Strength - the Faulty Crutch

Strength works - until it doesn’t.

For a while, strength feels like the answer.

Muscle, willpower, intelligence, competence, grit.

The kind of strength that gets things done, keeps things moving, earns respect.

The kind that says, I’ve got this.

And often … we do.

Until we don’t.

That moment - when strength runs out - isn’t a failure of character.

It’s a revelation of truth.

Because human strength was never meant to carry the full weight of life.

Think of Samson.

Samson’s story reads like a highlight reel of physical power.

He was strong in a way few people ever are.

Enemies fell. Gates were ripped from hinges. His strength worked.

People feared him. He relied on it. Why wouldn’t he?

But Samson trusted his strength more than his calling.

He treated it like it was his own possession rather than a gift.

And slowly - almost casually - he gave away the very source of it.

When the moment came that he needed his strength most, it was gone.

The most haunting line in his story isn’t about muscles or battle. It’s this:

“He did not know that the Lord had left him.”

Strength worked ... until it didn’t.

And when it failed, Samson finally saw how fragile he truly was.

Then there’s Peter.

Peter’s strength wasn’t physical - it was emotional and moral.

Confidence. Loyalty. Passion.

He meant well.

He meant it. When he told Jesus, “Even if everyone else falls away, I won’t,”

he wasn’t lying. He believed it.

Peter trusted the strength of his devotion.

But when fear entered the room - real fear, dangerous fear -

his resolve collapsed.

Not once. Three times. The same mouth that swore loyalty

denied even knowing Jesus.

Peter didn’t lose faith

because he was evil.

He discovered he was weak.

And that discovery changed everything.

Because here’s the quiet truth underneath both stories:

God doesn’t shame us when our strength fails.

He meets us there.

Samson’s final prayer wasn’t bold - it was desperate.

And God answered it.

Peter’s restoration didn’t come with a lecture, but with breakfast on a beach

and a gentle question: “Do you love me?”

Strength is not evil. But trusting it is faulty.

Strength works for a season.

But love, humility, and dependence on God are what sustain a life.

Our frailty isn’t a flaw to overcome. It’s the doorway to grace.

And maybe the moment strength stops working isn’t the end at all ...

Maybe it’s the moment we finally stop pretending

we were meant to carry everything on our own.