THEY WON'T LET ME CRY
Becoming a Caring Congregation

Hubert Schwartzentruber

During a discussion period after I spoke with a group about my understanding of the church being a very special gift from God to a broken and fragmented world, conversation took place over the perceived inability to curb the wrong directions our society is heading.

Someone asked, “What do you think the world will look like 20 years from now?”

My simple, hopefully not simplistic, answer was, “What the world will look like in 20 years from now will depend on what the church looks like 20 years from now.”

Is there enough salt left to preserve the world? Where will the light come from to enable people to read the road signs and make the right turns at the intersections of life?

I value my teachers who taught me about theology and the church. One of those teachers was an eight-year-old girl. While I was camp pastor, the little girl was referred to me by her counselor. The girl had never been away from home before. She was homesick and wanted her mother.

The counselor came to me and said, “We can’t stop her from crying; would you talk to her?”

I agreed. So Jane and I sat on a log under the shade of a big maple tree. She had a lot of pain inside her. She was away from her mother for the first time. The surroundings were all new to her. The woods and country were very different from the city that had been home all her eight years. Her old friends were not close by. The sun did not seem to shine through the heavily wooded forest. Jane was afraid and needed to cry.

As we sat on the log she began to sob and said, “They won’t let me cry.” Streams of tears were watering the log we sat on. “I just want to cry and they won’t let me cry,” she said again. “Nobody listens when I cry.”

I assured her that it was okay to cry and I would stay right with her while she cried. I also tried to assure her that we loved her very much and that her mother loved her even more.

After the reservoir of tears began to dry up and the pace of the sobs slowed, I saw a little smile break through. With her blue eyes still moist with tears, but with a new twinkle, she looked into my eyes and said, “Is it okay for me to hug you now?”

Of course it was okay! I assured her I would be available whenever she needed to cry. Jane skipped off to play games with the other children. I remained under the maple tree for awhile. I reflected on the little counseling session. Not what I taught Jane but what Jane taught me. Two statements Jane made kept making a deep impression in my mind. One was, “They won’t let me cry”; the other was, “Is it okay for me to hug you now?”

Jane taught me something about the church my professors had not been able to get me to understand. She taught me that the church is there to listen and be with people when they need to cry. And after the crying is over, the church must receive the hugs that come from wounded people.

So often we think that our mission is to stop people from crying. And when the crying is over, we are afraid to get close enough to receive their hugs.

I was invited one time to a banquet attended by about sixty developmentally disabled persons and volunteers who befriended them. The tone of the banquet was set by the hugs they gave each other. I have rarely witnessed the friendliness I saw there. Their laughter was from their heart. No one was a stranger. Their unpretentious nature was expressed in their “thank you” speeches. Their prayers were simple but profound. The songs they sang had depth of meaning even though they were not always on key.

As I entered into the spirit of that gathering, I became convinced that here surely must be the place where God’s image was reflected in its purest form.

I have also attended meetings of theologians and church bureaucrats. Sometimes those meetings became gymnastic exercises to prove who held a right theology and who was in error. Instead of gentle pats on the back, the shoe on the lower part of the anatomy might be more descriptive. Meetings where bureaucrats and theologians gather sometimes become more like football games. The plays have been well rehearsed. The players are well prepared and the goal is not to come away a loser. If you have to inflict pain on another to win, that is a small price to pay for the trophy.

For theologians to help shape the good news and keep it good, they too need to learn to give hugs, say “Thank you,” reach out for friendship, sing off-key, laugh at themselves.

Defining Christ’s church must be done hand in hand with those who are developmentally disabled and those who are trained theologians. The wounded and the healers together need to share in the discernment task. The affluent and the poor must have an equal voice. The educated and the uneducated must sit side by side. The lawyer and the farmer and the trash collector need to be in the circle. The voice and the wisdom of both the heart surgeon and the sewer cleaner need to be heard. The preachers and the janitors’ wisdom must equally be accepted. Theology must be discerned and agreed upon on a level playing field where every voice is important and heard from.

It is in the church that all people are our brothers and sisters—who hug each other after they let each other cry. No one is better or worse than another. An ancient rabbi once asked his pupils how they could tell when night had ended and the day was on the way back.

“Could it be,” asked one student, “when you can see an animal in the distance and tell whether it is a dog or a sheep?”

“No,” answered the rabbi.

“Could it be” asked another, “when you can look at a tree and tell whether it is a fig or a peach tree?”

“No,” said the rabbi.

“Well then when is it?” his pupils demanded.

“It is when you look on the face of any woman or man and see that she or he is your sister or brother. Because if you cannot do this, then no matter what time it is, it is still night.”

—Hubert S. Schwartzentruber, Hatfield, Pennsylvania, has been a pastor for over 40 years in a wide variety of settings, including now Souderton (Pa.) Mennonite Homes. He has also served as staff person in numerous denominational roles.