The Power of Pain

I'm sure you're reading this because you're curious. Aren't we all, deep down, desperately curious to see if anyone has the answer to the question we're all asking? Pain. Pain. Pain. You feel it, don't you? We all do. And, I believe, every one of us is wrestling with questions about it which can hardly be put into words. We just hurt, and we don't know what else to say.

As I write this, I beg you to bear with me and to forgive the restrictions that inevitably guard the written word. I understand only too well how subtly and dangerously faceless written communication can be, and though I am not convinced that any writing can express the deep vulnerability I wish to share with my readers—especially on a topic as delicate as this one—I must do my best with what I have. Please know, as you read this, that I am no stranger to pain. I may not understand the exact aches that threaten each of your hearts, but I know what it feels like to hurt. Don't wail for me, though. I get a lot of responses like that when I write things like this. I write not to secure your sympathy but to relate with your reality. You hurt, and I hurt; and that's why I'm writing. I do not expect to be able to embrace every aspect of the thing we call "pain" in one blog post, but I think I've got a decent start, by God's grace. Read on, then, if you would, keeping these things in mind.

I think the best place to begin this discussion is to discover what question exactly we are asking when it comes to pain. The media would have us believe that we must find the cure. "How can we stop it?" they ask. This is one question we must avoid. Pain can't be stopped—not yet, anyway. Thinking that we can stop it will do nothing more than frustrate us when we realize that it persists. Knowing it cannot be stopped, some well-meaning Christians will suggest that we merely hope in God's promises to destroy evil and to bring us into an eternity where pain is ceased. This is true, thankfully. In proceeding, I have no intention of diminishing or disdaining this hope. It is beautiful. However, I understand that it is quite difficult for us to be content with this when we see no relief from the pain we feel during this life. We want a bit more than this hope, a more narrow approach to our question. We are looking for something "right here, right now." Strangely, I think we would all be okay with the notion that pain exists and will not be stopped during this life if we could find the answer to the question that burns relentlessly through the head of every human that feels the dull ache of a bleeding heart: "What do I do with the pain I feel now?"

Turn to God.

Before you roll your eyes and discount this as the silly answer that could summarize practically every Sunday school class, consider it seriously, for as long as it takes. It is true.

Why? Because of what "pain," at its deepest root, really is. Pain is the clearest, most direct call we could ever receive to turn to God. C.S. Lewis put it this way: "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."¹ Ultimately, pain begs us to look up even while its severity threatens to push our heads down. It brings us into a position in which we have no choice but to acknowledge the decision we were given life to make. It's easy to ignore the weight of that decision when we feel as though we are soaring above the clouds, but pain forces us to face up. We can choose God, or we can choose to oppose Him. No other option exists. At first, it seems quite unfortunate that it takes something as extreme and, well, painful as pain to get our attention. Why couldn't God just show up and tell us plainly what decision we were supposed to make, give us all the pros and cons of both sides, let us choose, and then leave us alone? 'Cuz we wouldn't get it. Think about it. We would never be able to see God, know Him as He really is, and embrace the gift of grace that He has given if we didn't see how desperately we need Him. G.K. Chesterton puts it this way: "One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak."² There's a certain knowledge of God that can only come from suffering. We see our God to a fuller extent when we know what walking through the "valley of the shadow of death" really looks like. And, we might note, the slightest taste of pain is the surest testimony of our need for our Creator and Savior. When we capitalize on that and turn to Him, we realize that He fulfills us completely, and we get to spend our life here on earth and an eternity in heaven praising Him for it. If we didn't know pain, we would never know God. If we didn't know pain, we would never have a reason to praise Him.

The answer, then, is what I said before. Turn to God. Get on your knees—now—and turn to your Savior. He loves you. He can heal you. I know this from experience. He may not stop the pain. Don't expect Him to. But He will give you hope, comfort, and purpose in it. He will use the cracks in your heart to shine through you and reach others. I cannot find words to describe the beauty of this, but I know it even more surely than the pain I mentioned earlier. When we turn to our God, we are filled with His love. His joy lifts up our heads and extends our hands. It pushes us to tell others of the goodness we have found. When they see a broken heart burning with inexplicable love, they too will turn to God.

In light of all this, I beg you to stop fearing pain, to stop trying to dull or stop it. Let it do what it was meant to do. Let it bring you and everyone who sees you to God, the One we were meant to cling to in the first place. Pain was meant to grab our attention. It was meant to show us even more of the greatness of our God. Do you see? This is why the cross is so important, so perfect. Pain was meant to change the world.

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¹ The Problem of Pain (1940), p. 406 in The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics, HarperOne (2002).

² The Innocence of Father Brown (1911).