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The Chancellor’s tears in Parliament this week glistened on television news and dampened almost every front page in the land. Shock, horror – highly pressurised politician has one bad day too many and gets upset. Away from the cameras and the pundits, it happens to most of us, but the world doesn’t know.

Shedding tears might cause occasional embarrassment, but it’s part of being human, and probably far healthier than the philosophy which insists that ‘strong men (or women) don’t cry.’

I don’t think the men and women we see weeping over their slain children in the barbarism of today’s killing fields are weak; nor people nearer home, struggling with painful and life-limiting medical conditions, or working crazy hours and barely able to meet their bills. They can be some of the strongest, bravest we’ll meet, but their often hidden tears are real enough.

They might identify with the Bible’s prophets and psalmists who said things like: ‘My eyes are worn out with weeping. My soul is in anguish’ - a distress echoed by Jesus as he wept at the death of his friend Lazarus, mourned the coming destruction of Jerusalem, agonised in Gethsemane about whether his crucifixion might be avoided.

Such lament at suffering or injustice, or a nagging distress at the state of the world, can make us want to weep, too. Tears are part of some people’s prayers. They’re recognising that things are not as they should be, pushing back against the darkness, seeking light from the God who also weeps at the frustration of loving intentions.

My friend Sean has been finding a new perspective on this. An enthusiastic Harley Davidson rider, he’s spent much of his work among the biker subculture, in the UK, and across Europe. He has a passion for sharing his faith with people on the margins.

He also leads a small church in the centre of Swansea. It has bikers, of course, and many of its regulars live on the city’s streets, often fragile people, attracted by the offer of food, warmth and acceptance, a community, he says, of ‘glorious chaos and complicated beauty.’
A few years ago, Sean was diagnosed with Parkinsons. He still rides, still speaks, but he fights to control his tremors, drops things, sometimes gets exhausted, his legs wobbly, finds it hard to chew or swallow.

His faith still sustains him, but he’s had to learn about loving God in weakness, not strength. He reckons Gethsemane is a place to visit with our doubts, and scream through our tears. But it’s not a place to set up camp. Seeing his grace as he navigates his condition, I reckon there’s something in that.

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