The Strength of My Weakness

I adore technology. If it’s possible to be infected by a non-biological virus, I’m the walking Typhoid Mary of nerdy automation:

• When I was twelve, I got a TEAC reel-to-reel tape recorder. Before the Beatles stepped foot in Abbey Road.
• When I was sixteen, I bought an 8-Track for my car. Before my parents bought a stereo for their house.
• I bought my first computer (an Osbourne Executive) before my siblings got calculators.

Last fall I bought both a new laptop and a new phone on the same day. Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have risked a double purchase at one time (maybe not even in the same month) because of the hassle of transferring programs, settings, and contact data.

But nowadays, there are processes for automatically migrating to a new platform. (Did I mention how much I love technology?)

On a glorious Thursday morning, I had the God-given joy of migrating everything from my old laptop to my new. And it all worked seamlessly, except for one little thing that hiccupped. And then I was stuck, dead in the road. I couldn’t even log in.

I joyously jumped ship for a chance to update my new phone, which also seamlessly upgraded and updated and uplifted my soul. Until it didn’t. With some weird, unknown blockage.

I spent all day Thursday, Friday, and Saturday (and most of the evenings) updating, hiccupping, refreshing, installing, downloading, entering and re-entering passwords. And maybe cursing.

After church, an engineer friend asked how I was doing. I told him my saga, and he asked if I had prayed. I hadn’t, of course. Not once. I was frustrated, yes. I may have said a word or two my mom wouldn’t have liked, yes. But not a word of prayer. (If only there was an app for that.)

After church, instead of wading back into my technological swamp, I said a simple prayer and gave the mire to God. Instead of analysis, I took a nap.

When I woke up, I went to my desk and picked up my phone. It was working. Perfectly. Without me fixing a thing. So, I glanced at my laptop. The login prompt blinked enticingly. For the 632^nd time that week, I entered my name and password and held my breath. Everything worked. Perfectly. I thought to myself:

My trust in God begins to work in me at the moment of my inability.

What Does It Mean?

I have a set of natural skills on which I rely: I can balance a checkbook, navigate technology, and talk comfortably with strangers. Self-Help material has expanded my skill set to include scuba diving and woodworking. (And right now, I’m watching YouTube videos on golf swings.)

But these same skills also create in me a form of spiritual distraction. Because when I’m relying on natural skills, I don’t think much about God. (I’m doing just fine, thank you.) Like the disciples on the Road to Emmaus, my natural abilities look at the world without a resurrection.

The Apostle Peter was naturally assertive, but his kingdom service was fruitless until his natural boldness died, was buried, and was reborn into supernatural boldness.

Worse yet, our innate expertise is naturally divisive. In one of Peter’s infamous blunders, he exclaims, “Those other disciples may desert you, but I never will!” (I’m sure John was thinking, “Who am I? Benedict Arnold?”) And the Apostle Paul’s inborn zeal led him to persecute, imprison, and kill.

How many times have you witnessed a naturally self-controlled person disparage a naturally born, disorderly artist? (“Why can’t you just be more godly and disciplined, like me?”)

Good, Better, and Best

In spiritual matters, our good is the enemy of God’s best. Our weaknesses look to God, but our inborn aptitudes live perfectly happy without Him.

Let’s avoid the agnostic disparagement that comes from trusting our innate skills. They war against resurrected boldness. It’s not what we do that counts, not nearly as much as what God does through us.

All it takes is the funeral of our trust in ourselves.

So, what do I hear God calling me to do? Instead of falling prey to yet another internet click-bait of Three Keys, Five Secrets, or Seven Steps, I sense God calling me to One Thing:

My hope (and trust) in God begins to work in me at the moment of my inability.

Sam