Strength in Weakness: A Truth Our Culture Has Forgotten

 

2 Corinthians 12:7–10 (ESV)

“So to keep me from becoming conceited because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to harass me, to keep me from becoming conceited. Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this, that it should leave me. But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

Let’s be honest—no one enjoys pain. No one signs up for disappointment, discomfort, ridicule, or isolation. I certainly don’t. I’ve felt the sting of being left out, misunderstood, made fun of for being different. I’ve walked roads I didn’t choose and faced sorrows that felt unfair.

Coming from a background in education, I was trained to speak of self-esteem, of helping children know their worth and value. It’s a good goal—but in recent years, the message of self-worth has mutated. We’ve replaced the solid foundation of God-given identity with a shaky pedestal of self-glorification. The cultural anthem has become: "You are your own truth. Your desires define you. Everyone else must affirm it."

The LGBTQ+ movement, in particular, has adopted this message of identity as the ultimate form of personal truth. It's not just about being accepted as people, it's about affirmation of lifestyle choices, public expressions of sexuality, and the demand that society adjust its moral compass to accommodate behavior in order to validate feelings. We're told that if we don’t celebrate it, we must hate them. That is simply not true.

I don’t hate anyone. In fact, I deeply care. Because I know that chasing comfort outside of God’s truth leads to emptiness. I believe that everyone—regardless of their struggle or identity—is sacred, created in the image of God. That’s why I grieve when people are led to believe that sexual freedom or personal identity will satisfy the soul. It won’t. It’s a false comfort—an illusion that may numb pain for a season, but cannot carry you through life’s inevitable storms.

When the foundation of your identity is built on shifting desires or human approval, it will collapse when the next disappointment hits. It may feel good for a time, but it will not last. There is no lasting peace in self-made truth—only exhaustion from trying to hold it all together.

And the enemy loves this. Satan offers illusions, not healing. He disguises bondage as freedom, confusion as enlightenment, rebellion as authenticity. He convinces people that if they can just express themselves enough, they’ll feel whole. But all the while, he is pulling them further from the One who can truly make them whole.

But here’s the beautiful irony: even Satan’s attempts to destroy us are used by God to grow us. Just as Paul’s thorn in the flesh—“a messenger of Satan”—kept him humble and fully reliant on God's grace, so too does God allow hard things in our lives to shape us. The devil plots for our downfall, but God repurposes those very battles into strength-building seasons.

The stories of Job, Ruth, and Esther remind us of this. Pain and loss were real in their lives, but they were never wasted. What looked like defeat became a divine setup for victory.

The same is true today. When people look at our lives, they are watching closely. They want to know: How do you live through hardship? Where is your peace coming from? If all they see is us—they’ll only see another human struggle. But if they see Jesus in us, they’ll see hope. Not temporary hope. Real, eternal, transformational hope.

That kind of hope isn’t found in public applause, pride parades, or pronoun affirmations. It’s not found in politics or pressure campaigns. It’s found in abiding in the truth of Christ.

“So Jesus said to the Jews who had believed him, ‘If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.’”
— John 8:31–32 (ESV)

Freedom doesn’t come from doing whatever we want. It comes from surrendering to the One who created us. Real truth doesn’t chain us to man-made identity—it frees us to become who God designed us to be. The world's “truth” changes by the day. God’s truth never does.

Jesus offers a different kind of freedom—freedom from sin, freedom from shame, freedom from chasing affirmation. He offers peace that passes understanding. Hope that doesn't evaporate in suffering. Strength that rises in weakness.

This truth does not shame—it saves. It may confront us—but it leads us home.

So let us speak the truth in love. Let us stand with courage and compassion. Let us not bow to the pressures of culture but bow to the authority of Christ. And let us remember even in our weakness, His power is made perfect.

If you’re struggling today…

Know this: you are loved, seen, and created with purpose. But your purpose is not found in your pain or your pride—it’s found in Jesus. He doesn't leave you where you are. He lifts you, transforms you, and gives you real life.

Let the truth set you free.

When Death Visits…Holding on Through the Valley

 

Death does not knock politely.
It crashes in—sometimes expected at the end of a long life, and other times in the middle of our laughter, our hobbies, our dreams, our youth. It does not ask for permission. It comes like a rogue wave, dragging us under without warning. We find ourselves gasping, unable to breathe, caught in a grief that feels like drowning.

We turn, often instinctively, to Psalm 23, searching for comfort in ancient words we have heard at funerals:

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
—Psalm 23:4, ESV

But there are times when even these words—so familiar, so beloved—feel distant. The valley feels too long, the shadow too heavy, the Shepherd too silent.

We are told to be strong.
We are told to have faith.
But grief is not weakness.
Grief is love with no place to go.

When death visits, it leaves behind more than sorrow.
It leaves questions.

• Why now?
• Why them?
• Why didn't God stop it?
• Why didn’t I say more, do more, love better?
• Will this pain ever go away?

And sometimes, there are no answers. That, perhaps, is the hardest part.
There is no explanation that makes the empty chair less empty.
There is no theological reasoning that makes your child, your spouse, your parent, your friend come back.

C.S. Lewis wrestled with this silence when he lost his wife:

“Where is God? ...Go to Him when your need is desperate...and what do you find? A door slammed in your face.”
—C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

If you’ve felt that—the silence—you are not alone.

Even Jesus wept.

“Jesus wept.”
—John 11:35, ESV

He knew He would raise Lazarus.
Yet He stood in front of that tomb and cried because grief matters.
Loss matters.
We were not created for death. We were created for eternity.

And then there is anger.
We feel angry at doctors, hospitals, accidents, at others who move on too quickly—and sometimes, angry at God.

And let us say what is true: God is not afraid of your anger.

The Psalms are filled with laments—raw, honest cries:

“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?”
—Psalm 13:1, ESV

Grief is not a straight line.
It’s not a calendar or a checklist.
It’s waves. And some waves come with rage, regret, blame, and bewilderment.

And that’s okay.

Spurgeon wrote:

“God is too good to be unkind and He is too wise to be mistaken. And when we cannot trace His hand, we must trust His heart.”

That’s not a demand to silence your emotions.
It’s a comforting invitation—that even in your questions, your shaking fists, your messy sobs—you are still held.

Grief will return when you least expect it.
On a normal Tuesday. In the grocery store. Hearing a song. Seeing their handwriting. Smelling their cologne. Holding their Bible.

Just when you think you’re okay, the wave hits again.
And that’s not failure. That’s love.

You may feel like you’re drowning again. But there’s a rope—a lifeline thrown out by Christ Himself.

“We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain.”
—Hebrews 6:19, ESV

Hold onto that rope. Let others help you hold it too.

Death is not just about endings.
It is a sacred reminder: no one gets out of this life alive.

“Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.”
—James 4:14, ESV

Have you made preparations—not just for your body, but for your soul?

Have you chosen where you will spend eternity?

“And just as it is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment…”
—Hebrews 9:27, ESV

You will not get a second chance. Once we step into eternity, the decision is sealed.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, executed just before the end of WWII, faced death with courage because he was ready:

“This is the end—for me, the beginning of life.”

Can you say the same?

You do not need to “move on” from your grief.
You do not need to let go of the memories.
But you can, in time, let go of fear.
You can release shame.
You can carry joy, and make new memories with those still here.
You can honor the ones you’ve lost by living fully, honestly, and eternally focused.

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more…for the former things have passed away.”
—Revelation 21:4, ESV

Ask yourself:

• Have I accepted the hope Christ offers?
• Have I prepared those I love to grieve without burden?
• Have I made peace with death—not in fear, but in faith?

Let the sorrow come. Let the questions be asked. Let the anger be spoken.

But don’t let go of the rope.

Christ holds you. And He is enough.

“For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”
—Philippians 1:21, ESV