'For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that
it might depart from me. And He said unto me, My
grace is sufficient for thee; for My strength is
made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore
will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the
power of Christ may rest upon me.'--2 COR. xii. 8,
9.
This very remarkable page in the autobiography of the Apostle shows us
that he, too, belonged to the great army of martyrs who, with hearts
bleeding and pierced through and through with a dart, yet did their work
for God. It is of little consequence what his thorn in the flesh may
have been. The original word suggests very much heavier sorrow than the
metaphor of 'a thorn' might imply. It really seems to mean not a tiny
bit of thorn that might lie half concealed in the finger tip, but one
of those hideous stakes on which the cruel punishment of impalement used
to be inflicted. And Paul's thought is, not that he has a little,
trivial trouble to bear, but that he is, as it were, forced quivering
upon that tremendous torture.
Unquestionably, what he means is some bodily ailment or other. The
hypothesis that the 'thorn in the flesh' was the sting of the animal
nature inciting him to evil is altogether untenable, because such a
thorn could never have been left when the prayer for its removal was
earnestly presented; nor could it ever have been, when left, an occasion
for glorifying. Manifestly it was no weakness removable by his own
effort, no incapacity for service which in any manner approximated to
being a fault, but purely and simply some infliction from God's hand
(though likewise capable of being regarded as a 'messenger of Satan')
which hindered him in his work, and took down any proud flesh and danger
of spiritual exaltation in consequence of the largeness of his religious
privileges.
Our text sets before us three most instructive windings, as it were, of
the stream of thoughts that passed through the Apostle's mind, in
reference to this burden that he had to carry, and may afford wholesome
contemplation for us to-day. There is, first, the instinctive shrinking
which took refuge in prayer. Then there is the insight won by prayer
into the sustaining strength for, and the purposes of, the thorn that
was not to be plucked out. And then, finally, there is the peace of
acquiescence, and a will that accepts--not the inevitable, but the
loving.
I. First of all we see the instinctive shrinking from that which
tortured the flesh, which takes refuge in prayer.
There is a wonderful, a beautiful, and, I suppose, an intentional
parallel between the prayers of the servant and of the Master. Paul's
petitions are the echo of Gethsemane. There, under the quivering olives,
in the broken light of the Paschal moon, Jesus 'thrice' prayed that the
cup might pass from Him. And here the servant, emboldened and instructed
by the example of the Master, 'thrice' reiterates his human and natural
desire for the removal of the pain, whatever it was, which seemed to him
so to hinder the efficiency and the fulness, as it certainly did the
joy, of his service.
But He who prayed in Gethsemane was He to whom Paul addressed his
prayer. For, as is almost always the case in the New Testament, 'the
Lord' here evidently means Christ, as is obvious from the connection of
the answer to the petition with the Apostle's final confidence and
acquiescence. For the answer was, 'My strength is made perfect in
weakness'; and the Apostle's conclusion is, 'Most gladly will I glorify
in infirmity,' that the strength or 'power _of Christ_ may rest upon
me.' Therefore the prayer with which we have to deal here is a prayer
offered to Jesus, who prayed in Gethsemane, and to whom we can bring our
petitions and our desires.
Notice how this thought of prayer directed to the Master Himself helps
to lead us deep into the sacredest and most blessed characteristics of
prayer. It is only telling Christ what is in our hearts. Oh, if we lived
in the true understanding of what prayer really is--the emptying out of
our inmost desire and thoughts before our Brother, who is likewise our
Lord--questions as to what it was permissible to pray for, and what it
was not permissible to pray for, would be irrelevant, and drop away of
themselves. If we had a less formal notion of prayer, and realised more
thoroughly what it was--the speech of a confiding heart to a
sympathising Lord--then everything that fills our hearts would be seen
to be a fitting object of prayer. If anything is large enough to
interest me, it is not too small to be spoken about to Him.
So the question, which is often settled upon very abstract and deep
grounds that have little to do with the matter--the question as to
whether prayer for outward blessings is permissible--falls away of
itself. If I am to talk to Jesus Christ about everything that concerns
me, am I to keep my thumb upon all that great department and be silent
about it? One reason why our prayers are often so unreal is, because
they do not fit our real wants, nor correspond to the thoughts that are
busy in our minds at the moment of praying. Our hearts are full of some
small matter of daily interest, and when we kneel down not a word about
it comes to our lips. Can that be right?
The difference between the different objects of prayer is not to be
found in the rejection of all temporal and external, but in remembering
that there are two sets of things to be prayed about, and over one set
must ever be written 'If it be Thy will,' and over the other it need not
be written, because we are sure that the granting of our wishes _is_ His
will. We know about the one that 'if we ask anything according to His
will, He heareth us.' That may seem to be a very poor and shrunken kind
of hope to give a man, that if his prayer is in conformity with the
previous determination of the divine will, it will be answered. But it
availed for the joyful confidence of that Apostle who saw deepest into
the conditions and the blessedness of the harmony of the will of God and
of man. But about the other set we can only say, 'Not my will, but
Thine be done.' With that sentence, not as a formula upon our lips but
deep in our hearts, let us take everything into His presence--thorns and
stakes, pinpricks and wounds out of which the life-blood is ebbing--let
us take them all to Him, and be sure that we shall take none of them in
vain.
So then we have the Person to whom the prayer is addressed, the subjects
with which it is occupied, and the purpose to which it is directed.
'Take away the burden' was the Apostle's petition; but it was a mistaken
petition and, therefore, unanswered.
II. That brings me to the second of the windings, as I have ventured to
call them, of this stream--viz. the insight into the source of strength
for, and the purpose of, the thorn that could not be taken away. The
Lord said unto me, 'My grace is sufficient for thee. For My strength'
(where the word 'My' is a supplement, but a necessary one) 'is made
perfect in weakness.'
The answer is, in form and in substance, a gentle refusal of the form of
the petition, but it is a more than granting of its essence. For the
best answer to such a prayer, and the answer which a true man means when
he asks, 'Take away the burden,' need not be the external removal of the
pressure of the sorrow, but the infusing of power to sustain it. There
are two ways of lightening a burden, one is diminishing its actual
weight, the other is increasing the strength of the shoulder that bears
it. And the latter is God's way, is Christ's way, of dealing with us.
Now mark that the answer which this faithful prayer receives is no
communication of anything fresh, but it is the opening of the man's eyes
to see that already he has all that he needs. The reply is not, 'I
_will_ give thee grace sufficient,' but 'My grace' (which thou hast
now) 'is sufficient for thee.' That grace is given and possessed by the
sorrowing heart at the moment when it prays. Open your eyes to see what
you have, and you will not ask for the load to be taken away. Is not
that always true? Many a heart is carrying some heavy weight; perhaps
some have an incurable sorrow, some are stricken by disease that they
know can never be healed, some are aware that the shipwreck has been
total, and that the sorrow that they carry to-day will lie down with
them in the dust. Be it so! 'My grace (not shall be, but) _is_
sufficient for thee.' And what thou hast already in thy possession is
enough for all that comes storming against thee of disease,
disappointment, loss, and misery. Set on the one side all possible as
well as all actual weaknesses, burdens, pains, and set on the other
these two words--'My grace,' and all these dwindle into nothingness and
disappear. If troubled Christian men would learn what they have, and
would use what they already possess, they would less often beseech Him
with vain petitions to take away their blessings which are in the thorns
in the flesh. 'My grace is sufficient.'
How modestly the Master speaks about what He gives! 'Sufficient'? Is not
there a margin? Is there not more than is wanted? The overplus is
'exceeding abundant,' not only 'above what we ask or think,' but far
more than our need. 'Two hundred pennyworth of bread is not _sufficient_
that every one may take a little,' says Sense. Omnipotence says, 'Bring
the few small loaves and fishes unto Me'; and Faith dispensed them
amongst the crowd; and Experience 'gathered up of the fragments that
remained' more than there had been when the multiplication began. So the
grace utilised increases; the gift grows as it is employed. 'Unto him
that hath shall be given.' And the 'sufficiency' is not a bare adequacy,
just covering the extent of the need, with no overlapping margin, but is
large beyond expectation, desire, or necessity; so leading onwards to
high hopes and a wider opening of the open mouths of our need that the
blessing may pour in.
The other part of this great answer, that the Christ from Heaven spoke
in or to the praying spirit of this not disappointed, though refused,
Apostle, unveiled the purpose of the sorrow, even as the former part had
disclosed the strength to bear it. For, says He, laying down therein the
great law of His kingdom in all departments and in all ways, 'My
strength is made perfect'--that is, of course, perfect in its
manifestation or operations, for it is perfect in itself already. 'My
strength is made perfect in weakness.' It works in and through man's
weakness.
God works with broken reeds. If a man conceits himself to be an iron
pillar, God can do nothing with or by him. All the self-conceit and
confidence have to be taken out of him first. He has to be brought low
before the Father can use him for His purposes. The lowlands hold the
water, and, if only the sluice is open, the gravitation of His grace
does all the rest and carries the flood into the depths of the lowly
heart.
His strength loves to work in weakness, only the weakness must be
conscious, and the conscious weakness must have passed into conscious
dependence. There, then, you get the law for the Church, for the works
of Christianity on the widest scale, and in individual lives. Strength
that conceits itself to be such is weakness; weakness that knows itself
to be such is strength. The only true source of Power, both for
Christian work and in all other respects, is God Himself; and our
strength is ours but by derivation from Him. And the only way to secure
that derivation is through humble dependence, which we call faith in
Jesus Christ. And the only way by which that faith in Jesus Christ can
ever be kindled in a man's soul is through the sense of his need and
emptiness. So when we know ourselves weak, we have taken the first step
to strength; just as, when we know ourselves sinners, we have taken the
first step to righteousness; just as in all regions the recognition of
the doleful fact of our human necessity is the beginning of the joyful
confidence in the glad, triumphant fact of the divine fulness. All our
hollownesses, if I may so say, are met with His fulness that fits into
them. It only needs that a man be aware of that which he is, and then
turn himself to Him who is all that he is not, and then into his empty
being will flow rejoicing the whole fulness of God. 'My strength is made
perfect in weakness.'
III. Lastly, mark the calm final acquiescence in the loving necessity of
continued sorrow. 'Most gladly, therefore, will I rather glory in my
infirmity that the power of Christ may rest upon me.' The will is
entirely harmonised with Christ's. The Apostle begins with instinctive
shrinking, he passes onwards to a perception of the purpose of his trial
and of the sustaining grace; and he comes now to acquiescence which is
not passivity, but glad triumph. He is more than submissive, he gladly
glories in his infirmity in order that the power of Christ may 'spread a
tabernacle over' him. 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted,'
said the old prophet. Paul says, in a yet higher note of concord with
God's will, 'I am glad that I sorrow. I rejoice in weakness, because it
makes it easier for me to cling, and, clinging, I am strong, and
conquer evil.' Far better is it that the sting of our sorrow should be
taken away, by our having learned what it is for, and having bowed to
it, than that it should be taken away by the external removal which we
sometimes long for. A grief, a trial, an incapacity, a limitation, a
weakness, which we use as a means of deepening our sense of dependence
upon Him, is a blessing, and not a sorrow. And if we would only go out
into the world trying to interpret its events in the spirit of this
great text, we should less frequently wonder and weep over what
sometimes seem to us the insoluble mysteries of the sorrows of ourselves
and of other men. They are all intended to make it more easy for us to
realise our utter hanging upon Him, and so to open our hearts to receive
more fully the quickening influences of His omnipotent and
self-sufficing grace.
Here, then, is a lesson for those who have to carry some cross and know
they must carry it throughout life. It will be wreathed with flowers if
you accept it. Here is a lesson for all Christian workers. Ministers of
the Gospel especially should banish all thoughts of their own
cleverness, intellectual ability, culture, sufficiency for their work,
and learn that only when they are emptied can they be filled, and only
when they know themselves to be nothing are they ready for God to work
through them. And here is a lesson for all who stand apart from the
grace and power of Jesus Christ as if they needed it not. Whether you
know it or not, you are a broken reed; and the only way of your ever
being bound up and made strong is that you shall recognise your
sinfulness, your necessity, your abject poverty, your utter emptiness,
and come to Him who is righteousness, riches, fulness, and say,
'Because I am weak, be Thou my strength.' The secret of all noble,
heroic, useful, happy life lies in the paradox, 'When I am weak, then am
I strong,' and the secret of all failures, miseries, hopeless losses,
lies in its converse, 'When I am strong, then am I weak.'