Jesus wept.* Then, wiping away his tears, cried out, “Unbind him, and let him go.” As a child, I took comfort in this: the young rabbi had his own breaking point — his release valve was just like mine. Of course it was! But being taught to worship him put him somehow beyond me. Heroes are meant to be studied and then followed, not placed high above the student. From those tears, resurrection came. A man was unbound.
Growing up when and where I did, I heard men apologize for their tears, or worse, deny them. Abandoned tears can become rage. We see plenty of that now, which is something worth crying about. I do not fully trust a man until I’ve seen him cry. To know that something could break him open, allows me to draw close to his gentle power. And him to mine. From there, wholeness emerges, natural and unbound.
I was twelve years old when I saw my dad, the strongest man I knew, cry for the first time. On the front pew of our church, sitting between him and mom, at granny’s funeral. How strange, startling, and beautiful it was to see. Somehow freeing. Myterium tremendum et fascinans.
Jesus did it, so it must be okay for my dad to do it too. Heroes can cry. If their hearts can break open, mine can too.
