A Theology of Weakness

Enter by the narrow gate;
for wide is the gate and broad is the way
that leads to destruction,
and there are many who go in by it.

Because narrow is the gate
and difficult is the way which leads to life,
and there are few who find it.

Matthew 7:13-14

Today we commemorate Palm Sunday.

On that first Palm Sunday, Jesus entered Jerusalem riding on a small donkey.

We need to understand that today, Jesus is our glorious King, enthroned in heaven, ruling in majesty.

But there is a valuable lesson to be learned in looking at the way Jesus lived while He was here on earth.


In the thirty plus years that I have known Jesus as my Lord, more and more pieces of the puzzle have been given me. I realize that we will never get to know God in His fullness; thus, the thought of spending eternity with Him fills my heart with such excitement.

Through the years of getting to know God more, I have progressed from merely knowing Him as Redeemer, Friend, Brother...

He has become to me Father, Provider, Healer, the Faithful One, Prince of Peace, King, Bridegroom, and many more ...

My theology, or understanding of Him, has also widened.


The past years, I have been drawn to two important themes that have certainly helped to make me more mature in my Christian walk. These two themes are:

a theology of weakness, and a spirituality of waiting.

In this post I want to share my thoughts about the theology of weakness.

The word "theology" literally means the study of God. It used to be that whenever I heard the word theology there was something in me that refused to budge. We live in times that put undue emphasis on intellectual pursuits. Any theology could easily become just another file to store in one's mental retrieval systems.

But Henri Nouwen, a favorite author of mine, changed my opinion when he gave this remarkable definition of the word. He said,

Theology is looking at reality with the eyes of God.

I agree with Rev. Roger Karban when he says that

because faith is a deeply personal experience...we need a variety of theologies to help us reflect on God present among us. No one theology meets our every need or perfectly corresponds to our unique experience.

(From Find Strength in Weakness)

The theology of weakness began appealing to me and my husband about ten years ago. He and I would often talk about it, and we had prayed for it to become part of the authentic lifestyle, a way of life, that we were seeking for both of us and the rest of our family.


I first encountered the term many years ago while reading Henri Nouwen's spiritual journals. Then I met it again in the writings of Joyce Hugget, Sue Monk Kidd, and Marva J. Dawn.

There is something so liberating in choosing to live out this theology in our lives. If you have ever read Bill Hybels' book entitled Descending Into Greatness, you will understand what I mean.

Nouwen says that a theology of weakness helps us "to look with God's eyes at our experience of brokenness, limitedness, woundedness, and frailty in a way that Jesus taught us, in the hope that such a vision will offer us a safe way to travel on earth."


That definition says it all in a nutshell. In a world that extols success, power, and strength, what value do the poor and the down-trodden have? And yet, if we are to be honest, the harsh realities of our everyday lives point to the real need for such a theology -- not to be merely studied and discussed, but to be lived out deep in the core of our beings where it really matters. We all need a safe way to travel here on earth.

Jesus Himself demonstrated what it was to be weak, in the thirty-three short years that He lived here on earth.

It is a choice, actually, to become weak, small in the eyes of the world.

God-realization versus self-actualization.

But it's not easy to embrace this kind of life.

The world lures us to stay within the safe confines of our comfort zones. It can easily become a way of life. And there are high walls that keep unwanted intruders out.


Jesus says the kingdom of heaven belongs to those who choose to become as little children.

Graced vulnerability is a beautiful way of describing it. (I borrowed the term from David Jensen, the title of his book about childhood.)

Yes, it is a choice.

When one seems not to have enough resources, the choice to be small and powerless is not too difficult to make.

This is probably how some look at the way Ernie and I have chosen to live.

And in a sense, they may be right. But it actually goes much deeper than what others merely see and think.

I've found a secret comfort in keeping God's precious dealings to ourselves. For the past twenty years, not only have we been on a journey of learning to be good financial stewards, living within our means, and getting out of debt....

Ultimately, it was all about learning contentment, and experiencing God. Enjoying a simple life that isn't weighed down by wants and non-essentials.


In my earlier posts I have written how God brought us to the end of ourselves, that we may cling tightly to Him alone.

We needed to admit where we went wrong, and to repent, instead of making excuses.

To find value in simple joys.

To learn to use up, wear out, make do, and do without.

We found ourselves pleading with God to give us another chance, believing that He will restore the years that the locust has eaten.

Being misjudged, and misunderstood, and choosing not to defend ourselves but rather, to be at peace in the process.

Learning what it means to be truly humble, and vulnerable.

Becoming unoffendable, and appreciating the gift of woundedness.

Embracing thanksgiving and delayed gratification as a way of life.


A week before Ernie died, he preached on "Cultivating Contentment" at our church. No one knew it then, but it was his valedictory address. He talked about the three most important things in his life: trust, gratitude, and detachment. Wow!

And now, as I enter a new season, I find that the lessons my husband and I learned the hard way have become part of my springtime.

There will be a coming summer when the seeds sown in weeping and obscurity will be as flowers in full bloom.

I look forward to the next autumn season which will no longer be just another stripping away of all that I have held dear. This time, my autumn months will be a harvest time, a time of laughing, rejoicing, and dancing.

And winter will be a time of quietness, appreciating the seasons of my life that have come full circle.

Embracing the theology of weakness has truly liberated me and given me freedom in a way I never thought possible.


(If you want to view Ernie's sermon on Cultivating Contentment, which he gave in church one week before he died, click here. He gives a two minute introduction before going into the main body of his preaching.)


Let me end by sharing another favorite song of mine, Hear Our Praises by Hillsong.

Father, I just want to praise You for not sparing me the valuable lessons that I need to learn as I journey toward my final destination. My heart overflows with praises for You as my sovereign God and King!







I was reading the March 31, 2009 post entitled "Thankfulness Revisited" by my friend Saija, from Manitoba, Canada. She shared an excerpt from a book she was reading two years ago. It brought tears to my eyes as I read it, and felt that it would make a good sequel to my post. So with her permission, I am reprinting part of it here.

From "Thanksgiving Revisited" by Saija

I am reading a REALLY marvelous book called The Holy Wild...written by a pastor from B.C., Mark Buchanan...

I just wanted to share this one story - an example of Mark's excellent writing - very very readable and it hits home to my heart ... He makes a point about thankfulness ...

page 106 - 107 from The Holy Wild

I was in Uganda, Africa about a dozen years ago, in a little township called Wairaka. Every Sunday evening, about one hundred Christians from the neighboring area would gather to worship. They met at the edge of a cornfield, under a lean-to with a rusty tin roof that cracked like gunfire when it rained. They sat - when they did sit - on rough wood benches. The floor was dirt. The band's instruments were old or handmade - bruised, scratched guitars with corroded strings and necks that had warped in the humidity; a plinky electric piano plugged into a crackling speaker; shakers made of tin cans and stones. All of it kept straying out of tune.

One Sunday evening, I was too sour to join in. The music sounded squawky, I was miffed at someone on our missions team, I found the food bland, tasteless. I was feeling deprived and misunderstood. I found the joy of others hollow, mustered-up. I was miserable, and I wanted to wallow in it.

The pastor asked if anyone had anything to share. Many people wanted to, but a tall, willowy woman in the back row danced and shouted loudest, so he called her forward. She came twirling her long limbs, trilling out praise.

"Oh, brothers and sisters, I love Jesus so much," she said.

"Tell us, sister! Tell us!" the Ugandans shouted back.

"Oh, I love Him so much, I don't know where to begin. He is so good to me. Where do I begin to tell you how good He is to me?"

"Begin there, sister! Begin right there!"

"Oh," she said, "He is so good. I praise Him all the time for how good He is. For three months, I prayed to Him for shoes, And look!" And with that the woman cocked up her leg so that we could see one foot. One very ordinary shoe covered it, "He gave me shoes."

The Ugandans went wild. They clapped, they cheered, they whistled, they yelled.

But not me. I was devastated. I sat there broken and grieving. In an instant, God snapped me out of my self-pity and plunged me into repentance. In all my life, I had not once prayed for shoes. It never even crossed my mind. And in all my life, I had not even once thanked God for the many, many shoes I had.

Thanklessness becomes its own prison. Persisted in, it becomes its own hell, where there is outer darkness and gnashing of teeth. Thanklessness is the place God doesn't dwell, the place that, if we inhabit it too often, He turns us over to. "See to it that no one misses the grace of God," Hebrews says, "and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many." Thanklessness troubles and defiles many, because first it troubles and defiles the one in whom bitterness takes root.