What’s a Sermon For?
“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. It came from a man I knew well - a thoughtful, humble, family-loving owner of an auto repair business who loved Jesus. He wasn’t an elder or a deacon, and I doubt if he’d ever made a short-term missionary trip even if he’d paid for others to do so. And he prayed for me… every day. I cherished his friendship and never would’ve intentionally hurt him. I was very young and had to learn that when it comes to preaching, such intentions can be deeply misplaced. Thankfully his words left a mark, a reminder that deeply Biblical preaching can often cause deep pain…good and necessary pain.
Later that year, I read the French classic “Diary of a Country Priest” by Georges Bernarnos. On the subject of the ministry of God’s word, the Priest says, “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” (Italics mine).
I don’t despise or take for granted any word of encouragement, correction, or questioning that arises in the wake of a message I’ve given. I thank everyone for their kindness and encouragement, for those simple words of appreciation offered in response to the labors made in preparation and delivery. Decent pastors are, after all, people among a people, and if we’re any good at the work at all, we love them; we’re in it together. We care about them. We weep and laugh with them - little and large, young and old, ablaze with holy love or wearing asbestos suits to worship. We baptize them and, if we can stay, marry them, and then baptize their children as well. We are laboring in prayer and teaching to serve them for the cure of their souls, present them complete in Christ, directing their lives to God revealed in Jesus. So when they say, “Good message,” I’m glad…truly…mostly. I’ve also learned that when the truth hurts, that’s a good sign, too.
Why? Well, “the word of God is living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and spirit and joint and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Hebrews 4:12). The word of God 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.
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 are search-and-destroy missions launched by the Holy Spirit against the strongholds of falsehood erected in our minds by hell. They are a dead-raising summons to people who prefer graves to grace. Sermons are exorcisms that drive out the darkness - and sometimes that’s accompanied by convulsing agony. “That sermon angered me” or “That message was painful” might be far better responses to a Sunday message than any other words could - or should - say. “My chains fell off” is also acceptable.
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. The tears of Pastors are real, repenting of our own sins and seeking to offer the “red-hot iron” of the gospel to all. We know it will be painful but not harmful.
Not unlike Eustace Scrubbs in Voyage of the Dawntreader, we experience the painful plunging of Aslan’s sharp claw into our souls, ripping away the scales of our dragonish thraldom, 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 heaven-sent, calling him to repentance and renewed faith, to take some painful steps outside of his comfort zone and make some crooked paths straight…and he did. And, friends, that’s a good message.