The Paradox of Strength Through Weakness: Paul’s Thorn in the Flesh

 

You ever notice how the Kingdom of God always seems upside down from the world we live in? Like it runs on a holy kind of backward. We say, “Be strong!” and God says, “My strength is made perfect in weakness.” We shout, “Climb higher!” and He says, “Humble yourself and I will lift you up.” It’s like every time we try to build a tower of Babel in our own honor, He gently knocks it over and invites us back to the tent—back to the wilderness where His presence is enough. And if ever a man learned that firsthand, it was Paul.

This isn’t just theory. This is real fire-tested faith. Paul wasn’t sitting in some ivory tower writing doctrinal essays. He was bloodied, bruised, chained to guards, shipwrecked, snake-bitten, sleepless, hungry—and yet he says, “Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” Oh saints, if that doesn't turn the world upside down in your spirit, let’s go back and look again.

When he writes in 2 Corinthians 12:7, “there was given to me a thorn in the flesh…”—let’s look at that for a minute. That phrase “thorn in the flesh” is skolops tē sarki. Now skolops isn’t some little splinter. This word refers to a sharpened stake, like something you’d impale someone on. This isn’t just annoying. This is painful. It digs in, it won’t go away, it pierces the everyday. And what does Paul say? It was given to me. Edothē, from didōmi—it was granted, appointed. Not random. Not accidental. But sovereignly allowed.

And who’s doing the giving here? He says, “a messenger of Satan to buffet me.” Now we could get lost down a rabbit hole on that, but let’s stay centered. Aggelos of Satanas—a messenger, not just a demonic presence, but something that delivers affliction with consistent, pounding force. And to buffet me—hina me kolaphizē—literally, to keep slapping me with fists. That’s not poetic drama, that’s Greek boxing language. Paul is saying, “I’m getting hit over and over, and God is letting it happen.”

Now pause. Most of us would be running to every prayer line, every oil-slinging elder, begging for that thing to be cast out. And Paul did ask. Three times. Three deep, agonizing, pleading seasons of prayer. The Greek verb used for "besought" is parakalesa—to call out, to beg, to entreat earnestly. Paul wasn’t trying to be noble. He wanted that thing gone.

And what did he hear back? Not silence. Not scorn. But a sentence from the throne.
“My grace is sufficient for thee.” In Greek: Hē charis mou soi arkei. Let that wash over you. Not, “My grace will eventually make it bearable.” Not, “My grace might help you cope.” No. Arkei means it is enough. It is sufficient. It is full. It is able.

And what is charis? It’s not mercy. It’s not pity. It’s empowering favor. It’s God leaning down with open hands and saying, “Here is what you need—not just to survive this, but to shine through it.” The root of charis is connected to chairo, meaning to rejoice. This grace comes with joy built into it, like a secret underground spring that doesn’t dry up.

Then comes the line that makes the heavens echo: “for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”

Oh, let's peel this apart like a scroll.

Dynamis—that explosive power, the same word used when Jesus said, “You shall receive power when the Holy Ghost comes upon you.” It’s where we get dynamite, but not just in the sense of blowing things up—it’s force, ability, miraculous capacity.

And what does He say about it? It is made perfect—teleitai, from teleioō—to bring to full maturity, to accomplish, to carry through to completion.

But where is that power made perfect?

In weakness.

That word? Astheneia. It doesn’t just mean frailty. It means lack of strength, inability to produce results, dependence, disease, and yes—even moral weakness. It's every place in you where you say, “I can’t.” It’s the aching places, the failing places, the breaking points.

Do you see it now? God isn’t waiting until you’re strong enough to use you. He isn’t banking on your performance. He’s not waiting for your flesh to finally get its act together. His power perfects itself—reaches its goal—when you run out of yours. When your knees buckle, when your voice cracks, when you’re lying on the floor saying, “Lord, I can’t do this”—that’s the moment His power says, “Good. Now I will.”

Paul doesn’t say, “So I gritted my teeth and pushed on.” He says, “Most gladly therefore will I glory in my infirmities.” Eudokēsō—I will take pleasure, I will delight, I will lean into this strange joy that comes from not being the strong one in the story.

And then he says this stunning thing: “That the power of Christ may rest upon me.” That phrase “rest upon me” is episkenōsē—it means to pitch a tent over, to cover with a tabernacle. It’s the same imagery used for the glory cloud over the tabernacle in the wilderness. The Shekinah didn’t fall on golden palaces—it hovered over a tent, in a desert, filled with wandering, weak people.

That’s where God loves to dwell.

Now let’s cross the bridge from then to now. In Paul’s day, weakness was shameful. The Roman world glorified power, masculinity, endurance, dominance. Does that sound familiar? It should. Because in this modern world of likes and platforms and polished profiles, weakness is still considered failure. We post our strengths. We hide our stumblings. And in doing so, we cut ourselves off from the very place God’s power wants to show up.

Let me ask you something personal: what’s your thorn? What’s that thing you’ve prayed away, begged away, fasted against, rebuked, wrestled, and still… it remains? Maybe it’s physical—chronic pain that no doctor can diagnose. Maybe it’s emotional—a fear that clings like fog, or grief that flares when no one else sees. Maybe it’s relational—a broken tie, a child gone prodigal, a silence in your marriage that feels deafening. Or maybe it’s internal—a sense of unworthiness, shame, inadequacy.

And maybe… just maybe… that thorn is not your enemy. Maybe it's the very thing that keeps you leaning. Keeps you listening. Keeps you tender. Keeps you on your knees where resurrection always starts.

Because, my dear believer, science is even catching up to this now. Neurologists have discovered that during seasons of suffering, the brain actually grows more neural connections through the process of vulnerability, not suppression. Empathy, compassion, and emotional resilience are forged in the fire, not after it. The body might groan, but the spirit deepens. And that, too, is part of the design. and yes, it has been proven to show up in the brain

You see, God is not in the business of producing polished performers. He is forming vessels. Skeuos—earthenware, jars of clay, cracked and chipped—but filled with the treasure of His presence. That’s what Paul says just two chapters earlier in 2 Corinthians 4: “We have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.”

The thorn reminds us we’re not the source. We’re just the lamp. And lamps don’t burn on their own.

So let the world boast in its strength. Let the flesh clamor for control. But we—we will glory in our weakness. Not because we like the pain, but because we love the Person who tabernacles there. Christ in us. The hope of glory.

And let every tear become an offering. Let every limp become a legacy. Because the God who was with Paul is still with you. His grace is still sufficient. His power is still perfecting itself in every place you’d rather hide. And that thorn? That sharp, stubborn reminder that you’re not yet whole?

It just might be the doorway to the most intimate dwelling place of all.

Shall we let Him pitch His tent there?

Because when He does… strength will come. Not yours. His.

And oh, child of God… that is more than enough.

image is chatgpt generated with my description.