Homilies on 2 Timothy 1.1–1.2

“[Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the] will of God, according to the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus, to Timothy, my beloved child: grace, mercy, peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.” Why does he write a second letter to Timothy? He had said, “I hope to come to you soon”; this did not come about; so he consoles him by letter in place of his presence, since Timothy was perhaps distressed for this reason too, and because he had already taken up office at that time. For even if some men are great, when they take over the tiller and the steering of the church, they find it strange, plunged from many sides into many waves of affairs; and especially at that time, when the preaching was at its beginning, when everything was unploughed, when everything was hostile, when everything resisted. And not only this, but there were also heresies starting from Jewish teachers, as he indicated in the former letter too. And he does not only console him by letter, but also calls him to himself: “Do your best to come to me quickly,” he says; and, “When you come, bring the books, and above all the parchments.” This letter seems to me to have been written near the end; for “I am already,” he says, “being poured out as an offering”; and again, “At my first defence no one stood by me.” Setting all these things right, he also makes 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 that is in Christ Jesus.” At once, from the opening, he raised up his soul. Do not speak to me of the dangers here, he says: these procure for us eternal life, where there is nothing of the kind, where pain, grief, and sighing have fled away. For he did not make us apostles for this, he says, that we should only be in danger, but that we should even die, that we should suffer such things. For since recounting one's own evils was not only no consolation but even an addition to grief, he at once, from the beginning, gives his comfort, saying, “according to the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus.” But if it is a promise, do not look for it here; “for hope that is seen is not hope.” “To Timothy, my beloved child.” Not simply “child,” but “beloved.” For it is possible to be children and yet not be loved; but you are not such, he says, nor do I call you simply a child, but a beloved child. For he calls the Galatians children too, but all the same he is grieved over them, saying, “My little children, for whom I am again in labour.” And above all he testifies to great virtue in him by calling him beloved. How? When love does not come from nature, it comes from virtue. Those born of us, at any rate, are beloved to us not only for their virtue but also by the necessity of nature; but those who are ours according to faith, when they are beloved, are so for nothing else but virtue; for from where else? And especially with Paul, who did nothing out of partiality. Besides, by saying “beloved child” he shows that it was not because he was angry with him, or despised him, or had condemned him, that he did not come. “Grace, mercy, peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.” What he prayed for him before, he prays for him now as well. And see how at once in the opening he makes his defence to him that he did not come to him nor see him. For the words “Until I come” and “I hope to come to you soon” made him expect a speedy arrival. To this, then, he makes his defence at once. He does not at once give the reason why he did not come, so as not to grieve him greatly; this was that he was being detained by Caesar; but when he called him to himself, near the end, then he disclosed it. He does not throw him into grief right from the opening, but holds out hopes of seeing him: “I long to see you,” and “Do your best to come to me quickly.” At once, then, from the opening he raises him up, and says what follows with praise. “I thank God, whom I serve from my forebears with a clean conscience, as I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day, longing to see you, remembering your tears, that I may be filled with joy.” I thank God that I remember you, he says; so much do I love you. This belongs to surpassing love, when someone even prides himself on the friendship because he loves greatly. “I thank God,” he says, “whom I serve.” How? “With a clean conscience, from my forebears”: that is, his conscience had not been harmed. Or rather, here he speaks of his life, and everywhere he calls one's life “conscience.” Or: that I never betrayed, for a human motive, any of the good things I was eager for, not even when I was persecuting. That is why he says, “But I received mercy, because I acted ignorantly in unbelief,” as good as saying: do not suspect the thing was wickedness. He rightly commends his own character, so that what he says about his love may be shown to be trustworthy. What he means is this: I tell no lie, and I do not hold one thing and say another. So too on that occasion, under compulsion, he praised himself, as the book of Acts somewhere shows. For since they were slandering him as a rebel and an innovator, he said for this reason: “And Ananias said to me, ‘The God of our fathers appointed you to know his will, and to see the Righteous One and hear a voice from his mouth, for you will be his witness to all people of what you have seen and heard.’” So here too, so as not to get the reputation of being unloving and unfeeling, as if he had forgotten, he rightly praises himself, saying, “as I remember you constantly,” and not simply that, but “in my prayers.” That is, it is the business of my prayer; I go on doing this all the time without a break. For this is what he indicates by saying, “night and day I called upon God for this, longing to see you.” Do you see a burning longing? Do you see the madness of love? Do you see humility, how he makes his defence to the disciple? Then he shows that it is not without reason or idly. He has shown it already, but he shows it here too, for he says, “remembering your tears.” It is likely that Timothy, when he was torn away, wept and lamented more than a child … “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 utterly insensible, cruel and savage; for those tears, coming to mind, were enough to bend me. But as it is, I am not one of such people, but of those who serve God with a clean conscience. So many necessities were drawing me to you. So then, Timothy wept. And he gives another reason, which is at the same time an encouragement: “[Being reminded of your sincere] faith …”

[“Being reminded of the sincere faith that is in you, which dwelt first in your grandmother] Lois and in your mother Eunice.” [Here is] another commendation, that he was not from the Gentiles, nor from unbelievers, but from of old from a household that served Christ … “For he was,” it says, “the son of a believing Jewish woman.” How Jewish? How believing? Not from the Gentiles. “But because of his father,” since he was a Greek, “and because of the Jews who were in those places, he took him and circumcised him.” Do you see how the law was beginning to be dissolved, as these intermarriages took place? And see how many things he has set down to assure him that he had not despised him. I serve God, he says; I have a true conscience; and you have your tears. Not only because of your tears do I long to see you, but also because of your faith, because you are a worker of the truth, because there is nothing deceitful in you. When, then, you show yourself worthy of being loved, being so affectionate and so genuine a disciple of Christ, and I too am not one of the unaffectionate but of those eager to speak the truth, what was there to prevent my coming? “And I am persuaded that it is in you too.” You have this good thing from of old, he says; you received the sincere faith by inheritance from your forebears. For the praises of forebears are ours too when we share in them; but when we do not, they avail nothing, and rather condemn us. That is why he added, “And I am persuaded that it is in you too.” I am not guessing, he says, but I am persuaded and fully assured. If, then, you came to this for no human reason, nothing will be able to shake you. “For this reason [I remind you to rekindle the gift] of God which is in you through the laying on of my hands.” See how he shows that Timothy was in great discouragement and dejection. For he as good as says this: Do not think that I despised you; but know that I have neither condemned you nor forgotten you; and if you think of no one else, think of your grandmother and your mother. Therefore, since I know that you have a sincere faith, I remind you; for you need eagerness to rekindle the gift of God. As fire needs wood, so grace needs our eagerness, to keep the gift of God aflame, “which is in you through the laying on of my hands”: that is, the grace of the Spirit, which you received for the leadership of the church, for signs, for the whole of the service. For it is in our power both to quench and to kindle it; that is why elsewhere he says, “Do not quench the Spirit.” By sloth and carelessness it is quenched, but by sobriety and attention it is roused. It is in you, but work it more vigorously, that is, with boldness. “For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but of power and love and self-discipline.” That is, it was not for this that we received the Spirit … For he does give a spirit of cowardice, as happened in the wars in the books of Kingdoms: “And a spirit of cowardice fell upon them,” it says; that is, he put fear in them. But to you he gave the opposite, a spirit of power and of love for him. So this too comes from grace, but not simply from grace, but when we first show what comes from ourselves. For that which makes us cry, “Abba, Father,” also instils love, both for him and for our neighbour, “that we may love one another,” he says; for love comes from power and from not being cowardly. Nothing is so apt to break up friendship as cowardice and a reputation for betrayal. “For God did not give us,” he says, “a spirit of cowardice, but of love and power and self-discipline.” By “self-discipline” he means either the health of the mind and soul, or “self-discipline” so that we may be disciplined: even if something terrible happens, it is so that it may discipline us and cut away what is superfluous. Let us not, then, be pained at the terrible things that befall us: this is discipline. “Do not be hasty,” it says, “in a time of calamity.” Many have many painful things at home, and we share the grief with one another, but no longer the cause: one has it from a wife, another from a child, another from a servant, another from a friend, another from an enemy, another from a neighbour, another from a loss; many and various are the causes of grief; and in a word, one cannot find anyone free of grief and discouragement, but one has small causes of pain, another greater. Let us not, then, be vexed, nor think that we alone are in grief. 3. For a human being living this perishable life cannot be without grief: if not today, tomorrow; if not tomorrow, afterwards, the painful thing comes. For as no one can sail without anxiety—sail, I mean, on a great open sea—so no one living this life can be free from discouragement, even if you name a rich man; for because he is rich, he has many occasions for desires; even if you name the emperor himself; for he too is held in check by many, and does not do everything as he judges, but grants many things against his own opinion, and he more than anyone is the man who does everything he does not wish. Why? Because he has many who wish to receive from what is his. Consider how discouraged he is when he wishes to do something and cannot, whether from fear, or from suspicion, or because of enemies, or because of friends. And often, even when he insists on doing something he has decided, he loses all the pleasure of the deed, since many are hostile to him. But what? Do you think that those who live a life free of public affairs are free of grief in life? It is not so. For as one cannot be immortal while being human, so neither can one be without grief. How many troubles must they be enduring, which cannot be set out in words but which only they can know by experience? How many have prayed ten thousand times to die amid that wealth and luxury? For luxury does not by any means put one outside grief; rather, luxury itself begets countless griefs, diseases, disgusts, and, apart from these, often with no cause underlying them. For when the soul is settled in such a condition, it knows how to be pained without any reason. Indeed, the physicians say that untimely griefs arise even from a weak constitution of the stomach. Or does this not happen to us too, when we are pained and do not know the cause of the grief? In a word, one cannot find anyone without grief; and even if others do not have as much occasion for grief as we do, each nevertheless thinks he has; for his own grief pains him more than another's. For as those who suffer in parts of their bodies think their neighbours better off in their pains, and he who has a disease of the eye thinks no other affliction like his own, while again he who has a disease of the stomach says this is the hardest of all, and each thinks the one by which he is held the most distressing of all; so also with discouragement, each says that the grief by which he is held is the more painful, for he judges by his own experience. For example, he who has no children thinks nothing so terrible as childlessness; he who has many, along with poverty, blames nothing so much as a large family; he who has one thinks nothing worse than having one: for from this, he says, comes indulgence too, and the child brings his father into grief, always being doted on by him and accepting no correction. He who has a beautiful wife says nothing is worse than having a beautiful wife, for the thing is full of suspicion and plotting; he who has an ugly one says nothing is worse than having an ill-favoured wife, for the thing is full of distaste. The private man says nothing is more useless or meaner than his kind of life; the soldier says nothing is more miserable or more dangerous than soldiering: better to live on bread alone and water than bear such burdens. The one in office says nothing is more toilsome than tending to other people's needs; the one under rule says nothing is more slavish than being subject to another's authority. The married man says nothing is worse than a wife … [the unmarried man says nothing is worse] than not marrying, and being deprived of a home and of rest. The merchant calls the farmer blessed for his security, the farmer the merchant for his wealth. In a word, the human race is somehow hard to please, querulous and heavy-hearted. When someone condemns all people, then he says, “Man is nothing,” and people call the whole of nature a toilsome and wretched creature. How many admire old age? How many call youth blessed? So in the ages of life too there is much discouragement. When we see ourselves faulted because of our age, we say, “Why were we not old men?” When the head turns white, again: “Where is youth?” In a word, we have countless occasions for grief. There is one way alone free of this unevenness: the way of virtue. Or rather, it too has grief, but grief that is not unprofitable but brings gain and benefit. For either someone has sinned, and, pricked to the heart through grief, has washed away his sins; or he has shared the pain of a fallen brother, and here again he has no small good; for sharing the pain of those in misfortune gives us great boldness before God. 4. Hear how much wisdom the divine Scripture teaches about Job; hear also what Paul says: “Weep with those who weep”; and again, “associating with the lowly.” For fellowship with those who grieve usually takes away the heaviest part of the grief. As with a load, if someone shares some of the weight, he relieves the one who carries the burden alone, so it is with everything else. But now, when one of our relatives has died, many sit beside us, many console us; and we often raise up a donkey that has fallen; but as for the souls of our brothers that are falling … if we see him going indecently into a tavern … even if he is drunk, we do not stop him; even if he is doing anything else improper, we let him; but rather we even join in. That is why Paul said, “Not only do they do them, but they also approve of those who practise them.” And the many form clubs for drinking and drunkenness. Form clubs, man, so as to put away the madness of drunkenness; these are good acts of friendship for those in bonds, for those in affliction. Paul too enjoined something of this kind on the Corinthians, “so that there may be no …”; but now we do everything for the sake of luxury and self-indulgence, and we make a common couch, a common table, common wine and a common expense, but no one has made almsgiving common. Such were the acts of friendship in the time of the apostles: they laid down all their possessions for the common share. But I do not command all, only some part. “Whatever anyone prospers in,” he says, “let each set it aside on the first day of the week,” as though paying a tax for the seven days, and lay it up, and so give alms, whether small or great. “For you shall not appear empty,” it says, “before the Lord.” If this was said to Jews, how much more to us? That is why the poor stand before the doors, so that no one may go in empty, so that each may go in with almsgiving. You are going in to receive mercy: show mercy first. The one who comes later owes more; for when we begin, the second puts down more. Make God your debtor, and then ask him; lend, and then ask for repayment, so that you may receive it with interest. God wishes this; he does not avoid it. If you ask with almsgiving, he is grateful; if with alms[giving …] Yes, I beg you. Being heard does not lie in the stretching out of the hands. Stretch out your hands, not to heaven, but into the hands of the poor. If you stretch out your hand into the hands of the poor, you have touched the very summit of heaven; for he who sits there …; but if you stretch them up [empty], you have gained nothing. Tell me, if the emperor came to you in his purple and asked, would you not eagerly have given everything you have? But now, when you are asked not by an earthly king but by the heavenly one, through the poor, do you stand there overlooking him and putting off the gift? And of what punishment would you not be worthy? For being heard lies not in stretching out the hands, nor in a multitude of words, but in works. Hear the prophet saying, “When you stretch out your hands, I will turn my eyes away from you; and if you multiply your petition, I will not listen to you.” For the one who needs mercy ought to be silent and not even look up to heaven; it is the one who has boldness who also speaks much. But what does it say? “Judge for the orphan and the lowly, and give the widow justice, and learn to do good.” So shall we be able to be heard, even if we keep our hands down, even if we do not speak or ask. Let us then strive for these things, that we may obtain the good things promised to us.