Weak Vessels, Strong God
By Glenna Marshall
When I took the stage, I was one hundred percent confident in my message. My new boots pinched a bit as I climbed the steps to the podium, but I was certain of the words I would speak about the truth of God’s goodness to us in suffering were the right ones to speak. I was one hundred percent confident in what they needed to hear. But I was also one hundred percent confident in my inability to convey the message rightly.
Much of what I have learned about God’s kindness to us in trials comes from my experience with chronic pain. Suffering has been the main catalysts for my understanding that what I need most in times of suffering is not relief from it but confidence in God’s nearness in the midst of it. It is what God used to train me to love His Word. Being in remission for the better part of five years has meant that pain had become a memory with faded edges. And then, like an uninvited guest, my pain showed up unwelcome and unannounced, no longer a sepia toned reminiscence. Physical pain will hold me captive to my broken body for as long as I live. There is no cure. The effects of disease pop up when I need it not to. Unfortunately, any kind of stress–even mere anticipation of something good–can trigger physical pain, anxiety, and insomnia. In other words, when I need to be at my best, my body tends to be at its worst.
So, a few weeks back when I was prepared and ready to take a stage for an hour with an open Bible and a room full of women, I found myself the night before lying awake in bed with heart palpitations, nausea, and pain shooting up my spine. I wasn’t nervous about the event; I had looked forward to it all week. I tossed and turned, prayed and fretted. Eventually, I walked the floors and recited every Scripture I could call to memory, staying specifically in Psalm 23. “This is when I know that You are with me, down here in the valley of physical suffering, Lord.” Why does my body rebel when I need to rely on it the most?
After sleeping less than two hours, my alarm buzzed at 6 am, and I dragged myself out of bed to get some coffee. Once procured, I sat with my Bible intending to read Psalm 107, which is one of my favorite spots to land when I’m feeling frazzled. How could I face a room full of women when I felt so physically unable to perform? Who am I to even take a stage? What can I bring to the table that hasn’t been said a thousand times before? “I’m weak, Lord,” I told Him. But I realized in that moment that weak is how He wants me. Weak is a good place to be. Our weakness is where we get to see His strength. I read through Psalm 107, but I got distracted by the words of the next psalm, written by David.
“My heart is confident, God; I will sing; I will sing praises with the whole of my being. Wake up, harp and lyre! I will wake up the dawn. I will praise You, Lord, among the peoples; I will sing praises to You among the nations. For Your faithful love is higher than the heavens, and Your faithfulness reaches to the clouds…God has spoken in His sanctuary: ‘I will triumph!'” (Ps. 108:1-4, 7b).
It struck me that the confidence David had was not in himself but in his God, whose declaration of triumph connotes a sure, certain victory. David’s response to the Lord’s ability is praise, all praise.
My phone dinged with a text not long after that. My mom had known I was feeling rough and sent the words of the apostle Paul to encourage me to do the good work set before me, no matter how my body protested. Paul was no stranger to suffering; his life was marked by persecution for the sake of the gospel of Christ. Even so, it must have been tempting at times to boast in the wideness of his ministry, the soundness of his doctrinally-heavy elocution, the far-reaching grasp of his reputation as a messenger of the gospel. If you are in Christian ministry, you understand the temptation there. If we’re not working for wealth or possessions, we’re tempted by notoriety or by how well we use our gifts.
I don’t think Paul was immune. He was given a “thorn in the flesh” to keep him from boasting in his own strength, and though we cannot know what it was that tormented him, we do know he prayed to be released from it at least three times. His words (and the ones my mother sent to me that rainy, frazzled morning) communicate what we all need to lean into when we can’t understand our weaknesses in light of the work God has set before us:
“But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is perfected in weakness'” (2 Cor.12:9a).
I prayed through the words, pleaded with the Lord to let my confidence find its home in Him alone. There was no other source of confidence that day. My body was rebelling, and my brain was cluttered with the fog that accompanies my pain. I dressed, drove to the event, and found myself sharing my physical weaknesses with the event coordinators so they could pray for me. I didn’t want to admit it; I wanted to appear confident and sure of myself. I didn’t want them to regret asking me to take the stage. But, I knew that I needed their intercession more than I needed an appearance of self-sufficiency. The words prayed over me in that small room off the sanctuary were a balm to my quivering soul. The same words of Paul filled the air, and I knew that this was my reminder that God’s grace was sufficient for me. Not my ability. Not my gifts. Not my intelligence. Only His grace. If anything good came from the stage, it would only be because He was with me, perfecting His power in my very present weaknesses.
After the event, my spine was on fire. I stood for more than an hour and spoke with women from all walks of life, and we shared with one another how God was faithful even in the ugliest stories. A older woman with a lovely Scottish lilt to her voice gripped my hands and prayed that God would be powerful in my weakness. Gripped by pain and mental exhaustion, I stood there with tears in my eyes. The irony wasn’t lost on me. It’s always after an event when God uses the hearers to bless the messenger. Perhaps they want to say thank you, but really they are saying what I need to hear, “You are weak, and He is strong.” Afterwards, I sat in my car in the parking lot before the long trip home and wept with the relief that comes from being spent on exactly the right thing in exactly the weakest way.
If there were reason to boast in myself, then I would get the praise, and what a short-sighted, vainglory it would be. But, the Lord has seen fit to remind me of my frailty, to keep me up at night with a dependency on His strength. And though I hate the pain, the foggy head, the sick stomach, the inability to simply go to sleep, I am deeply grateful that the Lord has made it abundantly clear that my weakness is where He delights to work. For in this, He gets the glory. He does. And on my best/worst days, that’s my desire.
“Therefore, I will most gladly boast all the more about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may reside in me. So I take pleasure in weaknesses, insults, catastrophes, persecutions, and in pressures, because of Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor. 12:9b-10).
Maybe your weakness isn’t a physical thorn. Maybe it’s mental. Or maybe it’s your backstory, your pre-conversion tale. Maybe it’s the sin that once held you in a suffocating vise. Maybe you speak of it as often as possible so it loses its power every time you back it up against the power of the gospel. Or maybe, like me, your thorn crops up when you need it the least and you wonder how in the world you will accomplish the good work God has set before you. This is the place, friend. This is where He delights in displaying His power–right in the middle of your weakest weakness. He will not share His glory with another, but He will gladly display it in you.
Being a messenger with a limp is not a curse; it’s a gift. Broken vessels don’t usually display the strength of their makers, but in the upside-down realm of the kingdom of God, they absolutely can. When tasked with the work of spreading the gospel message, you can be confident in His certain triumph. You can be certain that He will be strong in your weakness. You may flop, you may lose your train of thought, you might stutter over your words, you might forget a point, you may not see a return for your work, but You can be sure that His words will not return void. Your thorn may pierce you deeply, but it is only a thorn and it is only momentary. The certain triumph of the Lord our God means that He will accomplish His work. One of the resulting graces of His work is your eternal thorn-free life in His presence forever. And perhaps the kingdom of heaven will be a bit more populous than you expected because the Lord was pleased to be strong in your weakness.
Press on, Christian. He will be strong in your weakness.
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence: Why God is Always Enough (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness: The Beauty of Ordinary Perseverance in a Demanding World (Crossway).
Author’s note: a version of this article appeared at the author’s blog.