Who Is Sufficient?

There is something profoundly moving about gathering in the house of God and sensing that you are not alone in the journey of faith. A worship service—when it is filled with sincerity and unguarded hearts—reminds us of something we tend to forget: God has already been walking toward us before we ever walked into this building. And when God meets us in this place, He often reveals the quiet truth we keep trying to outrun—that His strength arrives most clearly in the places where we feel least sufficient.

That is why I want to begin a journey through 2 Corinthians, because no other letter Paul ever wrote unveils his heart so honestly. This is not Paul the fiery debater or Paul the relentless theologian. This is Paul after the battles, Paul with the scars still visible, Paul who has discovered that divine power is not a spotlight but a seed planted in human weakness. He does not show us how to be impressive; he shows us how to be faithful.

And right from the beginning he confronts one of the most unspoken burdens of ministry: expectations. It is astonishing how deeply people imagine what a pastor should be like. Not only the pastor—but even the pastor’s wife. Ask someone what a dentist’s wife is like and they will stare at you blankly. Ask someone what a pastor’s wife is like and they will likely speak with confidence. It’s remarkable how ministry roles have inherited centuries of unspoken scripts.

But here is the danger: when a minister spends too many years bowing to a script rather than bowing to Christ, something inside him begins to fracture. Ministry ceases to be calling and becomes performance. And the soul grows quiet. And the heart grows tired. And the joy begins to drain away, not because the work is wrong, but because the weight of expectation was never meant to be carried alone.

Paul understands this. That’s why 2 Corinthians is not a manual for strong leaders; it is a confession of a wounded servant. And it opens with a passage so honest, so revealing, that it pierces even the most professional façade ministers try to maintain.

Paul writes:

2 Corinthians 2:14–16

> “But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ, and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of Him.

To the one we are the aroma of death; to the other, the fragrance of life.

And who is sufficient for these things?”

There, in three sentences, Paul swings from triumph to inadequacy so quickly that you can almost hear the crack in his voice. He begins with victory—Christ leading a triumphal procession—and ends with a trembling question: “Who is equal to this task? Who is sufficient?”

But here is the glory: the question is not despair. It is worship.

Because the moment a servant of God admits insufficiency, God finally has room to work.

Paul describes the triumphal procession—a Roman celebration so magnificent that the entire city would crowd balconies and rooftops to watch the conquering general ride through the streets. Only a general who had utterly crushed the enemy, who had achieved complete victory, could receive such honor.

The procession began with senators in embroidered garments, then trumpeters blasting their announcement, then carts overflowing with treasure seized in battle. Behind them came white bulls for sacrifice, then banners of the conquered nations, then the defeated kings in chains. The soldiers followed next, shouting their victory, celebrating their general. And then came the general himself—face painted red like Jupiter, standing tall in a chariot drawn by four horses. Behind him stood a slave whose only job was to whisper into his ear:

“Remember you are mortal. Remember all glory fades.”

Paul says, “That is the parade I am in. But Christ—not I—is the conquering General. Christ won the battle. Christ carries the authority. Christ receives the glory.” And the astonishing part is what Paul sees when he tries to locate himself in that parade.

He is not a senator.

Not a soldier.

Not a defeated king.

Not a general.

He sees himself simply as a man carrying a fragrance—an aroma pot designed to let the world catch a whiff of Christ. His calling is not to impress but to make Christ known. Not to command attention but to release the fragrance. Not to convince the world of his worth but to reveal Christ’s victory.

And when he does, Paul says something startling:

“To some, the fragrance smells like life. To others, it smells like death.”

The same gospel awakens some hearts and hardens others.

The same message comforts one soul and disturbs another.

The same sermon brings tears to one person and resistance to the person sitting beside them.

And ministers soon discover the impossible truth: You cannot please everyone.