Sermon text: Philippians 3:12-16
Paul writes to the Philippians from a place of remarkable honesty: even after decades in ministry, he had not arrived. “Not that I have already attained or am already perfected,” he tells them, “but I press on.” Twice in these verses Paul repeats this same confession—he hasn’t attained, he hasn’t apprehended—and then pushes it further, revealing a pattern of Hebrew poetry called parallelism, where an idea is stated and restated to drive home its weight. Paul wanted his readers to stop and truly absorb what he was saying.
For a man so many in the early church revered—people even sought healing from cloths that had touched him—admitting spiritual incompleteness was striking. But Paul understood something essential: perfection wasn’t the goal of this life, and maturity looks different for everyone. He hadn’t received his resurrected body yet. He was still walking the earth, which meant God still had work for him to do. That truth applies just as much to those who feel sidelined by age or health, because as long as breath remains, purpose remains too. A word of encouragement, a note, a listening ear—these become ministry in seasons when more visible service isn’t possible.
The word translated “press” carries the sense of single-minded, relentless pursuit—the kind of determination a man might show chasing the woman he loves, or an athlete training tirelessly to improve. Tellingly, this same Greek word appears in Acts when the risen Jesus confronts Saul on the road to Damascus: “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” The very intensity Paul once poured into persecuting the church, he now poured into pursuing Christ. Nothing was going to distract him from that mission.
Central to this pursuit was letting go of the past—not forgetting it, but refusing to let it define the present. Paul had already dismissed his impressive religious pedigree as garbage earlier in this letter. Old regrets, old failures, old glory days: none of it can be allowed to anchor a person in place. The past can inform who someone becomes, but it cannot be where they choose to live. Life is measured one day at a time, with the question each morning being simple: today is the Lord’s—how can I serve Him today?
Paul describes reaching toward a goal, a target, a prize—language borrowed from athletic imagery, evoking a runner leaning into the finish line. The prize itself isn’t merely a place, but a person: Christ himself. Heaven without Jesus would mean nothing; the point was always relationship with Him, and spending eternity in His presence and service.
Paul closes this section by acknowledging that believers won’t all be at the same point of maturity, and that’s expected. What matters is pressing forward according to where each person currently stands, giving their best rather than comparing themselves to others or dwelling on former strength. Like an aging athlete who adapts as physical gifts fade yet still gives everything within new limits, believers are called to bring whatever they have to the table, however that looks in each chapter of their life.
The challenge, then, is deeply personal: What is driving each day? Is it genuine pursuit of Jesus, or is life instead spent nursing regrets or resting on old accomplishments while the world grows increasingly indifferent to Him? The truth remains simple and urgent—it isn’t over until it’s over, and today is the day to run.
Header image by Pete Godfrey on Unsplash.