As many as I love, I rebuke and discipline. So be zealous and repent. —Revelation 3:19
“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”
If there was one thing I promised myself that my own children would never hear me say to them, this was it. Of course, you recognize it as the line a dad speaks to his child just before issuing some kind of punishment, usually a spanking.
Help me understand the logic of this, I used to wonder, smarting after a strong spanking from my dad. This hurts you more than it hurts me? I don’t think so.
To the best of my recollection, I kept that promise to my kids. My wife and I did punish them, but we never used these words. But the older I’ve become, the smarter my dad has become, and I have come to learn exactly what he meant by his words, “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”
When it comes to consistently disciplining our children, every dad faces a difficult and at times a painful challenge. Why? Because most of us cherish peace and quiet, especially in our homes. We’d rather look the other way when our children step out of line, hoping that, on their own, they’ll eventually figure out what they did wrong and how they should go about fixing it. This is what we hope for as we sit there trying to avoid the pain of disruption and the discontent that discipline always brings.
My dad—this Pennsylvania farmer, turned preacher, turned missionary, turned corporate executive—was unequivocally tough on me. If it was a chore I slacked off of, a lie I told, or a dishonoring thing I said, he verbally jumped on me like a crow on a June bug. It was as though he was saying, “Taking shortcuts might be acceptable for other boys, but you, Robert, aren’t ‘other boys.’ You’re my boy, and I’ll not let you get away with this.”
Now that I’m many years older than my dad was when I was going through all this discipline, I can clearly see his treatment of me for what it was. A man with his own set of stern parents may not have even named it this himself. But now, grateful as I am for every single moment of his correction, I can say the word:
My dad loved me.
“As many as I love, I rebuke and discipline” (v. 19). I enjoyed plenty of good times with my dad. Although I’m sure that those, at times, felt overshadowed by the tough times. My dad knew that he was the only dad I’d ever have, and he was willing to pay whatever price was necessary to be the best dad I could have needed—if not, at the time, the permissive dad I may have wanted.
Oh, and there’s one more thing. Again, this didn’t mean that much to me as a strong-willed boy, but every morning of my life, until I left for college, I woke and heard the barely audible sound of my dad praying in our dark basement. I know that some of these prayers were for me.
Was disciplining me painful for my dad? Yes. Would it have been much easier for him to “live and let live”? Absolutely. So why didn’t he back off? Why didn’t he let me have my way? Now, old and wise as I am, that’s an easy one to answer. He loved me too much.
Thanks, Dad. I am grateful for your love. I will be forever.