Jesu Juva
2 Timothy 1
October 5, 2025
Proper 22C
Dear saints of our Savior~
I’ve had the opportunity to read a lot of old letters lately—clearing out my childhood home in Kansas, sifting through boxes from my flooded basement. Letters I sent, and letters I received, a long time ago. Letter-writing is becoming a lost art these days. Emails and texts just aren’t the same thing as putting pen to paper with the intent of expressing something meaningful.
Perhaps the most famous letters ever written are those in the New Testament. We call them “epistles.” They are letters; but so much more. They are the Word of God; but, oh, so human. Nowhere do you sense this more than in Paul’s second letter to Timothy. It’s so personal, so sincere, so profound and meaningful.
Second Timothy is the last epistle we have from Paul—written right before he was executed. He was in prison, in chains, in a cold dungeon, all alone. 2 Timothy is the inspired Word of God, of course; but it also contains the very human words of a dying man on death row. And to really appreciate this letter, you have to read it in this light—in this context. It is in many ways Paul’s last will and testament.
As Paul sat there in prison shamefully shackled, his thoughts could easily have trended negative. People on death row have lots of time to think, time to brood, time to kill—before being killed. What did Paul have to show for his work as an apostle of Jesus Christ? What successes were surrounding him as a faithful preacher to the gentiles?
The things we might hope for, Paul did not have. No family to comfort and support him. No grandchildren to make him proud. He had no pension, no house in the suburbs. Although he founded many congregations, he never stuck around long enough to enjoy the fruits of his labors. There would be no retirement dinners with folks standing up to applaud—no gifts, no plaques, no cake and punch. There would have been every reason for Paul to be bitter and depressed.
But Paul’s first full sentence is the last thing we might expect to hear. Paul writes: I thank God. I thank God. He’s chained up in the squalor of a cold dungeon with rats and roaches and Paul writes: I thank God. How can that be? Perhaps Paul remembered what the risen Christ had once spoken to him: My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. The weakness of Paul made room for the surpassing strength of Jesus. It was through the strength of Jesus that Paul could have a thankful heart—a heart that was so faithfully focused on the life of the world to come, that even the hell of death row could not rob him of joy and thankfulness.
Can you say with Paul, “I thank God?” As you survey your surroundings and count your blessings can you say, “I thank God?” And if all those blessings were to disappear, could you still say, “I thank God?” What kind of words will pass through your lips today? Will there be more words of thankfulness and appreciation, or more words of bitterness and complaint? When everything goes wrong and success eludes us—and we all know the agony of defeat—Paul teaches us to give thanks to the Lord, for He is good and His mercy endures forever.
Now, if Paul’s thankfulness is surprising, then wait until you hear what he writes next: I thank God . . . with a clear conscience. A clear conscience means no guilt and no regret. There’s an old proverb that says, “A clear conscience is a soft pillow.” In other words, when your conscience is clear, you can sleep peacefully, and comfortably. Perhaps the opposite is also true: A guilty conscience is a prickly pillow. It pokes you and pricks you and pains you and allows you no rest—only suffering.
How could Paul claim for himself a clear conscience? It’s rare to find a clear conscience among dying men. Guilt, remorse, and regret have a way of taking over. “Could haves” and “should haves” and “if onlys” flood the thoughts of dying men. And don’t forget the fact that Paul had earned for himself a place in the sinners hall of fame. Earlier in his life (as Saul of Tarsus) he had masterminded the persecution of Christians—hunted them down, threw them into prison, watched with righteous approval as faithful Stephen was stoned to a bloody pulp. Those shameful scenes could have replayed over and over again in Paul’s mind. Guilt could have gripped him by the throat.
Perhaps you’ve felt the grip of guilt around your throat too. There are scenes of shame in each of our lives—scenes that the devil loves to rewind and replay for us over and over again (in high definition). The sins we want so desperately to forget about are the very ones we keep on remembering. Sins confessed to Christ—sins forgiven by Christ—they should no longer trouble us. But trouble us they do. They rob us of the joy of our salvation.
Beloved in the Lord, let’s learn a thing or two from reading someone else’s mail. Learn from Paul, the chief of sinners. If he could rest easy on the soft pillow of a clear conscience, then so can you. Learn from Paul that it’s all about Jesus. It’s Jesus, Paul writes, “who saved us and called us to a holy calling, not because of our works but because of his . . . grace.”
The secret of a thankful heart—the secret of a clear conscience—is Jesus, the Son of God. It’s through faith in Him that you can lay your head down tonight with a clear conscience—guilt-free, sins forgiven, a shame-free slumber. It’s Jesus who gives you a thankful heart—a heart fortified by faith—strong enough to bear every cross and every loss in this life—because you know that Jesus has already borne His cross for you, for your sins, for your salvation. His grace IS sufficient. His power IS made perfect in your weakness. When every earthly prop gives way, He then is all your hope and stay.
And of course, being on death row is a whole lot easier when you share Paul’s conviction that this life isn’t all there is—that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead and in Him you too will rise. Christ Jesus, Paul writes, “has abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel.” Paul could live with joy in a terrible present, because He knew that there was a glorious future in store for him, and for all who follow Jesus in faith.
The promise of the resurrection is also what keeps us going. It keeps hope alive. It inspires our living and our dying. The promise of the resurrection inspires our witness to others. It’s why we pass on the faith to children and grandchildren. One of Paul’s personal remembrances of Timothy was of his sincere faith—a faith, he writes, “that first dwelt in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you as well.” It’s a testimony to the power of parents and grandparents—who make it their aim to pass on the faith and the sure and certain hope of the resurrection. Who are you passing along the faith to? Who are you mentoring and encouraging in the faith? Who has God placed in your path who needs to know that our present suffering isn’t even worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed in us?
Perhaps (just spit-balling here) you could write that person a letter—a tender, personal, affectionate letter—an epistle that spells out the hope you have in Jesus—so that they too might thank God with a clear conscience—and live and die in the victory of Jesus Christ.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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