Tears

The longer the internet lives, the more inescapable a certain trend becomes: the performance of grief. That is, when someone on TikTok, Instagram, or YouTube, exhibits a hardship for audience consumption. At The Atlantic, Maytal Eyal has an interesting appraisal:

People post videos of themselves crying (or trying not to). Some of these videos moody music; many rack up hundreds of thousands of views. … Influencers and celebrities strip down to what can seem like the rawest version of themselves, selling the promise of “real” emotional connection—and, not infrequently, products or their personal brand.

The weepy confessions are, ostensibly, gestures toward intimacy. They’re meant to inspire empathy, to reassure viewers that influencers are just like them. But in fact, they’re exercises in what I’ve come to call “McVulnerability,” a synthetic version of vulnerability akin to fast food: mass-produced, sometimes tasty, but lacking in sustenance. True vulnerability can foster emotional closeness. McVulnerability offers only an illusion of it.

In my years as a therapist, I’ve seen a trend among some of my younger clients: They prefer the controlled environment of the internet — the polish of YouTube, the ephemeral nature of TikTok — to the tender awkwardness of making new friends. Instead of reaching out to a peer, they’ll turn to the comfort of their phone and spend time with their preferred influencers.

Psychotherapist Esther Perel touched on this impulse while discussing what she calls “artificial intimacy.” She says that these digital connections risk “lowering our expectations of intimacy between humans” and leave us “unprepared and unable to tolerate the inevitable unpredictabilities of human nature, love, and life.”

Putting yourself out there is uncomfortable. But I also worry that by relying mostly on social media to encounter other humans, they’re forfeiting opportunities to develop the skills that could help them thrive in the flesh-and-blood world.

You've never heard of Tanuja Ghale. She's a fellow believer, salon owner, and evangelist in Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal. One day she saw a young woman on the streets of that city and told her she was beautiful. Inexplicably, the woman began to weep. That morning, her husband had beaten her and told her she was, "… the worst woman in the world."

When Tanuja tells women they're beautiful, they're shocked, and want to know what beauty she sees in them that their loved ones have missed. Then those women may be ready to hear that God loves them unconditionally. Our words can have such a profound positive (or negative!) impact.

Thomas A. Dorsey’s song “Take My Hand, Precious Lord” is one of the most beloved gospel songs of all time. The song’s power comes from profound personal tragedy. In August 1932, Dorsey, a Black band leader and accompanist, was on top of the world. He had recently been hired as director of the gospel chorus at Pilgrim Baptist Church in Chicago, and he was about to become a father for the first time.

Dorsey was nervous about traveling to a gospel music convention so close to his wife’s due date, but she gave her blessing. While he was in St. Louis, Dorsey received word that there had been complications with Nettie’s childbirth. He raced back to Chicago, but both mother and child died.

The double funeral took place at Pilgrim Baptist Church. Dorsey later said, “I looked down that long aisle which led to the altar where my wife and baby lay in the same casket. My legs got weak, my knees would not work right, my eyes became blind with a flood of tears.” Dorsey fell into a deep depression. He questioned his faith and thought of giving up gospel music.

Dorsey’s friend and fellow chorus director Theodore Frye persuaded him to accept a dinner invitation. After dinner, Dorsey meandered over to the grand piano and began to play the hymn “Must Jesus Bear the Cross Alone,” with its lyric “There’s a cross for everyone, and there’s a cross for me.” Dorsey began to play variations on the hymn’s melody, adding new lyrics. He called Frye over and began to sing, “Blessed Lord, take my hand.” Frye stopped him: “No man, no. Call him ‘precious Lord.’” Dorsey tried it again, replacing blessed with precious. “That does sound better!” he told Frye. “That’s it!”

Dorsey returned home and finished the song “in the next day or two.” Dorsey debuted “Take My Hand, Precious Lord” for the Pilgrim congregation at a Sunday worship service. The lyrics filled the sanctuary that morning: “Precious Lord, take my hand / Lead me on, let me stand / I am tired, I am weak / I am worn.” Dorsey was shocked to find congregants out of their seats and in the aisles, crying out in prayer. His song of deliverance from unbearable pain touched the heart of a congregation of Black Americans with testimonies of their own—of illness, death, poverty, or the daily indignities of discrimination.

Many funerals today are not about mourning death but a “celebration of life.” As our culture discards all-black attire and other formalities of a traditional funeral, families create more personalized—and often more up-beat—experiences to honor the deceased.

The BBC has reported on the trend of “happy funerals,” noting that Monty Python’s “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” had become the UK’s most popular song played at memorial services—replacing Verdi’s Requiem.

After celebratory memorial services, we are encouraged to “move on,” comforted by memories and knowing that the person we’ve lost is no longer in pain. But this positive focus can afflict and baffle people deep in grief.

As Daily Mail columnist Bel Mooney wrote, “Even though modern, cheerful funerals can be hugely touching and beautiful, a part of me wonders whether they show how petrified people are of death, and of the long agony of bereavement.”

Jesus, the One who sustains every life, was not immune to the ravages of death. In John 11, Jesus learns that his friend Lazarus has died. He goes to his grieving friends and does what anyone would do: he cries.

Jesus knew that while death is not the final word for the deceased believer, it brings a full range of heartache to those left behind. Jesus’ response shows us that the gospel promise does not exempt us from sadness over death. Death is real, it is sad, and Jesus himself felt it.

We can grieve over this, while also recognizing the hope of a resurrected body for all of us who cling to the Jesus who perfectly did both. This same Jesus who wept over the reality of death sent blood rushing back through the cold veins of his dead friend—and promises to give us new life too. Death is imminent, but Sunday is coming.

Mary, was a local drama student at a large university. The professor of her introductory acting class had asked all the students to present “something extreme” to the class. Mary decided that, as a Christian, she would write a hymn of love to Jesus and sing it.

Alice was the student presenting before her. Alice took a Bible, led the class out by a trash can on campus, and proceeded to slowly read portions of the Old Testament about commands to make war, God punishing the nations, and sending Israel into exile. She read imprecatory psalms. With each violent passage, Alice would say something like, “Who would ever believe in a God like that?” Then she would tear out the page from the Bible, burn it, and drop the page in the trashcan. It was extreme drama.

This was the warm-up for Mary. She pulled out her guitar, said a brief prayer under her breath, and sang a love song to Jesus. The class was silent and then went home. All, that is, except for Alice, who came forward with tears in her eyes. “That was beautiful. That is the God I want to know. Can you help me get to know Jesus?” And so, after a few days of Bible study and prayer, Alice gave her life to Christ.

In March, 1941, a nurse on Bataan received a package mailed before the world-changing surprise attack on Hawaii on December 7, 1941. Opening it, with other nurses looking on, she removed a sheet of tissue paper and lifted a "little, frivolous black hat, with a dainty veil."

All broke into a laughter perilously close to tears. The nurse, in her army coveralls and bigger-than-her-feet shoes, held it in her hands, noting its cuteness. They watched silently as she set it on her head and carefully adjusted it—then broke again in laughter mixed with tears.

The hat symbolized what they all had lost, and many of them wouldn't again find, war being the all-devouring monster of humanity: cars on paved streets; dinners in restaurants with choices on the menu, theaters showing films, and ball games.

The little hat became a popular tourist attraction to other nurses from other bases. Everyone looked, most wistfully, many with tears brimming or falling, as memories surged and emotions spilled.

Possible Preaching Angle:

Sometimes little things remind us of people in other times, in other places, now lost and gone. Of relationships treasured and possessions valued now gone. But when we sacrifice all things for God, he will reward us with greater things that can never be taken away (Matt. 19:27-29).

In Christianity Today, Al Hsu writes:

Encouraged by a 25 percent-off coupon given to me by a friend, I went ahead and had [laser eye] surgery [to correct my vision]. ... It didn't quite take. ... My vision had been something like 20/400, and he was able to bring it to 20/40—tantalizingly close to clear vision, but still fuzzy. Then I happened to attend an InterVarsity Asian American staff conference. During corporate worship, I squinted to make out lyrics on the far wall. In one particular session, we sang "God of Justice ”:

Live to feed the hungry

Stand beside the broken

We must go

Stepping forward

Keep us from just singing

Move us into action

We must go

I closed my eyes as we repeated the chorus, praying that God would direct me. How might I move into action? The song cycled back to an earlier verse, and I opened my watering eyes. The lyrics on the screen shimmered slightly, then came crisply into focus. I could see. Clearly. Wow. I could read every word easily, without squinting.

Had God just healed me? ... I blinked several times, and my vision wavered back and forth. Clear, blurry, clear, blurry. Then I realized what was happening. While singing I had been tearing up, moved by God's call, and the thin layer of water on my eyeballs functioned like contact lenses. The tears had been making my vision clearer. ... I suspect that I will never see as clearly as I do when I have tears in my eyes.

In Steven Spielberg’s famous movie, Jaws, the second victim the great white shark kills is a young boy named Alex Kintner, played by Jeffrey Voorhees. When the crowd realizes what has happened, there’s a panic, and everyone in the water goes running back to the safety of the beach. Mrs. Kintner, Alex’s mother, stumbles around in the shallows calling for Alex, but he doesn’t return.

Later in the movie Mrs. Kintner dressed in black widow's garb, approaches the chief of police (the hero of the movie). She slaps him in the face for not closing the beaches. She says, “I just found out that a girl got killed here last week, and you knew it. You knew there was a shark out there. You knew it was dangerous, but you let people go swimming anyways. You knew all those things, but still my boy is dead now, and there’s nothing you can do about it. My boy is dead.”

Imdb.com, a film and television website, picks up the story many years later:

Several decades after the release of Jaws, Lee Fierro, who played Mrs. Kintner, walked into a seafood restaurant and noticed that the menu had an "Alex Kintner Sandwich." She commented that she had played his mother so many years ago. The owner of the restaurant ran out to meet her, and he was none other than Jeffrey Voorhees, who had played her son. They had not seen each other since the original movie shoot.

Heaven is a bit like that. When we go to be with Christ, pain, death, and separation will all be undone. Family members who lost each other in unimaginable circumstances, will come running back together again. Maybe we’ll even eat an Alex Kintner sandwich.

Watch the clip here: YouTube

On the scenic foothills of the Alatoo Range in northern Kyrgyzstan there is a spot that looks up to the peaks of the towering Celestial Mountains, and down across the valley to the city of Bishkek. They have built there a great monument complex in honor of the Kyrgyz people. It's name is Ata-Beyit.

But there is something different about this place. Most monuments of such a grand scale are built to commemorate national victories and grand achievements. This place, however, was built specifically as a monument to magnificent defeat. Specifically, there are three heartbreaking defeats that the Kyrgyz people remember together on that scenic hill.

There is a soaring monument to the defeat of 1916 when the Tsar Nicholas II decreed that all Kyrgyz men be conscripted into the Russian army to fight in the First World War. On that mountaintop some 100,000 died, either massacred by soldiers or lost in the brutal winter. The second monument on that hill remembers 1938 when at the personal instruction of Joseph Stalin, 137 leading citizens—writers, teachers, artists, and politicians—were rounded up and led up those hills to be murdered. The third monument remembers 2010, when eighty-four young people were lost in a single day, murdered for protesting against yet another brutal regime, standing in the way of freedom.

Nothing but tears on that mountain … but the Kyrgyz people believe these must forever be remembered for they are magnificent defeats. Despite the oppression of their worst enemies, and the tears of these most painful tragedies, the Kyrgyz people have not only persevered, but they are today a proud and thriving people.

Sometimes there are defeats so magnificent that they simply must be memorialized—and every Christian understands this. On the foothills, just outside of another great city, there is another site remembered with many tears and a monument to unthinkable injustice. And while it would be impossible to remember that place without being moved by its terrible tragedy, we remember it because of something so magnificent in that tragedy. On that terrible hill—by his wounds, we were healed. On that terrible hill—through his cross, we are saved. On that terrible hill—death may have won the day, but life-everlasting secured an unbreakable victory.

Some people might ask why go to such trouble to memorialize a mount of such great painful sorrow. We would say that some defeats are worth remembering, precisely because they contrast the magnificence of the final victory that overcame the evil of that place.

The Kyrgyz people have a mountain, and its name is Ata-Beyit. The people of God have such a mountain. Its name is Calvary.

Jonathan Sacks, the former Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, once referenced what he called the "counter-intuitive phenomena of Jewish history"—a phenomena that applies to Christians as well. "When it was hard to be a Jew," Sacks wrote, "people stayed Jewish. When it was easy to be a Jew, people stopped being Jewish. Globally, this is the major Jewish problem of our time."

GQ had a humorous analysis on when guys should or should not be allowed by society to shed tears. "Male crying is not new," the female author notes. "It's been happening for as long as men have had eyeballs. But it was almost always done behind at least three closed doors." Here are some of GQ's rules about public crying for men:

• It is okay to cry if you're in extreme pain, like, say, a piano were dropped from a fifty-story window on your foot. If you're gonna cry from pain, it has to be at least an eight on the pain scale.
• It's okay to cry at certain works of art or film. For instance, if you don't get misty-eyes at Toy Story 3, you are a monster.
• It's almost weird if you don't sob the first time you hold your newborn baby. No shame in that, bro.
• It's definitely weird if you sob during a sports event, although you can cry if you are actually one of the athletes out there on the field. But even then, you should cry only if you win. And if you're just a fan, the rule here is much simpler: never, ever cry.
• Never, ever cry during an argument. As the woman who wrote the article notes, "Sorry, guys, but crying during an argument is kind of our thing."

Possible Preaching Angles: Men; Fatherhood; Father's Day; Masculinity—a humorous way to set up a sermon on the challenges of thriving as a man and as a father in today's culture.

In mid-February of 2016, Monty Williams, an Assistant Coach for the Oklahoma City Thunder pro basketball team, stood at his wife's funeral to give her eulogy. A few days earlier his wife Ingrid was tragically killed in a car accident. Williams had some profound things to say about grief, forgiveness, and God's sovereignty.

Williams says, "This is hard for my family, but this will work out. And my wife would punch me if I were to sit up here and whine about what is going on. That doesn't take away the pain, but it will work out because God causes all things to work out." He then goes on to talk about the family of the person who hit his wife, because the other driver died as well. Monty says, "Let us not forget that there were two people in this situation, and that family needs prayer as well. And we have no ill will toward that family. That family didn't wake up wanting to hurt my wife."

Possible Preaching Angle:

What a wonderful example of trusting God's sovereignty in tragic circumstances.

Geologist Dr. James Clark recounts visiting the Soviet Union a few years after Communism dissolved. He was asked to preach at a small Russian Baptist church that lived through a long season of persecution. Some in the congregation had been in prison because of their testimony in Christ. Others had husbands or relatives that had suffered or had even been killed for their faith. Dr. Clark decided to use the following geological illustration:

Clay is actually composed of many microscopic clay mineral crystals, which not even a light microscope can see. But under pressure the clay minerals are not crushed or made smaller. Rather, they grow larger. The minerals change into new larger biotype grains forming slate, found on many homes. With even more pressure, the minerals become even larger. And some are transformed into garnets, which are semi-precious gems.

Clark said:

I explained to the congregation that this geological process illustrates how pressure and suffering can be used to refine, purify, and mold a person into a more beautiful soul. I will never forget what I saw when I looked at the congregation. It seemed like the whole congregation was sparkling. The babushkas' (old women) eyes were gleaming bright with tears recalling past suffering. What makes a gem so attractive? It's the reflection. And these dear women and men were reflecting God's glory through the suffering they had endured.

The metamorphic rock story doesn't end there. With even more pressure applied, a new mineral forms called staurolite. The name is from two Greek words meaning "stone cross." The twin variety forms deep under high mountains in the shape of a cross. A reminder of Christ's ultimate suffering for us all.

On April 15, 2013, one of the best-known sporting events in the world, the Boston Marathon, turned deadly when two homemade bombs planted close to the finish line exploded. The blasts killed three people, wounded 260 others, and cost 16 some of their limbs. For the one year anniversary of the Boston bombing, The New York Times profiled a number of survivors about how they're coping with the trauma. Naturally, the interviewees expressed a great deal of sadness, fear, anger, and even rage. But, surprisingly, there was also another theme that emerged from the interviews: gratitude.

One survivor put it this way: "Life, it's short. The day of the marathon just reinforces my belief. Life is short, and you need to cherish each moment." A 45-year-old female lawyer reflected on what she's learned after a year: "It was such a terrible tragedy that sometimes I feel guilty because it was a blessing for me. It made my life more rich, more full. I learned how to appreciate living in the moment. And I learned not to worry and stress about things as much. I don't let work bother me. I don't let piddling money issues bother me. It was not even a conscious effort on my part. It just changed my attitude." A 39-year-old scientist said, "I've had moments where I can't believe how close everything came. Now I embrace life for what it is. I want to keep on living and propel my positive energy to help other people be more positive."

The albatross, a majestic seabird with the longest wingspan of any bird, spends eighteen months at sea, touching down only on water, losing their ability to make smooth earth-landings. Returning to nest and lay eggs, they come in like drunken sailors, tumbling, skidding, crashing, earning these regal birds the epithet gooney birds.

These powerful seabirds spread enormous wings, sometimes reaching an eleven-foot span, and glide above turbulent seas. They need storm-strong wind currents to keep them aloft. In calm seas, they are virtually unable to get airborne. Consistently smooth weather conditions prevent albatross migration from the Southern Hemisphere.

Storms will come for us, too. Like the albatross, we need the storms. Our intended wing, our high desire for God, will be tested and developed in strong winds and troubled waters. I eagerly expect and hope that God will enable me to ride the turbulence and learn the currents of grace. Riding on currents of grace doesn't preclude stumbles, skids, or nosedives. Though I want to soar, maybe God will make me, like the albatross, fruitful even after a crash landing.

In her book The Year of Magical Thinking, author Joan Didion tries to make sense of her world after the death of her husband, John Gregory Dunne. Didion marvels at the capacity of grief "to derange the mind," that is, to throw its victims into a mode of irrationality. They cannot think and live as though the person they loved is really dead. Surely there has been some mistake of diagnosis or identity "I was thinking as small children think," she writes, "as if my thoughts or wishes had the power to reverse the narrative, change the outcome."

One day Didion was clearing the shelves of her husband's clothes, putting them in stacks to give away to thrift shops. But she couldn't bring herself to give away his shoes. "I stood there for a moment, then realized why: he would need shoes if he was to return."

In a sermon titled “Suffering, Tim Keller said:

What does Paul mean when he says, "The Resurrection is going to swallow up the suffering and evil you're going through right now"? Here's a very imperfect illustration from my own life. Many years ago I had a horrible nightmare. I'm not sure if the dream came from something I ate or a movie I'd watched, but I usually don't retell this dream with many details because it was really an awful dream. I dreamt my entire family had been slaughtered. But then I woke up, and my entire family was right there. I really love my family, and when I went to sleep that night, before the nightmare, they were all around me. But when I woke up after the dream, the nightmare in which I thought I had lost them, I got them back again. I couldn't even look at them without crying—for sheer joy.

What had happened? Having gotten them back after losing them, made the experience of having them infinitely greater. It's almost like the experience of losing them had been swallowed up by the experience of having them, so that it was infinitely more precious.

That is a dim hint of what the resurrection of Christ means to us. If his resurrection happened—and it did—that means our resurrection's going to happen. And that means that everything sad and horrible is going to be brought up into our future glory and resurrection and make it infinitely better than it would have been if we had never had any of those experiences. And that's the final and ultimate defeat of suffering and death.