The Pastor Who Weeps

I got on the train last Friday, destination in mind. I stayed on until the L slide softly back into place at the very stop where I had boarded over an hour before.

I live near the last stop of the Brown line in Chicago. That day I had little homework and no appointments, so I climbed the steps of the Kimball station intending to go out and explore. I curled up in my plastic seat, backpack resting against my feet, staring as the houses out my window slowly grew larger and more industrious, as the buildings changed from family dwellings to places of business. The stops I had so carefully planned to get off at came and went, and still I sat there, just observing.

My life the past few years has been punctuated by the act of moving. In undergrad it was the constant changing of dorm rooms, the packing up of all possessions for the summer as I galavanted off to be warm again --finally -- in Wenatchee. The level of packing changed over the years, from the simple suitcases I dragged with me to Maine and to Galway, to the careful (or careless) boxing of each and every item to take with me to Chicago. I've said it often: I have officially lived in five time zones in the last twelve months. If there's one thing I should be really, really good at, it's transition.

And yet, that's not my reality. Even when change has been happily anticipated, I often kick and drag my feet, reminiscing about times gone past or complaining about how the "new" is not everything I've wanted. It takes me a long, long time to adjust -- which is why I have been so completely shocked at how smoothly this transition to Chi-Town has been. God has grown my heart for this city far faster than I could have ever imagined, and I am grateful for that.

The problem with loving something is that, as those dear wedding vows state, you love it for better or for worse. Loving the people of this city means loving when they are broken and beaten and hurting. It means loving this city where its blatant racism was carved into my seat on the L, where its discrimination is more obvious than in other places, where hurtful words and hurting people can be seen on the corners and at my bus stop. When I boarded the train last Friday I was overcome with love for Chicago's people and my desperate desire to fix all that's wrong. Sadly for me, I can't actually do that. Luckily for Chicago, Jesus can.

When I was in Wenatchee earlier this summer, one of the only sermons I made it home for was one where the congregation was challenged to pray God would "break us." I stayed after church to talk with the pastor, and in our conversation he reminded -- perhaps warned? -- me that seminary would likely break me.

I walked into this experience fully expecting to be broken -- broken of my selfishness, my pride, my fear of vulnerability. All that is happening and more, yes, but what I'm really finding is that God is breaking my heart for the people around me. He's breaking my heart for what breaks his, and my, what heartache that brings. Perhaps he's breaking me of my apathy. If that's the case, it's come not a moment too soon.

The more I engage in ministry, the more I realize that we all come to the Table with hurts only Christ can heal. The more I am gifted with someone else's story, the more I realize what a privilege it is to be invited into someone's pain. But I don't want to just hear this pain, this gift, this burden -- I want to respond well.

In John 11, Jesus' friend Lazarus is sick. Jesus finds out and decides to camp out for two days before beginning to make his way back to Judea. As he tells the disciples that it's time to head out, he mentions in verse 11 that "Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to wake him up." The disciples are like me and struggle with picking up on sarcasm or metaphor, so they think he's really asleep. The text reads, though, that Christ was talking about death.

They show up at the house and, what do you know, Lazarus has died -- just like Jesus said. Lazarus' sisters, Mary and Martha, are mourning, as are many of their Jewish friends. Jesus sees Mary, Martha, and the Jewish people weeping, and the text reads that "He was deeply moved in spirit and troubled." He asks where Lazarus has been laid, and they tell Jesus to come, see. And with that, we come to the shortest verse in all of the Bible:

Jesus wept.

It wasn't as if Jesus was surprised that Lazarus was dead -- he already told his disciples that the man would be "sleeping" when the arrived! But here was this Christ who looked at the grief, the sadness, the despair of those around him, and his spirit was moved. He wept with those who wept. Though their pain was not his own -- after all, he knew he was about to raise Lazarus from the dead -- he still took it on, engaged with it. He didn't tell them to just "get over it," but joined in their brokenness, snotty noses and all.

I want to be a pastor who weeps. As I think about my own pastoral identity, this is the phrase that keeps coming back to me. I cry very easily, I know, for many things that are worth it and some that are purely trivial. On one of the last days of camp, I realized I had already cried ten times -- and we hadn't even eaten lunch yet. So often I feel like I need to shut this side of my personality off, so that I can be seen as a more competent leader, so I can be someone with "thicker skin" that people can take seriously. Maybe this is indeed the case. Despite all of that, I want to be someone whose heart is broken by that which breaks God's. I want to cry with those who cry. I never want to be desensitized to the pain of this world, because I'm afraid that if I am, I won't passionately try to advance God's kingdom.

The other evening I was reading Christ's call in the book of Luke to have disciples "take up their cross daily and follow me." I firmly believe that. I do. I'm starting to wonder, though, if the call is not only to take up my cross, but to sometimes be Simon of Cyrene as well. On the days when my cross is not so heavy and my pain is not so deep, I want to help shoulder the load for my sisters and brothers. I want to advocate for them when the weight just seems too much to bear.

I want to be the pastor who knows there is hope, that death is not the end, that Christ bears our burdens and can heal all wounds -- and who, in the midst of all that reality, will still take the time to sit and weep.


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