Reimagining the thorn in the flesh

What if material existence itself gives a thorn to everyone? What if this world, for all its beauty and wonder, is designed with built-in struggle—not to punish us, but to shape us? I’ve spent so many years wrestling with the idea that something must be wrong with me because I couldn’t overcome my thorn, because I kept circling the same anxieties, regrets, or wounds no matter how fervently I prayed or how clearly I taught the doctrines of grace. And yet, what if this thorn—this weakness, this reminder of incompleteness—is not evidence of abandonment or failure, but of spiritual intention? Think about it: if every soul that steps into this embodied experience receives some form of persistent struggle, some place where strength fails and self-sufficiency collapses, then maybe the thorn is not our curse—it’s our calling. A remembering that we are here not to prove ourselves perfect, but to discover what grace really means when perfection is out of reach.

Perhaps this is what Paul was trying to teach us, not only through his theology but through his humanity. He didn’t present himself as the flawless apostle, conquering every trial with ease. No—he confessed to a thorn so persistent and painful that he begged God to take it away. And when God didn’t, when the thorn stayed put, Paul didn’t interpret that as divine rejection or spiritual failure. He interpreted it as revelation: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” What if that truth was never meant to be an exception for Paul, but a blueprint for all of us? What if the thorn is not what disqualifies us from grace, but what prepares us to finally trust it? For most of my life, I believed grace was something I’d receive once I handled my thorn—once I got over the past, conquered the habit, mastered the fear, earned the rest. What I’m finally waking up to is that grace doesn’t wait for the thorn to disappear. Grace meets us through it. Not after the healing, but in the ache. Not after the lesson has been learned, but while the questions are still raw.

What if this entire material existence—the world of flesh, ego, duality, and time—is the place where we are meant to unlearn the illusion of independence and rediscover the truth of union? Because here in this realm, everything ends. Everything changes. Everything hurts. And sooner or later, every one of us meets the place where our strength gives out. That’s where the thorn lives. It could be a lifelong sense of unworthiness, a grief that never fully fades, a temptation that keeps showing up, an illness no prayer cures, a regret that whispers in the night, or a fear we can’t quite shake. And when it appears, we tend to think we’ve failed—or that God has. But what if the thorn has a purpose? What if it’s meant to be the one thing we can’t fix, so that we finally stop trying to be our own savior and instead collapse into the love we’ve been describing for years but never fully trusted?

I’m beginning to see that the thorn doesn’t block grace—it reveals grace. Because when we’re strong, when we’re in control, when we’re winning, we don’t go looking for grace. We don’t feel like we need it. We say the words, preach the sermons, quote the verses—but we’re still running on spiritual pride. It’s only when the thorn begins to press into the soul, when the illusion of self-sufficiency crumbles, that grace finally stops being a concept and becomes a lifeline. That’s when we discover that grace is not a reward for the worthy, but the safety net for the weary. Not a theological construct, but a living presence that refuses to abandon us. Even when we’ve abandoned ourselves.

What if the thorn is universal—not just to Paul, not just to preachers and sinners and seekers, but to every soul who dares to incarnate into this human journey? What if the thorn is the one shared wound that binds us to one another, precisely because it reminds us that no one gets through this life without needing grace? That no matter how polished or spiritual someone seems, they too are living with something they cannot fix, escape, or outrun. And in that shared vulnerability, maybe we finally learn to show each other the kind of compassion we’ve all secretly needed but never dared to ask for. Maybe the thorn is not the enemy—but the mirror.

If this world gives every one of us a thorn, then grace is not about escaping being human. Grace is about discovering what divine love looks like in human form. It’s not about transcending weakness, but transforming in it. It's not about becoming flawless, but becoming real. And that is the gift no religion, no doctrine, no performance can manufacture. The thorn demands honesty. It demands surrender. It demands that we show up as we are—not as we wish we were. The thorn keeps us from worshiping our achievements and reminds us that the only thing worth trusting is the love that stays even when we have nothing to offer but our tired, tangled souls.

So maybe we should stop asking, "Why do I have this thorn?" and instead ask, "What is this thorn trying to teach me about grace?" Because if it's true that material existence gives every one of us a thorn, then maybe this life—this messy, beautiful, heartbreaking, radiant life—is not a test to pass, but a doorway to walk through. Maybe the thorn is the crack where grace gets in. Maybe it’s the place where control finally bows and trust finally rises. Maybe it’s the place where we stop trying so hard to be worthy, and finally allow ourselves to be loved.

And maybe this is the real gospel—not the one preached from platforms, but the one lived in silence, in struggle, in surrender: We all have a thorn. And grace is sufficient for them