Lectionary Commentaries for November 9, 2025
Twenty-second Sunday after Pentecost

Other commentaries on this site do a nice job of contextualizing Levirate marriage, resurrection beliefs, and the historical and theological context of the debates between Jesus and the Jewish leadership. With these important issues in view, it is also interesting to consider how the text lands for those who hear it later, specifically Christians who already have a semantic field for and commitment to the idea of resurrection precisely because of how the story of Jesus plays out. 

For these hearers, the question arises as to whether the text is about life or death, now or later. Like other texts, including the recent Lukan text about Lazarus and the rich man, the latter is meant to inform, shape, influence, or change the former. Assuming Jesus’ claims about resurrection (as well as the claims about Jesus’ resurrection) are true, what difference does it make? 

A whole new world

The Sadducees seek to force Jesus to expose how ludicrous the idea of resurrection is. In his rebuke, Jesus demonstrates how it is, in fact, ludicrous to try to understand the resurrection in terms of this life. He asserts that the rules we put in place to navigate this world are not important, or even relevant, in the next one, because it is so fundamentally different from what we normally experience. 

Here, with the limitations of time, space, and human sin, we rely on practices to keep things orderly. Traditions like the one mentioned in this text protected the women, heirs, and the legacy of the man who has died. According to Jesus, such concerns do not translate to the life to come, certainly not in a way that negates the concept of a resurrection. We will need new language, new imagination, to grasp the meaning of resurrection. 

My kids and I have talked several times about what life was like before media and entertainment were available on demand. It’s challenging for them to imagine “Must-See TV,” having to be in front of a machine at a certain time in a certain place in order to experience a particular piece of content. In addition to the logistics, it’s hard to convey the kind of urgency that accompanied certain media events. The kind of scarcity mindset (or FOMO—Fear Of Missing Out) often associated with premieres, finales, or “very special episodes” is not easily imagined now that it is irrelevant. 

The feelings around missing those cultural milestones were strong, even about something as trivial as television shows. In this text, which is literally about life and death, Jesus tries to address the challenge of the Sadducees and also to expand the conversation beyond the constraints of the present to a future not yet imagined. 

Jesus first highlights the gap between understanding and imagination by talking about those who belong to “this age” versus those who are “considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead.” Marriage is appropriate for those in “this” age but not in “that” one. But he points to something bigger here. It’s not just that people don’t need to be married in heaven, but that those who are children of the resurrection cannot die anymore. It’s like telling someone from this world about one where they are not constrained by money, or health concerns, or gravity. 

Can we really imagine this? What is it like to live without the threat of death? It’s the threat of death that drives so much of life, including the realities that signal that death is close by: suffering, lack, fear, not having or being enough. What would it be like to live without these things? The juxtaposition of those in “this” age and those in “that” age pushes the reader to desire further understanding of how to be a part of “that” one, to not be limited by “this” one. Jesus’ response shows how compelling the idea of resurrection actually is, as it leaves behind the limits and assumptions of this world.

Collective hope

Such imaginings are challenging for us on our own. The preaching event gives an opportunity for this kind of collective vision that can transcend individual circumstances, even as it honors and acknowledges them. It can speak to the power of the body of Christ to 

1) provide glimpses of a community where all are welcomed and there is enough, 

2) articulate the value of each human being, and

3) give other sources of motivation for action than simply fear or protection.

Part of the good news is that once we have experienced this kind of hope, even for just a moment, we might forget what that fear was like, or it might recede in importance and cease to be the dominant narrative. Now that I have been living in a streaming world for years, I can recall—but not feel—those emotions I’ve described to my kids surrounding TV and scarcity and urgency. (Now my urgency is directed elsewhere, which is another sermon.) I no longer catch myself worried that I’ve missed anything on a show, as I know I can probably find anything I need with a few clicks or a few dollars. My kids will never know what that felt like; for me, it is now a distant memory.

Jesus is calling us to imagine what it is like to live without the fear of death so that we can approach our lives differently. If all of this is true, if through Jesus we are all children of the resurrection, then how does that free us? How do we spend our time? Our money? Our energy? The collective imagination guided by the preacher can open up space for the hearers to view this life differently, perhaps loosening or lessening anxiety and fearful urgency in order to free up energy for hopeful action on behalf of the gospel. 

Allow me to pull back the curtain a bit here. The team that organizes these Working Preaching commentaries works way ahead. That’s a wonderful thing, because reading and thinking about a passage of Scripture enough to say anything worthwhile takes time. I was first asked to write this commentary well over a year before it was scheduled to be published. Usually, when the invitation comes, we get a short list of texts; I will skim them and choose ones about which I think I could find something interesting to say. This was certainly the case with Job 19:23–27. Thanks to a combination of its poetic images, theological incisiveness, and familiar phrases—such as the line “I know that my redeemer lives,” immortalized in many artistic works, including Handel’s Messiah—this passage stands out as notable within this momentous work of ancient literature.¹

However, one of the things that quickly becomes apparent is that the passage does not yield itself to easy interpretations. When working with the text of Job, there is always the matter of difficult language. The Hebrew in the book is widely regarded as some of the most challenging in the Old Testament. Translations vary wildly, and you find that humble note “meaning of Hb uncertain” all over the margins of your study Bible.

This passage in particular has been vexing to interpreters. Theophile Meek (1881–1966) said, “Of all the passages in the Old Testament, none has been more variously treated than Job 19:25–27.”² More recently, Edwin Good remarked, “This passage gives everyone fits, both of furious anxiety and of blank despair.”³ Verse 26 has proven especially perplexing. We find dramatically different possibilities for key Hebrew words.⁴ As one commentator notes, all the ancient manuscript traditions differ to the extent that “no reliance can be placed in any of them.”⁵ Clearly, our work is cut out for us.

It should not be all that surprising that early Christian interpreters read these verses as a prophecy for either the first or second coming of Christ and, later, as a proof text for the resurrection of the body.⁶ The New Revised Standard Version translates 19:25–26 as follows:

For I know that my Redeemer lives,
and that at the last he will stand upon the earth;
and after my skin has been thus destroyed,
then in my flesh I shall see God.⁷

But let’s not jump ahead to the resurrection too quickly. Because verses 23–24 are also worthy of consideration in context. Again, the New Revised Standard Version:

O that my words were written down!
O that they were inscribed in a book!
O that with an iron pen and with lead
they were engraved on a rock forever!

At first glance, this might not seem so obscure. But exactly what practice is being referenced in verse 24? Is the lead being used to darken the etchings or to fill them in? Trivial though this may seem, the explanations have implications for how we think about using comparative sources and for dating the book.

But this image is also salient for how we understand Job’s complaint. Job, a man obsessed with vindication, is desperate for something to be left behind to attest to his innocence. His good name has been destroyed; his ties to kin, family, and friends have been dissolved (19:13–22); and his body is dis-integrating—being taken apart, being reduced to bones, teeth, and flesh.⁸ But this goes beyond the physical. Job’s entire self is being dismantled by this unjust persecution and by the painful realization that God either is not hearing him or is not a trustworthy judge. And so, he longs for a physical record that will endure.

“Record” is certainly better than “book” here, which conjures up (at least for contemporary English readers) an image that would not have been accessible at the time of Job’s composition.⁹ The Hebrew allows for us to read this testimony as a “witness” (le-ed) or as something that will endure forever (le-ad), and a looser association or a double entendre is also certainly possible.¹⁰

But one of the bigger-picture differences among commentators on this passage is what it says about the divine-human relationship at the center of the book. Job’s relationship with God is on full display here, in all its goriness, complexity, and (frankly) weirdness. And then when Job utters these familiar words, they are commonly taken as a “sudden burst” or “crescendo” of faith.¹¹ But do they mark a kind of turning point for the relationship, or is this essentially in line with Job’s complaint up to this point? Does he speak more about or to God in this section of poetry, or less? Is this a moment of transformation or continuity?

There is no consensus. And the lectionary can make this hard to determine, because it invites us to read verses out of context. If we put them back into a larger poetic unit, reading invokes a kind of whiplash—the mood shifts dramatically; the metaphors are mixed.¹² Job is no mere thought experiment. The intensity of emotions lands in his body, and talking about his dismantled body is a way of talking about a devastated mind. While it’s unclear if Job thinks God or the friends have flayed him (19:22, 26), leaving his raw flesh exposed, there’s a profound subjectivity to his speech. Everything being said to him feels like making an opportunity out of his suffering rather than occasioning comfort and care. What is left of him? What is left for him?

Remarkably, Job seems to hold on to the notion of justice. He still professes that redemption will come—even if he’s not sure from where. At this point, he is almost talking past God rather than appealing to God. Perhaps Job is attempting to rouse God from an apparent slumber regarding his situation? (As if to say, “Hey, remember redemption? Because I sure do, and I don’t see it anywhere around here.”) I am not so sure this is the sudden outburst of faithful speech it is often treated as. I assume this happens because we crave a resolution to the unresolvable tension Job is giving voice to. Yet, it’s important for us to read these texts on their own terms first—allow them to have their own integrity, even when they don’t say what we want them to say.

But this is the conundrum of monotheism: There is nowhere else to go, no one else to appeal to. We get a more powerful deity, but also a more mysterious one. The good word to a suffering person is not just wait, you’ll see. Redemption does come for Job, and it does come from God. Yes, it comes in the form of material and social restoration, but first it comes as vindication for Job’s psyche: You have spoken rightly of me. All that wild stuff Job says about himself and about God throughout the book? God says, I hear you. And all the pious stuff—words deeply rooted in their religious tradition—that the friends said? God says, Ask Job to pray for you.

Tradition and experience shape each other, and this push-and-pull animates the life of faith. What is there for a suffering person to do? Job calls on his friends to have sympathy for him even though he has realized they aren’t capable of it. He claims the promise of a redeemer even though God has not shown up that way for too long. As a result of this experience, Job’s faith—his sense of who God is—has changed. From the vantage point of his former self, what he believes now may look like a perversion. Job may understand the tradition differently now, but the tradition is also different because of Job’s voice. What he experienced is still worth articulating, and it is still worth hearing.

Works Cited

Beuken, W.A.M., ed. The Book of Job. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1994.

Eisenmann, Moshe. Iyov: A New Translation and Commentary. Berit Olam. Brooklyn: Mesorah

Publications, 1994.

Good, Edwin. In Turns of Tempest: A Reading of Job. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press,

1990.

Meek, Theophile. “Job XIX 25–27,” Vetus Testamentum 6 (1956), 100–103.

Mitchell, Stephen. Into the Whirlwind: A Translation of the Book of Job. Garden City, NY:

Doubleday, 1979.

Pope, Marvin H. Job. Anchor Bible Commentary. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1965.

Seow, C.L. Job 1–21: Interpretation and Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdman’s, 2013.

Notes

1. For more on the reception of this passage in art and music, see Seow, 792–794.
2. Meek, 100.
3. Good, 100.
4. The terms with the widest variation in translation and interpretation include: sefer (book/record/scroll), go’el (redeemer/avenger), aharon (at last/the last/the guarantor/the ultimate one), afar (dust/earth/humanity), and naqaph (to destroy). For a succinct and thorough summary, see Seow, 805-807; 823; see also Beuken, ed., 377ff.
5. Pope, 135. When scholars encounter this reality, we can either propose emendations or work with the text as it stands. The latter may involve stretching our understanding of Hebrew vocabulary and syntax (see Jan Holman’s translation of verse 25, pp. 377-381 in Beuken).
6. For more, see Seow, 803-4.
7. On the use of the verb “know” in this verse, see Seow, 803.
8. Translations of 19:20 are where we get the English idiom, “escaped by the skin of my teeth.” Seow elaborates on p. 801ff.
9. Contrast this with the “windy” (Heb: ruach) thoughts and words of Job 15:13 and 16:3 (Eisenmann, 191).
10. Seow, 823.
11. Seow, 803-4, referencing Arthur Peake and Robert Gordis, respectively.
12. Stephen Mitchell’s translation of the Book of Job opts for an entirely legal setting in this passage, making choices that are more faithful to his overall interpretation than to the word or line (see Into the Whirlwind, 55). By contrast, Edwin Good’s translation allows this passage to be confounding, but emphasizes harmony across the entire book by paying attention to catchwords such as go’el in 3:5 and 19:25 (see In Turns of Tempest, 54).

The co-temporal prophets Haggai and Zechariah mark a shift in how the exiled community of Judah sees itself.¹

For the first time, they measure time through a foreign monarch, Darius of Persia, because there are no ruling Davidides in Judah (which has now become the Persian province of Yehud). The last phrase of 1:15, “in the second year of King Darius,” link chapters 1 and 2. The first nine verses of chapter 2 make up the bulk of the lectionary reading.

In this passage, the exiles have now returned to Jerusalem with the blessing of Cyrus and some building supplies to rebuild their temple. (The story of the return and rebuilding of the temple is told in Ezra 1–3.)

The date formulas in Haggai (and Zechariah) are precise. The word of the Lord comes to Haggai on the 21st of Tishri (the seventh month), corresponding to the 17th of October in 520 BCE. The context is the disappointment of the people, who have done all that they can to return their world to the way things were (and were supposed to be) but have found themselves far short of their vision.

Prophets like Isaiah (43:5–6; 48:20–21), Hosea (11:10–11), and Ezekiel (37:12–14) had prophesied a second exodus, in which God would lead Israel back to the Promised Land. The day had come, and now, about a month later, they have come face-to-face with a reality that does not live up to their dreams.

Zerubbabel is a descendent of David (in a roundabout way), but he is not a king; he is only governor as long as it pleases the Persian overlord, Darius, the true king. They have a high priest, Joshua, and the temple has been rebuilt, but it is not the same. Ezra 3:12–13 records that the people who were old enough to have seen the glorious Solomonic temple broke down and cried when they saw its shabby successor. (All of the Israelite construction efforts were ridiculed as being so unstable that the local wildlife would demolish them by bumping into them; see Nehemiah 4:3.)

To these disheartened and disenchanted people, God spoke through Haggai:

“How many of you remember the good old days? Does this new temple hold a candle to the previous one? Buck up, Z! Hold your head up, Josh! Everyone, keep working! You have nothing to fear; I am here, and I am with you all. And it won’t always be like this. I will bring resources—treasure—from faraway lands, and in its final form, this holy house will be even better than the one Solomon built!”

In some ways, each successive generation of Israelites tried to live into this promise by continually expanding and renovating the temple, as did Herod in the New Testament. (This is one thread underlying the synoptic story in which the disciples swell with pride when they show Jesus the fancy work on the perpetual temple project, and their horror when he says the whole thing will come tumbling down; see Matthew 24:1–2; Mark 13:1–2; Luke 21:5–6.)

It is easy to focus on the material promise: One day the returnees will be more prosperous. But there is more to this word of consolation: God is satisfied with their best efforts. God has not compared their labor with that of their ancestors and found it lacking. God knows they are feeling insecure about the temple they have recreated for God. Perhaps most importantly, God is with them, temple or no temple.

God is with them, and God has been with them. God was with the Israelites in the glorious days of the united monarchy. God was with the Israelites on both sides of the border when the nation fractured—even though the Judeans claimed that God was with them and not the northern Israelites.

God was with the deported and resettled Samarians as they intermarried with other deported peoples and became known as the Samaritans and were no longer recognized by some as Israelite.

God was with the Judeans and Jerusalemites when the Babylonian war machine leveled their temple and obliterated their government. God went with the Judean Israelites into exile and remained with the poorest people of the land who were left behind. And God was with those who ran the other way and found themselves self-exiled in Egypt. God was with each river of returnees streaming back into Jerusalem and Judah.

And in the days to come, God’s presence will be marked not by mere prosperity as it is translated in the New Revised Standard Version, but by shalom—peace, well-being, security, wholeness, and restoration.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for November 7, 2010.

In Psalm 17, the author finds himself in a dire situation.¹

Verses 1–9 are a plea from an innocent to be vindicated in a world that seeks the psalmist’s demise. In the midst of this plea for deliverance the author has a sensory experience.

Listen/attend

The psalmist is meticulous in his depiction of the drama. He begins with a fervent plea for God not simply to hear his cry but, more importantly, to attend to his cries. The verb is qsb. In the simple active form (Hebrew qal) it means “to listen,” but in verse 1 we see a form of the verb that is the declarative (hiphil) which translates, “to attend.”

Such a distinction is reminiscent of the kind of womanist mother wit of my childhood. The elders would always say, “I know you hear me but are you listening to me?” Many grammarians—and the sages of communities—understand hearing to be sensory activation. Hearing, while an active verb, is a passive reality. If we have the bodily resources to hear, we don’t necessarily have control of that which we hear. In contrast, listening requires our attention, our engagement, and our thought processes.

So, the psalmist urgently implores God to engage in his cries; to pay attention to the substance of his request, and to take ownership of the outcome.

The author makes such a bold, deliberate request of God because of his initial articulation that this situation is a “just/righteous cause.” The psalmist maintains the integrity of his sensory plea by compelling God to “give ear to my prayer from lips free of deceit” (Psalm 17:1).

See

In Psalm 17:2 the psalmist implores God to “let your eyes see the right.” In the most basic sense, this imperative begs God to justly adjudicate the situation in which the author finds himself. It is important that the author asks God to “hear a just cause” and not to hear a just person. We often misinterpret righteousness as perfection. The psalmist may not proclaim the all-encompassing purity or perfection in life, but instead may be able to own in this moment some innocence and righteousness.

As a bookend to this request, the author petitions God to “guard me as the apple of the eye” in Psalm 17:8. This phrase may point back to Deuteronomy 32:10, where the author explains that God sustained Jacob in the wilderness and “guarded him as the apple of his eye.” It is interesting that at the beginning of the psalm, the author proclaims innocence and righteousness, and then at the end, he frames himself in the context of Jacob—the younger of two twin brothers who steals his brother’s birthright and then flees from his family to live with the Arameans in the desert.

While Jacob was far from perfect, and he had a less than righteous beginning, his journey was filled with loss, reconciliation, and a continued desire to struggle with God in difficult situations. As such, in this simple reference, the author may provide some balance to his earlier articulations that “my mouth does not transgress” and “my steps have held fast to your paths” (Psalm 17:3).

Protect

The psalmist’s final petition in this section of Psalm 17 is for protection. His supplication is for God to “hide me in the shadow of your wings” (17:8b). Wings, in the Hebrew Bible are a signification of refuge. In Ruth 2:12, Boaz’s prayer for Ruth is, “May the Lord reward you for your deeds, and may you have a full reward from the Lord, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come for refuge!” Here, Boaz attempts to provide Ruth assurance that her faithfulness to Israel and to YHWH have secured her some harbor after the tumultuous period of lack that she has just experienced.

In Exodus 19:4, wings are God’s articulation of deliverance from Pharaoh and Egypt, as well as a reminder of God’s ability and willingness to shelter the Israelites in the wilderness. These words are couched in a narrative in which God not only reminds the people of God’s previous actions but also prepares Israel for the covenant that God is entering into with them. The wings are a sign of deliverance not only from empire but also from forces of nature—all of which God has dominion over.

In Isaiah there are six texts that mention wings as a sign of protection (6:2; 8:8; 10:14; 11:12; 18:1; 24:16). In Isaiah 6:2 there are six wings on the mythical seraphim, who are attending to the Lord—two that cover the face, two that cover the feet, and two that allow them to fly. The prophet Ezekiel has 23 references to wings. The prophets conjure wings in both natural and fantastic, supernatural contexts to signify God’s presence and provision in the midst of chaotic circumstances.

And so, in Psalm 17, the author understands God’s capacity to provide shelter to those who have seen trauma or been displaced by the overreach of humanity and empire; God’s capacity to serve as deliverance in seemingly insurmountable situations. The psalmist is in need of a similar manifestation of God’s presence in the midst of his circumstance, and thus understands the long and deep shadow of God’s wing to be solace.

Conclusion

This psalm gives us as readers the freedom to understand that we need not be perfect to proclaim our innocence to God. Here, we understand that we can embody righteousness in moments, and that our transgressions do not paint the whole picture of our story. And so, we have license to go to God with some boldness to request deliverance from a world that is often unyielding, particularly to those seeking refuge.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for November 10, 2019.

I grew up with the legendary R.E.M. song, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine).” I was in fourth grade when that song was first released (1987). It seemed silly and whimsical to sing it then, because I was just a kid without a care in the world. When you get older, you start to worry more about yourself, and when you get really old (I just started wearing reading glasses, and I grunt now when I try to get up from the couch), you worry about your community and even the fate of the whole world. 

Paul and the Thessalonians sometimes worried about a religious apocalypse where angels and demons clash with one another and the universe hangs in the balance. We might not worry about that particular problem, but we have potentially world-ending issues in the news related to ecological disaster, AI threats, economic collapse, and nuclear warfare. But even if Paul had such extinction-level threats like we have in our time, he would have probably given the same advice: Thank God for his generous salvation, and don’t worry about things above your security clearance. (This mentality, by the way, is not about being passive; it is about living and acting like God is good and God is great.)

In 2 Thessalonians 2, we get to the heart of the eschatological worries besetting the Thessalonian church. Apparently, they came to be convinced that Doomsday had arrived (verse 2). We don’t know what led them to that idea. False prophets? Bad omens? An earthquake? Meteor shower? Or plain old “sky is falling” paranoia? I suspect some human foul play was involved because Paul was insistent that they should not listen to any eschatological nonsense (verse 3). 

Judgment Day is coming, Paul affirms, but certain cosmological events will unfold before the end—before the end-end. You can read 2 Thessalonians 2:3–12 for the full rundown of the who, what, and how: the rebellion, the Man of Lawlessness, the Restrainer. (This all sounds like a rejected script for a D.C. Comics superhero movie, by the way.) Paul’s point is not to sketch out a full timeline of eschatological events. His point is that some big things are yet to happen, and there is really nothing we can do to stop them (unlike issues of political strife and economic turmoil, matters that we certainly can and must address). 

Paul’s narration of a big showdown of the powers of good and evil is mind-boggling. And questions abound: Who is this “Lawless One”? What temple and where? What is the “mystery of lawlessness”? What “signs” and “wonders”? This section of Paul’s letters has all the marks of apocalyptic literature: cosmic in scope, eschatologically oriented, and laden with symbolic language without explicit “de-coding.” But that is part of the point: We aren’t meant to know all the details. And even if we did know the details, we couldn’t stop it. 

All we can do is be sure to stand on the side of light, truth, and goodness. After all, those who fall prey to the lies of the Deceiver have opened themselves up to delusion because “they refused to love the truth and so be saved” (verse 10). Such people don’t cross over to the dark side in an instantaneous decision; they often drift little by little away from the truth, away from justice, through white lies and self-justification, and next thing they know, they can’t tell right from wrong anymore (verse 12). 

What helps the Thessalonian believers to stand on the side of light is not their inherent goodness or morality, but the grace of God, their consecration through the Holy Spirit, and their commitment to the truth of God (verse 13). This truth is not a personal belief, nor the US Constitution, nor a favorite modern teacher or pundit; it is the singular apostolic tradition (verse 15) that Christians have come to identify with Holy Scripture. 

Our hope is found, not in clever podcasts and provocative YouTube videos, but in the Gospel’s message of Christ’s love and grace, which alone lays our foundation for “eternal comfort and good hope” (verse 16). Paul’s goal in 2 Thessalonians was to bring reassurance that Christian hope is secure, not because we are prepared by knowing exactly how history will unfold, but by knowing in whose hands we are held—namely, those of the Lord Jesus Christ. 

Tips for preaching 2 Thessalonians 2:1–17

#1: The devil is in the details. Meaning: the more you try to “de-code” all the details of the apocalyptic rebellion and ensuing battle, the further you will get away from Paul’s point, that none of us can stop it, and we can’t defeat this Lawless One; only Christ can. We are meant to be awed by the grandeur of this cosmic showdown and recognize we can only survive by humble dependence on Christ.

#2: Warn about deceivers. Paul was clear about the fact that people will say “this” or “that,” and the people of God have to know better than to buy every theological theory and idea that is peddled in the marketplace of ideas (verses 2–3). Our attitude should be caution and fact-checking. Test any ideas against what is written in Scripture.

#3: Preach hope. Experts in marketing and advertising know that fear can be a powerful motivator, but it wears off pretty quickly. But give someone a deep, true, and lasting hope, and their life will be elevated in a way that has a lasting effect. Come what may, Paul is certain that even when things might be at their bleakest, the Lord Jesus will swoop down and destroy evil with the “breath of his mouth” (verse 8). We might not know how the world ends, but we do know who wins in the end, and he will claim victory without a scratch. 

#4: Encourage thanksgiving. Paul’s primary response to this harrowing apocalyptic scenario is one of thanksgiving: “But we must always give thanks to God …” (verse 13). When we are scared, thanksgiving is usually the first thing to jettison as anxiety takes over. But it is crucial to affirm that no matter what is happening or what may come in the future, we are blessed along with the Thessalonian Christians to be “beloved by the Lord” (verse 13) and showered with grace (verse 16).

Truth be told, this text probably does not get included in very many sermons; it requires a lot of explanation and exegetical nuance. And some preachers who naturally get excited about 2 Thessalonians 2 probably obsess in an unhealthy way over eschatological speculation. That is, ironically, the opposite of Paul’s purpose. Paul provided no names of future tyrants, no months and years of cataclysmic events, no specific nations or lands involved. Preachers are encouraged to avoid unnecessary and distracting speculation about “times and seasons” (1 Thessalonians 5:1), as Paul says, and to underscore the two things we can be sure of: “The Lord is faithful” (2 Thessalonians 3:3a) and our time will be well spent in our remaining days in this present season if we “direct [our] hearts to the love of God and to the steadfastness of Christ” (3:5).

Recommended resources

Blackwell, B. C. et al., ed. Paul and the Apocalyptic Imagination. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2016.

Gupta, Nijay K. 1 & 2 Thessalonians. New Covenant Commentary Series. Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2016.

Gupta, Nijay K. 1 & 2 Thessalonians. Zondervan Critical Introductions to the New Testament. 

Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2019.

Johnson, Andy. 1 & 2 Thessalonians. Two Horizons. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2016.

Marshall, Molly T. 1 & 2 Thessalonians. Belief. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2022.