A Year Held in His Hands| A New Year Sermon
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You know, every time I come back to 2 Corinthians 13, I feel this little knot in my chest, like Paul’s words aren’t just ancient sentences, but something he wrote last night and left on our table to read in the morning. This chapter… it’s sharp and soft at the same time. It feels like a father trying to correct a child he loves deeply, but the child is stubborn, confused, sometimes hurt. And Paul, honestly, he sounds tired here—not tired of them, but tired for them. And maybe tired of seeing chaos in a church that should be a place of warmth and truth.
Anyway, let's go verse by verse.
Paul starts off sounding like someone who’s had to repeat the same advice again and again. You know that tone—like when your mom said, “I’ve told you this already, don’t make me say it again,” but she said it with love even though she was frustrated.
He mentions his “third visit.” Not one, not two, but three. That tells us these Corinthians were… well, a handful. And he brings in the principle from the Law—truth stands firm when confirmed. Maybe he’s saying: “This isn’t sudden. I didn’t wake up irritated. You’ve seen, heard, and been warned before.”
Sometimes we forget that spiritual issues aren’t fixed fast. There are layers. And sometimes God sends multiple people, multiple seasons, to confront something in us.
Whew. This verse hits like a cold breeze through the window. Paul’s vibe shifts here, doesn’t it? He’s not threatening for ego; he’s warning for their protection.
There’s a difference between cruelty and clarity. Paul is choosing clarity.
I remember once a pastor said something like, “Love without honesty becomes poison.” That stuck with me. Real love corrects before disaster comes.
Paul’s saying: “This time I'm not soft. I won’t pretend the sin isn’t there.”
He’s being faithful, even though it’s uncomfortable.
This verse always makes me kind of sad. Imagine giving your whole life to help people grow and they reply, “Hmm, we’re not sure you're genuine.”
Ouch.
Paul basically says: “You want proof I’m speaking for Christ? Fine. You’ll see Christ’s power when I deal with sin.”
They doubted him because they confused gentleness with weakness. Happens all the time—even now. People think loud = strong and soft = weak. But Christ was gentle. And powerful. The two aren’t opposites.
This is the gospel in one small, humble slice.
Jesus entered weakness so He could lift us from our weakness.
Paul’s saying: “Don’t mistake the cross. Weakness is not failure. It becomes the doorway of God’s strength.”
Sometimes our own spiritual strength comes from the moments we felt most broken. It's strange how the kingdom works—completely upside-down from how we would design it.
This might be one of the most piercing verses in the whole letter.
The command isn’t “examine others.”
It’s not “watch your neighbor but ignore your own heart.”
It’s “Check yourself.”
And we don’t like that. None of us.
Self-examination is messy. It means admitting the parts of us that haven’t matured yet. It means noticing we still carry grudges, fears, fake smiles, unforgiveness tucked somewhere under our ribs.
Paul says we should test ourselves—like a teacher checking the answers before turning in the paper.
I think sometimes we avoid this because we’re scared of what we might find. But Christ is gentle with those who are honest.
A tiny fragile sentence filled with emotion.
Paul hopes—not commands, not insists, but hopes—they will realize his ministry is genuine.
Sometimes leaders carry wounds they never talk about. They hope the people they serve recognize their heart. But often they don’t. Paul’s heart is showing here.
I love the tenderness of this verse. For all the stern warnings, Paul’s deepest desire is simple:
He wants them to live rightly.
He doesn’t say, “I pray that you’ll respect me.”
He doesn’t say, “I pray that you stop bothering me.”
He says, “I pray you do what’s right.”
That’s the heart of a shepherd. Even when sheep bite him.
This is a verse that feels like a personal confession, almost like Paul’s saying:
“I’m tied to the truth. If I tried to go against it, I’d fail.”
Truth is strong. People try to fight it, twist it, bury it, hide from it. But truth wins. Eventually. It always catches up. It always reveal itself.
In a world obsessed with power, Paul celebrates weakness—for the sake of others.
It’s like he’s saying, “I don’t mind being small if it means you grow bigger in Christ.”
This is spiritual parenthood. Real love sacrifices its comfort for someone else’s maturity.
This is Paul’s heart softening again.
He doesn’t want to confront. He’d rather visit with joy, laughter, prayer, testimonies, miracles—not tears and discipline.
Sometimes writing a hard message is better than hurting someone by being harsh in person. It gives space. It lets them think.
This verse feels like a breath of fresh air after a long storm.
Paul closes with beauty—unity, encouragement, comfort. He reminds them the God of love and peace will be with them. It’s almost like he turns their eyes away from conflict and toward the gentle face of God.
And honestly, sometimes we need that. After correction comes comfort.
A cultural gesture, sure, but the meaning still stands: show sincere affection.
In other words: Be warm. Be real. Stop treating each other like enemies.
A reminder that they are part of something bigger—connected to believers everywhere.
Community is bigger than our small circle.
“May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God,
and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”
A trinitarian benediction that wraps the letter in hope.
Grace. Love. Fellowship.
Everything humans crave in their souls.
Honestly, this chapter feels like reading Paul’s heart diary.
It’s not polished. It’s not sugar-coated. It’s real.
He’s firm—maybe uncomfortably firm—but he’s also affectionate. Like a good parent. Like a mature friend who tells you the truth even if it might make you mad at first.
Churches today still need this balanced voice:
Truth AND tenderness
Correction AND comfort
Honesty AND hope
Paul didn’t write to destroy them. He wrote to grow them.
And maybe this chapter whispers to us too:
“Check your heart. Examine your walk. Don’t run from the truth—let it cleanse you before it crushes you.”
I remember once, years back, a friend confronted me gently about something I didn’t want to admit—bitterness I thought I hid well. At first, I felt offended, like “Why you poking in my heart like that?” But later that night I realized… he was right. And he cared enough to say something hard.
2 Corinthians 13 feels like that conversation all over again.
Not comfortable.
But necessary.
A doorway to healing.
Paul wants this church—and us—to finish strong, not sloppy. To remain honest with ourselves. To hold onto truth even when it’s uncomfortable. To walk in unity, peace, and deep fellowship with God.
If we ignore correction, we remain immature.
If we receive correction, we become strong.
And honestly, that’s the whole spirit of this chapter:
Love that corrects, so love can restore.
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