I Don't Know Why....

I'm embarrassed, but I don't think I should be. I was brought to tears in church on Sunday, and to be honest, I don't know exactly why yet.

I've been preaching through selections from Job recently and this past week I focused on Chapter 10. In this passage, Job laments about his situation and wishes to God that he had never been born. Job wonders aloud if God is pleased by the suffering he is experiencing. Maybe God is too near-sighted to see what Job is going through. Even worse, Job wonders if God has a limit to his days, just like humans do. If that's the case, maybe God is trying to get his licks in on Job while there is still time.

I used this passage to talk about lament and its place in faith and in worship. Lament is the process of asking hard questions of God--hard questions that arise out of faith, not out of doubt.

Anyhow, during the sermon, I read a selection from Nick Wolterstorff's, "Lament for a Son." I made some connections between Job and Jacob, when he wrestled with the angel of the Lord (Gen 32). I was struck by the desperate plea of Jacob when he and the angel were locked up in a fight that had lasted through the night, "I will not let you go until you bless me!"

I was almost to the end. Here is the last paragraph of my manuscript:

"Remember this—God doesn’t hold himself aloof from our suffering. The cross behind me is a symbol of it. So is the bread and the cup. Even the water of baptism. He is a Father who mourned the premature death of a Son as well. This was part of his plan, too, we remember. Yet, with dying, there was rising. With every Good Friday eclipse of the sun, there is an Easter morning sunrise. Today, if you lament with Job; may you cling to the hope and joy of the disciples. “Peace be with you!” “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” “Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”^[1] Even in our suffering, may we see the risen Christ."

I got to the end of the sentence, "...there was rising" and I couldn't speak. All I could do was look out at the people gathered there and then look down back at the sheet of my manuscript again. I was surprised by muteness. I felt the tears well up, and they were the worst kind of tears. They were the tears that you don't want to let loose, the tears you try to swallow down and keep inside. They weren't the cathartic tears that come when you can let go and sob.

I desperately wanted to say what was left on my page. They were the words of grace that I wanted people to leave with, words of hope that I wanted to give.

After a few deep breaths, I tried to get them out. If people were wondering what was going on before, they knew now. The pastor was crying.

I finished the sermon, my voice thick, and to my ears, not sounding like my own. After the, "Amen," I offered a brief prayer. (What I prayed, I have no idea.) We closed in praise, like a lament usually does, singing, "We Will Glorify." The words were comforting, but no easier to sing, than my "words of grace and hope" were to say. I raised my hands for the parting blessing, my voice a little stronger, finding some comfort in the routine of the service coming to its conclusion. We sang, "By the Sea of Crystal," the second and third verses, which speak of our joyful deliverance on the last day.

I walked down the aisle to go to where I greet after the service. As I made eye contact with a few people, some faces showed concern and compassion, some had red eyes and runny noses, like mine, and some, some looked perplexed at what had happened.

As I received the exiting worshipers, some expressed their thanks to me. A few gave me an embrace. Many shook hands, pinched out a smile, and kept walking as if nothing had happened a few moments ago. One person asked for a copy of the message so she could pass it along to others in her family. Later on in the day, before the evening service (which went off without tears, by the way) another stepped into my office to ask if everything was all right, "since you had that little breakdown this morning." My voice mail and e-mail contained messages expressing thanks for the message on Sunday. I was thanked for being "real," "transparent," and being "compassionate." One person stopped by briefly this morning and gave me two books to read, one entitled, "When God Is Silent" and the other, "Wrestling with God."

I am truly thankful for those expressions of kindness. They're gifts to me. Yet, that said, I still don't know why I cried, and I'm still a little embarrassed. I am a little hesitant to stand up in front of everybody next Sunday morning, because I think I don't want people to worry whether or not the pastor is going to lose it again. To be honest, it was such a surprise to me, I don't know that it won't happen again next week.

I don't think I was crying for myself. Was I emotional for those in my congregation whom I know I have experienced or continue to experience tragedy and loss in their lives? It's a possibility, but a bell doesn't ring in my head when I think of that option.

I told someone later on Sunday afternoon that when a pastor preaches, every sermon is a profession of faith in a very real way. You either believe it or not. I suppose you could say the words and not believe them, but I don't think you could play that game for long.

Perhaps that's the reason. My faith, or my desperate need for what I have faith in is what brought me to tears. If that's it, my hope is that everyone cries for their faith once in a while. It shakes us from an apathy that slowly numbs us from thinking or caring about what we believe. I can affirm that my faith certainly is on the forefront of my thoughts right now.

I may be embarrassed about what happened, but I'm certainly not ashamed of it. It's not the first time I've cried while standing behind the pulpit, but it's been a long while.

Even though I was preaching about the lament of Job, I will try to receive this event as a blessing. I haven't parsed out what the blessing exactly is yet. With Job, God wasn't very forthcoming in his answers. In short, God's "answer" to Job was, "I'm God. You aren't." Yet blessing followed for Job.

That in mind, I will try to be patient for what's ahead, prepared now with a couple of tissues in my suit coat pocket.

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^[1]The Holy Bible : New International Version. 1996, c1984 (electronic ed.) (Jn 20:26). Grand Rapids: Zondervan.