over, drenched cheeks, snotty nose, audible inhales: when was the last time you had a good, hard cry? Maybe it was just this week – or even this morning. No shame!
Maybe it’s been months or years – or maybe it’s been so long, you can’t even remember….
I know when I last cried. It was just a few days ago while watching the Lion King with my kiddos, which I hadn’t seen in years. And let me tell you, that movie is sad.
Now, I know it’s not easy to reveal the last time we’ve cried, because it’s not something we usually talk about.
After all, we live in a society that has prickly feelings about tears.
They can make us feel uncomfortable.
They can be viewed as signs of weakness or even of immaturity.
Think of debilitating kryptonite.
Tears are not really socially acceptable (in most settings).
You don’t cry at a work meeting – that’s what the stairwell is for.
You can cry at a wedding.
You can cry at a funeral.
You can even cry when you win the big game.
But don’t cry too much – or too loud – and never at school in front of your classmates. And for goodness sake, please don’t cry for more Rice Krispies or a happy meal.
Although our entry into the world begins with tears, as little ones grow it’s still more acceptable for girls to cry more than boys.
Boys are taught to toughen up at a young age.
And girls, you can cry some – but you better curb that if you want be a boss or a politician,
And folks, we know what people think:
if you are in mourning, don’t cry for too many days – two weeks should be plenty of time to let it all out.
Don’t cry so much for the world – just turn off that news – cuz it is what it is, people.
Don’t cry over a broken relationship….there are other fish in the sea.
Cry behind closed doors, please. Cry into a towel.
Cry quietly and quickly, and tell no one.
And then when you are done, wipe your face and move on.
Pretty harsh stuff!
Is this really who we are….is this really who we want to be?
In today’s Easter reading (John 20:1-18), twice we hear this question posed to Mary: “Why are you weeping?” First by a pair of angels, and then by Jesus himself.
Well, we have some idea about why she’s crying! Her teacher is dead!
So, can’t we cut her a break? If we were in her shoes, wouldn’t we do the same?
In Mary Magdalene’s case, it’s not only Jesus who is gone, but it’s all he represented when he was alive: all the inspiration and affirmation he gave to those suffering around him, all the people he had healed and lifted up with his hands and heart,
all the marginalized who he had told: “God loves you exactly as you are.”
His ministry was just beginning, and he was said to be only about 33 years of age. For his friends, for Mary, when Jesus dies – it’s as if all-hope for transforming the world dies with him.
And so when we find Mary coming to that tomb to pay her respects to her rabbi, her Lord – only to find his body gone, we can understand why the tears begin to flow.
So then why…why then…would the angels and Jesus ask such a question.
Is it because they are uncomfortable by Mary’s tears?
…or could there be something else – something deeper – even holier – going on here?
Reverend Ben Perry, a dear friend of mine, wrote a book called “Cry, Baby: Why Our Tears Matter.” In it, he shares that he doesn’t remember exactly when he stopped crying, there was never a moment when he declared “No more tears for me!”
But it wasn’t until his mid-twenties when it occurred to him that he hadn’t shed a tear in years. Somehow it had become normal to skim above the surface of his feelings.
It wasn’t until seminary when he took a class on Lamentations, when he was challenged on it. A teacher asked everyone to break into groups and to share about the last time they had cried. And Ben had no answer.
And so he did some homework that night – he attempted to try to get himself to cry.
Imagine this.He watched videos of lost dogs being reunited with their owners, tearjerker movies, he even read a letter that his late grandmother had left him. But nothing…
Finally, he thought of his parents (alive and well) and began to imagine what it would be like to lose these people who he loves with every ounce of his being. And all of a sudden, his cheeks felt moist.
After years of numbness, he began to sob uncontrollably. “ I had abused myself into crying,” he writes. “And it was terrific. Like a man who hadn’t run in years, it was like I was attempting a marathon. And I never felt more alive.”
From that day on Ben embarked on an extremely unusual mission: to cry every day.
To treat it like a spiritual discipline, part of one’s meditative practice or daily prayers. “Emotional numbness is sneaky,” he writes…“you don’t realize how much you’ve closed yourself off until you begin to feel again.”
Now Mary wasn’t the only one to come to the tomb that morning. Remember she runs and gets her friends: Peter and the other disciple (who many scholars believe is John).
But what happens when they arrive at the tomb and see that stone rolled away?
They peek in – they walk around, they are bewildered, and then…..they run away!
They don’t dwell on their feelings – they don’t stop, they dont pray, they don’t analyze the situation – and they certainly don’t cry.
Now we know these men all-too well. We can resonate with their frenetic distress.
Let’s face it: we are living in a world that feels so depleted of hope.
The headlines both appall and overwhelm us.
We are living in a society where it seems fear and anger keep having the last word, where bombs are being dropped and innocents are suffering and hiding. We are living on a planet that is crying out for help and we are refusing to answer. It’s just too much to bear.
And then there’s the headlines of our own lives.
The grief and anxieties that refuse to let us go.
The empty seat at the table, the constant worries on our hearts,
the job stress and insecurities, the aches and pains, and diagnoses we are facing,
the disconnection with loved ones.
To protect our spirits: we can go numb, or we can distract ourselves, or we can try to move on fast in hopes that our pain and bewilderment won’t catch up to us.
But the challenge we face – is similar to that of Peter and John…
If we hasten our steps too much, if we don’t allow ourselves to be fully present in our feelings, we just might miss it.
We might miss those glimmers of divine hope that we are desperate for.
Now Mary doesn’t run away. Seated beside the tomb – all alone, she stays in that raw place – and she weeps from the depths of her soul. She lingers in her feelings long enough to encounter the One who she is grieving.
“Woman, why are you weeping?” Jesus asks.
When we look at this question more closely now – it’s not one of discomfort, but of re-connection, of wanting to go deeper. It’s a question bursting with care, and curiosity, and chosenness – and holy promise.
“Whom are you seeking?”
And I love her answer. Not knowing it is Jesus, Mary responds with a fiery roar (like some Lin Manuel Miranda lyric): “If you have taken him away, tell me where you took him, and I will take him away!”
And here is the best part: Jesus doesn’t cut her off. He doesn’t calm her down. He doesn’t chastise her or get her a tissue. He meets her exactly where she is – and assures her that she is known and loved. By doing what?
By calling her by her name.
“Mary.”
“Mary.” He says. And it’s with that one gentle word that the stone is rolled away from her eyes and she recognizes who is standing before her.
“Teacher.” she says.
Tears of sorrow shift to tears of amazement.
Imagine if Mary had buried her feelings – imagine if she had run off with her friends.
We probably wouldn’t be gathered here today.
So then imagine what is possible for us, if we don’t run past each other,
if we don’t hide or brush off our emotions,
if we dare to really slow down and ask each other with tenderness the question:
“Beloved, why are you weeping?”
And trust one another with our answers.
Because if the Easter story this year teaches us anything, it’s that….
When we stop and let the tears flow
our eyes can better adjust to the light all around us.
When we feel seen and heard in our fullness,
we can begin to experience that first breath of healing.
When all hope seems lost
God has a way of showing up – in unexpected ways –
and calls out to us by name.
For the past few months, nearly twenty IFFP members have been working hard to prepare for a storytelling event later this month. Eight of our members have volunteered to share personal, real life stories from the heart; while others are serving as curators – there to listen intently to these stories again and again, and help our tellers prepare to share them on stage. I do hope you and yours will come.
When so often we fly past each other on busy Sunday mornings, this event can be a holy encounter – where we stop and put names and stories to faces.
Some tales will surely make us cry, some laugh, and some reflect on our own lives and interfaith journeys. But this, I know: when we trust each other with our real feelings, it’s like removing a stone from our eyes, and we can move into a fresh place together.
The Easter story doesn’t end at the tomb.
Mary is not only the first person to see Jesus risen –
but she is the one Jesus invites to share this good news.
And she gets moving – fast – towards the disciples:
“I have seen the Lord!” she shouts. Or in other words:
“Don’t lose hope!”
“Nothing is impossible with God!”
“Tears do not have the last word!”
Last year while visiting our interfaith sister community in Chicago,
I heard a story from a Catholic priest that has stayed with me.
One day a young engaged Jewish-Christian couple, named Margaret and Seth asked to meet with him in preparation for their wedding. As they sat in his office, they began to share concerns from family members about their future. Questions about holidays and life cycle events and where they will worship and find acceptance.
“People just asking how we can really make this work,” said Margaret- her voice cracking.
Tears began to flow as the couple continued to pour out their hearts and cling tightly to each other’s hand. Seth looked up at the priest and said almost in a whisper:
“My parents keep asking how are we going to raise our children? What can we tell them?”
The priest stretched his hand out on top of theirs, “With love.” He said,
“Dear ones, you tell them you will raise your children with love.”
And that was enough to help them take the next step.
Friends, don’t lose hope. No matter our backgrounds or traditions, the promise of Easter is one that can touch all of our hearts.
And the promise is this: tears are never the end of the story, but they are a significant step on the path.
Like the great Laments of our Bible – through tears we tap into our deepest emotions,
we feel alive and more alert to God’s presence, and we awaken faith beyond our wildest dreams.
So let’s linger a while by the tomb.
Let’s cry hard and listen hard.
Let’s see one another with fresh eyes.
And let’s raise each other up high – with love…
Until all that is broken and dead finds repair and resurrection.
Hallelujah and Amen.
