Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. —Matthew 5:4
Father Richard dedicated many years of his ministry to working with men, emphasizing the importance of grieving.
On men’s retreats, we always emphasize grief work. There’s a therapeutic, healing meaning to tears. Undoubtedly that’s true, even as we study what’s in tears. We speak of salt in tears but now there’s evidence of washed-out toxins. Is not weeping, in fact, necessary? Beyond that, of course, Jesus is describing the state of those who weep, who have something to mourn about. They feel the pain of the world. Jesus is saying that those who can grieve, those who can cry, are those who will understand.
Many Christians think we know God through our minds. Yet corporeal theology, body theology, indicates that perhaps weeping will allow us to know God much better than through ideas. In this Beatitude, Jesus praises the weeping class, those who can enter into solidarity with the pain of the world and not try to extract themselves from it. Weeping over our sin and the sin of the world is an entirely different mode than self-hatred or hatred of others. The “weeping mode” allows us to carry the tragic side, to bear the pain of the world without looking for perpetrators or victims. Instead, we recognize the sad reality in which both sides are trapped. Tears from God are always for everybody, for our universal exile from home. “It is Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted” (Jeremiah 31:15).
That might seem ridiculous, and it is especially a stumbling block for many men in our culture. Young men have often been told not to cry because it will make us look vulnerable. So, we men—and many women too—stuff our tears. We must teach all young people how to cry. In the second half of my life, I understand why Saints Francis and Clare cried so much, and why the saints spoke of “the gift of tears.” [1]
Essayist Ross Gay describes the gift he experienced when his father opened to this “weeping mode” later in life:
My father … started crying on the regular right about the time he got to be my age. Who knows exactly why: his much younger brother died about this time. As did his beloved uncle. He developed diabetes. He was getting older. Who knows what else. Either way, he was changing, and he would weep at TV shows or bad movies, my brother’s wedding, the right song. Lifting his glasses to wipe his tears, as he did at the end there. I can almost picture it. His soft face kind of shining, the freckles like seeds on the surface of the soil. He might have even smiled a little bit when he cried sometimes, my father. He was falling apart, becoming his most radiant, his most needful. And little did I know, he was showing me how to do the same. [2]
References:
[1] Adapted from Richard Rohr, Jesus’ Alternative Plan: The Sermon on the Mount (Cincinnati, OH: Franciscan Media, 1996, 2022), 139–140.
[2] Ross Gay, Inciting Joy: Essays (Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin Books, 2022), 228–229.
Image credit and inspiration: Siim Lukka, untitled (detail), 2017, photo, Estonia. Unsplash. Click here to enlarge image. We make room for our personal and collective grief by letting the sorrow burn through.
Story from Our Community:
I am a hospice social worker. Each day, I dance with families who are doing their best under difficult circumstances. I have learned to be realistic about what I am actually able to offer in my job. Some families hope and expect that I might “fix” deeply rooted patterns in their family dynamic. But in reality, I can simply listen, speak hard truths, and when the time comes, I can open the door to lament. The rest is in God’s hands.
—Andriene S.
