The Thorn and the Compass: How Divine Correction Guides Us in a Fractured World
By Harold Mawela, from Akasia, Pretoria
Let me tell you about my father’s old compass. It sat on his workshop bench in Akasia, its brass casing worn smooth by his hands. It was useless on its own, he’d say. A pretty trinket. Its purpose was only revealed when held against a map. Then, its trembling needle would find north, and you could plot a course from where you were to where you needed to be. Without that fixed, external reference point, you were just wandering.
My friends, we live in a world desperately trying to navigate without a map. We feel this in our bones here in South Africa, don’t we? We celebrate 30 years of democracy, yet the journey feels perilously off-course. We witness political rhetoric that scapegoats the foreigner for complex problems. We see gender-based violence—that intimate, soul-destroying war—rise to sickening levels, making our homes feel like frontlines. We read of tragedies like children in pit latrines, a grotesque symbol of promises deferred and justice denied. The compass needle of our society spins wildly, pointing to anger, to fear, to division.
In such a moment, the ancient African proverb speaks with thunderous clarity: “The wise man feels the thorn, thanks the one who points it out, and removes it to walk further.” But I ask you: in our modern age, who has the courage to point out the thorns? And who has the humility to be thankful for the sting?
The Wound of a Faithful Friend: Correction as Sacred Surgery
The Scripture declares unequivocally: “Faithful are the wounds of a friend; profuse are the kisses of an enemy” (Proverbs 27:6). Let us define our terms clearly. A “wound” here is not abuse. It is a surgeon’s cut—precise, intentional, and life-saving. It is the painful, loving act of exposing a cancer before it consumes.
Yet, our cultural moment screams the opposite. We have enthroned the “autonomous self,” a philosophical idea that insists true freedom and reason exist only outside of any tradition or external authority. We are told that to be rational, we must be free from the “constraints” of inherited truth. This is the great lie of our age: that you can be your own compass, your own north star. It reduces faith to a warm, private feeling, a “value” we choose like a product off a shelf, disconnected from any objective “good”.
This is why we resist correction. We mistake the scalpel for a sword. We refuse the medicine because the bottle is plain. We would rather nurse the gangrene of our sin, our prejudice, our error, in the dark than endure the bright, antiseptic light of truth. We silence the faithful friend and embrace the flattering enemy, whose kisses lead us deeper into the thicket.
A common objection arises: “But this sounds harsh! Isn’t God love? Shouldn’t we just be affirming?” This fails because it misunderstands love itself. Is it love for a shepherd to watch a sheep wander toward a cliff, whispering empty affirmations? True love confronts. It risks the relationship for the sake of the beloved’s life. God’s love is not a sentimental blanket; it is a refining fire. He corrects those He loves (Hebrews 12:6). To reject correction is not to embrace a kinder God; it is to reject His love.
The Navigators God Sends: Why We Shoot the Messenger
Now, picture the scene. A ship is tossed in a storm off our Cape coast. The navigator, studying charts the captain ignores, shouts, “Turn hard to starboard! There are rocks!” But the captain, proud, invested in his original course, shouts back, “You’re undermining my authority!” and has the navigator thrown overboard. The ship sails on—right onto the rocks.
Is this not our story? God sends navigators. He sends the prophet Nathan to point out David’s thorn of adultery and murder. He sends faithful friends, pastors, a nagging conscience, even the quiet whisper of Scripture. And what do we do? We shoot the navigator. We dismiss them as judgmental, outdated, intolerant. We label truth-telling “hate speech” and enshrine subjective feeling as the highest authority.
We see this in our national life. When civil society organisations like Abahlali baseMjondolo advocate for land and dignity, they face threats and violence, with activists killed for their work. The messenger is attacked for the discomfort of the message. We see it globally, where South Africa’s pursuit of international justice on the world stage is met not with universal gratitude, but with political and economic retaliation.
The logic can be formulated thus:
· Premise 1: A loving God desires His children to walk in truth and life (John 8:32; John 10:10).
· Premise 2: Human beings are prone to self-deception and wandering from the path (Jeremiah 17:9; Proverbs 14:12).
· Premise 3: Therefore, a loving God will provide means of correction—faithful friends, His Word, His Spirit—to guide them back.
· Conclusion: To reject these means of correction is to reject the loving intent of God and choose the path of peril.
The Teachable Spirit: Your Altitude is Determined by Your Attitude
So, what is the alternative? It is the teachable spirit. This is not a spirit of weakness, but of immense strength. It is the courage to say, “I might be wrong. Show me.” It is the wisdom of the proverb in action: feeling the thorn, thanking the pointer, removing it, and walking further.
This requires dismantling the idol of autonomy. The great Christian intellectual tradition has never seen faith and reason as enemies. From Augustine to Aquinas, faith was understood as “reasonable faith,” a conviction grounded in trust of a reliable object—God Himself. The early Church Fathers saw Christianity as the “true philosophy”. A teachable spirit uses reason in service of revealed truth, not as a weapon against it.
Imagine, if you will, two farmers in the Akasia of old. One trusts only his own sense of the seasons, scoffs at almanacs and old wisdom. The other studies the patterns, listens to the elders, and prepares his soil accordingly. Whose field will thrive? The one who knew he didn’t know everything. Your willingness to be corrected—by Scripture, by the wise, by the Spirit’s conviction—determines your spiritual altitude. The proud remain in the valleys of their own making. The teachable soar on the winds of grace.
My Personal Thorn: I remember when my first book was published. I was proud, puffed up with this “authority.” A young theology student from Soshanguve wrote me a gracious but firm letter, pointing out a flawed interpretation I’d used. My first instinct was fury. How dare he? I was the author, the voice from Akasia! But the Spirit applied that thorn. I felt its prick. I swallowed my pride, re-opened my Greek lexicon and my commentaries. He was right. I thanked him publicly. That correction didn’t diminish me; it liberated me from the prison of my own error and allowed me to walk further, write truer. It was a surgeon’s cut.
The Call: Embracing the Sting that Heals
Therefore, reason itself, illuminated by Scripture and confirmed in our deepest longing for truth, compels us to acknowledge this: The path to healing—for our souls, our churches, our nation—runs through the painful, precious gift of correction.
We must sound the alarm against the cultural compromise that equates love with silence and truth with cruelty. In a land grappling with profound pain, from gender-based violence to corrosive corruption, we do not need comfortable lies. We need the sharp, clean truth that sets free.
Here is your charge: This week, pray this dangerous prayer: “Lord, show me my thorns.” Then, listen. Is it a habit? A grudge? A political ideology you’ve placed above Christ? A prejudice you’ve nursed? When the Holy Spirit, through His Word or a faithful friend, applies the pressure, do not pull away. Thank the pointer. Then, in the strength of Christ, remove it.
Do not shoot the navigator. God is adjusting your course, not to harm you, but to bring you into the safe harbour of His will. Embrace the sting that heals. For the wise man feels the thorn, gives thanks, and removes it—to walk further, closer to the One who is Himself the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
Let the journey continue.
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