When it's good to feel bad.

Sometimes we get the idea that "joy" is the only proper emotion for the Christian life. We come of faith (in whatever tradition we were first drawn to) and we felt a lot of initial happiness and excitement. But then we noticed some older Christians didn't seem to share our enthusiasm.

Falsely, some of us assume, that the lack of outward "joy" is a sign that someone's faith has gone stagnant. Even if we wouldn't say it like that, we might be tempted to think it.

In truth, I think, faith naturally grows beyond initial joy... because being a Christian isn't just about giving our hearts to Jesus. It's about Him giving His heart to us.

You may very well give Jesus your heart. He doesn't take it, put it in a nice little velvet box with a ribbon, for safe keeping. When you give Jesus your heart, it takes it with Him to the cross. He takes your heart only in his  pierced hands... and what he gives you back is nothing less than His own.

If you want to have a heart that loves like Jesus, be prepared to have a heart that also breaks like Jesus' heart.

I'm not ONLY talking about your heart breaking for others. I'm also talking about the heartbreak that occurs when you yourself fail to live up to Christ's example... the real ache that comes through spiritual maturity when we don't measure up, when we sin.

This kind of "godly sorrow" is what's sometimes called compunction. The definition of compunction from Oxford is, "a feeling of guilt or moral scruple that prevents or follows the doing of something bad."

To understand it better, though, let's not rest on modern English definitions. Let's look at it both in the Scriptures and in the words of some of the desert fathers, those first Christian monks who retreated from the cities to live lives of prayer in the desert during the first couple-hundred years of the faith. I've been reading the desert fathers a lot lately, and learning a ton from their experiences.

 

The Heart Pricked: A Deeper Look at Compunction

Compunction—κατάνυξις (katanuxis) in Greek—carries the sense of being "pricked" or "pierced" in the heart. We see a powerful example of this in the book of Acts, when Peter's Pentecost sermon cut the listeners "to the heart" (Acts 2:37).

This piercing awareness is a beautiful paradox: a wound that, by God's grace, becomes a pathway to healing.

The wisdom of the Desert Fathers, like Abba Isaac, helps us understand this mystery. He taught that compunction whispers to us in two ways: sometimes it’s a gentle ache, "kindled by the remembrance of our sins," a tender sorrow for our failings. At other times, it arises from "the contemplation of good things and the desire for future blessings," a yearning for God and His kingdom. This dual nature reveals that compunction isn't mere sadness, but a profound spiritual awakening—a loving invitation to draw closer to the Divine.

I think most of us can relate to that experience, even in our regular lives. When I was a kid, if I did something wrong, there was always a kind of dual-motive that accompanied my "compunction" (though I didn't know the word) after I did something wrong. There was the guilt for having done something bad, the guilt associated with the act itself. There was also the disappointment in myself for feeling like I'd also disappointed my parents. I wanted to be the son they wanted me to be, I wanted them to be proud of me.

While they never shamed me excessively for doing wrong, the fact that I felt some sorrow for not living up to the person they wanted me to be was actually a good thing. It meant that my heart was actually aligned with theirs. I saw my sin the way they did, not just as a one-off act of disobedience that was in itself awful, but as an instance of not living up to my potential, of not growing into my identity as their son.

 

Echoes of Compunction in Scripture

"The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise" (Psalm 51:17).

Here, David, in his profound psalm of repentance, offers us a glimpse into the very heart of God. The Hebrew words for "broken" and "contrite" speak not of destruction, but of a shattering that makes space—like parched earth cracking open to receive life-giving rain.

This "broken heart" isn't a sign of weakness, but the very offering God cherishes most.

It is the humble starting point of authentic prayer, where pride crumbles and the vast ocean of divine grace can flow in, renewing and refreshing our weary souls.  

This beautiful brokenness prepares the way for us to truly see God and receive His endless mercy.

"But this is the one to whom I will look: he who is humble and contrite in spirit and trembles at my word" (Isaiah 66:2).

Imagine the Creator of the universe bending down, His gaze fixed upon a single human soul.

Who do you think gets God's attention? Is it the one with all the shiny things, the fame, the fortune, the reputation? Those are the things that get the world's attention.

God's gaze is attracted to something very different. Isaiah reveals the kind of heart that captures God's attention: one that is humble and contrite, tenderly receptive to His voice.

To "tremble" here isn't to be afraid, but to stand in reverent awe before the divine presence, allowing His Word to penetrate and transform us. It is in this posture of humility and open-heartedness that God's truth can truly take root and flourish within us, leading us ever deeper into spiritual growth.

As John Chrysostom wisely noted, "Nothing is so acceptable to God as to number oneself with the last. This is the first principle of all practical wisdom." This is not self-abasement, but a beautiful emptying that makes room for God's fullness.

"'Yet even now,' declares the LORD, 'return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; and rend your hearts and not your garments.' Return to the LORD your God, for he is gracious and merciful" (Joel 2:12-13).

In a powerful image, Joel calls us to a repentance that goes far beyond outward show. He invites us to "rend your hearts and not your garments." This isn't about mere performance; it's about a profound inner turning, a deep disruption within our very being. True repentance is a heartfelt return to God, recognizing His boundless grace and tender mercy. As Basil the Great reminds us, "Tear not your garments but rather your thoughts... For what profit is there in afflicting the body if the heart remains unmoved?"

God desires our hearts, not just our rituals. Ritual can be great, and powerful, but if the heart's not given in it, it is nothing at all.

"For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death" (2 Corinthians 7:10).

Here, Paul draws a crucial distinction. There's a grief that drags us down into despair—"worldly grief"—and then there's a grief that lifts us up—"godly grief."

True compunction is this godly grief. It acknowledges our sins, yes, but always in the illuminating light of God's immense mercy.

It's not just sorrow; it's a complete reorientation of our minds, a turning toward life and salvation. It's a "joyful sorrow," for it always holds the radiant hope of salvation. Compunction may bring tears, but these are tears of cleansing, tears that water the seeds of hope within our souls.

Whispers from the Desert: Compunction in the Lives of the Fathers

Abba Poemen: The Soft Heart of Vigilance 

Abba Poemen, a profound teacher, reminds us that spiritual vigilance requires constant compunction. He beautifully illustrates this: "If Nebuzaradan, the captain of the guard, had not come, the temple of the Lord would not have burned down... So if the relaxation of the passions had not come, the mind would not have sinned in the sight of God." He's telling us that when our passions are relaxed, when our hearts grow dull, we become vulnerable to sin. Compunction, then, is not a fleeting feeling, but a continual state of watchfulness, a loving attentiveness to God's presence within us. It keeps our hearts tender and responsive to His gentle voice, always inviting us back to Him.

Evagrius Ponticus: The Cleansing Power of Tears 

Evagrius Ponticus spoke of the profound connection between prayer and tears, teaching that "prayer is preceded by tears" and that "the grace of tears comes from much sorrow and purity of heart." These tears of compunction are a sacred gift, washing away the dust that obscures our spiritual vision. They are not tears of despair, but of profound cleansing, like a gentle rain on parched earth, making it fertile for the divine seed to grow. These tears are the outward expression of a heart deeply touched by God, preparing the soul for authentic communion.

John Climacus: The Ascent of the Soul 

In his profound spiritual guide, "The Ladder of Divine Ascent," John Climacus describes compunction as a journey through stages: "The beginning of compunction is like fire entering the soul; burning up the material of our passions; the middle weeping for sin; and the end, a fountain springing within us, as Ezekiel saw, irrigating the entire soul."

Imagine this transformative fire of divine love, burning away our sinful inclinations. Then come the tears, a profound sorrow for our offenses, leading us to genuine repentance. And finally, the beautiful image of a fountain springing within us, a wellspring of new life and spiritual renewal that flows from a heart softened and surrendered to God's mercy. This reminds us that compunction isn't a stagnant place, but a dynamic, grace-filled journey from brokenness to profound healing, from heartfelt contrition to deep joy in God.

Think back to the last time you had a "mountain top" experience of the faith, a time when you really felt the joy. Was that truly the most mature moment of your faith? What I'd suggest is that God takes that initial joy many of us feel during moments of spiritual "high," or shortly after conversion, and refines it.

Compunction is the way God creates a metamorphosis of our temporary and fleeting joy (the kind of joy that is contingent on our circumstances and mood) and molds it into a firm, deep, and profound joy that can weather any circumstance and mood.

If you're stuck in a position of sorrow, a feeling of "compunction," for your failures, or your frustration that your spirituality seems shallow, or isn't what you hoped, or whatever has caused your joy to turn to lament... remember... compunction is the chrysalis of true, godly, and enduring joy. It's a joy that might not be as exuberant as it used to be, it may not be a joy merely reflected by outstretched arms, it's a joy that's deeply rooted in our feet, in the foundation we stand upon.

May our hearts be ever open to this sacred piercing, allowing compunction to guide us closer to the heart of God. May we recognize that our lives are not supposed to be all sparkles, and rainbows... for such things are fleeting... but that to have Christ's heart means to endure sorrow, a sorrow that in Him always leads to unshakable and enduring joy and peace.

In Jesus' name,

Judah