Time to turn off the light in the hallway
We have got used to hiding our weariness behind the masks of strong people. A true encounter with God begins where there is no longer strength to pretend.
We have been living with clenched teeth for a very long time. Constant alarming reports, air-raid sirens, complete uncertainty, and fear for our loved ones – all of this has compressed us inwardly like a tightly wound spring. We are expected to be unyielding, not to bend, to withstand every blow. And we honestly try to do just that. We put on a brave face in front of others. Worse still, we try to play the role of spiritual overachievers before ourselves: we force ourselves to pray properly, to stand through long services, and deny ourselves even a moment of weakness. Losing control of ourselves seems to us almost a betrayal of faith.
Only inside this cleaned and artificial construction, a cold emptiness gradually settles. Trying to protect ourselves from pain, we simply stop feeling anything at all. We suffocate in the alien armor of superhumans.
Biology of the saving fuse
Our body is designed by God much more subtly and mercifully than our rigid social habits. According to modern research, emotional tears – those that flow from unbearable grief or, conversely, from sudden relief – are chemically completely unlike the drops that are released when we cut onions in the kitchen or catch dust in our eyes from the wind.
In reflex tears there is nothing but water and salt to protect the eye. But in moments of real breakdown, our organism literally expels the accumulated chemistry of stress outward. In such tears, scientists find high concentrations of protein hormones, including prolactin and adrenocorticotropic hormone, which is directly linked to our anxiety level. But most surprisingly, at this moment the body releases leucine-enkephalin, our internal, natural endorphin. It works as a gentle, natural painkiller for the wounded nervous system.
It turns out that when a person cries, this is pure biology, a safety valve built in by the Creator.
The body physically releases the overwhelming pain that we had stubbornly kept bottled up inside, afraid of appearing weak. This is a way not to go insane when external supports collapse.
The collapse of Peter's rock
In the Gospel there is a story about a man who until the very end built an image of iron steadfastness before others. The Apostle Peter sincerely considered himself a rock. proclaimed his freedom from fear, promising Christ: “I am ready to go with You both to prison and to death.” He desperately wanted to be seen as a spiritual leader in the eyes of his Teacher and the other disciples.
And this entire artificial construction crumbled in one second in the courtyard of the high priest, after a simple question from a frightened servant girl. Peter broke down. He denied Christ. Gospel of Luke recounts that moment with piercing simplicity: “The Lord turned and looked at Peter.” In the Savior’s gaze there was no triumphant reproach, no judicial condemnation. There was only a quiet love for a weak and bewildered man. And Peter went out and wept bitterly.
These tears in the Jerusalem darkness became the end of his former, false "self." All the protective plaster fell away from him. It was precisely from this vulnerability and these tears, that his real, deep apostleship began.
Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh often repeated that we persistently try to come to God dressed in our finest, cleanest suit—well-groomed, proper, and pious, carefully hiding our real wounds beneath the hem. But God can save only the real person, not the flawless façade we present to Him. Tears simply wash that mask away.
The Creator's tears at another man's grave
In church circles, an honest cry of pain is still sometimes mistaken for the sin of despondency. Many have probably heard the familiar refrains: “Don’t cry, pull yourself together, you need to pray, you need to have faith.” As a result, people begin to bury their stress even deeper, sincerely believing that tears are a sign of spiritual failure.
But despondency is when a person shuts themselves completely within their resentment, turning their back on God. And Gospel weeping is when we bring all our helplessness, all our accumulated exhaustion and confusion to God, literally placing them into His open hands.
Christ Himself fully legitimized our right to this weakness. The shortest verse in all Scripture consists of only two words: "Jesus wept." The Savior weeps at the tomb of His friend Lazarus. He knows perfectly well that in a couple of minutes He will perform the greatest miracle, that death will now retreat, Lazarus will come out of the cave and general joy will begin. But Christ still weeps together with the grief-stricken sisters. The Creator does not demand from us stoic numbness or false steadfastness on the ashes. His tears are eternal permission for us to remain simply human.
In the Eastern tradition there is an amazing concept – joy-creating sorrow. Saint John Climacus left a profound thought that tears of contrition are in some sense even greater than Baptism itself, because they cleanse those mistakes that we make already in conscious life. This is living water, exposing our real, pure foundation.
Of course, it happens differently too. Sometimes grief strikes so hard that a dry, scorched silence reigns inside. It's impossible to squeeze out a single drop, a person simply turns to stone. If you are now in this state of inner dryness, you don't need to blame yourself or try to cry artificially. God sees and understands this silent emptiness.
But if the spring inside you is ready to burst, if the perfect walls of steadfastness begin to crumble – let them fall. Surrendering yourself to God at such a moment is neither desertion nor failure. It is the moment when we finally turn off the blinding light of our ambitions, open our hands, and confess: “Lord, I don’t understand anything. I have no strength left. Take everything.” And it is precisely at this point of absolute zero, when our ego has finally fallen silent, that in the resulting stillness His grace begins to act with gentleness.
Leaves rustle outside the window, bringing cool night air from the darkness. We want to find one hundred percent guarantees of safety, to build around ourselves an impregnable fortress of rigid control and stone calm. But perhaps the main meaning of Gospel weeping is that when the world around demands to become merciless iron, the only way to preserve a living soul remains the right to simply remain weak before the face of our Father.
