An old man was once opening the treasury of his experience to enrich
the young people of Corinth. Youth ever needs such a benefactor, for
life’s most difficult problem is to definitely determine upon which
element or elements of life the emphasis should be placed. Like a
river, life has so many contributing streams of large volume that it is
difficult to decide unto which one we are most indebted for our power.
There is only one way to ascertain this fact, and that is to trace the
current of life-power to its source and stand, with reverent feet, at
its utmost gurgling spring. But this task is hard and is fraught with
danger. What youth, standing at the joining of the currents, can tell
to a certainty which is the real current and which the contributing
stream of influence? Among the most pathetic incidents of history are
those portraying some of our richest and most favored sons of genius
mistaking a contributing element of life for life itself and spending
their days within the narrow winding ways of mediocrity. Youth needs
the open treasury of the past, therefore it is a rare privilege to
have Paul thus open the treasure chest of his varied and triumphant
experiences and tell us what is the secret source of life’s richest
endowment. Looking over a life of many years, covering an intense and
diversified experience, enriched with mental and spiritual training,
he declared to the young people of Corinth that the source of personal
power is weakness.
That is the last place in the world that we would naturally look for
strength, for we have always been taught that weakness is the absence
of strength. To be enduring we believed that we should possess the
rigidity and firmness of the rocks, forgetful that long after the
red stone walls of Kenilworth have tottered into complete ruin the
fragile ivy, planted by unknown hands, will still live to cover the
rough, broken heap of weather-beaten stones with the graceful folds of
its swaying branches. We have believed that stability depended upon
rigid strength, not realizing that, in nature, the strong are the most
fragile, while the weak are the most enduring.
The source of triumphant living is not the adamantine will that refuses
to bend or budge, but is the will that yields itself to higher power.
Only when one finds that a feeling of weakness is creeping over him,
and realizes that, in his own strength alone, he is inadequate for the
task, does he possess true conquering power. One of the best hours
of a man’s life is when, through sickness, toil, or persecution, he
feels his physical powers giving way, and his soul rises to claim
the occasion for God and his humanity. Knowing that while he himself
is weak, the needed power is within easy reach, a man is strong. In
such a crisis, to become self-confident is to be like the hunted
partridge which, seeking escape, confidently enters the trap set for
his destruction. Strength comes when, overwhelmed with a sense of
unutterable weakness, one flings himself at the feet of Christ, and
prays as did the sinking disciple, “Lord, save me.”
How very true this is in the hours of our severe temptation! No man
ever sought refuge from temptation in self-confidence who, in the
strain of battle, did not find his fortress crumbling into dust, while
he himself suffered humiliating defeat. Simon Peter learned this truth.
Strong and boastful in his self-assertiveness, he stood amid the
gathering shadows of the world’s darkest and most tragic night, and
smiled as one who gladly greets the dawning of his wedding day. He was
confident, beyond question, that he was equal to any emergency that
might arise. It was easy for him to boast and proclaim loudly what he
would do. Beholding the same fast-deepening shadows, Christ fell to
his knees in prayer, and with broken voice and heavy, blood-stained
sweat, pleaded for his Father to remove this cup of suffering. Christ,
the everlasting Conqueror, prays for escape from trial, while Peter,
filled with self-assurance, bids the coming of the worst with defiant
spirit, saying, “Though all men should forsake the Master, yet will not
I.” He boasted bravely that he was ready to die for Christ. There was a
marked contrast between the ways these two met the same struggle, but
the whole world knows the outcome. In the presence of trial Peter’s
strength was scattered like heaps of withered autumn leaves. When he
was strong then was he weak. Without the passing of the cup Christ
walked forth strong enough to win a world from sin, while Peter sank
in shame. But when, a few hours later, we find the defeated disciple,
all alone, in midnight darkness, weeping like a little child over his
weakness, we rejoice, for we know now that Pentecost has found its
preacher, and the world has found a mighty champion for God.
Temptation is a terrible thing. It is a band of armed brigands,
storming the citadel of the soul to carry away everything that is of
value. To yield is to have the soul ransacked and burned as though by
fire. To face it confidently in one’s own strength is gravest folly.
There is only one possibility of victory. In that hour of peril, when
eternal destinies are at stake, let one feel his own weakness, and fall
helplessly at the feet of Christ, and call with all the earnestness and
pathos of his frightened soul, “Lord, save, or I perish!” and victory
shall fill his heart with joy and crown his brow with the light of
heaven.
This truth is applicable to all our sorrows. There have been hours when
we thought best to meet our sorrows and disappointments with the spirit
of a stoic. With clinched fists, tight-pressed lips, and dry eyes, we
stood, proud of our strength, defying sorrow by bidding it to do its
worst. We insisted that we were not weak like others, and that we would
boldly bear our own burdens. But the end was defeat and uncontrollable
grief. The burden was so much heavier and the grief was so much more
bitter than we had ever expected, that we were crushed and overcome.
Meanwhile at our side stood one frail and weak, whose bloodshot eyes
spoke of countless nights of grief and anxiety, but whose calm face and
steady voice assured us that she had gained a wonderful victory, and,
in spite of tempest, had inner calm and rest. How came the victory to
the frail? Because she was frail and knew that she was frail. As headed
wheat saves its life by bowing passively to the stroking of the violent
winds, so she bowed low at the touch of sorrow. She yielded herself
to the will of God. As Mary and Martha, in their hour of sorrow and
puzzling questions, forgot everything and fell weeping at the feet of
their Lord, so this woman poured out her prayer of utter helplessness
to God, saying, “Save, Lord, or I perish,” and in her weakness she
became strong. The strength that is needed to meet sorrow comes, not
from self-control, but abandonment to God; not from dry eyes, but from
tears.
How true this is of our ministries to our brother man! It is not an
easy matter for one to enter the Holy of holies of another’s grief
and sorrow, and minister unto them as a true high priest. Before
the growing work of the church, as it is beginning to live up to
its conceptions of Christian social service, many of our strongest
Christians are becoming faint of heart; in its growing work of
evangelism they become paralyzed with fright; because they cannot see
how they can approach and minister to those whom they do not know.
They tremble, not knowing that their very weakness is their source of
strength. Rash boldness and overconfidence are not part of the true
Christian’s equipment. With such a spirit no one should dare to enter
the sacred inclosure of another’s grief. It is only when one refuses
to trust in human strength or wisdom, and, possessed of a spirit
of humility, goes forward in the name of Christ, that he can work
successfully for God. You may feel called upon to do works of charity.
If so, go forth in weakness. Instead of polished speech upon the lip,
let there be a teardrop in the eye. The hungry soul will understand and
rejoice that you have come. In the hour of some one’s sorrow, you may
be able to give only a tender, silent handclasp; but be not dismayed.
The mourning one will fully understand and thank God that he sent
you unto him. You may be sent to lead some sinful soul to Christ. In
weakness your words may fail, leaving you nothing to offer save a look
of love. That is enough. Each sinful one will understand, and through
the light of your loving look will find a pathway back to God. Only
when we are weak are we strong in the service of Christ.