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I can do all things through Christ! Right?

“I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation. . .I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Php 4:11–13)

 I can do all things. . .

The latter part of this verse has been used as a motivation for Christians of all stripes in their endeavours to accomplish all sorts of things. I am old enough to remember when  boxer Evander Holyfield had “Php 4:13” printed on his shorts for his bout with Mike Tyson (which Holyfield won). And anyone who follows American football (and possibly many who don’t) will be aware of the name Tim Tebow, a fine young man who lives  his very public witness for Jesus in the NFL arena, in ways including putting Scripture references such as Php 4:13 on his “Eye Black.”[1]

I need to be clear that it is not my intention here to oppose these sorts of applications of this verse. However, I do want to highlight what this saying actually appears to mean in the context of the book of Philippians, a meaning which need not tether the Holy Spirit’s application of the verse to situations beyond its context, but must surely inform it. Paul, the letter’s human author, is in prison—and not for the first time. In ancient times, prison did not merely entail confinement—the curtailment of certain freedoms, but also physical suffering. Since a prison sentence was considered more of an actual punishment, rather than simply a protection for the rest of society, it was important that there be this component of suffering. In more extreme cases, this involved the ongoing use of torture. The place of confinement was typically (though not always) a place without natural light—at times without any light. Sanitation was non-existent, and in many cases the meals and medical needs of the prisoner were not provided for. If they were to eat, or if they needed treatment of some kind, somebody outside the prison needed to provide for them. Prisoners were often chained hand and foot, were at times suspended from the walls, at times placed in stocks (hands feet and head placed through holes in a beam in order to keep the body in an unnatural position). In short, a normal and reasonable degree of comfort was usually impossible to achieve. The situation was calculated to produce a sense of hopelessness; to break the spirit of the prisoner.[2]

When Paul says “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” he is declaring in faith that he can endure his present suffering. He has confidence that whatever befalls him, his spirit will not be broken, and that he will continue to rejoice (a key word in Philippians) and speak of God’s goodness and grace to anyone who will listen. Even in the prison. He is declaring that God’s purposes for his life are not limited just because his physical body is confined to a dungeon. He can pray. He can rejoice. He can write. It is important to realise what Paul is applying this principle of “doing all things through Christ” to in order to see more clearly what he is not applying it to. Obviously, the thing that Paul would have wanted most, along with any prisoner would have been to get out of prison. But if he meant by his famous declaration what many today take him to mean, he would not have been in that prison for more than about five minutes. “I can do all things. . .” would surely have extended to finding a way out of the prison, which was Paul’s most pressing human need, and one that he would have been painfully conscious of every minute of every day of his incarceration. But he does not mean that. He appeals for help to Christ’s strength, not to change his present situation as if his own comfort were the most important thing, but to endure it for God’s glory. “I can do all things” says Paul—even this—“through Christ who strengthens me.”

Can I do all things?

So can we do all things through Christ’s strength? Yes. Absolutely. All of the things (and only those things) that Christ intends for us to do. What we cannot do is appropriate Christ’s power over all things in order to do anything that we might want to do. And what we should not do is to use Philippians 4:13 as some kind of magical incantation to be spoken over whatever difficulty we might encounter—as if God is not ok with taking us along a narrow and difficult path—and thus avoid any deeper work God may wish to do in and through us. Are you experiencing financial lack? “I can do all things” may mean simply believing God for more. But it certainly also mean trusting God that he may have a purpose in the lack. Are you experiencing physical suffering? “I can do all things” may mean trusting God to “get up, take up your mat and walk.” But it certainly means trusting his goodness, even though crippled on the mat until he so bids you. Are you experiencing relationship breakdown? “I can do all things” may mean go ahead and ‘fix it’ with the wisdom Christ provides. But it may also mean trusting God if he chooses to take a longer and more tortuous path to restoration than the one you might have preferred.

So I can do all things through Christ’s strength. As long as all the things that I choose to do flow out of my cultivated intimacy with His heart, my total trust in his character and my absolute surrender to his purposes. Anything I do beyond this, I do in my own strength. And that is not a place where I want to be.

[1]Thick black horizontal lines painted under a player’s eyes which are said to literally “draw light away” from the eyes in order to help a player see the ball better.

[2] This was precisely the type of imprisonment that Paul and Silas had experienced when they had first gone to Philippi, the time when, no doubt, the Philippian Church was established. Philippians was probably written during Paul’s Roman captivity, a period during which Paul (at times) enjoyed better treatment. Nevertheless, he refers several times in Chapter 1 to his ‘chains’ and to his ‘suffering,’ so it is safe to assume that the level of discomfort that he was experiencing ensured that his status, treatment, and condition as a prisoner were never far from his mind.


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Forgiveness: Strength in weakness

I forgive you, but its not ok

There is a huge difference between saying “I forgive you” and saying “that’s ok” when somebody apologises. With many smaller offenses, the difference may seem inconsequential, but as we ascend the levels of offense (if you will), the difference becomes clearer and more important. For example, if you accidentally step on my toe and say “I’m sorry,” I may well say in return “that’s ok” or “it doesn’t matter.” We’ll call that ‘level 1.’ If you accidentally run me over with your car however, its not ok. That requires forgiveness. We’ll call this ‘level 2.’ If you intentionally run me over with your car, but later regret it and apologise, (‘level 3’) I may wrestle with my decision to forgive you. But if you intentionally run me over with your car, and never regret it, (‘level 4’) I’m probably going to struggle, and for a long time.[i] It is because of these higher levels of offense, that true forgiveness, the Christian way, has been denounced as powerless, permissive, and passive. It isn’t.

The high cost of forgiveness

I still remember the day my Mum read me the story of the crucifixion for the first time. I don’t mean the sanitised ‘kiddie picture bible’ version “…but they didn’t like Jesus. So they put him on a cross. Then God made him come alive again…”—just the real words of Scripture. A lump began to form in my throat and when it got to this part I could take it no more and began to silently sob: “They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and then twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand and knelt in front of him and mocked him. “Hail, king of the Jews!” they said. They spit on him, and took the staff and struck him on the head again and again.” (Mt 27:28–31)

The detail is horribly graphic; the stripping and mocking intended to cause maximal humiliation. These men (along with the dehumanizing regime that saw them as expendable weapons of war rather than men) were incredibly spiteful, and utterly merciless. Jesus had already endured an unimaginable flogging, which many did not survive. Now they beat him around the head again and again with a rod (think baseball bat) for who knows how long; each blow driving the spikes from the ‘crown’ ever deeper. All this before the actual crucifixion. They were just getting warmed up. But it was not the graphic detail which brought me to tears. It was the sheer injustice of it. Jesus did not deserve this. And yet, he endured it for me.

Is 53:5–7 tells us that “…he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities. the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.”

He endured it for us, for my healing and for your healing from the contagion of sin. And even in the agony of his final moments, he begged for the forgiveness of the perpetrators of this crime “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” How truly it is said that he is our advocate before the Father, for this prayer was prayed not just for the soldiers who nailed him to the cross, but for you and for me and for every sinner for whom he died.

Jesus endured it willingly

But he did not endure it passively. On the contrary, propelled inexorably by a love that I cannot imagine, he endured it willingly.

Back in the garden, Jesus made this crystal clear. Seeing Jesus arrested was more than Peter could take. In what can only be described as a fit of characteristic rashness, he drew his sword, slashing wildly in panic (that’s the only conclusion I can draw) and ended up cutting off somebody’s ear. For this, he was met with a rebuke. Jesus declared that if he had chosen, the Father would have put at his disposal ‘twelve legions of angels’ to prevent his arrest and execution (Matt 26:51–54). Make no mistake. Jesus endured the cross willingly. This is what sets the suffering of Christ apart from all other human suffering.[ii] He chose it. And he chose it for our sake. His suffering is not passive; his submission not weak.

And that is why repentance must accompany faith. For when God declares our sins forgiven; when we in faith, appropriate his dying prayer for us, we realise the tremendous weight of our own sin—it was our hands that drove the nails in, though it was not the nails, but rather his love for us that actually kept him on the cross. Our sins have been forgiven at a great cost.

Strong faith-filled forgiveness

I say all that to say this. True forgiveness is not weak. Nor is it passive. When we extend God’s forgiveness of us, that Jesus earned on the cross, to others, as indeed we must; when we say “I forgive you,” it is an act of strong faith. Its not just saying “its ok, it doesn’t matter, its not that big a deal.” Nor is it saying “Well my feelings are not important, so its ok that you walk all over me.” Its not ok. Its never ok. No, saying “I forgive you” is far from passive. It is an active declaration of faith. When we say “I forgive you” we simultaneously declare two things. First, we acknowledge the seriousness of the offense—it was serious enough to send Jesus to the cross. Second, we declare in faith that we believe that Jesus paid the penalty for the offense committed against us. And that his payment is enough. We therefore voluntarily relinquish the right for revenge. It isn’t weak. It isn’t passive. It takes guts. It takes faith. And its powerful and liberating. And as Christians, who have freely received God’s grace, we have no choice but to freely give it to others.

[i] Obviously there are higher ‘levels’ and to think that this progression is strictly linear risks over-simplification, but work with me here.

[ii] I might also add that this puts to bed the ridiculous and frankly blasphemous notion of the suffering of Christ as ‘cosmic child abuse’ put about by those who seem to want to undermine the power of the Cross. But more about this, perhaps, in another post.