NOTES for Ti2 4:5-8

While imprisoned and summing up his ministry and his earthly path, Paul says of himself that he has "fought the good fight," "finished the race," and preserved the faith, evidently not simply as a certain system of views, but first of all as faithfulness to Christ and trust in Him. And now the Savior, according to the apostle's word, has prepared for him the crown of righteousness.

A crown which, by Paul's own testimony, turns his life into a sacrificial libation. Here the apostle clearly recalls the words of the Savior Himself about the life that in translation is often called "soul," and which a person can either give to Christ for the sake of the good news, thereby preserving it, or keep for himself and then in the end lose it.

Indeed, soul in the biblical sense is not a structure and in general not some static formation; it is a process, a flow, resembling a river flowing through a person, in which at the same time the person himself, his spiritual "I," his heart as the Bible calls this "I," mysteriously abides. And one can enter the Kingdom only by allowing the One who brought the Kingdom into the world to direct the flow of one's own life. One will have to part with that life; it will cease to belong to us even before our physical body dies.

While the body is still alive, it will belong to Christ, and we will exist in it as He commands us. The flow of our life will then really become something like a sacrificial libation: wine or oil are not sacrifices in themselves; they are only an addition to the main thing, but they become part of that spiritual-natural process which every true Yahwistic sacrifice was.

And now something similar happens, both within the boundaries of one human life and on the scale of the whole body of Christ. In this way a Christian obtains the crown of righteousness: through such surrender of himself into Christ's power he receives the fullness of the life of the Kingdom, in which his own life is also preserved. In many ways the Kingdom is like an ocean, but in one respect it differs from it: the stream of every life accepted by the Kingdom does not disappear in it without trace, as the stream of river water disappears when the river flows into the ocean.

The fullness of the Kingdom includes the fullness of the life of each of its inhabitants. And therefore the fullness of his righteousness as well, since unrighteous life cannot exist in the Kingdom. Of course, there is an alternative: one can keep one's life for oneself. But then after the death of the body it will go away like water into sand. The choice is simple: pour out one's life in vain, or give it to the King who can preserve it in His Kingdom. The apostle has clearly made his choice, and he does not regret it.

The apostle Paul gives us a model of Christian logic, of Christian thinking. "I am already being poured out as an offering," he says. Clearly, he is speaking of the martyr's death that awaits him. And what follows? Our reflex is to continue in this vein: "But that is all right; after all, we are doing our best for the Lord..." Nothing of the kind. Paul says that he has traveled a good, long, and difficult road, has kept the faith, and now a reward awaits him: the crown of righteousness, the martyr's crown.

At the end of the second letter to Timothy, Paul writes to his student that the end of his earthly path is near (vv. 6-8). At the same time, the apostle says of himself that he is "already being poured out," having in mind the libations that were made during sacrifice (v. 6; in the Synodal translation, "I am already becoming a sacrifice"). For an adequate understanding of what Paul says, it is important to remember that, according to the Torah, a sacrifice had to be accompanied by a libation: the sacrificial meat lying on the altar was poured over or sprinkled with wine and oil; otherwise it was considered unfit for sacrifice (Num 15:1-12). The libation was not the main component of the sacrifice; the meat remained that, or more precisely, the sacrificial blood with which those present were sprinkled, thereby sanctifying them. But the sacrificial meal, during which, unless the matter involved a whole burnt offering, those taking part in the sacrifice ate consecrated meat, would have been impossible without wine and oil, in many ways depriving the sacrifice of meaning, since an essential part of it was precisely the sacrificial meal. And Paul compares his life and his ministry with such a libation, and his death as a witness with the moment of sacrifice, when this libation alone can play the role appointed to it by God, becoming an element of the sacrifice that sanctifies the people of God and, through them, the whole world.

Such a comparison is certainly no accident: the apostle understands perfectly well that his whole ministry and his whole earthly path can receive meaning only in that fullness of the Kingdom which will be revealed to him at the moment of the complete transformation of his human nature, while through him also being revealed to the Church and to the world. Just as sacrifice was a divine-human action whose culmination became the encounter between God and the people taking part in it, an encounter that sanctified those people, so the witness's meeting face to face with the One to whom he bore witness all his life becomes the moment of his final sanctification and complete transformation. Of course, Paul himself, his life and ministry, turn out to be only part of the grand process connected with the unfolding of the Kingdom in the world, and not even its main part: at the center here, as is easy to understand, stands the Savior Himself. But now this part is finally united with the whole, becoming its inalienable element while still preserving all its uniqueness. And the history of the Kingdom takes one more step on the way toward that fullness which will include within itself the world transformed by the breath of God.

At the conclusion of his instruction to Timothy, Paul again and again urges him not to retreat from the ministry entrusted to him, whose meaning is witness and faithfulness to what forms the foundation of Christian life. Sacred Scripture, which according to the apostle's testimony he had studied from childhood, should help Timothy in this (vv. 14-17). Paul, as can be seen, does not specify exactly which books he means, but it is not hard to understand that he has in mind first of all that part of the Jewish canon which in Judaism is called the "Latter Prophets." It was based on records of the preaching of Israel's great prophets, who testified, among other things, to the coming Messiah and to the advent of the messianic Kingdom. But the apostle, remaining faithful to his understanding of the Torah, reminds his disciple that all Sacred Scripture is useful for training in righteousness (v. 16; in the Synodal translation, "for instruction in righteousness"). Sacred Scripture for Paul is not a source of ideas for justifying one religious doctrine or another, but a spiritual compass that helps the faithful find their bearings on the road to the Kingdom, so as not to stray from the path of righteousness.

Meanwhile, judging by the apostle's words, there will be many who want to knock them off this path, especially since the time is already near when many themselves will be glad to be deceived, listening to teachers who say what their followers like to hear (vv. 3-4). Such mass spiritual dishonesty may at first glance appear strange, but it becomes more understandable if we remember the features of fallen human nature, which in general tends to avoid everything that can cause it pain or discomfort, even for the sake of its healing. Meanwhile, Paul had more than once had to say and write that everyone who wants not simply to talk about the Torah, but to follow it seriously, will be forced to go against his own sinfulness, a process that no one will find either easy or pleasant. Spiritual life is not intellectual pleasures and not religious raptures, but the path of resisting evil. And this path is much harder than the path of the theoretical theologian or the religious activist, for both of them can enjoy the fruits of their labor already in this world, while the righteous person will see them only at the end of a long and difficult road. It is no surprise that many prefer other, easier paths, to which the teachers mentioned by Paul call them, over the path of righteousness that leads to the Kingdom. But "myths," even the most colorful and fascinating, will not replace genuine life, and the apostle reminds his disciple of the ministry laid upon him by the Church, the ministry of a witness who points seekers to the path into the Kingdom.

Today we often complain that the church, as people say, has deteriorated: before there was faith and an understanding of the foundations of spiritual life, but now, they say, nothing of the kind can be found. Paul's letters, however, refute this very widespread church myth. The situation in the Church was never ideal, and in different churches it was less than ideal in different ways.

But there was also something common, and this common element had a single spiritual root. The apostle defines it clearly and briefly: the search for "teachers," for those who "please the ear," who tell people what they want to hear. And often, and in early Christian times most often, the issue was the understanding of the Bible, of the sacred books. It is no accident that Paul says that Holy Scripture is God-breathed in its entirety, and therefore it is also, in its entirety, "useful for teaching."

But one can learn something from Scripture only when one receives it as it is, and in all the fullness available at the moment. A rabbi-teacher could be a great help here: he not only explained the meaning of one text or another, as modern commentators do, but also helped a person work with the text. Or rather, he helped a person approach the text in such a way that the text could work with him, with its reader.

For behind every God-breathed text stands the One who is its true Author, and the meaning of reading the Bible precisely as sacred Scripture is to allow the Author, through this particular text in each case, to work with oneself. Such reading presupposed a certain skill, and least of all in this skill was what we often love so much today and what could be called the principle of "me and the Bible" or even "me in the Bible": my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions, my experiences concerning one passage or another.

Meanwhile, an adequate perception of the sacred text is possible only when the principle of "the Bible in me" is at work: here there is no room for my reflection, whether intellectual or emotional, but only an inner silence in which the text of Scripture sounds, having become God's word addressed to me. The practice of such reading was known both to the Synagogue and to the Church, although in the Church it eventually moved almost entirely into the monasteries.

This kind of reading was a priceless spiritual exercise which, along with inner prayer and conscious life, helped a person grow within himself that spiritual core which in those days was called the inner Torah. But this was rather intense and not always pleasant spiritual work, and far from everyone wanted to engage in it. Whoever did not want to do so looked for a "teacher" ready to "reflect" and "experience" together with him, turning with his student before the inner mirrors of his own reflection.

There could, of course, be no talk here of any spiritual work, but this sort of pastime was pleasant for those who liked it, and it could easily be passed off, to oneself and to others, as "studying Scripture" and as "spiritual life." This is the profanation of true knowledge of sacred Scripture against which Paul warns his student, for whom it was especially relevant: Timothy, judging by everything we know about him from Paul's letters, was precisely a rabbi-teacher, and the temptation to become a "teacher who pleases the ear" was quite real for him.

The Apostle Paul says that a time will come when people choose teachers according to convenience... Whichever person's preaching is more convenient is the one who suits me. Outwardly, the teaching offered may seem anything but convenient and may demand a great deal from a person—yet it provides a certain inward comfort and corresponds to one's inner outlook... This search for comfort does not always lead someone to fall away from the Church. At times these “whims” flourish in our relationships with pastors: a person chooses a spiritual father according to convenience. There would be nothing terrible in that, except that the danger of substitution always remains. Why do we come to confession? To receive forgiveness from the Lord, or to confirm our own opinion on some issue? What comes first: our relationship with God or my inward comfort?