When My Strength Runs Out

Introduction — When the Tank Is Empty

There comes a point in every believer’s life when the gears grind and the fuel gauge hits E.

You can quote all the right verses. You can teach Sabbath School, preach a fine sermon, smile in the foyer, and still feel like your soul is running on fumes.

Some people hide it well.

They keep the motor humming, but inside the pistons are scraping metal.

That’s where Paul found himself.

He’d tried religion.

He’d tried morality.

He’d tried passion and performance.

And then he said the most honest words a man of faith can utter:

“I have the desire to do what is right, but I cannot carry it out.” — Romans 7:18

That’s not the confession of a pagan. That’s the cry of a saint who finally hit the wall.

And if you’ve ever said, “That’ll never happen in my own strength,” congratulations — you’ve just joined the ranks of everyone who has ever truly walked with God.

1. When Effort Becomes Exhaustion

Paul was a driven man.

Before Damascus, he thought righteousness was a competition.

If zeal were gasoline, he could have powered the temple for a year.

But after grace collided with him on that dusty road, he discovered something humbling:

the more he tried to be good, the more he discovered his poverty.

Romans 7 is not an excuse for sin; it’s a diagnosis of self-effort.

It’s the moment you realize that spiritual muscle doesn’t move a spiritual mountain.

We modern believers have our own versions of the same treadmill:

– spiritual checklists

– image management

– good-Christian exhaustion

We don’t fall into sin as much as we collapse into it — because we’re tired of pretending we can sustain holiness by discipline alone.

2. The Great Contradiction

Paul described it bluntly:

“For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do — this I keep on doing.” (Rom 7:19)

That’s the tug-of-war between the old self and the Spirit.

Between flesh and faith.

Between the man you were and the person Christ is recreating.

Here’s the tension: the Law is holy, but I am not.

The Law says, “Be like God.”

My will says, “I’ll try harder.”

And my failure says, “You can’t.”

The very command that should lead me to life ends up showing me death.

Why? Because the Law was never designed to supply power — only clarity.

It’s like a mirror. It can reveal the dirt on your face but not wash it off.

It can expose, not cleanse.

And when that truth finally sinks in, the cry of the soul becomes Paul’s:

“Who will rescue me from this body of death?” (Rom 7:24)

3. The Answer in a Name

Paul didn’t end in despair.

His next breath was a shout:

“Thanks be to God, through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Rom 7:25)

The Law could diagnose sin, but only Christ could deliver from it.

Grace doesn’t lower the standard; it raises the power.

Jesus doesn’t merely forgive our weakness; He inhabits it.

He doesn’t send instructions from heaven; He moves in.

Galatians 2:20 distills that miracle into one sentence:

“I have been crucified with Christ; and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.”

The gospel isn’t about improvement; it’s about replacement.

Not my strength boosted by grace — my strength replaced by His life.

That’s why legalism always collapses: it still centers on me.

Grace centers on Christ.

4. The Moment You Surrender

Think of Peter on the lake.

He knew how to fish. He’d done it all night. But his nets were empty.

Then Jesus said, “Launch out again.”

And Peter — tired, skeptical, soaked in failure — said the words that unlock miracles:

“Nevertheless, at Your word, I will let down the nets.” (Luke 5:5)

That’s surrender.

Not apathy, not fatalism, but yielded obedience.

When Peter let go of his own expertise, the nets nearly burst.

When you let go of your own strength, grace overflows.

God waits for that moment — not because He enjoys our exhaustion, but because until we stop rowing, we won’t let Him steer.

5. From Trying to Trusting

Picture the difference between a rowboat and a sailboat.

In a rowboat, all movement depends on your arms.

In a sailboat, you raise the sail and let the wind do the work.

Both have direction. Only one has power.

The Spirit is the wind.

Grace is the sail.

Faith is the rope that keeps it trimmed.

When Paul says, “Christ lives in me,” he’s describing a sailboat life.

The oars are gone. The wind takes over.

And when the Spirit fills the sail, holiness stops being heavy labor and starts being natural motion.

6. The Hidden Glory of Weakness