In and Out of Season: A Sermon on 2 Timothy 3:14–4:5

When Faith Feels Like Work

Paul’s letter to Timothy has always felt like a pep talk for the exhausted.
He’s old. He’s in prison.
He’s writing to a younger pastor to say: keep going.

“Continue in what you have learned and firmly believed.” — 2 Timothy 3:14

It sounds simple — until you realize how hard it is to keep faith when the world keeps unraveling.
Timothy’s church was restless and divided, chasing teachers who made them comfortable.
Paul knew that temptation.
And so do we.

We scroll for comfort and call it connection.
We follow the voices that already agree with us.
Even the church, God bless us, sometimes tries so hard to be relevant that we forget how to be real.

Faith was never supposed to be easy.
It was meant to be true.

A Lesson From Estes Park

This week, I learned that lesson all over again.

I was in Estes Park, Colorado at the 1001 New Worshiping Communities National Gathering —
a wild, hopeful crowd of pastors, planters, and dreamers who still believe the church can be reborn.

During one worship service, the program said there would be a translator.
I thought, “No worries. I know enough Spanish.”

The preacher began — and within thirty seconds I realized:
this wasn’t Spanish.
It was Portuguese.

So there I sat, nodding and smiling, catching maybe one word in twenty,
hoping my face looked holy enough to pass.

Later, I laughed. But in the moment, I felt the floor drop out.
Because I had assumed I didn’t need help.
That I already spoke the language of the Spirit.

Turns out, I couldn’t even tell what language the Spirit was speaking.

That moment was a holy gut punch.
Faith, I realized, is less about fluency and more about humility.
It’s not about being the translator — it’s about being translated.

Sometimes the Spirit speaks in a dialect we haven’t learned yet.
And maybe the point of spiritual maturity isn’t mastery —
it’s the willingness to say, “I don’t understand yet, but I’m listening.”

When the Bible Won’t Behave

Paul tells Timothy that every Scripture is theopneustos — God-breathed.
Not fossilized.
Not safe.
Alive.

To say the Bible is God-breathed means God still exhales through it.
And sometimes that breath is a windstorm.

Let’s be honest: there are weeks when I wish the Bible would just comfort me.
Validate me.
Tell me I’m right.

But when I really read it, it wrecks me.
It points out my apathy.
It unmasks my pride.
It asks me to love people I’d rather ignore.

Maybe being “equipped for every good work”
means letting the Word undo us before we try to use it on anyone else.

Preaching the Gospel—With or Without Words

Paul says:

“Preach the word; be ready in season and out of season.”

There are days I walk into church with nothing left to say.
Days I sit in my car before worship and pray,
“God, I’ve got nothing. You’ll have to preach this one.”

Some days my hope feels thin.
My love feels conditional.
My calling feels ridiculous.

And maybe that’s exactly what “out of season” means:
when faith tastes like dust but you show up anyway.

Because grace shows up, too — inconvenient, uninvited, but faithful.

That’s why someone once said (probably not St. Francis, but still true):

“Preach the Gospel; use words if necessary.”

Sometimes the best sermon isn’t what we say.
It’s how we love.
It’s how we forgive.
It’s how we stay when it would be easier to walk away.

Preaching the Gospel isn’t about talking louder.
It’s about living deeper.
Choosing mercy over sarcasm.
Truth over comfort.
Hope over cynicism.

Grace Wears Work Boots

Paul ends with this:

“Keep your head. Endure suffering. Do the work. Carry out your ministry fully.”

That’s not a pep talk for superheroes.
That’s a word for the weary.
For anyone who’s ever wondered if faith is still worth it.

I’ve been there.
There were seasons when I didn’t know if I still belonged in the church.
When my identity and my calling didn’t seem to fit in the same pew.
When I felt too much for some people, not enough for others.

But grace didn’t let me quit.
Grace met me there — in the bruised places, in the in-between.

Grace doesn’t float down like fairy dust.
Grace wears work boots.
She’s got dirt under her fingernails.
She speaks in Portuguese when you were expecting Spanish.
And she keeps teaching you the same lesson
until your pride finally cracks open wide enough for love to get in.

That’s the gospel — not neat, not easy, but real.

The Spirit Is Fluent

Paul’s letter isn’t about winning arguments.
It’s about staying faithful.

It’s about learning to keep breathing
when the world feels like it’s running out of air.

Continue in what you’ve learned.
Stay humble.
Stay curious.
Keep showing up, even out of season.

Because we all live between languages —
between what we know and what we still need to learn,
between the people we’ve been
and the people God is still forming us to be.

And the Spirit?
She’s fluent in all of it.
Even when we’re arrogant.
Even when we think we don’t need help.
Even when we can’t tell Portuguese from Spanish.

She keeps translating.
She keeps teaching.
She keeps breathing us into grace.

Amen.

Reflect & Respond

🗣 Reflection Question 1:
When was the last time you realized you didn’t understand what God (or someone else) was trying to tell you — and what helped you stay humble and keep listening?

🕊 Reflection Question 2:
What does “preaching the Gospel” look like for you outside of church — in your week, in your relationships, in the moments when grace feels inconvenient or risky?

Key Takeaway

Faith isn’t about being fluent. It’s about staying teachable.
The Spirit still speaks — even when we don’t understand the language yet.