Crying Shame

I’d wondered when it would come up, when someone from church—an elder, a deacon, a pastor, my boss— would mention it. After all, in the years of our financial desperation, our giving to the church had fallen to abysmal levels. Sometimes it fell because we had no income, because we subsided on help from family, from milking our savings. Of late, our giving has stunk because we’ve been working furiously to pull ourselves out of debt.

And though plenty of Christian financial folks would disagree with our failing to tithe even as we paid off debt, I can say: The decision came on the heels of fervent prayer. I had “wrestled with God” over the issue and knew—for many reasons—that not faithfully giving to our church at this time was the faithful decision.  

And yet, it’s a tricky one, because giving is one of my spiritual gifts. Giving has always been an “easy” form of worship for me. My heart longs to be generous. My favorite part of having money has always been giving money.

My favorite part of having money has always been giving money.

But also, because I work for my church. I know it doesn’t bode well to have an employee show up on a “low-giving list,” which then elicits a call from an elder to see what’s going on, if all is OK financially—or spiritually. Or in my case, it elicits a comment from my boss—and pastor—at the tail end of an otherwise lovely performance review.

So when my boss wrapped up the review with “And now for the awkward …” and said our name appeared on that “low-giving list,” he didn’t even need to ask the question.

I’d expected it at some point, and I’d prepared an answer. What I hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for, were the tears that came as soon as I said, “I’d wondered when this would come up.”

In my imagined responses, I’d seen myself giving clear answers, speaking succinctly about the hard prayers I’d had with God about our financial state and the times my husband and I had “discussed” the appropriate spiritual response. I saw myself speaking convincingly, confidently.

My tears sold me out. And I hated them for it. Like I always do.

I hate to cry.  I hate it when my tears betray me.

I hate to cry. Never more so than in front of people. I hate it when my tears betray me. When they expose that my anger or hurt or frustration run so deep, so raw that I have no control. When they expose the questions I can barely formulate and the answers I despise.

But as I came clean to my boss about the reasons for the tears, as I shared the bit of spiritual trouble that still raked at my soul, another question, another needed answer formed somewhere deep: Why was it that ultimately I was shamed more for the tears that rolled down my cheeks than by sharing TMI about our financial—and spiritual—mess? What was it that made me hate crying so much? Why did I so resist and resent this basic, carnal human response?

It’s been months since that performance review, and I’ve been trying to fight the answer to that ever since. Because it’s not pretty.

I hate to cry—I realized finally—because tears draw pity. And I hate to pitied.

To be seen as a victim, to have people feel sorry for me, to think of me and sigh or to push out a bottom lip at the sound of my name is more than I can bear. Here’s the ugly bit: Never wanting pity means I’ve got an ego that needs admiring. It means I’ve got knees unwilling to bend in humility. And as a Christian—as someone who wants to live as Jesusy as possible—this is a problem.

Not that we should be seeking to have others feel sorry for us, but being humbled and owning our need for God are two essentials of the faith. In fact, James 4:9-10 offers us one of the sweetest promises in Scripture. “Grieve, mourn and wail,” James writes. “Change your laughter to mourning and your joy to gloom. Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up.”

So why do I resist? With a promise like that?

I still think being pitied stinks. And I still don’t want it. But what crying in my office that day showed me is that crying doesn’t always elicit pity. Because that day, I didn’t get pity. I got mercy, and there’s a big difference. Pity means someone’s looking down on you, a better looking at a lesser. Mercy means they’re looking across, a sufferer looking at a fellow sufferer. Pity elicits empty charity. Mercy elicits life-changing compassion.

I have zero need for pity in my life. But I need mercy. I need compassion like crazy. And if crying helps me get that from time to time, I can learn to love it.

Editor’s Note: Want to read more from Caryn on her family’s financial depression? Pre-order her new book for only $11.84!