Homilies on Second Timothy 1

Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ by the will of God, according to the promise of life which is in Christ Jesus, to Timothy, my beloved child: grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.

Why then does he write a second letter to Timothy? He had said, 'I hope to come to you shortly.'

He comforts him through his letters instead of by his presence, perhaps because Timothy was afflicted on this very account, and because at that time the ministry had already been undertaken from its outset.

For even if certain men are great, when they take up the helm and the governance of the Church, they experience strange trials, being overwhelmed on every side by many waves of troubles, and especially at that time, when the preaching was at its beginning, when all was untilled ground, when all was hostile, when everything stood opposed.

And not this only, but there were also heresies taking their origin from Jewish teachers, which he had likewise indicated in the former epistle.

He comforts him not by letters only, but also calls him to himself.

'Make haste to come to me quickly,' he says.

And, 'When you come, bring the books, and especially the parchments.'

This epistle seems to me to belong to the close of his life.

'For I am already,' he says, 'being poured out as a drink offering.'

And again, 'At my first defense no one stood with me.'

Setting all these things in order, he draws his exhortation from his own trials, and says:

'Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ by the will of God, according to the promise of life which is in Christ Jesus.'

At once, from the very opening, he lifted up his disciple's soul.

'Do not,' he says, 'speak to me of the dangers here.'

These very things bring forth for us eternal life, where there is nothing of the kind, where pain, sorrow, and sighing have fled away.

'For it was not for this that He made us apostles, merely that we should be endangered,' he says, 'but that we should also die, that we should suffer such things.'

For since to recount his own troubles was not only no comfort but even an addition to grief, he at once, from the very beginning, offers consolation.

Saying, 'According to the promise of life which is in Christ Jesus.'

But if it is a promise, do not seek it here.

'For hope that is seen is not hope.'

Not simply 'to a child,' but 'to a beloved child.'

For it is possible that there be children who are not beloved.

'But you are not such,' he says, 'nor do I simply call you a child, but a beloved child.'

Since he calls even the Galatians children, yet he is also in anguish over them, saying, 'My little children, for whom I again travail in birth.'

Above all, by calling him beloved, he bears great witness to his virtue.

How so? For whenever love is not from nature, it springs from virtue.

Those, then, who are born of us are beloved to us not on account of virtue alone, but also because of the necessity of nature.

But when those who are ours according to the faith are beloved, it is for no other reason than for virtue's sake.

For from what other source could it come? And especially in the case of Paul, who did nothing out of partiality.

In another way too he shows, by saying 'to a beloved child,' that it was not out of anger toward him, nor out of contempt for him, nor because he had condemned him, that he had failed to come.

'Grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.'

The very things he prayed for him before, these also he now invokes upon him.

And observe how straightway, in the very preface,

he makes his defense to Timothy, that he had not come to him, nor seen him.

For the words 'Until I come,' and 'I am eager to come to you shortly,' made him look for his coming speedily.

To this, then, he immediately makes his defense.

And he does not at once state the reason why he did not come, lest he grieve him exceedingly;

and this reason was that he was being held in custody by Caesar;

but when he called him to himself toward the end, then he disclosed it.

And straightway, from the very opening, he does not cast him into grief, but hints at hopes of seeing him:

'I long to see you,' and, 'Make haste to come to me quickly.'

Straightway, then, from the very preface, he raises him up, and proceeds to say what follows with words of praise.

'I thank God, whom I serve from my forefathers with a pure conscience, that without ceasing I have remembrance of you in my prayers night and day, longing to see you, remembering your tears, that I may be filled with joy.'

'I give thanks to God,' he says, 'that I remember you.'

This is a mark of surpassing love, when one is adorned by friendship out of loving intensely.

'I thank God,' he says, 'whom I serve.'

How? 'With a pure conscience, from my forefathers';

because his conscience had not been injured.

In another sense, here he speaks concerning his manner of life, and everywhere he uses 'conscience' to mean one's conduct of life.

Or that he had betrayed none of the good things which he zealously pursued for the sake of any human motive, not even then when he was persecuting.

Therefore he says, 'But I obtained mercy, because I did it ignorantly in unbelief';

as much as to say, do not suspect the deed to have been wickedness.

Well does he establish his own character, that what pertains to his love may be shown worthy of belief.

'I lie in nothing, nor do I hold one thing and say another.'

So that even then, when constrained, he commended himself, as the book of the Acts somewhere shows.

For since they slandered him as a sedition-maker and a revolutionary, on this account he said:

'And Ananias said to me:'

'The God of our fathers has appointed you beforehand to know His will, and to see the Righteous One, and to hear a voice from His mouth, that you shall be His witness to all men of what you have seen and heard.'

So here also, lest he incur the reputation of being unfriendly and unfeeling, as one who had forgotten him, he fittingly commends himself, saying, 'That without ceasing I have remembrance of you,' and not simply that, but 'In my prayers.'

That is to say, it is my work of prayer; through all the time I continually do this without intermission.

For he indicates this by saying, 'Night and day I besought God concerning this, longing to see you.'

Do you see his fervent longing? Do you see the madness of his love? Do you see his humility—how he makes his defense to his disciple? Then he shows that it was not without reason nor at random.

He had indeed shown it already, but he shows it here also;

for he says, 'Remembering your tears.'

It was likely that Timothy, being torn away, wept and lamented more than a little child being pulled from the breast, the nurse, and the milk.

'That I may be filled with joy,' he says, 'I long to see you.'

I would not, then, have deprived myself of so great a pleasure, even if I were exceedingly insensible and harsh and brutish;

for those tears, when they came to mind, were enough to bend me.

But now I am not one of such men, but of those who serve God with purity.

And so many necessities were drawing me toward you.

And he sets down yet another reason, one that is at the same time an encouragement.

'Being reminded,' he says, 'of the unfeigned faith that is in you.'

Then he adds another commendation: that Timothy was not from among the Gentiles, nor from unbelievers, but sprang from of old from a household that served Christ.

'Which faith,' he says, 'dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and in your mother Eunice.'

'For he was,' it says, 'the son of a believing Jewish woman.'

How Jewish? How believing? He was not from among the heathen.

But on account of his father, who was a Greek, and on account of the Jews who lived in those parts, Paul took him and circumcised him.

Do you see how the Law was beginning to be dissolved, once these intermarriages were taking place? And observe how many things he sets down to give assurance that he did not despise it.

'I serve God,' he says.

'Not only because of your tears (do I long to see you), but also because of your faith, since you are a worker of the truth, since there is nothing deceitful in you.'

When, therefore, you also present yourself worthy of being loved, being so full of affection and so genuine a disciple of Christ, and when I too am not among those devoid of affection but among those who are zealous for the truth, what then was there to hinder me from coming? And I am persuaded that in you also...

'You have this good thing from of old,' he says; 'from your forefathers you received the unfeigned faith by succession.'

For the praises of our forefathers are also ours, when we share in their virtues.

But when we do not, they avail nothing; rather, they condemn us all the more.

Therefore he added, 'And I am persuaded that in you also.'

'I do not merely conjecture,' he says, 'but I am persuaded and fully assured.'

'If, then, you came to this by nothing merely human, nothing will be able to shake you.'

'For which cause I remind you to stir up the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands.'

See how he shows him to be in great despondency, how in dejection.

For he all but says this:

'Do not think that I despised you;'

'but be assured that I neither condemned you nor forgot you;'

'and if no one else, then think of your grandmother and your mother.'

'Therefore, since I know that you have unfeigned faith, I remind you;'

'for you need eagerness in order to stir up the gift of God.'

Just as fire needs wood, so also grace needs our eagerness, that it may ever blaze up anew.

'I remind you to stir up the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands;'

that is, the grace of the Spirit, which you received for the governance of the Church, for the working of signs, for the whole ministry.

For it lies within us both to quench and to kindle this;

wherefore in another place he says, 'Quench not the Spirit.'

For by listlessness and slothfulness it is quenched, but by watchfulness and attentiveness it is roused up.

For it is indeed within you; nevertheless, work at it more vigorously, that is, fill it with boldness, with joy, with gladness.

'For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but of power and of love and of self-discipline.'

That is, we did not receive the Spirit for this end, that we should shrink back, but that we should speak with boldness.

For to many He gives a spirit of cowardice, as happened in the wars recorded in the books of Kingdoms.

'And there fell,' it says, 'a spirit of cowardice upon them;'

that is, He implanted fear in them.

But to you He gave the opposite, a spirit of power and of love toward Him.

So then, this too is from grace, yet not simply from grace, but only when we ourselves first display what comes from our own part.

For that which makes us cry, 'Abba, Father,' also produces love toward Him, and love toward our neighbor;

'that we may love one another,' he says;

for it is from power and from not being cowardly that love comes to be.

For nothing is so wont to dissolve friendship as cowardice and the report of betrayal.

'For God did not give us,' he says, 'a spirit of cowardice, but of love and of power and of self-discipline.'

By 'self-discipline' he means either the soundness of mind and soul, or 'self-discipline' in the sense that we are chastened, so that even if something dreadful should befall, it may chasten us and cut away what is superfluous.

Let us not, therefore, grieve over the dreadful things that befall us;

'Make no haste,' it says, 'in the time of calamity.'

Many have many grievous things at home, and while we share with one another in the grief, we no longer share in the occasion of it;

but one grieves over his wife, another over his child, another over a servant, another over a friend, another over an enemy, another over a neighbor, another over a loss; and many and diverse are the causes of grief;

and in short it is impossible to find anyone free from grief and despondency, but one has lesser, another has greater things that grieve him.

Let us not, then, be vexed, nor suppose that we alone are in grief.

For it is not possible, being a man and living this perishable life, to be without grief;

but if not today, then tomorrow;

if not tomorrow, then afterward it comes to pass.

For just as it is not possible for one sailing—I mean sailing a great open sea—not to be in anxiety;

so neither is it possible for one living this life not to be in despondency, even though you should call him rich;

for precisely because he is rich, he has many occasions for cravings;

for he too is held in the grip of many, and does not do everything according to his own will, but bestows many favors contrary to his own judgment; and most of all men, he is the one who does everything he does not wish to do.

Why so? Because he has many who wish to receive from what is his.

Consider, too, in how great despondency he is, when he wishes to do something but cannot, whether through fear, or through suspicion, or because of enemies, or because of friends. And often, when he has striven earnestly to do something that seemed good to him, the whole of the pleasure arising from that deed was blotted out for him, since there were many who bore him ill will.

But what then? Do you suppose that those who live an untroubled, uninvolved life are free from grief in life? They are not.

For just as it is impossible, being a man, to be immortal, so neither is it possible to be without grief.

How many troubles are they likely to endure, which it is impossible to set forth in words, but which those alone are able to know by experience? How many times over have ten thousand prayed to die in the midst of that wealth and luxury? For living in luxury does not by any means put one outside of grief;

rather, luxury itself gives birth to countless griefs, diseases, disgusts;

and apart from these, often when no cause underlies it at all.

For when the soul has come to be in such a state, it simply knows how to be in pain.

For the sons of the physicians say that even from a weak constitution of the stomach untimely griefs arise.

Or does not this very thing befall us too, when we are in pain and do not know the ground of the grief? And in short, it is impossible to find anyone free from grief;

and even if they do not have so great an occasion for grief as we have, yet each one thinks that his own case is just as bad.

For what is one's own grieves a man more than what belongs to another.

For just as those who suffer pain in some part of the body suppose that their neighbours have the advantage of them in their sufferings, and he whose eye is diseased thinks no affliction is such as his own;

again, he whose stomach is diseased declares that this is the most grievous of all; and each man counts the ailment by which he is held to be the most distressing of all;

so too is it with despondency: each man declares that the grief which holds him is the more painful;

for he judges this by his own experience.

For instance, he who has no children thinks nothing so grievous as childlessness;

he who has many children, and poverty withal, complains of nothing so much as having many children;

he who has but one child thinks nothing worse than having only one.

For hence, says he, the boy grows slothful, and plunges his father into grief, being ever his darling and receiving no correction.

He who has a beautiful wife says nothing is worse than having a beautiful wife;

for the matter is full of suspicion and plotting;

he whose wife is ill-favoured says nothing is worse than having a homely wife;

for the thing is filled with distaste.

The private man says nothing is more useless or more mean than this manner of life;

the soldier says nothing is more toilsome or more perilous than warfare;

for it were better to live on bread and water alone than to bear such burdens.

He who is in authority says nothing is more laborious than to minister to the necessities of others;

he who is under authority says nothing is more servile than to be subject to the power of others.

The married man says nothing is worse than a wife and the cares she brings;

the unmarried says nothing is less free than to be unwedded, deprived of a home and of repose.

The merchant blesses the husbandman for his security;

the husbandman blesses the merchant for his wealth.

In a word, the whole human race is somehow hard to please, murmuring at its lot and heavy of heart.

And when a man condemns all mankind, then he says, 'Man is nothing,' declaring the whole of our nature to be a toil-worn and miserable creature.

How many admire old age! How many count youth blessed! Thus in the several ages of life also there is much despondency.

When we see ourselves reproached on account of our age, we say, 'Why are we not old?' And when the head grows white, again, 'Where is our youth?' In short, we have ten thousand occasions for grieving.

There is but one way delivered from this inconstancy — the way of virtue;

or rather, it too has grief, yet grief not unprofitable, but grief that brings gain and benefit.

For either a man has sinned, and being pricked with compunction through grief, he has washed away his sins;

or he has sorrowed with a brother who has fallen, and here again he has no small reward;

for to grieve with those who are in calamities gives us great boldness toward God.

Hear what wisdom the divine Scripture unfolds concerning Job;

hear also what Paul says;

and again, 'Condescend to men of low estate.'

For fellowship with those who mourn is wont to take away the exceeding heaviness of grief.

For as with a burden, if one shares the weight, he lightens him who bore the load alone, so is it also in all other things.

But now, when one of our kinsfolk has died, many sit beside us, many offer consolation;

and an ass that has fallen we often raise up, but the souls of our brethren, when they fall, we overlook and pass by more readily than an ass.

And if we see him entering a tavern in unseemly fashion, we do not restrain him;

nor, if he is drunken, do we hinder him, nor if he is doing anything else that is unseemly;

nay rather, we even join hands with him.

Therefore Paul said, 'They not only do the same, but also have pleasure in them that do them.'

And the many form companies for drinking and drunkenness.

Form companies, O man, in order to put away the madness of drunkenness;

such offices of friendship are good toward those who are in bonds, toward those who are in affliction.

Some such thing Paul also enjoined upon the Corinthians: 'That there be no collections,' says he, 'when I come.'

But now for drunkenness and luxury and wantonness we do everything: we make our couch common, our table common, our wine common, and our expense common;

but almsgiving no one has ever made common.

Such were the offices of friendship in the days of the apostles: they laid down all their possessions in the common stock.

But I do not command the whole, only some part.

'Whatever any man is prospered in,' says he, 'let each one set apart on the first day of the week,' bringing it as a kind of tribute for the seven days, and lay it by, and so give alms, be it small or be it great.

'For thou shalt not appear before the Lord empty,' says he.

These things were said to the Jews — how much more then to us? For this cause the poor stand before the doors, that no one may enter empty, but may enter with almsgiving.

And he who comes later owes the more;

for when we have begun, the second lays down more.

Make God thy debtor, and then ask of Him;

lend, and then demand repayment, that thou mayest receive with interest;

God wills this; He does not shun it.

If thou ask with almsgiving, He holds Himself obliged;

if with almsgiving thou demand repayment, thou lendest and receivest interest.

It is not by the stretching out of the hands that one is heard;

stretch forth thy hands, not to heaven, but to the hands of the poor.

If thou stretch forth thy hand to the hands of the poor, thou hast touched the very summit of heaven;

for He who sits there receives the alms;

but if thou lift them up fruitless, thou hast gained nothing.

For tell me: if the king, coming to thee in his purple, had asked of thee, wouldest thou not readily have given all that thou hast? But now, when thou art asked, not by an earthly king, but by the heavenly King through the poor, dost thou stand disregarding him and putting off the gift? And of how great punishment wouldest thou not be worthy? For to be heard lies not in the stretching out of the hands, nor in the multitude of words, but in works.

For hear the prophet saying:

'When ye stretch forth your hands, I will turn away Mine eyes from you; yea, though ye multiply your supplication.'

For whereas he who stands in need of mercy ought to keep silence, and not so much as lift his eyes to heaven, he speaks many words, as though he possessed boldness.

But what does he say? 'Judge the fatherless and the lowly, do justice to the widow, and learn to do well.'

In this way we shall be able to be heard, even though we hold our hands down, even though we utter no sound, nor make any demand.

Let us therefore be zealous for these things, that we may attain the good things which have been promised to us.