One of the typical characteristics of our children—maybe yours too—was that they enjoyed playing their music loud. Not just loud… LOUD. The kind of loud that rattles the drywall and makes the dog rethink his loyalty to the family.
One day, while I was getting dressed, I heard music thumping through the walls from their room. My first reaction, if I’m being honest, was parental suspicion: “What are they listening to? And how many counties can hear it?”
But then something strange happened. I didn’t hate it. I didn’t recoil. I found myself drawn to the rhythm, the beat, the sound. And then—more unexpectedly—I got hooked by the refrain:
“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
Over and over again. Louder and louder. The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.
At first I rolled my eyes. “Well, duh. Of course the main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.” It sounded almost insultingly obvious. But the longer I listened, the more it sank in. The more I repeated it to myself, the more I realized:
That chorus contains more wisdom than we give it credit for.
The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.
And suddenly, what sounded like a teenage lyric became a theological earthquake. It hit me: That’s exactly what Paul is doing in 2 Timothy. He is looking young Timothy in the eyes—and through him, us—and saying:
Timothy, listen. Don’t lose the main thing. Don’t drop it. Don’t drift from it. Don’t let it get buried under lesser things. The main thing must remain the main thing.
Turn with me to 2 Timothy 1, beginning with verse 3. And as we read, let’s read this not as spectators reading someone else’s mail, but as disciples reading God’s word addressed to us personally. Because it is.
> “I thank God, whom I serve, as my forefathers did, with a clear conscience… I constantly remember you in my prayers… recalling your tears… I have been reminded of your sincere faith… For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God… For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-discipline…” (selected)
Then verses 8–10:
> “Join with me in suffering for the gospel… This grace was given us in Christ Jesus before the beginning of time… but now revealed through the appearing of our Savior Christ Jesus, who destroyed death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel.”
Through what? Through the gospel—the main thing.
And Paul isn’t done. Verse 12:
> “I know whom I have believed, and am convinced that He is able to guard what I have entrusted to Him for that day.”
Now pause and take this in:
This is Paul’s final letter.
His final words.
The last ink before the executioner’s sword.
If you knew your time was almost gone—if you had one last opportunity to speak into someone you love—how would you write? Would your tone be calm? Casual? Detached? Or would it be urgent? Focused? Passionate?
Paul is not meandering. He is not rambling. He is not wandering through spiritual side streets. He has one burning burden:
Timothy, keep the main thing the main thing.
Verse 13:
> “What you heard from me, keep…”
Verse 14:
> “Guard it.”
Two repeating verbs: KEEP and GUARD.
Why? Because there is a main thing. And there are many other things. And those other things—some good, some necessary, some important—are still secondary. They derive their importance from the main thing but are never equal to it.
Paul’s message is crystal clear:
> Timothy—don’t loosen your grip. Don’t drop what matters most. The main thing is the gospel.
John Stott puts it bluntly: “All around us we see Christians relaxing their grasp on the gospel, in danger of letting it drop from their hands altogether.”
And if that was true then… how much more now?
We live in a world where churches argue over styles, personalities, politics, preferences, programs—while quietly losing the gospel itself.
People are busy doing Christian things while forgetting why they do them.
And Paul, from a Roman cell, with death approaching, says:
Tighten your grip, Timothy. Don’t lose it. Don’t fumble it. Don’t assume it. Guard it. Treasure it. Hold it. The gospel is the main thing.
Because Paul’s whole life—every city, every sermon, every missionary journey, every imprisonment—was anchored to one central reality:
Christ and Him crucified.
From his earliest letters to his final breath, the refrain never changed:
> Keep the main thing the main thing.
So the question becomes:
How?
How do we, in our world—busy, distracted, pressured, hurried—keep the gospel central? How do we keep our hearts anchored when everything around us tries to pull us off course?
Paul answers in verse 13:
> “What you heard from me, keep as the pattern of sound teaching, with faith and love in Christ Jesus.”
Then verse 14:
> “Guard it with the help of the Holy Spirit.”
There it is:
We must keep the gospel personally.
Not occasionally. Not seasonally. Not when convenient.
Daily.
Because the gospel isn’t something we move past. It isn’t Christianity’s doorway. It’s Christianity’s foundation. It’s not step one. It’s step every. The gospel is not the ABCs of faith; it is the A–Z.
Charles Spurgeon once confessed his fear that his congregation might grow bored with his preaching because he was “always hammering at the same nail.” Always returning to the cross. Always returning to grace. Always returning to the finished work of Christ.
But here’s the truth:
We need the hammer.
We need the nail.
We need the cross.
Every. Single. Day.
Because keeping the main thing is not a one-time decision. It’s a daily fight. A daily focus. A daily necessity.
Why? Paul doesn’t leave that vague. There are four powerful, persistent forces that try to pry our fingers off the gospel. Four daily temptations that pull us away from the main thing:
1. Forgetfulness
2. Legalism
3. Subjectiveness
4. Condemnation
And Paul challenges us: Hold fast. Guard the gospel because these enemies will come—daily, subtly, relentlessly.
So let’s begin with the first.
---
1. Forgetfulness
We are forgetful creatures. Not just with car keys, birthdays, and appointments—but with spiritual truth. With the gospel itself.
I once read a newspaper article called “How Soon We Forget.” It told two incredible stories. One man jumped from an airplane, his parachute malfunctioned, and he fell over 3,000 feet—more than a minute of freefall—and survived. Another man in Cairo was wrongly declared dead and woke up in a morgue refrigerator. The medic who opened the door was so shocked he collapsed and died.
What do you feel when you hear stories like that? Shock, wonder, disbelief—and then… nothing. You move on. You forget.
And that was the author’s point:
Human beings forget even the most astonishing realities. Quickly. Easily. Naturally.
And if we forget miracles…
How much more quickly do we forget the gospel?
Martin Luther once said:
> “I preach justification by faith every week because every week my people forget it.”
Paul knows that. That’s why he begins 2 Timothy 2:8 with one word:
“Remember.”
Remember Jesus Christ raised from the dead. Remember the gospel.
Isn’t it stunning that Paul would say that to Timothy? Timothy, trained by Paul himself. Timothy, raised on Scripture. Timothy, an apostolic leader. And yet Paul, on his deathbed, says:
“Timothy—don’t you dare forget.”
Because memory leaks. Devotion leaks. Clarity leaks. Passion leaks.
And so Paul gives Timothy—and us—a spiritual wake-up call:
Keep reminding yourself. Keep returning to Christ. Keep preaching the gospel to your own soul.
Because the first step away from the main thing… is simply forgetting it.
---
If the first danger is forgetfulness—simply drifting from the gospel—then the second danger is far more subtle but just as deadly:
2. Legalism
Legalism is the attempt to achieve what God has already given. To earn what Christ has already finished. To add our works to His work, as if the cross needs our polish, as if grace needs our assistance.
Legalism says:
“If I obey well enough, God will accept me.”
“If I perform well enough, God will love me.”
“If I improve enough, God will finally be pleased.”
It sounds spiritual. It looks religious. It feels righteous. But at its core legalism is simply this:
Trusting in ME instead of trusting in CHRIST.
Legalism is salvation by performance. Justification by behavior. Acceptance by effort.
Legalism is us climbing a ladder to heaven rung by rung—prayer, church attendance, good deeds, Bible reading—hoping that someday, when we are high enough, God will nod His approval.
But here’s the truth:
Grace is not a ladder.
Grace is a rescue.
Legalism whispers, “Do more. Try harder. Earn it.”
Grace shouts, “It is finished.”
Legalism focuses on my works.
The gospel focuses on Christ’s finished work.
Legalism measures me by my success.
The gospel secures me by His sacrifice.
Legalism is rooted in pride—even when it looks humble. Because legalism says, “I can contribute. I can help. I can do my part.”
But listen—if Christ said it is finished, what exactly do we think we are adding?
Legalism is like taking a paintbrush to the Mona Lisa.
It’s like touching up the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
It’s like saying, “Jesus, Your cross was good—but not quite enough.”
No wonder Paul warns Timothy to guard the gospel. Because legalism is not just wrong—it is an insult to the sufficiency of Christ.
Legalism replaces Christ-centered righteousness with self-centered righteousness.
It produces:
Pride when we think we’re doing well.
Despair when we’re failing.
Judgment toward others who don’t measure up.
Legalism creates spiritual performance anxiety. A treadmill faith. Running harder, sweating more, but never arriving.
And here’s the tragic irony:
Legalism looks holy but leads to bondage.
Grace looks dangerous but leads to freedom.
Paul says in 2 Timothy 1:9:
> “Who saved us… not because of anything we have done, but because of His own purpose and grace.”
Not because of anything we have done.
Not our morality.
Not our obedience.
Not our spiritual resume.
We didn’t save ourselves by our works, and we don’t keep ourselves saved by our works.
Salvation begins with grace.
Continues with grace.
Ends with grace.
Legalism tries to turn Christianity into self-effort. But Christianity is not good people getting better. Christianity is dead people made alive.
Legalism makes the Christian life about what I do for God instead of what God has done in Christ.
Which brings us to the third danger—closely related, but different.
---
3. Subjectiveness
If legalism says, “I’m saved by my works,” subjectiveness says, “I’m secure based on how I feel.”
And let’s be honest—we live in a feelings-driven age. Our culture disciples us to believe that feelings are ultimate. That emotions define reality. That if I feel something, it must be true. And if I don’t feel something, it must be false.
And Christians fall into this trap too.
We say things like:
“I don’t feel close to God today.”
“I don’t feel forgiven.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“I don’t feel worthy.”
“I don’t feel saved.”
And what happens next?
We assume our feelings reveal our standing before God. We assume our emotions determine the truth. We start treating our spiritual life like a roller coaster—up one moment, plunging the next. Encouraged Monday. Doubting Tuesday. Confident Wednesday. Crushed Thursday.
We become spiritual meteorologists—constantly checking the climate of our emotions.
“I feel good today—God must be pleased.” “I feel down today—God must be distant.”
But hear this clearly:
Feelings are real—but feelings are not reliable.
Feelings fluctuate.
Feelings deceive.
Feelings exaggerate.
Feelings distort.
Your feelings are like the weather—changing, unpredictable, often irrational.
But the gospel is not weather.
The gospel is a Rock.
The death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus are not emotional states. They are objective historical realities that stand whether you feel them or not.
Think about it:
The cross didn’t happen inside of you.
The empty tomb didn’t happen inside of you.
The atonement didn’t happen inside of you.
It happened outside of you—once for all—anchored in time, sealed in history, guaranteed by God.
Your feelings about Christ may change.
But Christ does not change.
Your emotions may rise and fall.
But His finished work stands unshaken.
Subjectiveness makes my feelings the main thing. But Paul makes the gospel the main thing.
When feelings shout louder than truth, preach to your soul:
“Hope in God.”
“Behold the Lamb.”
“Remember Jesus Christ.”
“Stand on the gospel.”
We must learn to talk to ourselves, not listen to ourselves. Because if we constantly listen to our emotions, we will spiral into fear, insecurity, and doubt.
But if we preach the gospel to our own hearts daily, we will stand.
That’s why Paul tells Timothy not simply to know the gospel, but to keep it. To guard it. To cling to it.
Not just intellectually—but emotionally. Practically. Personally. Daily.
Because subjectiveness will rob you of joy, peace, confidence, and assurance. And subjectiveness is not defeated by better feelings—but by better focus.
Not inward—but upward.
Not on self—but on Christ.
Not on emotions—but on truth.
The gospel is not a mood.
It is not a sensation.
It is not a feeling.
The gospel is a saving event and a risen Savior.
So ask yourself:
Where do you spend more energy?
Taking your emotional temperature?
Or beholding the glory of Christ?
Measuring your feelings?
Or meditating on His faithfulness?
Obsessing over your performance?
Or resting in His promises?
Paul’s message is clear:
Stop staring at yourself.
Start beholding your Savior.
Because subjectiveness will never produce stability. Only Christ will.
So we’ve seen:
1. Forgetfulness — We drift.
2. Legalism — We strive.
3. Subjectiveness — We sway.
And all three pull us away from the gospel. All three blur the main thing. All three loosen our grip.
But the fourth enemy is the fiercest. The heaviest. The most crippling.
And that’s where we go next.
We’ve seen three daily dangers that loosen our grip on the gospel:
1. Forgetfulness — We drift.
2. Legalism — We strive.
3. Subjectiveness — We sway.
We now come to the darkest and most suffocating danger of all:
4. Condemnation
If legalism tells me I must earn God’s acceptance…
Condemnation tells me I have already lost it.
Condemnation is that heavy, accusatory voice that follows us like a shadow:
“You failed.”
“You’re guilty.”
“You should be ashamed.”
“You don’t deserve grace.”
“You’ve blown it too many times.”
“You’re unworthy of God’s love.”
Condemnation doesn’t shout about what Christ has done.
Condemnation whispers about what you have done.
And it doesn’t even have to be loud to be powerful. Sometimes condemnation is quiet—almost gentle—yet devastating:
“God forgives people. Just not people like you.”
And suddenly the room shrinks. Our confidence collapses. Our hope drains away. We find ourselves replaying our sins, rehearsing our failures, reliving our regrets. Condemnation chains us to yesterday and tells us there is no tomorrow.
And here’s the tragedy:
Many Christians live forgiven but feel condemned.
Saved—but fearful.
Redeemed—but insecure.
Loved—but unsure.
Free—but not free on the inside.
We know the words “Christ died for our sins,” but somehow we think there’s an asterisk next to our name. Like the gospel works generally—but not specifically. For others—but not for us.
And Paul knows this. He knows how relentless condemnation can be. Which is why he writes with such urgency, “Timothy, guard the gospel. Hold fast. Keep it. Don’t let go.” Because Paul understands:
The only antidote to condemnation is the gospel.
Not feelings.
Not willpower.
Not positive thinking.
The gospel.
Let’s turn briefly to 1 John 5:13:
> “I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may KNOW that you have eternal life.”
Not hope.
Not guess.
Not wait and see.
Know.
Why? Because where knowledge is weak, condemnation is strong. Condemnation grows in the cracks of uncertainty. It thrives in doubt. It feeds on insecurity.
But listen—God does not want His children living in spiritual suspense. The gospel does not produce insecurity. The gospel produces assurance—because assurance doesn’t rest on our record but on Christ’s record.
That’s why Romans 8:1 is like dynamite exploding in the face of condemnation:
> “There is therefore NOW no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”
Not someday.
Not eventually.
Not after improvement.
NOW.
Why? Because the judgment has already happened. The verdict has already been rendered. Christ has already absorbed the punishment. The gavel has already fallen in heaven.
And the Judge has declared:
“Not guilty.”
Not because we never sinned—but because Jesus stood in our place.
He took our guilt. He bore our shame. He paid our penalty. He carried our curse.
He didn’t leave a drop of wrath for us. He drank the cup dry.
So condemnation comes and says, “You’re still guilty.”
And the gospel responds, “The case is closed.”
Condemnation says, “God can’t accept you.”
The gospel says, “You are accepted in the Beloved.”
Condemnation says, “You should run from God.”
The gospel says, “Run TO God—He bought your welcome with His blood.”
Condemnation is a liar.
The gospel is the truth.
Condemnation wants us to stare at our sin.
The gospel invites us to stare at our Savior.
Condemnation is about my failure.
The gospel is about His finished work.
And that—right there—is why Paul won’t stop repeating himself. Why he keeps hammering the nail. Why he keeps saying, “Keep it. Guard it. Hold it. Don’t relax your grip.”
Because every single day—forgetfulness, legalism, subjectiveness, and condemnation will try to pull your fingers off the gospel.
And Paul knows something we often forget:
We don’t outgrow the gospel.
We grow INTO the gospel.
The gospel is not the shallow end of the pool—it’s the ocean. It’s not Christianity 101—it’s Christianity. It’s not the doorway—it’s the whole house. It’s not the appetizer—it’s the feast.
And so Paul uses his last ink, his final words, his dying breath to say:
Timothy—don’t lose the main thing.
Don’t get so busy doing ministry that you forget the Messiah.
Don’t get so focused on serving God that you stop savoring God.
Don’t get so consumed with the work of the Lord that you neglect the Lord of the work.
Keep the main thing the main thing.
---
So Where Does This Leave Us?
Paul’s message is not complicated. It is not sophisticated. It is not hidden. It is simple—and it is seismic:
The main thing is the gospel.
Not programs.
Not preferences.
Not personalities.
Not traditions.
Not performance.
Not feelings.
The gospel.
Christ died for our sins.
Christ was buried.
Christ rose again.
Christ reigns forever.
And because of Jesus:
We are forgiven.
We are accepted.
We are justified.
We are adopted.
We are secure.
We are loved.
Not because of anything we have done—but because of everything He has done.
So what do we do?
We keep it.
We guard it.
We treasure it.
We preach it to ourselves daily.
We proclaim it to others boldly.
Because the gospel is not just the main thing.
The gospel is the whole thing.
It is the power of God.
It is the hope of salvation.
It is the anchor for the soul.
It is the message that saves.
It is the truth that sustains.
It is the center of everything.
And if Paul were standing here today, I believe he would look us in the eyes and say:
“Don’t drop it. Don’t loosen your grip. Don’t drift. Don’t forget. Don’t replace it with lesser things. The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
And the main thing…
is Jesus.
---
Conclusion
So as we leave this text, this sermon, this moment—carry this with you:
When you drift—remember.
When you strive—rest.
When you sway—anchor yourself.
When you feel condemned—stand on the cross.
And every day—preach to your own soul:
Christ is enough.
Christ has finished it.
Christ is the main thing.
Guard the gospel.
Treasure the gospel.
Stand on the gospel.
Live in the gospel.
Share the gospel.
Because everything else—everything—flows from this:
The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.
And the main thing
is Christ.**
