Good Sermons Sometimes Hurt

“That hurt like hell. Thank you so much.”

Of all the “Thank you for the sermon today, Pastor” comments I’ve received over the years, that one was particularly memorable—and particularly encouraging. It came from a man I knew well—a thoughtful, humble, family-focused, Jesus-loving owner of an auto repair business. He wasn’t an elder or a deacon, but he prayed for me every day. I cherished his friendship, and though I never would’ve intentionally hurt him, this man’s words were a helpful reminder that biblical preaching can often cause deep but good and necessary pain.

We teach to present our people complete in Christ. We direct their lives to God revealed in Jesus. So when they say, “Good message,” I’m glad. But I’ve also learned that when the truth hurts, when it’s hard and raises questions rather than words of encouragement, that’s a good sign too.

‘I Know, Because of the Pain’

The same year that my friend told me my sermon hurt, I read the French classic Diary of a Country Priest by Georges Bernanos. On the subject of the ministry of God’s Word, the priest says,

Deeply biblical preaching can often cause deep but good and necessary pain.

Teaching is no joke, sonny! . . . Comforting truths, they call it! Truth is meant to save you first, and the comfort comes afterward. . . . The Word of God is a red-hot iron. And you who preach it best go picking it up with a pair of tongs, for fear of burning yourself, you daren’t get hold of it with both hands. . . . Why, the priest who descends from the pulpit of Truth, with a mouth like a hen’s vent, a little hot but pleased with himself, he’s not been preaching: at best he’s been purring like a tabby-cat. Mind you that can happen to us all, we’re all half asleep, it’s the devil to wake us up, sometimes—the apostles slept all right at Gethsemane. . . . And mind you many a fellow who waves his arms and sweats like a furniture-remover isn’t necessarily any more awakened than the rest. On the contrary. I simply mean that when the Lord has drawn from me some word for the good of souls, I know, because of the pain of it. (emphasis mine)

Why must the truth sometimes hurt? Because “the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Heb. 4:12). God’s Word proclaimed will lay things open, right down to the bone, and that’s going to hurt in order to heal. It’s OK to admit that too.

Not Designed to Entertain

Truth be told, sermons aren’t designed for enjoyment and certainly not for entertainment. Sermons are designed to inform, liberate, convict, inspire, confront, comfort, challenge, build, disturb, subvert, and demolish. They’re search-and-destroy missions launched by the Holy Spirit against the strongholds of falsehood erected in our minds by hell. They’re a dead-raising summons to people who prefer graves to grace. Sermons drive out darkness—and sometimes that’s accompanied by agony. “That sermon angered me” or “That message was painful” might be far better responses to a Sunday message than any other words one could or should say. “My chains fell off” is also acceptable.

Sermons drive out darkness—and sometimes that’s accompanied by agony.

That’s why Annie Dillard was wise to observe that Christian worship services are hard-hat areas where people are under construction—and sometimes, the dust is going to fly. It’s a shared pain. Pastors’ tears when preparing and preaching are real. We repent of our sins as we seek to offer the red-hot iron of the gospel to all. We know it’ll be painful but not harmful.

Call to Repentance and Renewal

Not unlike Eustace Scrubb in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, we experience the painful plunging of Aslan’s sharp claw into our souls, ripping away the scales of our dragonish thralldom, restoring our humanity:

Then the lion said—but I don’t know if it spoke—“You will have to let me undress you.” I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.

The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off.

My old friend knew that pain. He knew that truth. He knew the word he’d heard that day, the word that “hurt like hell,” was actually heaven-sent, calling him to repentance and renewed faith, calling him to take painful steps outside his comfort zone and to make some crooked paths straight. And he did. Friends, that’s a good message. That’s what a sermon is for.

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