The first time I cried at a retreat, I was a freshman in high school. At the end of the weekend, completely exhausted and sleep-deprived, the band led us in Michael W. Smith’s “Friends Are Friends Forever.” As we belted out this song, we threw our arms around one another’s shoulders and swayed as tears poured down our faces. We were high on God, each other and this mountaintop experience.

In college, I worked for a mission organization. As part of our weekly program, we facilitated a footwashing service for the trip’s participants. Afterward, our staff always debriefed the night. The more people cried, the more excited we got about how God had moved.

A few weeks after college graduation, I served as a counselor at a weekend camp. On the last night, we dimmed the lights and strategically placed boxes of tissues around the room in preparation for what we knew would be an emotional night. We measured the success of the night not by how many people had grown in their faith or renewed their commitment to follow Jesus but by how many used tissues were left lying around the room at the end of the night.

My rookie year in youth ministry, I took my high school teens on a mission trip in which the last night of the trip affectionately was called Cry Night. For months leading up to the trip, adults and teens regaled me with stories of how awesome past cry nights had been because of the way they enabled people to feel God.

Having been influenced by these experiences, the first time I planned a retreat of my own, when it came time to program our last evening together, I remember thinking, “Here’s where we’ll cry. Now how can I get my teens to do that?”

That way of thinking shaped my approach to retreats for my first decade in youth ministry.

I might also argue it’s the dominant way of thinking about retreats and camps in youth ministry.Oh sure, you might not go up to your boss and say, “My goal is to make the teenagers in our ministry cry.” However, you’re probably thinking it. Somewhere along the line, tears became synonymous with success in youth ministry. That, in turn, has influenced our programming.

When it comes to retreats and camps, most of us try to create environments conducive to crying. We set out boxes of tissues, play soft music, and replace the overhead lights with candles. Maybe we also use a little incense. We become vulnerable in our talks, and perhaps cry a little ourselves in order to model for kids that it’s OK for them to cry. Don’t get me wrong. It is.

I want teens to feel free to shed tears in my youth ministry. I want them to know that emotions aren’t wrong and that tears aren’t shameful. What I don’t want to do anymore is try and program teens’ tears, because that’s not God moving. That’s behavioral modification and manipulation.

When you gather a room full of exhausted teens together at the end of a long, emotional camp experience and alter the environment even a little, you can get them to do anything—including cry.

While teens might—as I once did—temporarily associate those tears with feeling God, what happens when the camp high wears off? What happens to their faith when they’re no longer in an artificial, carefully controlled environment? What happens when their tears dry and they get a good night’s sleep?

Too often when that happens, teens’ feel as if they’ve lost God. They feel as though God’s no longer with them. So, their faith starts to fade along with their memories of camp.

What if we tried a new approach? What if we stopped programming cry nights into our camps and retreats? What if, instead of pulling out all our emotional tricks on the final night of a retreat, we simply programmed another session and trusted God to show up in our midst? What if, instead of trying to create an experience limited only to those at camp, we found a way to connect camp participants with their parents or our larger congregation? What if, instead of seeing a retreat as something with a specific start and end time, we viewed it as one part of a long-term ministry of faith formation? What if, instead of mourning the end of camp, we used our last session to challenge teens to live out their faith in some new way at home?

Doing these things might mean we need fewer tissues on our next retreat. They might also make camp feel less climactic. They also might help our teens connect their camp faith with the world in which they actually live. That’s a tradeoff I’m willing to make.

Are you?