The tears were flowing this weekend at church. Our music pastor, who also happens to be one of my best friends, is leaving to plant a new church in Plainfield, Illinois. Yesterday was his last day—he and his family are driving west as I’m writing this entry.
The service of course was all about celebrating his tenure there, about remembering all the great things he’s done for the church and for the congregation. The choir was joined by about forty former choir members, many of whom came in from out of town just to sing one last time for Pastor Jon. There was a video reminiscing about thirteen years of musical productions. And on and on. Our senior pastor, who also happens to be Jon’s dad, broke down into tears when he thanked Jon for thirteen and a half years of wonderful ministry, partnership, and growth. There was not a dry eye in the place.
Except for mine.
To me, it felt like any other Sunday. Oh, of course, a lot was different—I kept thinking about how it was the last time I’d sing for him, the last time I’d see him lead worship, the last time I’d get a chance to work under his leadership, etc., etc., etc. But I didn’t feel any different. I didn’t feel like there was anything changing.
Everyone else was in tears because the only music pastor we’ve ever had was leaving. Some of them only knew what they had seen on the platform all these years, many of them had been highly critical of his style and his choices of music, a few had just recently started attending and didn’t know him at all. But they all cried.
But I had known him for thirteen years, had been his friend for almost that long. I had shared so many wonderful memories and experiences with him. I had told him some of my deepest hurts and most private secrets. If anyone should be sad about him moving halfway across the country, I should. But as far as I could tell—if I just went on my feelings—it was an ordinary, typical Sunday. No sense of missing anything—my life would not be different—no tears, no feelings of any kind, really.
A friend told me that I cried in my own way, that everyone experiences things differently, that the pain was there, in my eyes…. But I still can’t feel it—it’s not real to me. I was wondering for a while if I really cared at all about them. If it didn’t hurt, was the love and the friendship real? Or was it just all in my head?
The friendship is real of course, and it’s going to continue. I’m going to go on, they’re going to go on, and God is going to continue to do great things in all of our lives. But in the meantime, I’m going to keep wondering whether it will ever hit me that they’re not in the area any more, that I can’t see them whenever I want, that there’s a chance we’ll shift into the “Christmas Card Club” of people who hear from each other once a year when we get the mass-produced family newsletter. Maybe my friend is right—I’m just not the crying type. Real men don’t cry anyway, or so I’m told—but then why did every other guy in the church break down into tears yesterday…even the ones who I never thought in a million years would ever cry about anything…?
Except for one thing. The whole point of discipleship and being a Christ follower is to become more like Christ every day. I believe Jesus was a real man. So look at John 11:35—”Jesus wept.” But I can’t.
Print This Post
