St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL
2 Timothy 1:1-14
Listen to this hymn
we sang this morning
just before the Gospel:
O thou who camest from above,
the fire celestial to impart,
kindle a flame of sacred love
upon the altar of my heart.1
It’s one of Charles Wesley’s best:
simple, honest, and true.
It’s a prayer that God would rekindle
the sacred flame of divine love within us,
that what God has already placed on the altar of our hearts
would burn brighter, stronger, and truer.
That image of fire—
of holy flame that both warms and transforms—
runs all through Scripture:
from the burning bush that called Moses,
to the tongues of Pentecost that set the Church ablaze,
to Paul’s letter to his young friend Timothy.
And that’s where we find ourselves today:
listening in on one of the most personal moments
in all the New Testament:
a mentor reminding his student that
the fire that burns within him
is the very life of God.
* * *
Maybe you’re not all that familiar
with the letters to Timothy.
That would be easy to understand;
they’re short,
tucked in the back,
easy to miss.
But Timothy was one of the first pastors of the early Church:
young, uncertain,
trying to hold a little flock together
in a world that didn’t yet understand Jesus.
His mentor, Paul,
was far away in prison—
old, tired,
writing from a Roman jail cell.
But listen to this sentence
that he writes to Timothy today:
“I remind you to fan into flame
the gift of God that is within you,
for God did not give us a spirit of fear,
but of power and love and self-discipline.”2
At first it sounds like Paul is scolding . . .
telling Timothy to do better,
to work harder,
to find new fire.
But look closer.
Paul isn’t scolding;
he’s reminding.
He’s saying,
The fire is already in you.
You haven’t lost it;
you’ve just stopped tending it.
That’s life changing,
not just for Timothy
but for all of us,
because once you realize that—
once you believe God has already placed
divine flame within you,
set upon the altar of your heart—
everything changes.
Because
the fire that burns within you
is the very life of God.
And it’s not there
just for your own comfort or light.
It’s for warmth,
for healing,
for others to gather around.
Like any good fire,
it needs air—
space, openness, generosity—
to stay alive.
Real fire is most alive
when it’s not concerned
about being contained.
Real fire is most alive when it gives.
When fire burns freely,
it doesn’t lose itself;
it only grows brighter.
That is the mystery that hymn names,
and the mystery Paul names to Timothy:
that giving and living are the same thing.
We so often think we’ll be satisfied and full
once we finally have enough—
enough time,
enough security,
enough peace—
but Scripture whispers another truth:
fire and fullness don’t come from receiving;
they come through giving ourselves away.
As strange as it sounds,
the math of heaven runs backward.
What you protect shrinks.
What you release multiplies.
That’s because at the center of everything
is a God who gives.
The Father gives the Son.
The Son gives his life.
The Spirit gives breath and flame.
The whole life of God
is one endless circle of self-giving love.
And that same pattern pulses
through everything God has made—including you.
It means that God’s fire, God’s giving nature,
is built into your very design.
The fire that burns within you
is the very life of God.
* * *
But let’s widen that just a bit
because “giving” is bigger than we think.
Giving isn’t just about money.
Giving is patience
when the world makes you short-tempered.
Giving is listening
when you’d rather walk away.
Giving is forgiving
when everything in you wants to stay angry.
Giving is courage
to show up again after disappointment.
Giving isn’t about what leaves your hand.
It’s about what sets your soul on fire.
I once knew someone who lived that truth.
She was a retired teacher
whose pension barely covered the basics.
A refugee family from Afghanistan
moved into her apartment complex
on the same hall as her:
two small children,
thin walls between them.
One night she heard the children crying,
the mother singing softly to calm them.
She thought, Someone should do something.
Then she realized—she was someone.
She didn’t have extra money,
but she had a blanket:
something knitted by
the church’s prayer shawl group.
She folded it neatly
and laid it by their door.
Days later she found a box of tea,
bought a small, inexpensive ceramic pot,
and left them by the door.
Later still, she took a blank card,
and since she knew she didn’t speak their language,
she just drew a heart on the inside
and place it by their door.
When a neighbor asked why, she said,
“They’re far from home,
and this will never be home
unless we share from the love we have.
Besides, if I stop sharing,
I stop being myself.”
From there, the hallway changed.
Doors opened.
People began helping one another.
Despite all the barriers—language, culture, fear—
the warmth spread.
What began as one small spark
filled that place with light.
The fire that burns within you
is the very life of God.
* * *
We’re taught that holding tight will save us,
but in God’s kingdom
the tighter the grip, the faster the flame dies.
The more you release, the higher it burns.
Even when grief has taken what you had,
even when illness has drained you,
God doesn’t measure the size of the flame,
only that it still burns.
Because with our God,
life isn’t a transaction;
it’s transformation.
So take a breath.
Feel that warmth in your chest?
That’s the same Spirit Paul was talking about:
power,
love,
and self-discipline.
It’s still burning.
So fan it.
Fan it with mercy when tempers run hot.
Fan it with forgiveness that breaks the cycle of harm.
Fan it with courage to begin again after failure.
Fan it with steadfast love that refuses to quit.
Because
the fire that burns within you
is the very life of God
burning with the breath of heaven,
and the world is waiting
to feel its warmth.
Amen.