The Sting of the Gospel and the Ache of the Heart

I remember childhood scraped knees and gravel-embedded palms. The kind of fall where the tears flowed more from anticipation than pain, because we knew what was coming next: the dreaded sting of rubbing alcohol or hydrogen peroxide. We would run inside, crying not just because we were hurt, but because we knew the healing would hurt too. My mother’s hands were gentle, but firm. She wouldn’t just slap a Band-Aid over the dirt. She’d clean it out, even if we screamed and writhed and begged her to stop. Sometimes peroxide would do the trick, gentle, bubbling, almost playful in its fizz. But sometimes, rubbing alcohol would have to be gently dabbed to clean an area. Alcohol stings. Even now, the smell brings back memories. Fear and comfort. Pain and love. Healing and hurt. It was never cruel. It was care.

So it is with the Gospel.

In Christ, healing always comes with truth. And truth, by nature, stings. That is why so many in pain recoil when we offer them what we know is the only lasting comfort we can give, Christ. Not clichés. Not sentiment. But Christ crucified. Christ risen. Christ reigning. The Word that divides, that exposes, that diagnoses the true infection festering beneath what looks like merely emotional pain.

People come with heartbreak, disappointment, betrayal, grief, and anxiety and they often come to Christians. But increasingly, they come not for spiritual counsel, but for emotional validation. They want empathy, but not exhortation. They want affirmation, but not admonishment. They want a Band-Aid, not a cure. They ask for support, but not the kind that supports the soul or addresses the embedded gravel and dirt agitating current pain and promising future risk. And when we, compelled by the Spirit, offer the balm of the Gospel, the only true balm there is, it is thrown back at us with anger, as if we’ve made the wound worse.

And in a way, we have. But not as harm. As a dab of healing.

Paul tells us in 2 Cor. 2:15–16 that to one we are the aroma of life, to another the aroma of death. The fragrance is the same. The difference is in the heart that smells it. The Gospel is always good, but it is not always received as good. Like alcohol on a wound, it awakens the pain before it heals it. It brings the infection to the surface, exposes the bitterness, names the sin, and demands removal, repentance. But people want comfort without confrontation, and hope without holiness. They want healing without humility, without Christ.

So what are we to do?

Do we slap on a Band-Aid of worldly wisdom and nod along, pretending that affirmation is enough to sustain the soul? Do we say, “I’m sorry you’re hurting,” and walk away, knowing the wound is festering underneath, knowing that bitterness is brewing in the blood? Can we, in good conscience, pat a friend on the back while the infection of sin creeps through their heart, untreated?

We cannot. Because we love them. And love speaks truth. It stands firm.

We must remember: spiritual support is our emotional support. It is not separate. It is not second best. For the Christian, Christ is our comfort. The Word is our refuge. The Spirit is our Counselor. All comfort that is not grounded in the cross is fleeting. It may soothe for a moment, but it cannot sanctify. It may distract, but it does not deliver. When someone says, “I don’t want to hear about God right now,” they are not just rejecting our faith, they are rejecting the only source of comfort we have to offer.

And yet, how tenderly we must approach them.

Just as a child recoils from the sting of alcohol, so too do wounded hearts recoil from truth. We must not force it in recklessness, but neither should we withhold it in fear. The hands that hold the Word must be gentle. The wounds we treat are real. There is a time to listen, to weep with those who weep, to hold silence in the sacred space of sorrow. But when the moment comes, and it will come, when the wound must be cleaned, will we have the courage to speak?

And if they refuse? If they turn away? If they scream and say we’ve made it worse?

We pray. We plead. We wait.

We do not run after them with a bottle of truth and douse them against their will. But neither do we lie and say the wound is fine. We remain ready, loving, patient. Like Christ, who wept over Jerusalem. Who longed to gather them, but would not force them. Who loved them while they crucified Him. We walk in His steps, loving those who wound us, wounded by their rejection of the very grace we long to give.

It hurts, this rejection, not because they have wounded us, but because they are turning from their only hope. The Gospel, to them, is not a comfort but a confrontation. It doesn’t soothe on contact, it cleanses, and cleansing stings. It presses into the place they’ve worked hard to cover, and they resist. But love compels us to remain, not in pride or persistence, but in quiet readiness. We do not argue with the pain. We do not shout into their wounds. We wait with open arms and gospel-truth held gently in hand. And should they return, should grace awaken repentance, we will not reach for quick fixes or worldly wisdom. We will offer what we have always held: not just a Band-Aid, but the Balm of Gilead. Christ Himself. The One who binds up the brokenhearted, who heals every wound not with pretense, but with pierced hands. The wounds may be many. But His mercy runs deeper still.