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.