First class upgrade

Pain has a way of taking the microphone from everything else.

It doesn’t knock politely. It doesn’t wait until you’ve had your coffee. It doesn’t care that you had a plan, a schedule, a rhythm, a routine. When pain enters your life, it interrupts what you thought was stable. It shatters what you assumed was secure. It forces questions you never wanted to ask. And in that moment, faith stops being a subject you talk about and becomes something you either cling to—or wrestle with in tears.

And if we’re honest, most of us have wrestled.

We’ve all had moments where pain felt louder than heaven. Moments where prayers felt heavy. Moments where comfort seemed delayed, and the silence of God felt confusing. You can love Jesus deeply and still feel that confusion. You can be full of scripture and still have nights where your soul whispers, Lord… where are You?

But here is what the Holy Spirit has taught me: pain doesn’t mean God has stepped away. Often pain means God is pressing closer than comfort ever allowed. “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). Near. Not observing. Not distant. Not unimpressed. Near.

Pain has a strange gift: it silences the noise that normally fills your life. It turns down the volume of your distractions, your self-sufficiency, your ability to numb things with activity. When pain hits, it becomes harder to pretend. Harder to perform. Harder to use religious language to cover a wounded heart. Pain strips away the decorations and exposes the condition. And that is where the Spirit begins His holy work—not with condemnation, but with truth; not with abandonment, but with intimacy.

Because pain becomes a classroom.

Not because God delights in suffering—He does not. God is not cruel. God is not petty. God does not take pleasure in watching His children hurt. But suffering strips away illusions and leaves the heart exposed before Him, and when the heart is exposed, the Spirit can heal what was hidden. When the heart is exposed, the Spirit can rebuild what was falsely supported. When the heart is exposed, God can bring you into a depth that comfort can never produce.

And I want to say this plainly: God is not the author of pain. He is not the creator of evil. He is not the designer of suffering. The world is fallen. Sin has consequences. People make choices. Bodies break. Life can be brutal. But here is the other truth that has to sit beside that one: God is so sovereign, so wise, and so redemptive that He can take what He did not author and still use it to advance His Kingdom—if we will surrender it to Him.

And I need to add this, because some people misunderstand the nature of suffering: even though God does not take pleasure in suffering, the gospel itself is built on the truth that Christ had to suffer.

The cross was not random tragedy. It was not God losing control. It was the Father’s redemptive plan carried through the Son’s willing obedience. Scripture says Christ “suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that He might bring us to God” (1 Peter 3:18). His suffering wasn’t meaningless—His suffering was Kingdom advancement at the highest level. Through the suffering of Christ, sin was judged, death was disarmed, hell was defeated, and our lives were redeemed from the pit. The Kingdom of God advanced through the wounds of the Son of God.

And the New Testament is equally clear that we are not only called to believe in Him—we are called into a fellowship that includes His sufferings. Paul said, “that I may know Him… and the fellowship of His sufferings” (Philippians 3:10). Peter wrote, “Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you might follow in His steps” (1 Peter 2:21). And again: “Do not be surprised at the fiery trial… but rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings” (1 Peter 4:12–13). That doesn’t mean we chase pain. It means we stop interpreting pain as proof we’re outside God’s will.

Because the pattern of heaven has always been this: God brings life through what looks like loss. God brings victory through what looks like weakness. God brings resurrection through what looks like death. The enemy thought the cross was the end; God turned it into the greatest beginning the world has ever seen.

So when I say God is not the author of pain, I’m not saying pain is pointless. I’m saying God is so redemptive that even what we cannot naturally explain, even what we would never choose, can become a tool for Kingdom advance when surrendered to Him. The same Kingdom that was advanced through the suffering of Christ is still advanced through surrendered believers who refuse to let pain make them bitter, silent, or closed—and instead let the Holy Spirit turn it into endurance, compassion, authority, and testimony.

And this is where I want to widen the lens, because pain is not one-dimensional—and God’s redeeming power is not selective.

Some pain is physical. Some pain is emotional. Some pain is soulish—the deep inner ache you can’t quite describe, the heaviness that sits in your chest, the mental fatigue that makes everything feel harder. Some pain is financial—the stress of needs, the pressure of lack, the fear of not having enough. Some pain is relational—the betrayal you didn’t see coming, the abandonment that rewired your trust, the conflict that won’t resolve, the grief of losing someone you love while the world keeps spinning.

And the Holy Spirit has shown me that God can use every kind of pain.

Physical pain can slow you down so God can heal what you’ve been ignoring in your soul. Emotional pain can expose where your heart has been carrying wounds under a smile. Soulish pain can reveal that you’ve been living off adrenaline and not abiding in the Vine. Relationship pain can uncover misplaced identity—where you attached your worth to someone else’s approval. Financial pain can strip away false security and teach you the faithfulness of the Provider. Every kind of pain can become a doorway—if you have eyes to see and ears to hear by the Spirit.

This is what pain does: it interrupts the illusion of independence. It forces the truth into the open. It shuts down the “I’ve got this” that was quietly exhausting you. It makes you listen. And in that silence, the Holy Spirit begins to teach.

He teaches you that God is still good when life is not (Psalm 119:68).

He teaches you that His presence is not measured by feelings (Hebrews 13:5).

He teaches you that obedience matters even when understanding is absent (Proverbs 3:5–6).

He teaches you that peace is not something you control your way into; it’s something you surrender your way into (Philippians 4:6–7).

Pain becomes the language the Holy Spirit uses when comfort alone is not enough.

There are seasons when comfort would only keep you shallow. If God removed every pain the moment it appeared, many truths would never reach your heart. You would stay distracted, confident in your own strength, mistaking peace for maturity. But pain interrupts that illusion. It slows you down. It forces you to face what you’ve been avoiding. It exposes what you’ve been calling “fine.”

And pain also reveals you.

It removes masks. When life is stable, it is easy to believe you know yourself. You assume your faith is strong. Your motives are pure. Your trust is complete. But pain tests what comfort never questions. It reveals what truly lives in the heart.

Fear disguised as caution.

Pride disguised as confidence.

Control disguised as wisdom.

Self-protection disguised as boundaries.

Unbelief disguised as realism.

Pain brings those things to the surface, and the Spirit holds up the mirror—not to shame you, but to heal you. Because conviction is not condemnation. Conviction leads to freedom. “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:1). The Spirit doesn’t expose to crush you—He exposes to restore you.

Sometimes the thing pain reveals is that you’ve been strong for too long. Strong in a way that wasn’t faith, but survival. Sometimes it reveals that you’ve been carrying grief you never processed. Sometimes it reveals that you’ve postponed forgiveness and called it “moving on.” Sometimes it reveals that you’ve been striving—trying to earn peace with performance. Sometimes it reveals that you’ve been living off borrowed faith—quoting truths you believe are real while your heart still hasn’t experienced them.

But here’s the mercy of God: what He reveals, He intends to heal.

Pain is not just exposure; it’s invitation. An invitation to come out of hiding. An invitation to stop pretending. An invitation to be made whole. “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds” (Psalm 147:3). He binds them up—meaning He doesn’t ignore them. He doesn’t tell you to just be tougher. He binds them up like a Father who sees where you’re bleeding and refuses to leave you untreated.

And then pain does this: it teaches dependence.

Pain dismantles self-sufficiency. It reveals how much you relied on yourself while calling it faith. There are moments when strength fails, solutions disappear, and familiar supports prove fragile. In those moments, the Holy Spirit invites you to stop striving and start leaning. Dependence is not weakness in the Kingdom—it is alignment.

That’s why Paul’s thorn mattered. Paul begged for removal, and God didn’t minimize his pain. He didn’t shame him for asking. But He did give him a revelation that would change the way he understood strength: “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). Weakness surrendered becomes a landing strip for divine power. Pain trains you to stop demanding control and start surrendering trust.

It reshapes prayer too.

In pain, prayer becomes less polished and more honest. Less performance and more presence. Less “Lord bless my plans” and more “Lord hold my heart.” Less “fix this quickly” and more “form me deeply.” Pain strips your prayers down to what’s real. And God loves real. God meets real.

And once dependence begins to grow, faith begins to purify.

Faith that has never been tested remains fragile. It may sound bold when life is easy, but pain reveals whether faith is rooted in God’s character or dependent on outcomes. Scripture says faith is tested “like gold” in fire (1 Peter 1:6–7). Fire doesn’t destroy what is genuine. It removes what is false.

Pain exposes conditional faith—the kind that trusts God only when doors open, when money is steady, when relationships are calm, when prayers are answered quickly. But the Holy Spirit is refining a faith that can worship without clarity, obey without applause, stand without guarantees, and trust without control. That kind of faith is not loud because it’s trying to prove something. It’s steady because it knows Someone.

And pain does one more thing that most people don’t expect: it sharpens spiritual discernment.

When life is easy, the soul gets crowded. Too many voices. Too many distractions. Too many opinions. God’s whisper becomes one sound among many. But pain narrows focus. It creates space. It reduces the noise. It makes you listen.

Elijah found God not in the earthquake, not in the fire, not in the wind—but in a still small voice (1 Kings 19:12). A whisper requires closeness. Pain often creates that closeness—not because God moved closer, but because you stopped running from stillness. In pain you learn the difference between conviction and condemnation. You learn the tone of God’s voice: not harsh, not humiliating, not accusing, but firm, truthful, and filled with love.

And then pain—when surrendered—begins to prepare you for ministry.

God never wastes suffering. He shapes servants in hidden places long before public purpose is revealed. Pain forms depth where talent alone would collapse. Those who have suffered carry compassion that cannot be faked. They recognize pain in others without words. They listen without judgment. They love without conditions. Paul said God comforts us so we can comfort others with the comfort we have received (2 Corinthians 1:3–4). That means your pain is not only about your healing. It can become a channel of hope for someone else—because you won’t speak from theory; you’ll speak from testimony.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, God starts shifting your perspective from temporary to eternal. Pain loosens your grip on what once felt permanent. Approval loses its power. Achievement feels smaller. Eternity feels closer. “We look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen… what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:18). Pain doesn’t remove sorrow—but it reframes it. Suffering becomes a chapter, not the story. Pain becomes a passage, not a destination.

And I’m learning something that changes everything: pain doesn’t disqualify you from purpose—sometimes it’s the very road God uses to move His Kingdom through you.

I know this not as a concept, but as something I’ve lived.

There was a season when I traveled—first preaching in Florida, and then on to Mexico. Ministry was moving. Life was moving. Everything felt normal. And the night before I was going to get on my plane to head back to Canada, I was on a golf course path on a bike. Without getting into all the details, I fell off that bike—hard. In a moment, pain entered my life like a thief. I fractured eleven ribs, collapsed my lung, and fractured a vertebrae in my back. Immediately, I could feel it. Not the kind of pain you negotiate with. Not the kind you ignore. The kind that announces itself with authority.

I went to emergency. And it ended up that I was in the hospital for nine days.

Now, if you would’ve asked me in that moment what my plans were, I would’ve told you: “I’m finishing this trip, getting on that plane, and going home.” But pain has a way of rewriting your schedule. It rearranges your confidence. It forces you into the present moment. And while I was lying there dealing with the reality of my body and the sharpness of physical suffering, the Holy Spirit was dealing with something deeper: my availability.

Because even through the ache, I sensed the Spirit whispering, “I can use this too.”

When I was discharged, my insurance company arranged for me to fly back to Canada first class—not for luxury, but for protection. They had my ribs and my organs wrapped, and I needed space so no one would bump into me. I couldn’t handle jostling. I couldn’t handle pressure. I needed room just to breathe.

And that’s when the Lord did what He so often does: He turned what looked like interruption into assignment.

That seat introduced me to the woman sitting beside me.

And I’m telling you—before we were even airborne—God opened a door. I was able to talk to her about the goodness of God. I was able to pray over her. I was able to witness to her, right there, in the unplanned, in the discomfort, in the place where I could’ve chosen to withdraw into myself and think only about my own pain.

But pain doesn’t have to make you self-focused. Pain can make you Spirit-sensitive.

And what struck me as only God’s orchestration was this: she was going to one of the cities—not where I was headed, but another city where I had a church connection. I was able to get her address. I was able to send her books. I was able to invite her to the church that was in that community.

Now hear me: I’m not telling you that story to glorify injury. I’m not romanticizing suffering. I’m telling you because it proves something the enemy hates and the Spirit loves: pain is not permission for your life to become fruitless.

God did not cause that accident. God did not author those fractures. God is not the author of pain. But God absolutely used what happened to advance His Kingdom—because the Holy Spirit can turn a first-class seat into a pulpit, a flight into a mission field, and an injury into a divine appointment.

That is the redemption of God.

And that’s why I’m saying this to you like a prophetic warning and a prophetic invitation all at once: do not disregard your pain as useless. Do not treat your suffering as wasted time. Do not let the enemy talk you into the lie that your pain has made you disqualified, shelved, or spiritually irrelevant.

If you belong to Jesus, pain can become preparation. Pain can become purification. Pain can become a platform for compassion. Pain can become a doorway for ministry. Not only for your personal growth—but to advance God’s Kingdom through you.

So what do you do when you’re in pain?

First, you stop interpreting it as proof that God has left you.

Second, you stop wasting it with bitterness, isolation, or numbness.

Third, you surrender it—honestly—to the Holy Spirit.

And then you ask for eyes to see and ears to hear.

Because the Spirit is not only trying to get you through it—He’s trying to form something in you by it.

He’s forming endurance so you don’t quit early.

He’s forming character so you don’t collapse under blessing.

He’s forming humility so you can carry authority without pride.

He’s forming compassion so your ministry becomes a safe place for wounded people.

He’s forming discernment so you can recognize His whisper in a loud world.

He’s forming faith that doesn’t depend on outcomes—faith that rests in His nature.

And when you come out of it, you will see what you could not see while you were in it: the Holy Spirit was teaching you all along.

Not everything that hurts is good. But God is good.

Not everything that happens is God’s will. But God’s redemptive power is unstoppable.

Not every wound was sent by God. But every surrendered wound can be used by God.

So I’ll say it like this, for the one who’s tired, the one who’s bruised, the one who’s carrying a pain you can’t even explain: your pain is not the end. It is not the final word. It is not your identity. It is not your destiny.

It may be the classroom of the Spirit.

It may be the place where your faith becomes yours.

It may be the doorway where dependence replaces striving.

It may be the very season where your life becomes quietly, powerfully fruitful.

Because the Holy Spirit is present in every tear, every unanswered prayer, every sleepless night. He is teaching, shaping, refining, and restoring. Even when you cannot feel it, nothing you suffer is wasted in God’s hands.

And one day you will look back and realize that the thing you thought was only pain became the place where God formed your deepest intimacy, your strongest faith, your sharpest discernment, and your most credible compassion.

The enemy wants your pain to close you.

The Spirit wants your pain to deepen you.

The enemy wants your pain to silence you.

The Spirit wants your pain to season you.

The enemy wants your pain to make you bitter.

The Spirit wants your pain to make you fruitful.

And in Jesus’ name, that’s exactly what will happen as you surrender it to Him. Much love.

Declarations

• Father, I declare that every type of pain in my life—physical, emotional, soulish, financial, relational—will be redeemed for Your glory.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that You are not the author of my pain, but You are the Redeemer of my pain.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that as Christ suffered to advance the Kingdom and redeem my life, my surrendered suffering will also produce Kingdom fruit.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that I will not interpret pain as abandonment; I will recognize it as an invitation to deeper intimacy with You.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that endurance is rising in me, character is being formed in me, and hope is being anchored in me (Romans 5:3–4).

  
  
  
  

• I declare that my faith is being purified—rooted in God’s nature, not dependent on outcomes.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that self-sufficiency is breaking and holy dependence is being established in my life.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that my discernment is sharpening, and I will recognize the voice of the Holy Spirit with clarity and humility.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that bitterness will not grow in my wounds—grace will. Forgiveness will. Healing will.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that God will turn interruptions into assignments and pain into divine appointments.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that I will comfort others with the comfort I receive from God, and my testimony will carry real hope (2 Corinthians 1:3–4).

  
  
  
  

• I declare that what the enemy intended for harm, God is turning for good and for Kingdom advancement.

  
  
  
  

• I declare that I will not lose heart—glory is coming, restoration is promised, and God will have the final word.