In our reading from 2 Timothy 3, we heard that oft-quoted line: “All Scripture is inspired by God.” Other translations render it “God-breathed”—a literal version of the Greek word theopneustos.
I’ve always liked that phrase “God-breathed.” It sounds wonderfully alive, doesn’t it? It evokes something wild and holy—like the
first breath that stirred Adam into life, or the gale that filled the upper room,
or even that awkward moment when Jesus, after the Resurrection, breathed on his
disciples. (You can almost hear them
thinking, “Steady on, Lord—what have you been eating?”)
Paul says that all Scripture is theopneustos—but how? Does that mean every comma and clause was
dictated by the Almighty? Or is it more
like a musician taking up a flute: the breath passes through a very human
instrument, producing notes that may be sharp or flat, yet still carry the
melody of the divine?
The word theopneustos appears nowhere else in the Bible. It’s as if Paul coined it on the spot, to capture
that mysterious intersection between heaven and human words. It doesn’t say the text is God, but that it’s
breathed through by God—animated, shaped, inspired. And breath, as we know, is a slippery
thing. You can’t hold it. You can only feel it move through you.
That’s why I sometimes compare the Bible not to a photograph of
God, but to a painting inspired by God’s landscape. A painting doesn’t contain the mountain or
the sea; it points towards them. It
invites us to see what the artist saw—and perhaps even to walk in that same
landscape ourselves. The trouble comes
when we start worshipping the painting instead of exploring the view.
Now, I say this knowing that some of you approach Scripture
differently—and that’s fine. Some of you
hold to it, word for word, as the unerring revelation of God’s truth. I respect that deeply. You are people who love the Bible—who read
it, study it, and pray over it. In a
world more likely to scroll through TikTok than Timothy, that’s no small gift
to the Church. You remind us that faith
is built on story and conviction, not just sentiment.
But perhaps the breath of God moves in more than one way. Sometimes it gusts and blows things over;
sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it
moves through a prophet or a psalmist; sometimes through a scientist or an
artist; sometimes even, heaven help us, through a sermon.
Which brings me to the Gospel reading—the persistent widow and the
unjust judge. The widow bangs on the
judge’s door until he gives her justice.
And Jesus says, “If even an unjust judge will listen, how much more will
God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry out day and night.” It’s a rousing picture of perseverance in
prayer. Don’t give up! Keep knocking! Keep pounding on the gates of heaven!
But notice how Jesus ends: “When the Son of Man comes, will he find
faith on earth?” Not results, but
faith. Not outcomes, but trust. For me, that’s what prayer is about—not
twisting God’s arm, but tuning our hearts.
It’s less like lobbying Parliament and more like sitting by a
stream. You listen to its flow. You bring to mind the faces and stories of
others, and you ask—not “Lord, fix them,” but “Lord, show me what part I might play
in their healing.”
C. S. Lewis once said, “Prayer doesn’t change God; it changes
me.” When I pray for someone, I find
myself more tender towards them. When I
pray for peace, I notice my own unpeacefulness.
When I pray for the hungry, I remember the tin of beans at the back of
my cupboard. Prayer re-aligns the
compass of the soul.
Still, I admire those who storm heaven’s gates. Their persistence is a holy thing. Perhaps we need both kinds of prayer—the loud
and the quiet, the pounding and the pondering, the petition and the
patience. Even Elijah, who once called
down fire from heaven, later discovered that the Lord was not in the wind or
the fire, but in the still small voice.
Prayer, then, is a kind of breathing. Breathing in God’s Spirit, breathing out our
worries. Breathing in compassion,
breathing out anger. Prayer is the
exchange of breath—the breath of the human with the breath of God. No wonder both Paul and Luke speak of
Scripture and prayer in terms of breath.
God’s word is breathed through us; our words are breathed back to God.
If we forget that, we risk becoming—well—tribal. (You may like to check out Thursday’s sermon,
The Trouble with Tribes.) Tribes are
marvellous when they give us belonging, but dangerous when they start building
fences around God’s breath. The Spirit,
after all, blows where it wills. It
doesn’t carry a membership card for any particular wing of the Church. Sometimes it lands on conservatives,
sometimes on liberals, and sometimes—miracle of miracles—it unites them,
usually over a plate of cake.
So perhaps that’s our task: to stay open to the breath. To let Scripture breathe through us
afresh—not as a dead letter, but as a living word. To let prayer breathe through us too—not as a
transaction, but as a transformation. To
hold fast to the faith that shaped us, yet keep the windows open for whatever
fresh wind God might send.
For whether we are pounding on the door or listening at the
keyhole, we are still, thank God, in the same house. The same breath fills our lungs. The same Spirit gives us life. And that, dear friends, is inspiration
indeed. Amen.
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