Finishing Well

There is an extensive piece of research conducted by a professor named Dr. J. Robert Clinton, who served at Fuller Theological Seminary. His whole research project was to understand Christian leaders — those who give themselves to ministry. Over the course of fifteen years he studied around a thousand biblical characters to discover how they finished. Of those thousand, only a few — about forty-nine prominent leaders — had enough data to draw firm conclusions; many of the others are mentioned only by name. And his conclusion was sobering: only thirty percent of the leaders in the Bible finished well. Just thirty percent. The other seventy percent — leaders, ministers, and others across the history of Scripture — did not finish well. I want to speak to you today about finishing well.

This is not a concern for pastors and evangelists alone, though the number of pastors who quit the ministry every year is startling. It is true of ordinary believers as well. We come to Christ full of expectation. We declare the lordship of Jesus, we take the waters of baptism, we join a church with hope — and yet, after a few years, I have watched people sit in front of me and say, “Pastor, I don't feel like coming to church anymore.”

One such story I can recall happened barely three kilometres from this street. A man who had been baptized looked at me, just five weeks later, and said he would not come to church again. When I asked why, he said, “I declared the lordship of Jesus and went down into the waters of baptism. But from that very day, several things have started going wrong in my life. I never had these troubles before. My prayers are not answered. Whatever I claim from Scripture does not seem to come true. On YouTube I hear testimony after testimony of this happening and that happening — but it is not happening in my life.” Some of you may be walking through exactly that kind of season today. A shocking medical report is placed in your hands and you do not know what to do. Something goes wrong with the children, or a termination letter arrives at work. How will you face it? Will you finish well? Will I finish well? One of my struggles in preparing a message like this is that I end up preaching to myself: Joe, you are about to preach on finishing well — but will you finish well?

Second Timothy chapter two, verse eight, is our key text this morning. Second Timothy is Paul's last letter. He wrote it chained in a Roman prison, anticipating an imminent execution, passing the baton to his protégé. These are among his final words: “Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, descended from David. This is my gospel.”

Timothy is a man very close to my heart. We first meet him in Acts chapter sixteen, verses one and two, as Paul begins his second missionary journey — just after the sharp disagreement of the previous chapter, when Barnabas parted company with Paul. There Timothy appears, and a phrase clings to him: he was well spoken of by the believers in Lystra and Iconium. He was a man of good testimony. Everyone spoke well of Timothy. If Timothy came to church, people would point to him and say, “There is the one to imitate” — in his education, his spirituality, his obedience. And he did not work alongside some ordinary pastor or evangelist; he worked closely with the apostle Paul himself, for around ten years.

Just imagine if Paul came to preach in one of our Sunday services — simply to hear him speak, to hear the challenge in his voice. The journey of Paul and Timothy began around AD 52, and by the time of Second Timothy it is roughly AD 63 or 64 — well over a decade together. Their relationship was deep and affectionate. That is why in First Timothy one, verse two, Paul calls him “my true son,” and in Second Timothy one, verse two, “my dear son.” Apart from Galatians, Ephesians and Titus, every one of Paul's letters mentions Timothy; of his thirteen letters, six name Timothy as co-author. And Timothy had a rich spiritual heritage — his grandmother Lois and his mother Eunice, as Second Timothy one, verse five, reminds us. A godly lineage, a godly team.

What strikes me most is Paul's comment in Philippians chapter two, from verse twenty: “I have no one else like him.” No one else like whom? Like Timothy. Titus was there, Sosthenes was there, Silvanus was there — so what set this man apart? Paul says it is because Timothy had a genuine concern for the welfare of others. Everyone looks out for their own interests, Paul observes — even those in ministry — but Timothy genuinely cared for people.

So it astonishes me that to a man of this stature Paul writes, in Second Timothy two, verse eight, “Remember Jesus.” Timothy — you, who do not know Jesus? You, who have forgotten Jesus? You have done such remarkable ministry; you have such a track record. Put it in our terms: you are the first to arrive at church on a Sunday morning, always looking for a chance to serve — Is there a chair to set out? I'm here. Is there a need? I'm here. After so long and faithful a service, do you really need this counsel: remember Jesus? Otherwise, Timothy, you will not finish well.

To let that verse come alive, set three translations beside one another. The Message renders it, “Fix this picture firmly in your mind” — which picture? The picture of Jesus. J. B. Phillips puts it, “Remember always Jesus Christ as the centre of everything.” The Amplified Bible reads, “Constantly keep in mind Jesus Christ.” And again the question presses: Timothy, even after ten years of ministry, even after knowing the Scriptures from childhood — do you really need this reminder?

There is something important in that word “remember.” The verb is present tense — a continuous action — and it is an imperative, a command, not an option. To finish well by remembering Jesus is not a suggestion. In fact, from chapter one Paul piles up imperative after imperative for his protégé: in one, thirteen, “keep” what you heard from me; in one, fourteen, “guard” it by the Holy Spirit; in two, two, “entrust” it to others — you cannot keep the word of God to yourself; in two, three, “share” in suffering with me; in two, seven, “reflect” on what I am saying. And in two, eight, the series reaches its climax: “remember” — continuously, no option, a command. What Paul is telling Timothy is that only this memory — the memory of Jesus — will sustain him in ministry.

There is a thread of remembrance running through the whole letter. In chapter one, verses four and five, Paul writes, “Recalling your tears, I long to see you; I am reminded of your sincere faith.” Timothy, you have every advantage — think of your mother, think of your grandmother; you may have forgotten, so let me remind you. Yet that memory alone is not enough. It is one thing to have godly parents; it is not enough, by itself, to finish well. Then in chapter one, verse six, he reminds him again: “Fan into flame the gift of God which is in you through the laying on of my hands.” Some of us can think back to such a day — five or ten years ago, when we walked to the altar, a pastor prayed over us, we felt the Holy Spirit touch us, and a word was spoken that God would use us.

But a godly lineage is not enough, and prophecies are not enough. When life turns hard, you will not feel like opening that book of prophecies, you will not feel like opening the Bible, you will not feel like remembering your mother or grandmother. You will feel utterly alone. That is precisely when Paul says: remember Jesus. Jesus will come. He will keep you going. I do not know where you stand today, but for every situation there is one answer — Jesus. Jesus will sustain you.

And consider where this counsel comes from. Paul is in prison. If I were in that cell and heard that Timothy was wavering, struggling, disgraced, what message would I send? I think I would write about Acts — Paul and Silas in the Philippian jail, and how the prison doors flew open when they prayed. “Hold on, Timothy; victory is around the corner. You have a praying mother and grandmother, you know the Scriptures, you know what God can do. Remember that God can open prison doors.” Or, more spiritually, I might point to the Jordan parted, or the Exodus, when God brought Israel out by his mighty arm — “the same will happen to me, Timothy; I will come out; don't give up.”

When we go through hard times, that is exactly what we love to hear — about the God who parted the Red Sea, who brought down the walls of Jericho, who defeated the Amalekites. But Paul carefully refuses to say any of it. Do not think of all that, he says; think about Jesus. I am not denying that God still opens prison doors — but sometimes he works in mysterious ways. From the Philippian jail Paul walked free; from this prison he will not. In chapter four, verse six, he says, “I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time for my departure is near.” Death is imminent; he can see it coming. And so the right word of encouragement to finish well is simply this: continuously remember Jesus.

From verse eight, three things will help us finish well. Notice the first in the very title Paul uses. In chapter two, verse one, he writes “Christ Jesus”; in chapter one, verse ten, again “Christ Jesus”; but in two, eight, the order changes — “Jesus Christ.” It is the only place in Second Timothy where the order is reversed, and it is no careless copying of a creed. The reason is to stress the humanity of Jesus.

Sometimes in our hardest moments God can feel lofty and distant — somewhere up there, aloof, detached, unconcerned, not listening when we pray. I think Timothy was in just such a struggle, reflecting on his life: in Lystra things were cared for, but now he is with Paul, and Paul has landed in prison. God, where are you? Why, when others give such glowing testimonies, is my story so different? That is why Paul writes not “Christ Jesus” but “Jesus Christ” — to press home the humanity of the One who can meet you in your situation. J. I. Packer wrote, “The Almighty appeared on earth as a helpless human baby, needing to be fed and changed and taught to talk like any other child. The more you think about it, the more staggering it gets.” God came down in human flesh, like a helpless infant, like us; he was rejected, he endured shame — think of the cross itself.

Now look at Timothy's real problem. In Second Timothy one, verse eight, Paul writes, “Do not be ashamed of the testimony about our Lord, or of me his prisoner.” Timothy is ashamed. The word returns in verse twelve, where Paul says of himself, “That is why I am suffering as I am; yet this is no cause for shame, for I know whom I have believed.” And again in verse sixteen, of another man: “May the Lord show mercy to the household of Onesiphorus, because he often refreshed me and was not ashamed of my chains.” Timothy is ashamed; Paul is not; Onesiphorus is not.

We live in a shame-and-honour culture too. When the promotion comes, we are quick to announce, “God has done an amazing thing this week!” But when the job is lost, we decide at home, “Let's not tell anyone.” Married many years with no children — how will I face people? Past the age of marriage — how will I face people? We would rather slip out before the benediction than meet anyone's eyes. That was Timothy's struggle, and the antidote Paul offers is to remember Jesus Christ, who came down and identified with us. Jesus is not ashamed to call us his brothers and sisters; he was not ashamed to take the form of a man and be crucified, as Philippians chapter two describes. And Paul can say “I am not ashamed” for one reason: “I know whom I have believed, and am convinced that he is able to guard what I have entrusted to him until that day.”

Paul even reverses the values of his culture. In Ephesians chapter three he says his sufferings for them are their glory. To be associated with a prisoner was shameful in Timothy's world, but Paul says, rejoice — you are being identified with the crucified Jesus. Chrysostom wrote, “In themselves, death and imprisonment and chains are matters of shame and reproach; but when the cause is added, and the mystery viewed aright, they appear full of dignity.” To finish well, Timothy, you need a different view of shame and honour: honour is to be identified with the crucified Jesus; shame is to withdraw from the scene.

Thomas C. Oden, one of the most influential theologians of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, confessed it of himself — and I quote him so you will not misunderstand me: “I teach in a seminary. I know how embarrassed we professors are about the gospel, and how hard we work to make the gospel conveniently acceptable.” We grow ashamed of the cross, of crucifixion; we hardly like to use the word “sin,” wanting to be inclusive in a relativistic, post-modern age where your truth is not my truth. Oden even confessed that we are ashamed of our own Lois and Eunice — ashamed of our mothers and grandmothers — because we imagine we have outgrown them with all our knowledge. But are you ashamed of your godly mother? It is possible to want to distance ourselves: “Yes, she prays, but she doesn't really know what she's praying.” That attitude cannot finish well. We must honour those of high spiritual stature.

So do not remember superstars; do not remember only a few favourite stories. Remember Jesus Christ, who calls us, “Follow me. Look at my hands — hands that speak of sacrifice; look at my body, full of scars.” God had only one Son without sin, but no son without scars. The incarnation is not only for our salvation; it sets a pattern, so that we fix our eyes on Jesus and follow him through suffering.

The second thing is in the words “descended from David.” Why does Paul add this? Timothy's first problem was shame; his second is named in chapter one, verse seven: “For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid.” His second problem is fear. Paul is in prison, about to be executed, and Timothy — who should have gone to care for Paul and refresh him, as Onesiphorus did — is drawing back. What is he afraid of? Not failure. Timothy is afraid of Nero Caesar, the Roman emperor who acts as though he is king with absolute control over history, whose pomp and verdicts make people believe he decides their destiny.

But your boss does not decide your destiny; your neighbours do not decide your destiny; God is watching over you. Paul tells Timothy, “You did not receive a spirit that makes you timid, but a Spirit of power” — death-defeating power, power to love your neighbour, power to stand firm in adversity. And so, in two, eight, “Remember Jesus Christ, descended from David” — remember the true King. Nero is not the true King. Jesus, the descendant of David, is the supreme One above Caesar, and he controls history. No matter what happens to your body, your children, or your finances, remember Jesus Christ, the true King.

This fear had driven Timothy toward an unthinkable thing. In chapter one, verse thirteen, Paul says, “Keep as the pattern of sound teaching”; in verse fourteen, “Guard the good deposit” — the teachings, methods and model of Jesus. It seems that, out of fear of Nero, Timothy was beginning to dilute and sugar-coat the message. Why else would Paul write, in two, fifteen, “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth”? It appears Timothy was failing to handle it rightly, abandoning his mission out of fear.

That temptation comes to preachers and pastors too. After a sermon we long to hear, “What a message!” We long to see every chair filled, the people responding, the compliments flowing. But “remember Jesus Christ, descended from David” means that a preacher's first and final commitment is to hear “Well done” from his Master, not applause from the crowd — otherwise we will compromise and dilute the word. We are not like those who tamper with God's message; we bring the very oracles of God without adulteration. May City Harvest be known in this generation, in this city of Bangalore, as a church that correctly handles the word of truth. Our aim is not popularity, nor headcount, but discipleship — to study God's word and to please the One we serve, the descendant of David.

Thirdly and lastly: “Jesus Christ, raised from the dead.” This is the ultimate. Timothy is ashamed and fearful because he will not identify with the imprisoned Paul and because he dreads Nero — but underneath it all, what he truly fears is death. That is why Paul writes, “Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead.” The resurrection is not for the sake of our salvation alone, as though Jesus merely died on our behalf and purchased our pardon. He rose as the firstfruits. So Paul can say, in one, twelve, “I know whom I have believed, and am convinced that he is able to guard what I have entrusted to him until that day” — a day when all this suffering and shame will be exchanged for glory. That is the ultimate hope of the church.

I will not give you a false promise this morning. I will not tell you that you are immune to death or disease. There are even preachers — I have heard of an “immortality movement” in South India — who claim that if you are in Jesus you will not die, that you die only if you choose to, and people applaud it. I will not tell you that you will never die or never fall ill. But I will tell you this: remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead. Death is not the end.

Let me close with the true story of a missionary couple who, after serving for years in Africa, decided to return to their home in New York City. They booked passage on a ship and discovered that President Teddy Roosevelt was travelling on the very same vessel. As the ship crossed the ocean, the old missionary said to his wife, “Something is wrong.” “What is wrong?” she asked. “We have served as missionaries, bearing shame and suffering for years, and no one came to see us off; we carried our own luggage. And here is the president, with every escort, everything taken care of. Something is wrong.”

When the ship docked in New York, a band was waiting to greet President Roosevelt; the mayor and the dignitaries were there, and the papers were full of his arrival. The old couple slipped quietly off the ship and found a cheap flat on the east side — they had no home of their own. Once inside, the husband began again: “It isn't fair. It isn't fair.” Thank God for godly women: his wife told him, “Go into that room and tell Jesus everything you feel. Tell him it isn't fair.” The missionary went in, knelt, and looked up to heaven. Within a few moments he came out, and his wife asked what had happened. “I have my answer,” he said. “Heaven told me: You are not home yet. You have only arrived in New York. On the other shore there is a grand party waiting.”

We are not following Jesus for a safe and comfortable life here and now. We are following the resurrection. We follow the One who took suffering upon himself — but never forget that we are following the true King, not a pretender. So as we leave, carry these three principles that will sustain you, not only this week but for the rest of your life, especially when the going gets tough. We have a great High Priest, Jesus Christ, who sympathizes with our weakness — so trust him, not man. Jesus is the true King — so fear him alone, and give him your allegiance. Jesus has conquered death — so worship him, for he alone deserves worship. Someone has said that worship is remembering. Worship is not merely two stanzas of a song; worship is remembering. As you go from here and continue to worship, what will you remember? Remember Jesus Christ — and worship him.