For a lot of years, one of my roles, with our community, was: to facilitate tears—to open up space for pause, for sabbath. To open up space that pulls out the emotional plug, and allows for a welling-up of emotion. I believe we did this in worship, in the events of funerals and communal eulogizing open-mics for the commemoration and celebration of our neighbors. For some people, some of the time. I think that when we play a role in facilitating direct actions or demonstrations, that there we open a space for rage and unhappiness that, day to day, often goes suppressed, preventing us from feeling real pain, which simultaneously prevents us and our bodies from being moved by our pains to make real change in the world.
Sometimes for me playing a facilitation role meant being “busy” so that others could “be.” Especially in explicitly spiritual settings. It meant sometimes playing Martha so that Mary could pray. It is beautiful and meaningful work. It also meant, for example, that sometimes after the death of one of our seniors, however, my tears would not come in the designated space and time for tears. I would not cry at a funeral I was presiding at (usually). The tears would come out, rather, at odd times—during a sappy commercial or a sad song—or suddenly and unexpectedly while driving by the nursing home where we used to visit and sit and play YouTube songs of the seniors’ favorite 1940’s bands.
This still happens sometimes. I cry when I drive by Alden-Wentworth. And I do it kind of often (though I am not sure how regular these sorts of things are for, like, everyone).
One of the joys of being “on leave from call,” of taking a pause (a Sabbath) from active call as a pastor—even as I continue to work on academics—is that I have more time to experience events and spaces curated by others. My emotions come out of me in context now, at the moments I feel them, when they are evoked.
In self-named church spaces.
In other sacred moments.
In spaces of permission to feel those feelings we suppress, I suppress, in order to adapt and survive in the day to day.
I teared up a lot in the last week or so.
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| La Armada being awesome in Thornville, OH |
La Armada played a set at a punk fest in Ohio. The crew mixed clips of ideological and political speeches—juxtaposing sound-clips of aspirational ideals with current fascist rhetoric (dreams juxtaposed with the walls that seek to limit them!), while simultaneously singing and screaming and playing pure rage. After the deportation of our sister, Betty, and scrambling for the help of elected officials the week before (more or less to no immediate avail), La Armada’s anti-colonial hardcore set, and the space they opened on stage for genuine outrage and emotion, brought me to tears. Every minute we spent watching them in the pouring rain, I was filled with a feeling of meaning. Maybe even hope.
I teared up the next day as we visited First English Lutheran in Columbus, OH. The woman who lead the singing that day shared about the death of her brother at the hand of violence. The community prayed over her. And the Spirit sang through her. Every note. Hers was not rage in the form of a scream, but powerful and deep praise, flowing from her core, many emotions at once. The preacher preached liberation. But more importantly, the community gathered there reflected what the world could be. Varied races and ethnicities, gathered together, lead the worship event together, communed with one another. One woman came in during worship who had been experiencing some hard times. She was looking for an elder of the church because this elder had promised her she could use one of the church’s showers. She finally did. Others wandered in here and there. Some came for a meal. Some were present for sanctuary, home. Most read the sign as they gathered:
If you are Asian, Hispanic, black or white...
If you are male, female, or transgender...
If you are 3 years old or 103...
If you are straight, gay, lesbian, or bisexual...
If you are republican, democrat, or independent...
If you struggle with addictions...
If you have a criminal record...
If you own a home, rent, or are homeless...
If you are disabled or a person with differing abilities…
As we sang, I teared up. I remembered the churches in my past that were like this. I was grateful that we were not as unique as we thought, and that there are many places like this all over. There are many sibling spaces. This brought me the emotions of what Rubem Alves called “longing remembrance,” saudades. I miss my church homes. And at the same time, tears of great joy.
Home is many.
This morning I teared up as one of the community members at Friendship Presbyterian told the Pentecost story from Acts by heart! “Your young shall see visions.” “Your old will dream dreams.” For such things we can certainly hope. And we sang for the Spirit to “fall fresh on me.” Church intentionally curated to welcome, shaving away the exclusivity and hate that has soiled so much of the Christian past. Welcome is not a debate. It is woven into the culture.
And I felt the same at Unity Lutheran in Edgewater two weeks before. Again, the message was amazing—but the message was not the full message. There was that “something more.” Spiritual surplus. Spilling over. The community itself is the message. There is hope in the bodies that gather. Prayers, protests, in pews and in the streets, investment in the youth of the neighborhoods. Song! Food!
There is hope in the spaces that all of these curate.
To feel. To gather. To mourn. To rage. To dream dreams.
To become.
To be. Together.
For this I am filled with gratitude.
I am so grateful for all of my past. And I am grateful for these moments, for these curators and communities. For these “stages” that, in their creating, create room for me and for others to become, to pause, and to feel.
These feelings, these are the feelings of prayer.
I am grateful for places and moments designated for tears.
Tears, for me, are glossolalia. When we cry, we speak in tongues.
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