Our readings this week are 2 Timothy 4.6–8,16–18 and Luke 18.9–14.

There is a poignancy to this ending section of Paul's letter to Timothy. Whilst it is impossible to know with certainty, the clues are there that these are amongst the final words he wrote (and yes, I'm perfectly happy with accepting that he wrote them). The weariness we feel in his opening lines — I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith — isn't that of a man looking forward to a peaceful retirement and a chance to recover. It's the reflections of a man reconciled to the imminence of his death. "I am already being poured out as a libation" may be a metaphor, but "the time of my departure has come" is literal.

Paul knows his time on earth is running short, he is imprisoned by a hostile audience, and abandoned by his friends ("At my first defence no one came to my support, but all deserted me"). This is pathos at its deepest. In the verses omitted by the lectionary, we hear his yearning for a few simple comforts: "When you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, also the books, and above all the parchments." In the verses just after our reading, we capture something of his final farewells: "Greet Prisca and Aquila, and the household of Onesiphorus. Erastus remained in Corinth; Trophimus I left ill in Miletus."

This is an incredibly raw and personal moment, reaching us across millennia. Perhaps it highlights for us not the distance, but the continuity of our experience with those who penned the words of scripture. The certitude — and sometimes closeness — of death, a few treasured possessions, memories of distant friends… maybe the precise notes are a little different, but I think we can all at least hum the tune.

If we can place weight, then, in our shared experience of humanity, might that enable us to accept with greater trust Paul's description of his spirituality? If so, then there is a weighty vein of comfort to be mined. Whilst Paul's situation could easily come across as somewhat melancholic, quite the opposite seems in fact to be the case. Paul's tone is instead victorious. His reconciliation to his imminent death is not one of fear, but of expectation. His experience of being abandoned by his earthly friends is juxtaposed with his knowledge of the closeness of Christ. Through this very real experience of a living God, he faces his death with extraordinary courage and strength: "The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory for ever and ever. Amen." That feels like it should have an exclamation mark to me, not a full stop!

The truth he has discovered through years of ministry — spanning frustration, elation, peril, comfort, friendship, and adversity — is that none of it was for his glory, and none of it was in his strength. His total surrender leaves him able to face the idea of his final breath with dignity, expectation, hope, and peace.

In the gospel reading, we find something not dissimilar. In Jesus' parable, we meet two caricatures. The first is a self-righteous, pompous, religious nut, convinced that he has his theology sorted and his life in order. The second is a toe-staring, trembling wreck, convinced that God alone can possibly get him through the mess of his life. It’s pretty obvious, says Jesus, which of them is most open to the grace of God, and most open to being transformed by it.

Of course, they are caricatures, and I wouldn't advocate for any of us to share in any sense of self-loathing. But the two readings meet, for me, in an invitation to be aware of ourselves in the presence of God. They invite us to recognise that God alone is the one with the power, the strength, the majesty, and the glory. It is an invitation perhaps to be honest with ourselves about what we’re hanging onto simply because it feels good, not because it does good; where we’re sacrificing impact on the altar of security; or struggling on from duty and not from love — whether we are facing the end of our days on earth like Paul, or preparing for whatever the next one holds, like the characters in Jesus' story.

Maybe in accepting that invitation we might discover that it’s precisely when we let go we are most able to know ourselves held by God; and that when we remember we’re not the main character that we will discover that we are not alone on the path. As Paul puts it, the Lord himself is stood by us, giving us strength.