And because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations, for this reason, to keep me from exalting myself, there was given me a thorn in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to buffet me—to keep me from exalting myself! Concerning this I entreated the Lord three times that it might depart from me. And He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ’s sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong.
In my life, a few sins frustrate and bother me—plague me, so to speak. Though the pervasive egocentricism of my mode of being causes me to commit innumerable sins, I mostly don’t notice them. In other words, its not the imperfection with which I love my friends and family (much less my neighbors and enemies), or the unexpressed instances of annoyance and judgment in my mind—it’s my more blatant lapses in holiness—liabilities of my particular idols—that make me aware of my great need of grace.
For a long time I imagined Paul mean by this “thorn in the flesh” that he had some sort of chronic physical problem or some unrelenting pain. Grace always seemed like an antidote poorly matched to the problem. If grace is unmerited favor, if it’s the love God gives us in exchange for our rejection, then why does he give it to Paul for this physical problem—pain—that seems to be an amoral issue? It seems like the thing he should get is pity, encouragement, or healing. In other words, pain seems physical; grace seems moral. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve learned about the gospel, the likelier I think it is that the author of the majority of the New Testament was talking about sin when he confessed this “thorn in the flesh.”
My Blue Book includes a quote from Dallas Willard in the Readings for Reflection this week: “The greatest saints are not those who need less grace, but those who consume the most grace, who indeed are most in need of grace—those who are saturated by grace in every dimension of their being. Grace to them is like breath” (from Renovation of the Heart). I used to picture Paul as super holy, a guy who really didn’t struggle—almost sinless, almost as Catholics view Mary. Maybe he did live an especially holy, pure life; but what would it matter if he didn’t? Sin matters. It is weighty—so weighty that God had to die on a cross to deal with it. But it was not so weighty that God’s death on a cross didn’t deal it with it. To what sins might Paul have been inclined? Given the success of his ministry, it is unlikely that he was subject to the more public and incapacitating varieties of sin—alcoholism, chronic laziness and procrastination, or carousing. But what if Paul had been addicted to approval, or power? What if he could hardly see a beautiful woman without lusting after her? What if his every third thought was a prideful reflection? What if he struggled with same sex attraction? What if he loved to listen to gossip?
A lot of this is unlikely. Paul had integrity and discipline. He buffeted his body and made it his slave so that he could be godly and win souls for Christ. For Christ’s sake, he gave up the comforts of home and embraced a body-breaking life of hard travelling, city offending, persecution and hardship. He walked that line to his death. But look how central grace was to his understanding of his power. He saw himself as powerless, and apparently, something in his experience supported this opinion. In that very place, he experienced God’s grace and power.
What kind of power? Power over sin? Power to do good deeds? Power to be confident and joyful even though buffeted by a minister of Satan? Yes. Paul didn’t graduate from grace; neither do we.
Ben Harper recorded a gospel song in the 90’s called “I Want to Be Ready.” Check out the verses:
How I am strong is to know what makes me weak
How I am found is to know just whom I seek
The gift of a blessing, the burden of a sin
Oh, turn, turn to Him.
Nailed a cross from end to end
For the sin of every woman and man
And all upon his earth is all within his plan
I know this shall be my journey home
Covet no silver; covet no gold
Reach your empty hands for him to hold
Up in His kingdom glory shall be proclaimed
Oh, sing the song and praise His name.
The chorus takes power-perfected-in-weakness and turns it to a sober goal:
I want to be ready,
I want to be ready…
Ready to put on my long white robe.
Real grace, costly grace, which Christ had to die to make, doesn’t motivate us to sit on our asses and wallow in comfort and sin; it motivates us to discipline ourselves by the power of the Holy Spirit, to live holy lives, and to set our faces to whatever Calvary God calls us to in following the man who set his face like flint to Jerusalem, who endured the cross and scorned its shame for the sake of the joy set before Him.
In the midst of our most intractable sins, our deepest despairs, and our most shameful realities, Christ comes to us with the power of his precious blood—though we are unlovely, loving us—though we are doubtful, revealing himself—and though we are hiding from him, calling us. His death on the cross really did work. We can confidently cling to him and experience his power, purity, and grace.