Come Before Winter

Today we read from a letter addressed to the apostle Paul's young helper, Timothy. It is a letter postmarked from prison. Paul writes this letter near the end of his life. In fact, today's scripture reading is quite possibly the last paragraph of the last letter the Apostle ever wrote.

Now, in order to get at this passage of scripture, I want to begin by talking about how, over the years, my relationship and understanding of the Bible has changed. At first, it was simply one of many storybooks. It was a black hardcover volume held by Sunday School teachers who would turn it around so we could see the pictures. The stories they read always seemed to be about children like young Samuel, brave Esther or David with his slingshot- children who did amazing things for God.

Later, I began to see the Bible with a sort of distant reverence. It was the sacred, worn, black leather-bound book that my mother would read every day. Sometimes, I’d peer over her shoulder, and what I saw on those thin, thin pages often made little sense to me. She certainly wasn't reading children's stories. So, like so many other church people, I began to treat the Bible as a mysterious artifact. It was inscrutable. It was holy. And that meant you didn't want to drop it, or spill anything on its pages, or do anything bad in its presence.

Somewhere around the sixth grade, our Presbyterian church gave me a Bible of my own. It was gold. I kept it in my room in the very center of my bookshelf. I was glad to have it, not to read, or at least, not much. I viewed it like a talisman. What evil could come to someone who slept with a Bible nearby? Later, I would use that same Bible at university. In the first year of my B.A., I took a religion course on Christianity at the University of Toronto. I discovered there were a surprising number of us in that course who had not read the Bible, at least not all of it, or even most of it. And when I did read it, what I found within its pages was sometimes dull, often confusing, and occasionally shocking.

As I came to know the contents of the Good Book better, I decided, my faith could exist just fine without it. The Bible was too raw, too historically biased, and too doggone embarrassing. In place of scripture, I began to read theologians. They had modern sensibilities. They moved beyond the unfiltered messiness of the Bible, to identify broad themes in scripture - salvation, sin, forgiveness. They unpacked these themes in a neat systematic way. It wasn't until I went to Knox College, studying to be a minister, that I began to once again adopt a serious discipline of reading and studying the Bible. This time I read it alongside professors who saw the same rawness that had turned me off, but who in fact, loved it, for that very reason. They weren't afraid of its historical trappings.

On the contrary, they appreciated it all the more because it wasn't generic. It was muddy, unfiltered faith- first order faith- faith that walked in fresh from the fields – like a carrot or a potato before anyone rinsed off the dirt or cleaned it up. And it was then that I fell back in love with the Bible and with scriptural texts like the one today from the letter to Timothy. Now, what we have before us this morning is a letter. It's not fancy theology honed over time, it’s a communiqué scratched out on hard-to-come-by parchment. It's a letter written by a man sitting in a jail cell, a letter addressed to his friend, his protégée, his young assistant in ministry - Timothy. It's a letter that fell into the hands of the early church and was preserved by them. The fact that they deemed this letter worth saving is something of a surprise.

Listening to it, you may have been thinking: Second Timothy could use a good editor--a rewrite or two. It contains boring bits, trivial requests and snarky asides. I bet Paul would be astonished, and more than a little self-conscious, to discover we took this letter - a letter composed during a dark time in his life - and stitched it into our holy book.

What did the early church see in Second Timothy? The portion we read today is rather sad. It starts with a little self pity, a little woe-is-me. "I am on the point of being sacrificed. Pretty soon I’ll be pushing up daisies.” Paul is alone, in a Roman prison cell. He senses the end is near. "There’s nothing left for me to do. I’m finished. The time of my departure has come."

Then, stepping back from the abyss, Paul's words rise with a sense of accomplishment. He compares himself to an Olympic athlete, a boxer, a marathon runner. "I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. I can picture the laurel wreaths we award our runners, and I know God will be waiting at the end of the race with a crown of righteousness for me." It’s a confident image, a hopeful image. Although as the Apostle pens these strong words, a chill wind blows through his cell, and through his soul. He has confidence in God, but he’s also cold, lonely and afraid.

So, the letter pivots from heavenly thoughts to earthly cries. He pleads with Timothy: "Do your best to come to me soon." And then, Paul begins to list all the people who have abandoned him: Demas, in love with this present world, has deserted me and gone to Thessalonica; Crescens is playing video games somewhere in Galatia, Titus is hanging out with his drinking buddies in Dalmatia.

All of a sudden, our holy text reads like a letter from a depressed grandpa who’s trying to guilt you into visiting him over the holidays. It’s certainly not poetry, and just in case you had any doubts, Paul starts listing all the things he wants Timothy to bring with him “Pick up my cloak, the weather's turning cold. Don't forget my books, and parchment- especially that parchment so I can keep writing letters- keep connecting to the outside world. Oh, and speaking of the outside world, don't forget to stay away from Alexander the coppersmith - he’s a bad man!”

Nowadays, parents and teachers tell children not to post things they will later regret on Facebook. “The Internet,” we advise with serious voices, “is forever!” Someone should have mentioned to Paul that parchment can be forever too. He writes a few disparaging remarks about Alexander the coppersmith in a letter, and we enshrine them for all time in Holy Scripture. Does that seem strange to you? For that matter, how is "Bring my cloak from Troas" the Word of God? It’s a good question.

Today's scripture reading is messy. The Apostle Paul vacillates between confidence and insecurity- between sounding prayerful and sounding petty. I need to tell you, as a young person, contradictions like this diminished my appreciation for the Bible. But now the reverse is true. These offhand remarks, the minor squabbles and the trivial requests, make this Bible passage seem both more real and more relevant to my faith. I listen to the strange names Paul lists in this text, and I don't feel distance, but kinship. Here is a man who values his friends, and who misses them keenly. He longs for their companionship. His final words to Timothy will break your heart, "Do your best to come before winter." Is it any wonder the early church preserved this letter? How can anyone who’s ever felt tired and discouraged, not feel affirmed in these words?

Here’s Paul the Apostle- a man who trusts deeply in God- facing soul-crushing adversity. And does he rise above it with supernatural piety and composure? No, no, no, no. He does what any normal person would do; he cries out for his friends, “Come before winter. Come before the icy winds blow the last leaves from the trees. Come before they tire of holding me in this cell and put my head on a chopping block. Come so that I may see you one last time, look in your eyes, laugh with you at old times. Come before it’s all over. Come now, or never. Come before winter.” Of course, those early Christians kept Paul's letter, copied it, and passed it along to their friends. “Come before winter.” It’s a cry for help, sacred, human and true. ”Come before winter.” You feel the tug of those words. Don't you?

Let me tell you a story …

When my parents were married in 1948, my Dad’s best friend – Ken Davies - was, of course, the best man at his wedding. But, unlike so many youthful friendships, this one continued throughout their lives. Our families played together and vacationed together, and we would call him Uncle Ken. When my Dad died in 1995, Ken was devastated. He had lost his best friend, and, truth to tell, not long after that, Uncle Ken kind of drifted out of our lives. It was almost 20 years later before I heard from him again. He and his wife Muriel, now almost 90 years old, were living in a senior’s residence. Their daughter Barbie, contacted me on Uncle Ken’s behalf.

“Mom has dementia,” Barbie told me, “my two sisters – Linda and Suzie, along with my brother Kenny, have died. My Dad has cancer. He’s dying, and he wants to see you. Can you come?”

How could I not. He was sad and old and frightened, he was my Dad’s best friend, my Dad’s best man, come before winter. Two weeks after I visited him, Ken was dead. I had the honour of laying him to his final rest. Come before winter. Come today and not tomorrow. Come when called by those in need. Do not delay. My friends, as people of faith, we wait for God. And as people of faith, we cannot forget those who wait for us.