In his first letter to the Corinthians, St. Paul speaks of the different spiritual gifts that are given to build up the body of Christ. I submit that the gift of tears, and the profound and visceral experience of love and grace that it often expresses, is one such gift. Those among us who cry easily, whether from sorrow or awe and gratitude, may serve as living reminders that the life of faith, both individually and in community, is meant to be one of heart and soul, body and mind, a life in which we allow ourselves to be touched deeply by our need for Christ and his love for us. Amen.
A couple of years ago, I attended what may well have been my last academic conference, as I have transitioned fairly solidly into the path of pastoral ministry. One of the panels I attended was comprised of five academics, all of whom, like me, had been the first in their families to earn advanced degrees, and they spoke of the challenges of pioneering their paths without the kinds of networking and support available to them that many academics with parents and other family members in academia enjoy.
Listening to their stories, I felt my heart breaking, for myself and all the years I worked to try and find a tenure-track position in academia, that never came to fruition. Once I returned home, I recalled that a particular friend from graduate school had also been unsuccessful in finding an academic appointment and had moved to an alternate career path – but she seemed to have made her peace with all that. So I reached out to ask her how she had managed to do it.
We had a wonderful, rich, supportive, and encouraging conversation. At one point I shared how listening to the panel had made me feel, and the tears that I shed in grief over my stillborn academic career. My friend responded with a question, “Do you think that you might have the gift of tears?”
The gift of tears was a new concept for me. It has been described in the writings of several mystics who have been canonized in the Roman Catholic tradition, and particularly in the letters, journals, and Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius of Loyola.
Ignatius of Loyola was born in 1491 in the Basque country of northeastern Spain. He joined the army at the age of seventeen and served under Antonio Manrique de Lara, 2nd Duke of Nájera, for the next thirteen years. At the Battle of Pamplona in 1521, a cannonball shattered Ignatius’s right leg, ending his military career.
While Ignatius was recovering from his injuries and the surgery to mend them, he underwent a spiritual conversion. In 1523, when he was again able to walk, he made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and in 1524 began studying Latin and theology at the University of Alcalá. Working together with two companions, Ignatius founded the Society of Jesus (Jesuits) in 1539, which received papal approval the next year.
The Society of Jesus, since its inception, has been dedicated to the work of evangelization and apostolic ministry around the globe. Ignatius envisioned members of the Society as “soldiers of God” who would be willing to be sent anywhere on earth, carrying out their ministry in whatever conditions they might be subjected to.
In 1548, Francis Borgia, Duke of Gandía, secretly became a professed member of the Society of Jesus. He reached out to Ignatius, asking for advice on his private prayer and spiritual life. Francis had tendencies toward extreme asceticism, to the point that his health was negatively impacted, and Ignatius counseled him to moderate his practices, suggesting “instead of seeking to draw any blood, to seek the Lord of all in a more immediate way; that is to say, his most holy gifts—for example, an infusion or drops of tears, whether (1) at our own or other people’s sins, (2) at the mysteries of Christ our Lord in this life or the next, or (3) at the consideration and love of the divine Persons.”
In other words, Francis was practicing some kind of bodily mortification, perhaps self-flagellation, that caused bloodshed. Ignatius counseled Francis to end such practices, and instead develop habits of prayer that would help tears to flow. Ignatius recommended several possibilities: that Francis contemplate his own or other’s sins, the life, sacrifice, and resurrection of Christ, and the love of Creator, Christ, and Holy Spirit. When these meditations caused Francis’s tears to flow, those tears would be a holy gift from God.
There are dozens of mentions of shedding tears in the scriptures, and while tears are seen by the scripture writers as a sign of pain, there is not the sense that shedding tears, even publicly, is in any way shameful or unmasculine. Throughout the scriptures, God responds with compassion and liberating action to the tears of the oppressed and the cries of those who are suffering. The psalmist includes the shedding of tears as part of descriptions of deep misery, sorrow, and grief, as in Psalm 6:6: “Every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping.” Jeremiah describes the agony of exile in Babylon as calling forth his tears: “My eyes flow with rivers of tears because of the destruction of my people.” (Lamentations 3:48)
Tears in the Second Testament often have more positive connotations: Paul writes of his tears shed both out of abundant love for the churches with which he corresponds as well as his distress at how they are under attack. Perhaps the best-known example of tears in the gospels is the woman who anoints Jesus at a banquet, described in Luke as “bath[ing] his feet with her tears and dry[ing] them with her hair” (Luke 7:38) – or the tears of Jesus himself at the death of his friend Lazarus (John 11:35).
Meanwhile, in our cultural context, we’re told that “big boys don’t cry,” and people of all genders are taught that tears are best shed in private, and are somehow shameful in public. If someone begins to cry in a public setting, with few exceptions, they feel the need to apologize, or leave the room; others in the room may act embarrassed and awkward, not knowing what to do or how to respond.
I am one of those who cries very easily (and I’m glad to have the company of at least two others in my congregation with a similar tendency to respond to a variety of situations with flowing tears). I cry when I am feeling sad, hurt, or frustrated; when I am moved by scenes of great beauty or acts of great love; even just from engaging in intercessory prayer for those whose sorrows and distress have become real to me in a visceral way.
Our culture tells us that this tendency to cry, especially to cry more easily than other folks, is somehow childish, shameful, immature, or overly sensitive. But St. Ignatius, and our sacred scriptures, tell us that tears are an appropriate response to both great love and great sorrow or distress – our own or anyone else’s. Indeed, tears in such situations, and as part of our prayer and spiritual life, are a holy gift.
How could thinking about tears as a holy gift be beneficial to us as individuals, as well as to our faith communities? For one thing, the sensitive child of any gender who cries at seeing an animal hurt, or losing a Little League game, or breaking a toy, could be affirmed and supported, their sensitivity experienced as a gift, not a shameful liability. Seeing another person physically express their distress, by crying, often makes those around her feel called to offer physical support – a hug, an arm around the shoulders, the squeeze of a hand -gestures of comfort and care that strengthen our bonds with one another.
We experience the world, including our spirituality, through our bodies. And our spiritual lives, both individually and communally, encompass times of sorrow and pain as well as transporting gladness and joy. We acknowledge this by stocking the pews of our meetinghouses with boxes of facial tissue before a funeral or memorial service – boxes that often have a useful life long after our goodbyes have been said to the departed in the formal space of a funeral or memorial service of worship. The gestures of hugs and hand-holding, whether in response to expressions of sadness or simply the joy of reconnecting, are hugely important to cementing our ties with one another in the body of Christ.
Jesus, too, wept at the death of his friend Lazarus, and over the city of Jerusalem. At any point in time, some part of the Body of Christ is in distress or pain; in the Beatitudes, Jesus singled out “those who mourn” as among those who in his kingdom were considered especially blessed. Maybe those of us who cry easily have a gift that is not just individual, but communal – as part of the mystical Body of Christ, we can help shed the tears and express the distress of those to whom tears do not come easily, if at all.
We express this kind of solidarity and communal emotion in one of our most beloved hymns, The Servant Song: “I will weep when you are weeping; when you laugh, I’ll laugh with you.” Being vulnerable through our tears and making space for and affirming the tears of those who weep among us are paradoxically part of how we become strong as a Body.
The Dutch writer and Roman Catholic priest Henri Nouwen took this idea even further: that it is out of our very woundedness that, as we minister to one another, we receive the ability to create space for healing for others.
This is part of the wisdom behind support groups of many kinds. Addicts speak out of their brokenness in 12-Step programs. Those listening hear in the stories shared a kindred brokenness as well as guidance toward finding and staying on the path to recovery. Support groups for those experiencing particular kinds of grief and distress, from sexual violence to the death of a child, help those participating discover that they are not alone and that even the most painful experiences can be survived, that healing can come and joy can be felt once again.
How much more so then, the church, gathering together in our shared human brokenness of many kinds, walking together and ministering to one another, listening and sharing, weeping and hugging, celebrating and rejoicing, is called to be a place of healing and transformation!
Looking at the specific items listed by Ignatius as having the potential to spark the holy gift of tears may be instructive. First, Ignatius names “our own or other people’s sins” as a source of holy tears. Speaking for myself, realizing that I have inadvertently hurt someone through something I said or did, or left unsaid or undone, can most assuredly lead to sorrow on my part. As fallible human beings, it’s impossible for us to love and care for all others perfectly at all times.
I had a really rough autumn – two close family members died within eight days of one another in November – and I still felt terrible about forgetting my goddaughter’s birthday in December. Sometimes what I’m trying to say comes out in a hurtful way, as when I told my youth group that I didn’t want to have to visit them in rehab or prison; what I was trying to say is that I wanted them to flourish and thrive, to be the people God is calling them to be – but it came out sounding like if they got in trouble, I wouldn’t be there for them. That hurt, and it brought some tears flowing on my part when I realized what I’d said.
Other people’s sins and failures can be cause for weeping, as well – not just when we are directly affected. Certainly, it hurts when a child or spouse or fellow member of our congregation loses their temper and says something unkind. But I have wept, also, over the sins of hatred and greed, and the lives harmed or lost to white supremacy and violence against women. The conviction of Ahmaud Arbery’s killers does not bring that young man back to his family and community. The scars of rape and abuse may never fully heal; their victims may learn to cope and recover a sense of trust and joy in living, but some aspects of the fear and trauma remain. It is painful to contemplate how many individuals and communities have been scarred by these and other kinds of trauma and abuse.
The second item that Ignatius lists as a possible source of holy tears is “the mysteries of Christ our Lord in this life or the next.” In his Spiritual Exercises (composed 1522-24, shortly after his conversion), Ignatius instructed his readers to envision scenes from the gospel while praying the rosary, just as if they were present, hearing and seeing everything that was happening in real-time. Ignatius died in 1556, but based on this and similar customs, Pope Pius V (reigned 1566-72) established 15 Mysteries of the Rosary: the Joyful Mysteries of Jesus’s conception, birth, and childhood; the Sorrowful Mysteries of Christ’s Passion; and the Glorious Mysteries which include the resurrection and ascension of Christ and the giving of the Holy Spirit. In 2002 Pope John Paul II added the Luminous Mysteries, which include Christ’s baptism, miracles, teachings, and transfiguration.
But it isn’t at all necessary to be Catholic or pray the rosary to contemplate the mysteries of Christ’s birth, life, death, and resurrection. Indeed, seeing and hearing these events vividly in our mind’s eye can be a powerful way to strengthen our faith, as well as to potentially bring on the gift of holy tears. Visual artists, composers, writers, and theater artists have throughout the centuries lent their gifts to envisioning and depicting the life of Christ in compelling ways that touch our imaginations. Leonardo’s Last Supper, Handel’s Messiah, or Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Still Falls the Rain” may stir our hearts and spark our imaginations, bringing us closer to Christ and perhaps even bringing a tear or two.
One work of visual art that can easily bring a tear to my eyes is the Röttgen Pietà. Crafted in the first quarter of the fourteenth century in Germany, of carved and painted lindenwood, the Röttgen Pietà is just under three feet high. It is a sculpture in the round, of Mary holding the dead body of Christ in her lap. Christ’s body is bloody and emaciated, his ribs showing and his wounds clearly visible, while his lifeless head crowned with thorns lolls unnaturally backward on his neck. The expression on Mary’s face bespeaks the numbness and shock, as well as the agonizing sorrow, of seeing her child brutally killed. Looking at her face, I can feel some measure of her pain, and tears spring to my eyes.
Our griefs and losses are often intimately connected one with another. Losing a loved one may stir up as well the pain of earlier losses, as the deaths of my grandmother and brother also carried with them a renewed sense of the pain of losing my mother. So when I weep with and for Mary and her dead Son, I am in a sense also weeping for myself and my departed loved ones. And all of these tears are holy, a holy gift because it is through crying and the sharing of memories that we process and move through our grief.
The awesome wonder, the mysteries of Christ’s life and resurrection, as well as of his death, can lead to holy tears, as well. The hymn “How Great Thou Art” expresses this wonder so beautifully, and when we truly try to wrap our minds around the Incarnation, tears of wonder, gratitude, and joy might well be the result: “And when I think that God his Son not sparing sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in.” Knowing how deeply and completely we are loved by God and are given transformative, salvific grace can move us to tears of gratitude and joy.
The third item mentioned by Ignatius as a possible source of the gift of tears is “the consideration and love of the divine Persons.” Have you ever had tears spring to your eyes in joyful surprise when someone who loves you does something extra special for you? I certainly have. I was away from home for eight days to be with my family as my grandmother was dying, and to participate in her funeral. My husband was unable to be with me, but we communicated by text and phone call as often as we could.
When I arrived back at our home, there was a basket on the table with a note that read, “Welcome home! I love you.” The basket contained several of my favorite snacks plus bottles of lotion and bubble bath. Just being back home with my husband was gift enough – the other surprises, and the love they represented, touched me deeply, and I had tears in my eyes. Even now, I tear up thinking about it two months later.
How much more, then, might we be brought to holy tears thinking of all the ways that God has loved us? All the beauty and joy, the love and care that God has brought into our lives – reflecting on these memories might just cause the tears to well up in gratitude and wonder. Some of my precious memories of being loved into life by God our Creator include a sugar maple in full, blazing fall color at a park in Minneapolis; lenticular clouds at sunset ringing the summit of Mt. Rainier; a rainbow over Mt. Whisky in Okanogan County. Reflecting on the ways my husband, other family members and loved ones, and many brothers and sisters in Christ near and far have loved me into life also leads me to give thanks (and sometimes tear up) for the love of our God in granting these blessings.
Bobbi Dykema is currently serving as pastor at First Church of the Brethren in Springfield, Illinois. She is also on the pastoral team of the Living Stream online Church of the Brethren and serves on the steering committee of the Womaen’s Caucus. Bobbi is passionate about racial and gender justice, beauty and the arts, and reading scripture as a living document.