Colossians Chapter 4 – Honest Walk Through the Last Chapter
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You ever read a chapter in the Bible that kind of feels like Paul suddenly grabbing you by the shoulders, shaking you a lil’ bit, then giving you a hug after? Philippians 3 does that. Every time I read it, I feel this weird mix of encouragement and conviction, like someone cleaned the windows in my soul and I didn’t even notice they were foggy until the sunlight came through again.
Philippians is already this warm, joyful letter—Paul writing from prison, yet somehow sounding more free than most of us sipping coffee in our living rooms. Chapter 3 brings another layer: a call to press on, let go of the old self, and chase Christ like He’s the only treasure that matters. And honestly… He is.
So let’s walk through Philippians 3. Slowly. Verse by verse. Like a quiet morning Bible study, or maybe late-night journaling when the world is quiet and your mind finally settles enough to listen.
And I’ll tell stories, memories, random little smells and sounds that float up while thinking—because real people write like that.
Paul starts almost abruptly: “Finally, my brethren, rejoice in the Lord.”
It’s funny, because he says “finally,” but he’s only halfway through the letter (pastors have always done this, nothing new). But there’s something sweet about it. Like he’s saying, Before I go any further, don’t forget joy.
And I love how he says rejoice like it's a command—not a suggestion. Joy isn’t supposed to be accidental. It’s chosen. Rooted. Anchored. Even in prison.
My grandmother used to hum during chores—this soft, slightly off-pitch humming that sounded like warm bread smells and childhood all mixed together. I once asked her why she always hummed when life was hard. She said, “Because if I don’t choose joy, sadness will choose me.”
Paul kinda saying the same thing.
Paul suddenly switches tone. Like going from soft worship music to someone banging pots loudly in the kitchen.
He warns them about false teachers—specifically those insisting that Christians must follow certain old rituals (circumcision especially) to be “real Christians.”
“Dogs” wasn’t a cute insult here. In the ancient world, dogs weren’t pets—they were filthy, scavenging, dangerous creatures.
Paul is basically saying:
“Watch out for people who look religious but lead you away from the freedom Christ gave you.”
Sometimes the most dangerous lies are wrapped in spiritual language. I’ve seen folks who looked holy but stirred chaos in churches like someone kicking a hornet’s nest just to see the buzz. You probably have too.
Paul flips the whole issue on its head:
“We are the circumcision…”
Meaning:
The true mark of belonging to God is not on the flesh.
It’s in the heart.
We worship God in the Spirit.
We rejoice in Christ.
We put no confidence in the flesh.
That last part hits me. “No confidence in the flesh” is hard because so much of life trains us to depend on ourselves—our skills, reputation, achievements, resumes, whatever makes us feel “good enough.”
But Paul says, nope. None of that matters. Not next to Jesus.
Paul says if anyone wants to brag about their religious background, he could outdo them all. Then he lists his “qualifications”:
Circumcised day 8
Israelite
Tribe of Benjamin
Hebrew of Hebrews
A Pharisee
Zeal? He persecuted the church
Righteousness by the law? Blameless
This is the part of the chapter where I sometimes laugh out loud because Paul builds up this giant religious résumé… basically to throw it away. It's like someone telling you, “I graduated top of my class… and none of it means anything compared to Christ.”
I remember once cleaning out old school trophies from a dusty box—little medals from spelling bees and sports events I barely remembered. They felt so important when I was a kid. But holding them now? They felt kinda… funny. Like small plastic reminders that I once thought this made me valuable. I threw most of them away. And honestly, I didn’t miss them.
Paul gets that feeling spiritually.
This verse is like the turning point of the chapter. Paul says everything he once considered valuable, he now considers loss because of Christ.
Not “less important.”
Not “secondary.”
But loss.
As in… worthless. Or maybe even hindrances.
When you meet Jesus, your value system gets flipped upside down. Stuff you thought was the center of your identity suddenly becomes dust.
Paul goes further:
“Indeed, I count everything as rubbish compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”
“Rubbish” is too polite of a translation. The Greek word skubalon means garbage, refuse… even dung. Basically a pile of stinking trash.
Sometimes life smells like that. You know that sharp sour scent of old trash when you open the bin too late? That’s how Paul describes everything that used to define him. That’s how un-important it became once he met Christ.
He says, “I lost it all to gain Him.”
And honestly… it’s worth it.
Paul says that he wants to be found in Jesus—not having a righteousness of his own from the law, but from faith.
There’s something so peaceful about that word “found.”
Like being discovered after being lost for a long time.
Like someone calling your name in a forest when you aren’t sure which way is home.
Being found in Christ means your righteousness doesn’t depend on your performance. It comes from God. Through faith. Not striving.
Paul is already a Christian, yet he says “that I may know Him.”
Not “knew.” Not “used to know.”
But this ongoing, hungry desire to know Jesus deeper, wider, fuller.
He also says:
Know the power of His resurrection
Share in His sufferings
Become like Him in His death
This verse always hits my chest like a heavy drum. Because knowing Jesus isn’t just about the “power moments”—the miraculous, bright, joyful triumphs. It’s also down in the darkness, the pain, the confusing seasons where loss shapes you in quiet ways.
Christians grow in both places. Mountain and valley. Light and night.
Paul ends this section by saying he wants to attain the resurrection from the dead.
He’s pointing toward hope—the future, the eternal promise when everything broken is restored.
It’s like planting seeds with full confidence that one day, somehow, the garden will bloom forever.
Paul says:
“Not that I have already obtained it… but I press on.”
This is such a comforting thing. The great Apostle Paul basically says, “I’m still in progress. Still learning. Still pressing.”
If Paul hasn’t arrived, I’m definitely not expected to either.
Life feels like that sometimes—like walking through muddy paths, stumbling, brushing off dirt, trying again. But pressing on because Christ already laid hold of us.
Paul gives one of the most quoted lines:
“Forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward…”
We can’t run forward while looking backward. Try doing that physically—you’ll probably trip over something or crash into a door. I’ve literally done this. Once I walked backward while talking to someone and smacked right into a wooden pole. It hurt. A lot. And everyone laughed, including me.
Spiritually, same thing.
Forget the past failures.
Forget the old achievements too.
Let both go.
Paul presses toward the mark for the prize of God’s high calling.
Like a runner stretching toward the finish line, lungs burning, sweat dripping, heart pounding, but eyes fixed.
He says that mature believers think this way—pressing forward, not settling.
And if you think differently, God will reveal it.
Basically: spiritual growth is a journey. God works on us gradually.
But he says something important:
live up to what you already know.
Don’t wait to be perfect to obey.
Don’t wait to understand everything to follow Jesus.
Paul invites them to imitate him. Not because he’s perfect, but because he’s sincerely following Christ.
Spiritual mentoring matters. We become like what we watch.
Growing up, I watched my uncle read his Bible early in the morning—like before sunrise, with a tiny lamp and a cup of steaming tea that smelled like ginger and cardamom. It wasn’t dramatic, but it marked me. Quiet faithfulness often does.
Paul says, with tears, that many walk as enemies of the cross.
Their end is destruction.
Their god is their belly.
Their glory is in their shame.
Their minds set on earthly things.
He says this crying, not angry. That part matters. Truth without tears can become harsh. Truth with compassion becomes love.
This verse is one of my favorites:
“Our citizenship is in heaven.”
Meaning:
We belong somewhere else.
We’re travelers here.
We’re not home yet.
It’s like when you’re on a long journey and you walk into a hotel—it’s comfortable, maybe—but you don’t unpack fully because you know it’s temporary.
Paul says we wait for our Savior, Jesus, from heaven.
We’re citizens of a kingdom we haven’t fully walked in yet, but our hearts know the direction.
He ends the chapter describing how Jesus will transform our humble bodies to be like His glorious one.
No more sickness.
No more pain.
No more weakness.
Everything redeemed.
That’s the hope that keeps us pressing on when life feels messy, confusing, or just plain exhausting.
This chapter feels like Paul reaching through time to remind us what really matters:
Jesus is the goal.
Joy is a choice.
The past is gone—let it go.
Press forward even if your legs feel tired.
Don’t put trust in your own achievements.
Know Christ—not just in power but in suffering too.
Heaven is home.
Transformation is coming.
Philippians 3 is not a soft chapter. It’s sharp and tender at the same time. Like someone handing you a warm blanket and a compass in the same moment.
And maybe that’s exactly what we need:
Comfort and direction.
Grace and calling.
Joy and purpose.
If you’re feeling stuck, or guilty, or tired, or unsure where your spiritual life even stands… this chapter whispers, “Press on. Christ has hold of you.”
And that’s enough.
Always enough.
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