The Pebble in Your Shoe: Truth, Grace, and the Gift of Offense

Why I speak the way I do, and what I believe about truth, conviction, and discomfort in today’s culture.

We live in a time where being offended feels like a full-time job. Say something true, and someone calls it hate. Say something kind, and someone calls it weak. Say nothing at all, and someone says you’re complicit. In a world this noisy, why would anyone choose to speak up—especially about hard truths? For me, it’s not about being loud or being right. It’s about being faithful—to what I believe is good, necessary, and worth saying, even when it’s uncomfortable. I don’t write to provoke or perform. I write because I believe truth matters. But not truth like a hammer—truth like a scalpel. It may cut, yes—but only so something deeper can heal. And if my words ever feel sharp, I hope you’ll see they come from a place of love, not superiority. This article isn’t an apology for telling the truth. It’s a window into how I try to tell it, and why—because if we don’t learn to speak with grace and hear with humility, we’ll keep mistaking conviction for condemnation—and offense for oppression.

I know that telling the truth—especially in public, especially today—comes with risk. I’ve wrestled with the tension myself: wanting to speak clearly, but not cruelly; boldly, but not arrogantly. I’ve learned that truth isn’t always kind to our comfort, and when it lands too close to home, it’s easy to call it offensive—even when it’s exactly what we needed to hear. Offense isn’t the enemy. How we respond to it might reveal more about our hearts than we realize. This article is my way of putting that belief out in the open. I want to share how I approach truth, grace, and love—not just in what I say, but how I say it. And maybe, just maybe, it will help someone stop and think: Was I actually hurt? Or just challenged?

Here’s where it gets uncomfortable: offense isn’t always proof something wrong was said. Sometimes, it’s just a sign that something true hit a nerve. And that nerve might be tied to pride, fear, pain, or a belief that’s never been questioned. That doesn’t mean every offensive thing is good—or that we should stop caring about how we say things. But if we’ve reached a point where feeling offended is treated like proof that someone else has done something wrong, we’ve lost our grip on discernment. There’s a difference between harm and discomfort. Between hate and conviction. Between a personal attack and a personal challenge. And if we can’t tell the difference, we’ll keep silencing the very words that were meant to wake us up.

I don’t believe truth and love are in conflict. I believe real love requires truth—and that real truth is always shaped by love. That’s the kind of love and truth I see in Jesus—the one who spoke tenderly to the broken and boldly to the proud. He didn’t separate grace from truth. He embodied both. Truth isn’t just a feeling—it’s what aligns with reality. And when we speak it in love, it becomes more powerful, not less. But somewhere along the way, culture began acting as if we have to choose between the two. Either you tell the truth and come off harsh, or you stay “loving” and avoid anything that might hurt feelings. But if truth means bulldozing people, we’ve missed grace. And if love means staying silent while someone walks into a fire, we’ve missed truth.

That’s why I hold to this simple principle: not truth at the expense of grace, and not grace at the expense of truth. Both matter. Both are holy. And when they’re woven together, they have the power to convict without crushing, to confront without condemning.

My words aren’t weapons—but they’re not pillows either. I’m not here to cushion everything so it goes down easy. I’m here to say what I believe needs to be said—and to do it in a way that builds, challenges, and awakens. Tone matters. So does timing. And intent. But truth still gets to speak.

This philosophy is rooted in verses that have shaped how I try to live and write. Ephesians 4:15 calls us to “speak the truth in love,” not just to be nice, but to grow up in Christ. Colossians 4:6 tells us to let our speech be “always gracious, seasoned with salt,” which doesn’t mean sugarcoated—it means flavorful, preservative, full of wisdom. And 1 Corinthians 13:6 reminds us that “love rejoices with the truth.” If I love you, I won’t lie to you—even if the truth is hard to hear.

So no, I don’t write to “come for people.” I write because I care. I write because I’ve been on the receiving end of truth that offended me—but also saved me.
And no, I don’t think I always get it right. I’m human. I may stumble in how I say things—or still be learning as I go. But I’m doing my best to speak from a place of honesty and conviction, not ego.
And I want to be the kind of person who speaks in that same spirit: bold but not bitter, honest but not arrogant, truthful and still tender.

Let’s get something out of the way: offense is complicated. It can be given or taken, intended or assumed. Sometimes it’s the result of cruelty; sometimes, it’s the result of conscience. But in our current culture, we’ve started treating the experience of offense as undeniable proof that something wrong was done. And that’s a dangerous misunderstanding—not just for free speech, but for spiritual growth.

Here’s the truth: offense doesn’t always mean harm. That’s not just my opinion—it’s a philosophical principle. Back in 1859, John Stuart Mill argued in On Liberty that we should only restrict speech when it causes real, tangible harm—not just emotional discomfort. In other words, just because someone feels offended doesn’t mean something immoral has occurred. I believe in the right to speak—even when speech stings—because truth rarely grows in silence. And while I care deeply about how people feel, I don’t believe that all emotional pain equals moral harm, or that every offense justifies censorship. If we go that far, we risk outlawing the very words that heal.

Sociologists like Émile Durkheim and modern thinkers like Jonathan Haidt have pointed out that what a society finds ‘offensive’ often reveals more about its values than about the content itself. In one generation, offense might mean profanity. In another, it might mean questioning a cultural dogma. That doesn’t mean offense is meaningless—but it does mean it’s fluid. And when we treat it like an absolute moral compass, we end up silencing the very truths that might be trying to set us free. In a culture where “your truth” and “my truth” have replaced the truth, offense becomes the only moral high ground left. But if truth is relative and feelings are supreme, then being offended starts to look like a virtue—even when it’s just discomfort. That’s why we have to recover a deeper understanding of what truth actually is—and what it’s meant to do.

Now, none of this means tone doesn’t matter. It does. Proverbs 15:1 reminds us that “a gentle answer turns away wrath.” I believe words can build bridges, or burn them. And I believe we’re accountable for how we speak. But I also believe we’re called to speak even when it risks division—because as Jesus Himself said in Matthew 10:34, “I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.” The gospel isn’t violent—but it is disruptive. Truth creates friction—and sometimes that friction feels like offense.

So when someone reacts strongly to what I write, I don’t automatically assume I failed. I ask a deeper question: Was I careless? Or was the truth just uncomfortable? Because the difference between the two matters. One is on me. The other might be the pebble in your shoe—something small and irritating enough to make you stop, think, and eventually take a closer look at what you’ve been walking with.

One of the most misunderstood reactions to truth is conviction. It doesn’t always feel good, and it rarely feels easy. But that doesn’t mean it’s cruel. In fact, conviction may be the very evidence that God is at work beneath the surface. According to John 16:8, it’s the Holy Spirit who convicts the world—not me, not my writing, not anyone else trying to live faithfully. Romans 2:15 echoes this: that God has written His law on our hearts, and our own conscience bears witness to what’s true. That means when someone feels unsettled by something I’ve said, it may not be me they’re wrestling with—it may be something deeper.

Still, we often confuse conviction with condemnation or shame. So let me be clear:

• Shame says, “I am bad.”
• Guilt says, “I did something bad.”
• But conviction says, “You were made for more.”

That distinction isn’t just emotional—it’s moral. Shame collapses identity. Guilt recognizes action. Conviction, on the other hand, points us to something higher. It names the truth and offers hope. If what we’re hearing tears us down without calling us up, it’s not biblical conviction—it’s something else. Conviction doesn’t rub your nose in failure—it opens your eyes to something better. And that’s the tone I aim for in my writing. Galatians 6:1 says that if someone is caught in sin, we’re to restore them “in a spirit of gentleness.” Not to expose, embarrass, or overpower—but to gently, humbly help them back to their feet.

But even that restoration work? It’s not really mine to do. That’s God’s role. I don’t change people. I don’t convict people. I’m not the Savior. I’m not the Spirit. I’m not the solution. I’m just a guy trying to speak with honesty, share what I’ve seen and learned, and maybe—just maybe—leave a pebble in someone’s shoe.

Because at the end of the day, my goal isn’t to fix, convert, or corner anyone. That’s too small a vision—and too heavy a burden. My goal is simply to share what I believe is true, to say it in a way that reflects love and gentleness, and to leave space for God to do what only He can. Whether that truth offends, awakens, comforts, or convicts—that’s not my call. My call is just to be faithful.

Let’s talk about feelings—because this is where things often get tangled. When someone hears something that unsettles them, it’s easy to assume they’ve just been attacked. Feelings are real and valid—but they aren’t always reliable indicators of truth or harm.

As psychologist Dr. Susan David puts it, “Emotions are data, not directives.” They tell us something is happening, but not always what or why. Just because I feel offended doesn’t automatically mean someone has done something wrong. Sometimes it means I need to look deeper: Why did that sting? What belief is being challenged? What wound might still be open?

This is where emotional responsibility comes in. I don’t get to control how people feel—but I believe we each have a responsibility for what we do with those feelings. As hard as it is, we are responsible for our reactions, our interpretations, and our next steps. And that’s especially true when we encounter truth that makes us uncomfortable.

There’s a practice in psychology called cognitive reframing, and it’s incredibly helpful here. It’s the discipline of pausing before reacting, and asking: Is this an attack… or an opportunity to grow? It doesn’t mean denying our pain. It just means choosing not to let our emotions take the wheel.

Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist, famously said, “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response.” That space is sacred. It’s where humility lives. It’s where we can stop, breathe, and reframe what we’re feeling—not to suppress it, but to understand it more clearly.

Sometimes what I write might stir shame in someone—but shame is never my goal. I don’t write to shame. I write to awaken. And if my words ever provoke discomfort, I hope they also invite clarity. Because truth doesn’t just challenge us—it calls us forward. And sometimes, the most loving thing I can do is give someone the space to feel offended… and then reflect on why.

Words don’t just describe reality—they shape it. According to speech-act theory (J.L. Austin and John Searle), language is action. When we speak, we’re not just tossing out sounds—we’re making promises, declaring truths, drawing boundaries, offering comfort, or even calling people to account. That’s why words matter so much. They carry weight. And that’s why I take mine seriously.

I take responsibility for my tone. I take responsibility for how I frame things, express myself, and whether my words are soaked in humility—or just heat. But I don’t take responsibility for how every person interprets what I write—because I can’t. That doesn’t mean I’m careless. It just means I’m human. I write with clarity and love, not mind-reading.

Some people assume that if someone gets offended, the speaker must have done harm. But as we’ve already explored, offense doesn’t equal harm—just like salt isn’t sugar. Colossians 4:6 tells us to let our speech be gracious and seasoned with salt—not syrup. Salt preserves. Salt sharpens. Salt gives flavor. That’s what I want my words to be—honest, bold, and helpful. Not soft for the sake of softness.

That’s why I won’t lie to make people feel better. Not because I enjoy being difficult, but because I love people too much to withhold truth. And yes, sometimes truth hurts—but pain can be a teacher. Discomfort can be a doorway. My goal is never to insult or provoke. But it’s also never to manipulate emotions just to keep people comfortable.

Speech is a sacred act. When I write, I’m not just sharing thoughts—I’m offering a piece of what I believe to be true. That means I’ll always try to say it kindly, but I won’t dilute it. Because at the end of the day, grace doesn’t mean silence—and love doesn’t mean lying.

Somewhere along the way, we forgot how to disagree without dehumanizing each other. Conversations have turned into combat. Disagreement is treated like betrayal. And we’ve become more skilled at shutting people down than drawing people in. That’s not just a cultural problem—it’s a spiritual one.

I believe the Church is called to be different. We need truth-tellers who still know how to love—and lovers who still know how to tell the truth. If all we ever do is affirm each other without correction, we drift. But if all we do is criticize without compassion, we devour. We were never meant to choose one or the other.

This is why I write the way I do. Not just to say hard things—but to model a better posture. Because you don’t have to agree with me to walk with me. I don’t believe unity requires uniformity. In fact, I think disagreement can be sacred—if we’re willing to handle it with humility and grace.

Romans 14 is one of the most overlooked passages when it comes to spiritual maturity. Paul tells us not to pass judgment on disputable matters, and not to put stumbling blocks in front of each other. That doesn’t mean we abandon truth to keep everyone happy—it means we speak truth with sensitivity, and we consider the weight of our liberty on someone else’s conscience. That’s real love. It’s not silent. But it’s not smug, either.

So no, I won’t stay quiet just to keep the peace. But I also won’t swing truth like a sword and call it courage.

Truth does divide.

But it’s not mine to weaponize. The sword of the Spirit cuts with purpose—not pride. It discerns. It defends. And it belongs to God.

I believe it’s possible to disagree deeply and still love and dignify each other—not the sentimental kind of love, but the kind that listens, speaks truth, and stays present anyway.

And that’s the kind of writer—and man—I want to be.

At the end of the day, I don’t write to stir controversy. I write because I believe truth matters—and because hard truths, spoken with care, can heal more than soft lies ever will. I won’t avoid the uncomfortable. But I will always aim to deliver it with gentleness, humility, and grace.

I’ve said it before, but it’s worth repeating: I can’t control how anyone receives what I write. Some will misunderstand. Some will feel offended. And that’s okay. What I can control is my posture—my heart, my tone, and my faithfulness to speak when it would be easier to stay quiet.

So if something I’ve said here unsettles you, I’d just invite you to pause. Sit with it. Pray through it. It might be conviction. It might be truth. And even if it’s neither, I hope you’ll at least walk away knowing that I didn’t write this to win—I wrote it to wake something up. Something human—and maybe even something holy.

If all I’ve done is leave a pebble in your shoe… maybe that’s enough.