21-SEP-2025 Tears and Testimony

Written by: Sean Alan Morris
Texts: Jeremiah 8:18–9:1, 1 Timothy 2:1–7

There’s a meme floating around online where someone says, “For once I’d like to be just whelmed. Not overwhelmed, not underwhelmed, just whelmed.”

Kind of like how nobody is ever “gruntled,” only “disgruntled.” Nobody is ever simply “couth,” but they can sure be “uncouth.”

I laugh every time I see it… but I also feel it. Because lately, I would give a lot just to be “whelmed.”

You know what I mean. You flip on the TV or scroll your feed, and it’s war in one place, disaster in another, shouting and division everywhere. And just when you think you cannot absorb one more headline, something closer to home lands: a doctor’s call, a friend’s crisis, a broken relationship, a financial burden.

Suddenly the ache of the world is not just “out there.” It’s in here; in your chest, weighing down your gut, pressing into your spirit.

You sigh. You cry. Maybe you shut down. Or maybe, without meaning to, you lash out at someone who doesn’t deserve it.

I have had days like that. I know you have too.

That is exactly where we meet Jeremiah.

Jeremiah is sometimes called “the weeping prophet.” And in today’s reading, we see why:

“My joy is gone, grief is upon me, my heart is sick… Oh that my head were a spring of water, and my eyes a fountain of tears, so that I might weep day and night for the slain of my poor people.”

That is raw. Visceral. Honest.

Jeremiah does not put on a strong face. He does not say, “God has a plan, so everything is fine.” He does not pretend. He weeps.

And in his weeping, he gives us a gift: permission.

Permission to lament. Permission to grieve without apology. Permission to admit that things are not okay.

We live in a culture that is very uncomfortable with tears. We say, “Be strong. Hold it together. Put on a brave face.”But Jeremiah shows us that sometimes the most faithful act is not strength—it is tears.

Because lament is not faithlessness. It is compassion. It is solidarity. It is Jeremiah’s heart echoing in yours when you see injustice, suffering, or loss.

Friends, sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is to cry with our people. To cry with God’s people. To cry with the world.

But Paul, writing to Timothy, points us to the next step. He says:

“First of all, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for everyone, for kings and all who are in high positions…”

Now let’s be honest, this is not easy.

It is one thing to pray for your family, your friends, your church.

It is quite another thing to pray for leaders you do not agree with.

It is harder still to pray for enemies.

But Paul insists: the church’s first response to a broken world must be prayer.

Not despair.

Not cynicism.

Not even action first. Prayer first.

Why? Because prayer reshapes us. Prayer changes the way we see the world. Prayer reminds us that God is God, and we, are not.

And hear me: prayer is not passive. It is not escapism. It is resistance.

It resists the temptation to harden our hearts.

It resists the pull toward bitterness and vengeance.

It resists the lie that nothing can change.

When Jeremiah shows us how to cry, Paul shows us how to lift that cry heavenward.

But Paul does not stop there. He roots it all in Christ:

“For there is one God; there is also one mediator between God and humankind, Christ Jesus, himself human, who gave himself a ransom for all.”

Jeremiah once cried out, “Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there?”

And Paul answers: Yes. There is.

Christ is the balm. Christ is the physician.

That does not mean our tears vanish. But it does mean our tears are held.

It does not mean suffering disappears. But it does mean suffering does not get the last word.

Because Christ stands in the gap. Christ is the bridge. Christ is the healer.

That is why the spiritual “There Is a Balm in Gilead” has carried people through centuries of suffering. It was born on the lips of enslaved people who knew Jeremiah’s lament, who knew Paul’s gospel, and who sang:

“There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead, to heal the sin-sick soul.”

Their tears were real. Their chains were real. And yet their faith proclaimed: Christ is the balm.

Now, I know what some are thinking: in our world today, “thoughts and prayers” can sound hollow. We hear it after every tragedy. And yes, sometimes it is hollow. Sometimes it’s a way of saying something nice until public attention moves on.

But true prayer is not filler. It is not avoidance. It is focus.

Every faith tradition has some way of pausing—whether it is prayer, meditation, reflection—because we need space to see clearly. Prayer clears the fog. Prayer makes room for God to move within us.

Some will say, “Isn’t that just our own mind sorting things out?” Maybe. Maybe it is God speaking directly, or maybe it is God speaking through our own sober intuition. But either way, prayer is where we stop reacting and start listening.

And that is where the answers begin to emerge.

So let’s circle back.

When the news overwhelms you.

When your life feels too heavy.

When you wonder if you can bear one more thing.

Jeremiah says: it is okay to weep. Do not hold it in. Let your tears be prayers.

Paul says: lift it up. Pray for everyone, even when it is hard, because God desires all to be reconciled.

And Christ says: I am the bridge. I am the balm. I am with you in the brokenness, and I am the hope beyond it.

So we weep. We pray. We testify.

Our tears become prayers.

Our prayers become testimony.

And our testimony becomes hope for others who are weeping still.

Thanks be to God.

This sermon is shared freely for personal reflection. If you’d like to use it elsewhere, please reach out to the author through the church office.