February 23, 2010: Go Ahead, Offend Me. I Can Take It.

A good friend told me that last week's essay was offensive, and I very much appreciated her candid evaluation. Her response did not offend me in the least. I didn't agree with it, but I was not offended by it. It is important to distinguish between "heartily disagree with" and "be offended by".

In today's hyper-sensitive climate, I wonder how much good teaching has been self-censored and muted by the fear that "this might offend somebody." Many pastors know the temptation, yield to it, and leave important truths unsaid. An elder once told me that the pastor of his church confided to him that he never preached from the Bible's passages on divorce because "There are so many divorced people in my congregation" who might take offense. Oh come on. To that pastor and all such pulpit cowards I say: "If you are that afraid of offending people, resign from the ministry. When you don the clerical collar you acknowledge a sacred calling to declare the full counsel of the Word of God no matter whose feelings get hurt." And if that's offensive, well, so be it.

Everyone should have the experience of getting completely upended by someone who says, "You believe A. That's wrong, you ought to believe B." Or perhaps, "You are doing A, which is a big mistake. Do B instead." Such reproofs and rebuttals aimed at me personally have marked many a blessed turning point in my life and theology, and I'm grateful for people who spoke their convictions plainly without beating around the bush to spare my feelings.

The other day I read aloud to my wife a great snippet from a letter by Joy Gresham where she referred to some correspondence she had had with C. S. Lewis (who later became her husband). She wrote,

Just got a letter from Lewis in the mail. I think I told you I'd raised an argument or two on some points? Lord, he knocked my props out from under me unerringly; one shot to a pigeon. I haven't a scrap of my case left. And, what's more, I've seldom enjoyed anything more. Being disposed of so neatly by a master of debate, all fair and square - it seems to be one of the great pleasures of life, though I'd never have suspected it in my arrogant youth. I suppose it's unfair tricks of argument that leave wounds. But after the sort of thing that Lewis does, what I feel is a craftsman's joy at the sight of a superior performance.

I exclaimed to Lisa, "That's what I want! I want someone to LEWIS me!" What a great joy to have the experience of being proved wrong, to be shown that there is a new thought I must embrace or a new conviction I must acquire. Sure, the change would be hard, but the alternative - permanent dread stasis in all thought and deed - would be even harder. I'd hate that.

In The Chronicles of Narnia, the Dufflepuds never say anything anybody could disagree with. Their conversation consists of statements like "Getting dark now; always does at night," and, "Ah, you've come over the water. Powerful wet stuff, ain't it?" They neither offend nor inform, and no one under their kind tutelage would ever advance far. But Aslan the Lion - a figure of Christ - provokes changes of heart and mind with words that are deep and strong and terrible and right. You should read all those books.