Comfort for the Weak
“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.
“On which account I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.” — 2 Cor. 12: 9, 10.
When a Roman emperor returned from conquest and was given a triumphant entrance into the Eternal City, it was customary to put a slave in the chariot with him, whose duty it was to remind him now and then that he, too, was human. As he looked upon the trophies of victory and listened to the huzzahs of the people, he must not forget that he was
made of common stuff. Such was something like the experience of the apostle Paul. He won many a victory, and was worthy of many a triumphal procession. In the midst of it all he was in danger of being exalted above measure. So God put with him in the chariot of life what he calls a “thorn in the flesh,” a messenger of Satan to buffet him, and thus remind him that he was weak and human.
The word translated “thorn” may be more accurately rendered “stake,” which was the kind of instrument on which prisoners were impaled when thrown from a precipice or crucified. It does not mean a splinter under the finger-nail, but an experience like being impaled upon a stake — unutterable anguish of body or mind.
Just what this thorn in the flesh was, I am not certain. After having investigated it as thoroughly as possible, I feel a little like the old country preacher who made a sermon on the subject with seven divisions, each one of which was the opinion of a different commentator, and closed his sermon with a rousing exhortation in which he insisted that nobody knew what it meant. It is probable, however, that it was a physical weakness oS Milk and Meat.
which caused Paul intense pain — perhaps soreness of eves, the result of the blinding on the way to Damascus. Whatever it was, he was very anxious to get rid of it, and prayed to the Lord three times that He would remove it. The text is God’s answer, in which we have:
I. A Comforting Fact.
II. A Comforting Promise.
III. A Comforting Conclusion.
IV. A Comforting Privilege.
I. A Comforting Fact.
Every fact to the eye of faith may be comforting, because “all things work together for good to them that love God.” But the most comforting fact of which I know is in the words: “My strength is made perfect in weakness.” A mother’s strength is made perfect in weakness. Should the house be on fire, she could carry out three or four children, whereas, in a quiet time, it wrould give her pain to lift one. The strength of the United States might be brought out by a war with Russia, but her strength is made more perfect by the weakness of Russia’s starving millions. It is better to show our strength by helping the weak than by shaking our fists at little governments like Chili.
A student in the Union Theological Seminary, New York, tells of a sick young man who was brought from the hospital to one of the rooms in the seminary, that he might be nursed by some friends among the students. No professor in that seminary did as much good for two or three months as this invalid young man. His weakness called out the strength of the students, who were glad to sit up with him all through the night and minister to him; and, as they saw his sweet, submissive, and joyful Christian character, they were developed in grace. We cannot estab-. lish a professorship of sympathy in our seminaries, but, if such a thing were possible, it would go further than anything else toward making perfect the strength of the rising ministry. Comforting beyond measure is the thought that God’s strength is manifested in proportion to my weakness.
II. A Comforting Promise.
Paul desired a display of power which should put him beyond the need of grace. God restrained His power, that He might make His grace flow forth. We often pray God to use His power, when what we most need is His grace; and, when He refuses to display His power, we may always claim the promise: “My grace is sufficient for thee.”
Only sufficient, not superfluous. Yesterday I sat by the side of a young lady whom the doctor had given up to die. She was almost ashamed to meet God, but with a smile declared that she was willing to go, if it was His will. “A year ago, however.” she said,, “I could not have said that.” My reply was, “It was not needful a year ago that you should say it. God’s grace is sufficient. He gave you grace then for what you needed: He will give you grace now in the more trying hour.” May God heal her, if it be His will; but, whether she is healed or not, she has grace sufficient, and that is better than healing without the grace. It is better to be in need and have God supply the need, than to be without need and without His supply. Robert Hall preached better because he knew what physical suffering meant. Richard Baxter wrote better because of his bodily infirmity. Spurgeon did the best work of his life while an invalid. The sufficiency of His grace appears clear, when we think that it comes to us through Jesus Christ. “He was touched with the feeling of our infirmities. Himself took our infirmities and bore our sicknesses,” Christ knew what it was to be weary, weak, and sick. He put Himself in man’s condition, that we might know how He could sympathize with us.
The Grand Duke Sergius, the Governor of Moscow, suspected that the bakers were cheating the poor starving people. He ordered the police to make an investigation, and they reported in favor of the bakers. Suspecting that something was wrong, the Grand Duke put on the garb of a peasant, went among them, lived as they lived for a while, and learned for himself the suffering of his poor people. How close it brought the Grand Duke to the starving peasantry, when they learned that, in order to ascertain their wants, he had become ioj Milk and Meat.
as one of them! and how close it should bring us to Jesus when we reflect that, in order to make plain the sufficiency of His grace, He took upon Himself our very weakness, and put Himself in the place of need! For prosperity and adversity, for sickness and health, for riches and poverty, for failure and success, the promise is always good, 4i My grace is sufficient for thee.”
III. A Comforting Conclusion.
All conclusions drawn by faith are comforting. Reason is a servant, not a master. It is the most abject slave in the world. It does the bidding of ignorance, cf sin, of virtue, of vice, of knowledge, of faith, or of unbelief. It has little or no moral sense. It works for those who assert their mastery over it. I am sick. Unbelief says, “Therefore God does not treat me kindly; life is a failure.” Faith says, “God has in this sickness a message of love for me. He may be laying me aside for repairs; He is making a need that He delights to supply.” I have lost by death my dearest friend. Unbelief says, “Therefore God made a mistake,” Faith says, “Heaven is now more attractive: I have a treasure there. My friend has been saved from the evil to come. Out of this death may come more good than out of life.” Calamity sweeps away my property. Unbelief says, “Therefore God has forsaken me.” Faith says, “God is trying me in the furnace. He wants to get rid of the dross, and make the gold in me pure.” Paul draws the conclusion of faith: “Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”
The word “rest” means to abide, as a tent or a house, a protection upon me. T*he polar bear is in some respects stronger than man. He carries his house about with him. He does not need a covering: the cutting wind and freezing cold do not affect him. He can lie down on a snowbank, with the thermometer below zero, and sleep soundly. But I would rather be a man needing a house and clothing than the polar bear independent of surroundings. I glory in the weakness which calls for protection.
A man in Cuba was brought out to be shot, and, just as the soldiers were getting ready to fire, an American standing by took the Stars and Stripes and covered the prisoner with them, saying, “Fire if you dare! To shoot this man is to fire upon the United States Government.” His life was saved. The power of the United States rested upon him, and I think if I had been in his place I should have worn that flag on the streets and slept in it at night. So the power of Christ rests upon us. That prisoner could have declared himself independent of the United States, and met the soldiers in his own strength; but foolish would he have been to do so. He let his weakness bring forth the strength of this Government. What we need is thus to link our weakness with the power of Christ.
Two kinds of forces are not apt to work well together. Not many years ago the horse was the motive-power in this country. Steam soon displaced it, and now it seems that electricity may displace steam. It is difficult to harness the horse and steam together. How would it do to hitch six horses to a steam-engine on the way to Chicago? They would be an obstacle on the track. Yet much of our time is spent in trying to hitch our little strength to the omnipotence of God. Instead of using what we have in supplying the engine with coal and water, submitting to the conditions that make speed and power, we want to put our strength in the front, and thus we become more of a hindrance than a help.
An electric car stopped in Boston some time ago, and one of the passengers asked, “What is the matter?” “Oh!” said the conductor, “nothing but dirt on the track,” The dirt broke the current of power. Our strength is often but dirt on the track, hindering the work of God. What we need above all things is to realize that we are weak, and that God’s strength waits to be made perfect in our weakness, for He prefers faith in Him to any sort of reliance upon ourselves.
Therefore we may gladly glory in infirmities. It is natural for some people, however, to look for things about which they may complain. They are like little Tommy, who was crying as if his heart would break, when he suddenly looked up to his mother through his tears, saying, “Mamma, what was I crying about?” “I think, Tommy,” she replied,” it was because I would not let you have the bronze lo6 Milk and Meat.
statue on the mantel-piece.” “No, that was not it,” continued Tommy, still crying: “it was because you would not let me go out in the cold; but I am going to cry some more about that statue,” and he promptly raised his boo-hoo. Tommy was looking for something to cry about. He was not anxious to be happy, but miserable. He wanted to draw a conclusion of pain rather than joy, and, if we have that desire, of course we may be gratified.
I am glad that I have not microscopic eyes. My eyes are just good enough to see the light, without seeing the motes in it; the flowers, without beholding the worms; the food and water, without seeing the millions of animalculae that squirm in them. May we have eyes of faith to see the good, and to draw from all the facts of life, and the promises of the Word, conclusions that comfort our souls!
IV. A Comforting Privilege.
“On which account I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake.” There was a time when Paul did not take pleasure in infirmities. He tells us that he was anxious to get rid of the infirmity that clouded his life. But when he saw that God supplied the grace, he began to love the supply better than freedom from infirmity. He saw that it was better to have darkness with stars brought out by it, than all sunshine and no stars; that the cold winds of winter are as necessary for the world’s development as the cheerful warmth of spring and summer; that the mantle of snow is as good for earth as its mantle of grass and flowers. But for the snow mantle, the mantle of flowers might not be. When a man learns that God’s strength is perfected through his infirmity, necessities, persecutions, and distresses, he will by and by begin to welcome them as an angel sent from heaven to minister to him.
Necessity makes most men. If it is necessary that you should go from the fifty-thousand-dollar house on the splendid street to the five-thousand-dollar one on the humble street, rejoice in the necessity. God has in that necessity some purpose of love, deeper and better than if it had never existed.
A French shoemaker was taken prisoner by a Turkish Sultan, and the Sultan, desiring his new palace frescoed, ordered the shoemaker into his presence, and commanded him to do the work, because, as he said, all Frenchmen were artists. The shoemaker, however, was artist only with his awl and wax- 4 end, in fitting leather to feet, and so remonstrated with the Sultan and begged to be excused. But the Sultan said: “Frenchmen are liars as well as artists, and, unless you do the work, I will cut your head off.” Thus ended the interview. The shoemaker, seeing the necessity of painting or dying, decided to learn to paint, and with wrhat help he could gather, toiling night and day, he soon completed the work to the satisfaction of the Sultan, who praised him for his skill and gave him his liberty. This necessity turned the shoemaker into an artist, and but for such a necessity he would have died with his awl in hand. The necessities of life make merchants, physicians, statesmen, preachers, mechanics; indeed, are the moulding forces, transmuting men and women into their better selves.
Comfort f vr the Weak, 109
The things we do not want are often the things we need. What we shrink from, as a child from medicine, may be for our healing.
Here’s a story for the children, illustrating this fact. A little girl was sent to a neighbor’s house in a mountain district, to bring home two geese which had been purchased. She had to drive them through a dark wood in the evening twilight. She did not fear the shadows, but beyond the forest was a house with a fierce dog in the yard. This dog she feared, and as she approached the house her little heart was throbbing in her throat. Suddenly she heard a rattling in the leaves, and a wild-cat sprang out upon one of the geese. Not realizing her danger, she rushed to the help of her charge, and the wild-cat leaving the goose, attacked her, and was tearing her clothes and flesh, when out from the gate the fierce dog bounded, rushed upon the scene, and seizing the wild-cat with his sharp teeth soon made an end of him. The dog the little girl dreaded was just what she needed. She thought little of the dangers of the woods; the danger that she feared was really her safety. And as we pass through life, amid i io Milk and Meat.
the shadows that gather about us, we dread the dogs of adversity, of great distress, more than we do the little wild-cats of selfishness and sin that waylay us. But our need is sometimes that these very dogs with sharp teeth should have access to us, and they will destroy the things that would destroy us. God knows it, and He turns them loose upon us.
Believe me, Christian, the weights of life may be its wings; the sorrows, its joys; the adversity, its true prosperity; the darkness, its most radiant light. The burdens upon us may be the lever that lifts us up. Take courage, then, under any burden.
“The camel at the close of day
Kneels down upon the sandy plain
To have his burden lifted off,
And rest again.
“My soul, thou too shouldst to thy knees
When twilight draweth to a close,
And let thy Master lift the load,
And grant repose.
“The camel kneels at break of day
To have his guide replace his load,
Then rises up anew to take
The desert road.
Comfort for the Weak. 1 1 I
So thou shouldst kneel at morning’s dawn, That God may give thee daily care,
Assured that He no load too great
Will make thee bear.,,