An Excerpt

My book finally has a name: With those Who Weep: A Theology of Tears. And perhaps the most humble theology of tears I can offer you is this: that tears are a sort of glasses, spectacles through which we see the world more clearly. 

At least I’ve found that to be my experience. It is a strange thing, isn’t it? The saltiness of our tears both clouds and rinses our eyes, obscures, and then cleanses. I’m inclined to believe in God’s purposefulness in their intelligent design.

I think Mary Magdalene would agree with me. She seemed to have experienced this phenomenon firsthand. She took herself to the mouth of her Lord’s tomb after his death, as soon as she found herself able. When it was empty, she wept. She just wanted her friend—the man who loved her, cared for her, who did not fear that her reputation could tarnish his own. 

I find that to be a tangible thing we all hope for. We long to grasp the body of the man who pays no mind to our wicked pasts. We long to touch his scars, knowing that the blood which flowed from them is that which has washed us clean. We want to be held by him, hearing the breath fill his chest as a sign that he is, in fact, alive. Because his life is evidence of our aliveness, too. 

I wonder if this is why our Bibles are worn down. Why we might grasp a prayer cross or the rosary. I want to feel Jesus, grip him, hold on to him, cling to him. I want to see him with my own eyes, I want the proof of his presence to be touchable and solid and embodied. More than that, I want him to take my face in his scarred hands and look me in the eyes. I want him to tell me he is as real as all the pain I have experienced, and that that realness is a treasure appraised without comparison.

Nevertheless, we don’t have that now. But I believe that tears can fill in the gaps and sate us until our Lord’s coming again. Our tears are a tether by which we are joined to God, an expression that draws him to us and us to him. I can touch my tears and they can touch me and he has promised he will one day touch them as he wipes them from my cheek when the earth is old enough to pass away. 

With all of this said, I invite you to explore the story of Mary at Jesus’ grave with me.

“It is not an uncommon thing to weep beside a grave, but most weep when the tomb is filled with bones. This grave was bare. Its emptiness should have brought great joy to Mary. She stood before the evidence that Jesus was alive, no longer dead. The resurrection was at hand, but she could not see it. Her tears still flowed as she came to grips with the possibility that he was not only still dead, but that her only tether to him, his body, had been stolen. She wept as the accumulation of grief, fear, and anger crescendoed in her spirit.

She wept, and Jesus appeared. 

Her eyes were clouded with salty tears, and I must wonder if that is why she thought Jesus was a mere gardener, a stranger. In the haziness of her vision, was she unable to see her friend, her Lord, clearly? But once they fell to her cheeks, were her eyes then cleansed and enabled to see unmistakably? Mary’s tears came to aid the realization of her faith at the appearance of the resurrected Christ. At the sound of Jesus’ voice, Mary’s faith, through tears, became sight. 

The empty tomb is the crest of Christian faith. Each of us upon our admittance into the family of God are asked to peer inside the empty tomb of Jesus and ask ourselves if it was robbed or if he has risen. Mary’s act of weeping at the mouth of the grave is a testament to our own continued behavior in light of God’s promises. Mary knew she loved Jesus, and she grieved his departure. She knew there was an empty grave in front of her, and she knew that she did not yet see his body walking around, breathing. Her tears helped her make sense of the empty grave. Our own tears give us an opportunity to do the same, feeling the tension of what we know to be true in tandem with what we see in front of us. Tears are the testament to myself, others, and God, that I am desperately trying to make sense of the pain that plagues me. Tears are a physical representation of stubbornness, a refusal to ignore the pain that weighs on my shoulders and breaks my back.”

A Moment of Thanks

In lieu of the seasonal prayers I normally include in this portion of the newsletter, I want to actually take a moment and say something very important: thank you. 

Without readers, I do not have a job. You who click on my essays, who share them, who take the time to reach out to me— thank you. I write to serve you and am so thankful that you have continually opted-in to hearing from me. 

As a tangible way to thank you, I am starting something new. Every so often, one of my subscribers will receive a care package from me. I don't know how often this will be, and the content of it will change from month to month. But two things will be constant: a note from me and a book. This time, the book is Paul J. Pastor's "Face of the Deep," which is the most beautiful non-fiction book I have ever read. 

So, thank you. I care about you each so deeply, and I couldn't do what I do without you.

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