Things I learned at Church, Part 1: Real Men do Cry

With this post, I'd like to begin a series of reflections about valuable things I learned at church.  I know many writers who take on the topic of their childhood church find much to critique and dismiss.  After almost nine months of disrupted church attendance due to the pandemic, I have found myself thinking about the positive impact that being part of a worshipping community has had on my life.

   The church my family attended while I was growing up was not an outstanding structure. Generic red-brown brick on the outside, cement steps with wrought iron railings leading to wide wooden doors, and plain wooden pews without cushions were fairly typical for a church constructed around 1960 in Ontario, Canada.  As a worshipping community, these people had been together for just over a decade when I was born.  All but one or two attendees had an ethnic tie to the Netherlands; these people were known for their thrift, hard work and stoic outlook on life.

   Given this last point, it is ironic that it was at this church where I learned that real men do cry.  When I grew up, every pastor and everyone in church leadership was male. And yet among these men, vulnerability was not shunned. Elders and pastors regularly announced things from the pulpit and led in prayers. It happened that when the news was sad or the prayer need painful, there were pauses to compose oneself or voices that broke with emotion.  I learned that it was all right to feel things at my church.

   One man of my parents' generation was a farmer.  I remember the first time I observed this man weeping during a church service. He was not loud, but there were tears and deep sighs that moved his body.  On the drive home, my parents compassionately explained that he had seen many painful things during a colonial war.  Perhaps a song brought back one of these difficult memories.  It wasn't the only time this gentleman cried in church.  Knowing more than I did then, it's likely this man was dealing with PTSD. But more important than a label, there was room at church for his tears.

   Another man I saw cry in church was a delivery driver for a lumber yard.  His tears did not need any explanation.  I was in Grade 5 when his two pre-school children died in a car crash.  That he might sometimes be overcome with emotion made complete sense to me.  Grief was appropriate to express at church.

   As a teenager I recall scanning the whole group of people in attendance one Sunday morning and coming to the realization that every single one of the men serving as an elder or deacon had experienced a deep tragedy in his life.  Leaders at my church were not those who lived removed from the brokenness of the world; they were real people with real emotion.  Since these people were voted in by the members, what some might consider weakness was viewed as a strength. As I reflect on these things decades later, it's one of the things I'm grateful to have learned at church.