Weakness Is NOT the Enemy

“Pain is weakness leaving the body.” While this slogan is commonly associated with the United States Marine Corps (which we hope is filled with strong, able-bodied soldiers), society at large has adopted the mantra, suggesting that our ultimate goal ought to be strength. As a strongly individualistic culture, America values the ability to “take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.” Weakness is something to be hidden, overcome, or fixed—not something to boast about. 

In this way, our modern culture reflects the spirit of ancient Corinth. Like us, the Corinthians placed great value on strength, eloquence, polish, and charisma. For this reason, the young believers there became enchanted by a group of “super-apostles.” These self-promoting swindlers peddled a false gospel, propagated lies, and sought to profit off of naïve churches. 

In order to sever the relationship between Corinth and Paul, these false teachers hurled accusations at the apostle, charging him with hypocrisy and weakness. It seems that they compared his unassuming ministry to their own flashy style and concluded that he came up short.

Paul defended himself against these attacks in a surprising way. Instead of flashing his own impressive résumé of education and accomplishments, he chose to boast in his weakness, listing the pain, persecution, and pressure he had suffered. He then gave a brief but cryptic summary of his most extraordinary experience—a vision of heaven—but immediately followed it with the discussion of his “thorn in the flesh.” 

His climactic argument was not the mountaintop experience that would have distinguished him from the super-apostles, but his greatest weakness—a “messenger from Satan” sent to torment him and keep him humble. The false apostles most likely would have laughed at Paul’s frailty, but they would have missed the point. The true climax of Paul’s “boasting” is Jesus’ response when He refused to remove the thorn: 

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is perfected in weakness.”

Therefore, I will most gladly boast all the more about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may reside in me. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Paul had learned the hard way that weakness was not the enemy. In fact, weakness brings a kind of power that no CrossFit gym, P90X workout, or marathon training could ever duplicate. Paul didn’t get specific about what this perfected power looks like or all that it accomplishes. Yet as we compare Scripture with Scripture, we begin to see its beautiful effects in the life of a believer. 

Power to Praise

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” (Phil. 4:4). That’s a tall order on the best of days. And yet the context of those words reveals a power perfected through weakness. The “epistle of joy,” as Philippians is sometimes called, was written by a prisoner. Paul, incarcerated for preaching the gospel, still found reason to rejoice (v. 10). 

We see this same grace-empowered joy in the classic book The Hiding Place. Corrie ten Boom recounts how her sister Betsie urged her to give thanks “in everything” (1 Thess. 5:18). She didn’t say this over a bountiful meal but while staring at a bunk infested with fleas. Corrie balked at the thought of gratitude in such circumstances, but Betsie persisted: Scripture says to give thanks in all things. So Corrie reluctantly thanked God—even for the fleas. 

The power to rejoice in the Lord always does not spring from personal grit or natural optimism. Rather, it is Christ’s power, perfected in weakness. This strength cries out, “My soul, bless the LORD, and do not forget all his benefits” (Psalm 103:2). It clings to the promise that He is “near the brokenhearted” (Psalm 34:18) and declares, “I will bless the LORD at all times” (Psalm 34:1). 

Power to Pray

Three times a day, Daniel faithfully opened his windows and knelt before the King of heaven. His devotion was so consistent—and his integrity so evident—that when his enemies sought grounds for accusation, they found none except his faithfulness to God. Even when a royal decree forbade prayer, Daniel continued as before and was thrown into the lions’ den.

One wonders whether this elderly servant of God believed martyrdom might be his final chapter. He had no promise of deliverance. He knew only that he must pray.

How did Daniel cultivate such a steadfast habit? What does it take? Though I’m not sure exactly how Daniel himself would respond, I imagine he might point to the seventy years he spent in exile. Surrounded daily by pagan practices, pressured to compromise, and ruled by volatile kings, Daniel had nowhere to turn but to the Lord. His disciplined prayer life was forged in the furnace of Babylonian captivity.

This, too, is power perfected by weakness—the power to pray. Hebrews 4 promises that as we boldly approach the throne of grace, we will “receive mercy and find grace to help us in time of need” (v. 16). We don’t come to prayer with strength in our hands or having everything figured out. By its very nature, prayer requires that we admit our weakness and vulnerability. And in seasons when weakness strips away every illusion of self-sufficiency, the grace of prayer grows deeper and stronger.

Power to Persevere

“Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.” While normally adopting philosophy from a Disney character (particularly one without a short-term memory) is a terrible idea, in this case, Dory of Finding Nemo actually gets it about right. The Christian life requires perseverance. We must, as Dory might say, “Just keep swimming.” Or, as the writer of Hebrews says, “You need endurance, so that after you have done God’s will, you may receive what was promised” (Heb. 10:36). To use the words of Paul, we must “pursue as [our] goal the prize promised by God’s heavenly call in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 3:14). 

Another expression of Christ’s power perfected in weakness is the power to press on in the face of trouble—the power to persevere. Romans 5:3 promises that “affliction produces endurance.” I’m not a runner, but I’m sure that any marathoner will say the same thing: no one runs twenty-six miles without first enduring the strain of training. Discipline, repetition, and discomfort gradually build stamina.

No wonder the marathon is such an apt metaphor for the Christian life. God often uses affliction as His training ground. In our weakest moments—when we are tempted to give up—the Savior is at work, perfecting His persevering power within us. He endured the full measure of God’s wrath, and as we are united with Him, His perseverance has become ours. The strength to cry out, “Nevertheless, not my, will but yours be done” (Luke 22:42), doesn’t come from a bottle, bank, or our own resolve. It flows from His sufficient grace and perfect power.

Weakness stinks. I give it zero stars. Left to ourselves, we would avoid it at all costs. And yet it is not our enemy. In God’s wise and loving hands, weakness becomes the very place where His power rests upon us.

So we boast—not in ourselves, but in Him.

Power to praise.

Power to pray.

Power to persevere.