2 Timothy 4

Today’s Passage: 2 Timothy 4

This is the last chapter of the last letter, and it moves from the highest ground to the lowest without any sense of a change in altitude, which is exactly what makes it so moving. It opens with a courtroom. Paul charges Timothy in the presence of God and of Christ Jesus, who will judge the living and the dead, and in view of His appearing and His kingdom, and then gives the charge itself in four words: preach the word. Be ready when it is convenient and when it is not. Reprove, rebuke, encourage, and do all of it with patience, because a time is coming when people will not put up with sound teaching and will collect teachers who tell them what they want. Then Paul turns and looks at his own ending, and gives us three sentences that have carried the church for two thousand years. He is already being poured out like a drink offering. The time of his departure has come. He has fought the good fight, finished the race, kept the faith, and there is a crown laid up for him, and not only for him. And then, having said that, this same man asks for his coat. He names the friend who left him because he loved this world, and the ones sent away on errands, and the one man still sitting with him. He asks for a young colleague he had once refused to travel with. He asks for his books. He tells the truth about a man who did him harm and about the hearing where nobody stood with him, and he asks that it not be held against them. Then greetings, and the ache of the whole letter in five words: come before winter.

As you read, hold this: Preach the word while there is time, because the race can be finished and the faith can be kept, and the crown of righteousness is laid up not for apostles only but for everyone who loves His appearing.

2 Timothy 4:1–4 (BSB)

¹ I charge you in the presence of God and of Christ Jesus, who will judge the living and the dead, and in view of His appearing and His kingdom: ² Preach the word; be prepared in season and out of season; reprove, rebuke, and encourage with every form of patient instruction. ³ For the time will come when men will not tolerate sound doctrine, but with itching ears they will gather around themselves teachers to suit their own desires. ⁴ So they will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths.

Paul sets the whole thing in a courtroom before he says a word of the charge. “I charge you in the presence of God and of Christ Jesus, who will judge the living and the dead, and in view of His appearing and His kingdom.” He is not appealing to friendship here, though there was plenty of it. He is putting a young pastor under oath in front of the Judge of all the earth, and he names the day when the work will be assessed. That is a solemn way to speak to someone you love, and Paul does it because ministry is a solemn business. Then the charge itself, and it is startlingly short: preach the word (κηρύσσω) kēryssō, pronounced kay-ROOS-soh. Strong's G2784, to herald, to proclaim as a public announcer. Kēryssō means to herald, and the noun behind it, kēryx, was a real occupation in the ancient world. Before newspapers and public address, a city or a king employed a herald, a man with a strong voice who went to the marketplace and announced what he had been given to announce. The essential thing about a herald is what he is not. He is not the author of the message, and he has no liberty to improve it. He does not soften the emperor’s decree because the crowd looks unhappy, and he does not add flourishes of his own to make himself sound wiser. He carries someone else’s words at full volume and then stands aside. That is the office Paul hands Timothy, and it settles a great deal. A preacher’s job is not to be original; originality in this line of work is a failure of duty. Nor is he to be timid, because a herald who mumbles has not done his job either. And notice the freedom in it. If the message is not yours, then its reception is not your verdict. The herald is answerable for accuracy and courage, not for applause. Every believer who has ever had to say a true thing out loud can take that home. . Not preach about the word. Not preach your reflections, your experiences, your causes, however good. The word.

Then the timing: “be prepared in season and out of season.” The Greek is two blunt words that mean, roughly, when it is convenient and when it is not, and Paul offers no third option. There will never be a moment when the culture agrees that this is a good time. And then the three verbs, which together make a whole ministry: reprove, which is to expose what is false and bring it into the light; rebuke, which is the direct word to a person who is doing wrong; and encourage, which is the coming alongside of someone who is worn out and needs to be urged on. A man who only does the first two will crush the sheep. A man who only does the third will let them wander over a cliff, comfortably. And every one of them is to be done “with every form of patient instruction,” which puts a bit in the mouth of the whole thing. Patience, and teaching. Not temper, and not slogans.

Then the reason, and it is not encouraging: “the time will come when men will not tolerate sound doctrine.” The picture is vivid and slightly grotesque. They have itching ears, and they gather teachers around themselves the way a man might hire staff, choosing them “to suit their own desires.” Notice the direction of authority in that sentence. In a healthy church, the word confronts the hearer. Here the hearer sets the agenda and shops for a voice that will scratch the itch. And the end of it is stated in verse four with a terrible simplicity: they turn their ears from the truth and turn aside to myths. Nobody ever decides to believe a myth. They simply find the truth uncomfortable and drift, and something has to fill the space. That is why the charge is preach the word, and why it is given under oath.

2 Timothy 4:5–8 (BSB)

⁵ But you, be sober in all things, endure hardship, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill your ministry. ⁶ For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time of my departure is at hand. ⁷ I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. ⁸ From now on there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but to all who crave His appearing.

“But you.” The same turn as in the last chapter, and again it sets one steady man against a drifting age. Four short commands, and none of them glamorous. Be sober in all things, which means clear-headed, unintoxicated by the excitements of the moment, the opposite of itching ears. Endure hardship, a word Paul has already used twice in this letter and never softens. Do the work of an evangelist, which is to say, whatever else you are doing, keep telling people about Jesus; a pastor caught up in managing a church can quietly stop doing the one thing that made a church exist. And then, “fulfill your ministry,” which means fill it full, carry it out to the end, leave nothing of it undone. That is a whole life’s aim in three words.

And then Paul turns to his own ending. “For I am already being poured out like a drink offering (σπένδω) spendō, pronounced SPEN-doh. Strong's G4689, to pour out as a drink offering. Spendō is the word for pouring out a libation, tipping wine onto an altar or onto the ground as an offering. Both the Old Testament sacrifices and ordinary Greek and Roman custom used it, so nobody needed it explained. Take in what the picture actually shows. The wine is not preserved, not displayed, not kept for later. It is poured, and in a second it is gone into the fire or soaked into the earth, and there is no getting it back. That is how Paul understood the end of his life, and it is worth noticing that he uses the same word in a much earlier letter, saying that even if he is being poured out like a drink offering on the sacrifice and service of the Philippians’ faith, he is glad and rejoices with them. So this was not a mood that came over him at the end. It was how he had understood his life all along, and the cell in Rome only made it visible. And here is the second word in the verse, just as carefully chosen: analysis, departure. It was the word for untying a ship from the dock, or for striking a tent and pulling up the pegs. Not an ending. A loosing of moorings. He is not being extinguished; he is casting off. , and the time of my departure is at hand.” Notice the tense. Not I will be; I am already being. The pouring has begun. He does not describe his death as a defeat, or an interruption, or even primarily as a tragedy. He describes it as an offering, and he is not the sacrifice; the sacrifice was made on a hill outside Jerusalem. He is the wine poured out beside it.

Then the three sentences. “I have fought the good fight (ἀγών) agōn, pronounced ah-GONE. Strong's G73, a contest, struggle, or fight. Agōn was the ordinary word for a contest at the games, whether a footrace, a wrestling match, or a boxing bout, and it also carried over into the courtroom for a legal struggle and into ordinary speech for any strenuous conflict. Our English word agony comes straight from it, and the related verb is used in the Gospels of Jesus in Gethsemane. So there is nothing tidy or genteel about the picture. Paul is not describing a pleasant jog. He calls it the good contest, and that adjective is doing real work: the fight was worth having. Not every fight is. A great deal of human striving is spent on contests that will not matter in fifty years, and Paul had given up a promising career among the Pharisees to enter a different arena entirely. He also uses this word for prayer, saying that Epaphras was always wrestling in prayer for the Colossians, which tells you where much of the real contending happens. If your Christian life has felt strenuous, that is not a sign that something has gone wrong. It is the word Paul chose. And when he lays down his weapons at the end, what he says about the struggle is not that it was easy but that it was good. , I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” Read them slowly, because they are among the most moving words in the New Testament, and they are also carefully modest. Paul does not say he won every match or ran a flawless race. He says he fought the good fight, meaning he was in the right contest, on the right side, for the right King, and he was in it to the end. He says he finished the race, and finishing is the whole point of a race; nobody gets a wreath for a spectacular opening quarter. And he says he kept the faith, which reaches back to the first chapter and closes the circle of the whole letter. The deposit was handed to him, and he is handing it back intact. That is the report of a trustee, not the boast of a champion. He is not saying, look what I made of my life. He is saying, what You gave me, I still have.

And then the reward, and it must be read to the very last clause. “From now on there is laid up for me the crown (στέφανος) stephanos, pronounced STEF-an-oss. Strong's G4735, crown, the victor's wreath. Stephanos is not the royal crown; that word is diadēma, the jeweled band of a king. A stephanos is a wreath, twisted from leaves and handed to the victor at the games or given as a public honor to a citizen who had served the city well. It was worthless as an object and priceless as a token, and it withered within days, which is exactly the point Paul makes to the Corinthians when he says they compete for a perishable crown and we for an imperishable one. The New Testament speaks of this wreath several times and never quite the same way: a crown of life for the one who is faithful unto death, a crown of glory that will never fade away when the Chief Shepherd appears, and here a crown of righteousness. That last phrase is best understood as the crown that belongs to righteousness, the open acknowledgment on that day of a standing given by grace and lived out in a life. And here is the thing to hold on to. This is not payment. Paul had spent his whole ministry insisting that we are justified freely, not by works, and he does not contradict himself in his final paragraph. A wreath was never wages. It was a public honor from the presiding judge, and the joy of it was that he was the one placing it on your head. of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day.” Laid up, put aside, stored where it cannot be lost, waiting. And notice who hands it over. The same word for judge that appeared in verse one, where He judges the living and the dead. The Judge who will one day hold the whole world to account is the One who will place this wreath on the head of an executed prisoner. Rome’s verdict and heaven’s verdict on the same man could hardly be further apart, and only one of them stands.

And now the four words that open the door for the rest of us: “and not only to me, but to all who crave His appearing.” Do not hurry past that. It would have been easy to read verses seven and eight as a great man’s epitaph, a summit reserved for apostles and martyrs, and to close the book feeling that our own lives are of another order altogether. Paul cuts that off before we can start. The crown is for all who love and long for His appearing. Not all who planted churches on three continents. Not all who wrote Scripture. All who crave His appearing, which is to say, everyone whose heart genuinely wants to see Jesus. The widow praying in an empty house is in that number. So is the teenager who will not join in. So is the tired parent, the faithful nurse, the believer whose name will appear in no record anywhere. The race Paul finished was extraordinary. The crown at the end of it is for ordinary people, and God intended it that way.

2 Timothy 4:9–13 (BSB)

⁹ Make every effort to come to me quickly, ¹⁰ because Demas, in his love of this world, has deserted me and gone to Thessalonica. Crescens has gone to Galatia, and Titus to Dalmatia. ¹¹ Only Luke is with me. Get Mark and bring him with you, because he is useful to me in the ministry. ¹² Tychicus, however, I have sent to Ephesus. ¹³ When you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, and my scrolls, especially the parchments.

Here is the thing that ought to keep this chapter from ever becoming a plaster saint’s monument. The man who has just said he is being poured out like a drink offering now says: come quickly, and bring my coat. Both sentences are true, and both belong to the same person on the same afternoon. Do not choose between them. A believer can hold an entirely settled hope about eternity and still be cold, still miss his friends, still want his books. That is not weak faith. That is what faith looks like inside a real body in a real cell in a real November.

The names come with a sting. “Demas, in his love of this world, has deserted me.” Demas was not an outsider; his greeting appears at the close of two earlier letters, where Paul lists him among his fellow workers. He had been there for years. And the reason given is not persecution or doctrinal argument. He loved this present world, and Thessalonica was a comfortable city, and one day he simply decided he had had enough of the cost. That is how most people leave. Not with a dramatic renunciation, but by preferring something warmer. Crescens and Titus are named without any hint of blame, and it is important not to lump them in with Demas; they seem to be away on the work, in Galatia and Dalmatia. Then the loneliest four words in the letter: “Only Luke is with me.” The beloved physician, who had traveled with Paul for years and would write two books of the New Testament, sitting in a cell with an old man, taking dictation, when everybody else had somewhere better to be.

And then something wonderful, which you will miss if you do not know the backstory. “Get Mark and bring him with you, because he is useful to me in the ministry.” Years earlier, Mark had abandoned Paul and Barnabas partway through their first journey and gone home, and when Barnabas wanted to take him again, Paul refused, and the disagreement was so sharp that the two men parted company over it. Now, at the very end, Paul asks for him by name and calls him useful. Sit with that for a moment, because it is one of the sweetest sentences in the New Testament. A young man who failed badly was not finished. Barnabas kept working with him, and God restored him, and by the end even the apostle who had refused to take him wanted him at his side, and later still Peter would call him his son. If you have failed at something you were given to do, this verse is for you. And if you have written someone off, it is for you too.

Then the coat and the books. “Bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, and my scrolls, especially the parchments.” A heavy travelling cape, left behind at a friend’s house, and now winter is coming to a stone room. There is nothing spiritual about being cold. And then the books, which tell you what a man wants when everything else is stripped away. He does not ask for comforts or for news. He asks for something to read, and especially for the parchments, the expensive, durable skins that most likely held portions of the Scriptures he had been taught as a boy. A man weeks from execution, who has already said he has finished the race, still wants the Book. That alone is worth a long thought.

2 Timothy 4:14–18 (BSB)

¹⁴ Alexander the coppersmith did great harm to me. The Lord will repay him according to his deeds. ¹⁵ You too should beware of him, for he has vigorously opposed our message. ¹⁶ At my first defense, no one stood with me, but everyone deserted me. May it not be charged against them. ¹⁷ But the Lord stood by me and strengthened me, so that through me the message would be fully proclaimed, and all the Gentiles would hear it. So I was delivered from the mouth of the lion. ¹⁸ And the Lord will rescue me from every evil action and bring me safely into His heavenly kingdom. To Him be the glory forever and ever. Amen.

Alexander is named and warned about, and notice exactly what Paul does and does not do. He states the fact, he warns Timothy to be careful, and then he hands the matter over: “The Lord will repay him according to his deeds.” That is not a curse Paul is pronouncing; it is a case he is filing with a higher court and then leaving alone. Warning a friend about a genuinely dangerous man is love, not gossip. Carrying the grudge yourself is a weight God never asked you to lift.

Then verse sixteen, and it is the loneliest sentence Paul ever wrote. “At my first defense, no one stood with me, but everyone deserted me.” Picture the scene. A Roman capital hearing, where a defendant’s friends were expected to stand up and speak for his character, and the benches empty. Not one. And then, before the sentence has even finished, Paul says this: “May it not be charged against them.” No bitterness. No list. He asks God not to hold it against the very people who left him to face a capital charge alone, and if that sounds familiar it is because he learned it from his Lord, who said something very like it while they were driving the nails.

"Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” And they divided up His garments by casting lots." Luke 23:34 (BSB)

Stephen said it too, kneeling under the stones, while a young man named Saul held the coats. Paul had heard that prayer with his own ears, and had been on the wrong end of it, and now here he is at the end of his own life praying it for other people. Grace runs downhill through generations like that.

And then the turn, and it is the answer to everything in the verse before it. “But the Lord stood by me and strengthened me.” There is the whole gospel in a sentence. Every human being had left the courtroom, and the Lord Jesus took the place at his side that no friend had taken. And notice why Paul says it mattered, because it is not what we would have said. Not so that he would feel better, though surely he did. “So that through me the message would be fully proclaimed, and all the Gentiles would hear it.” Paul’s first hearing before a Roman court became a pulpit. That is what the Lord’s presence was for. Even the trial was made to serve the herald’s work. “So I was delivered from the mouth of the lion,” which is likely a figure drawn from the Psalms for deadly danger, and possibly a glance at the emperor himself. And then verse eighteen, which is the last theological sentence Paul ever wrote and which defines rescue in a way we must not miss. “The Lord will rescue me from every evil action and bring me safely into His heavenly kingdom.” He is not promising himself release. He expects to die. And he calls it rescue, because the deliverance he has in view is not escape from the executioner but safe arrival in the kingdom. That is the last word on suffering in this letter, and it opens out at once into praise: “To Him be the glory forever and ever. Amen.”

2 Timothy 4:19–22 (BSB)

¹⁹ Greet Prisca and Aquila, as well as the household of Onesiphorus. ²⁰ Erastus has remained at Corinth, and Trophimus I left sick in Miletus. ²¹ Make every effort to come to me before winter. Eubulus sends you greetings, as do Pudens, Linus, Claudia, and all the brothers. ²² The Lord be with your spirit. Grace be with you all.

The very last words are names, and they are not filler. Prisca and Aquila had worked leather beside Paul in Corinth and had risked their necks for him, and a church met in their house wherever they lived. The household of Onesiphorus is greeted rather than the man himself, which is the second time in this letter Paul has prayed for the family of the friend who searched Rome until he found him. Erastus stayed at Corinth. And Trophimus, note this carefully, Paul “left sick in Miletus.” The apostle through whom God had done extraordinary healings left a friend behind ill, and did not heal him, and reports it without embarrassment or explanation. That is an honest sentence, and it is a kind one to every believer who has prayed for someone and watched them stay sick.

Then, “Make every effort to come to me before winter,” and by now you know what those words cost to write. Once the sea closed there would be no crossing until spring, and spring might be too late. This is an old man asking, plainly, for his friend. He does not dress it up or pretend he does not need it. Then four more names, Eubulus, Pudens, Linus, Claudia, believers in Rome whose faces we will not see until that day, and “all the brothers,” which means there was a church in that city still, meeting somewhere, in the teeth of Nero. And then the last line the apostle Paul ever wrote: “The Lord be with your spirit. Grace be with you all.” The first half is for Timothy alone, singular, personal, exactly what a frightened young man needed. The second half is plural, spilling out past him to the whole congregation and, as it turns out, to everyone who would ever read the letter. Grace be with you all. That is how he signs off, and it is the only currency he ever had to give.