To many who watch religious trends in America, it seems that Christianity is in decline. Denominations are shrinking, and upcoming generations are less religious, which makes the trend unlikely to reverse. The rise of the “Nones” — people who may consider themselves spiritual but identify with no particular religion — suggests that the faith is no longer meeting the spiritual needs of many in our society.
Despite this, plenty of people report that their own congregation or denomination is doing well. Attendance is growing, the programs are popular, and the church helps people in the community. To them, American Christianity looks like it is on the right path.
But it is worth asking what those good things actually demonstrate. Devout Christians do support a great deal of charitable work. Yet many of the differences we point to between Christians and the wider society also show up in other groups that are diligent and committed to a cause of their own. If a congregation’s activity looks about the same as the activity of any other dedicated organization, then we should at least ask the question: are our religious activities producing changed lives, or are they mostly providing a venue for commitments and perspectives that people already had?
Scripture has a word for religious effort that does not produce anything. It appears in Jesus’ letter to the church at Laodicea, the only one of the seven churches in Revelation to receive no commendation at all.
And to the angel of the church in Laodicea write: ‘The words of the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the beginning of God’s creation. “I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot! So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth. For you say, I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing, not realizing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire, so that you may be rich, and white garments so that you may clothe yourself and the shame of your nakedness may not be seen, and salve to anoint your eyes, so that you may see. Those whom I love, I reprove and discipline, so be zealous and repent. Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me. The one who conquers, I will grant him to sit with me on my throne, as I also conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne. He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches.’ Revelation 3:14–22 (ESV)
Laodicea had no water supply of its own and had to bring water in from a distance. By the time it arrived it was neither cold and refreshing, like the water at nearby Colossae, nor hot and healing, like the springs at nearby Hierapolis. It was lukewarm and heavy with minerals, barely drinkable, and in any quantity it would turn your stomach — which is precisely the image Jesus reaches for when he says he will spit them out of his mouth.
Notice what the problem was not. It was not a lack of works, because Jesus begins by saying he knows their works. There is no indication that the Laodicean church was idle, or careless about religious matters, or insufficiently intense. Hot water heals and cold water refreshes, and both of them do something for the person who drinks. What is wrong with lukewarm water is that it does nothing for anybody.
For a church, that has a specific meaning. Christians are disciples, and a disciple is someone who is becoming like his teacher. You cannot truly follow Christ and remain unchanged. So a congregation whose efforts are not changing anyone is not making disciples, whatever else it may be accomplishing. Laodicea’s ineffectiveness was a lack of changed lives.
What makes the letter more troubling is that the Laodiceans did not know any of this. Jesus does not accuse them of reaching a wrong conclusion about their spiritual health. He says they did not know their condition. Something had made the question unnecessary.
Jesus described how that happens in the parable of the soils.
And others are the ones sown among thorns. They are those who hear the word, but the cares of the world and the deceitfulness of riches and the desires for other things enter in and choke the word, and it proves unfruitful. Mark 4:18–19 (ESV)
Laodicea was a wealthy city, known for its banking, its textiles, and its medical school, and the church there could point to real prosperity. It did: “I am rich, I have prospered, I need nothing.” That is not a claim about their spiritual life. It is a claim about their resources, a claim that they have everything they need and need nothing more. Their wealth had answered the question of how they were doing so completely that no one thought to ask it in any other way. Meanwhile Jesus’ assessment of the same congregation was wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked.
That is the deceitfulness of riches, and it is worth noticing how the parable pictures it. The seed among the thorns is not seed that failed to sprout. Something grew there. Luke’s version says only that the plants never came to maturity. From a distance the ground looked productive.
Churches can look like that too. Full buildings, healthy budgets, busy calendars, and genuinely good works can all be present while the fruit that matters is missing. Those things are not evidence that we are fine. Often they are the reason we have not looked.
Jesus’ counsel to Laodicea was not to try harder, and it was not a new program. It was to buy from him: gold, garments, and salve — the very goods their own city was famous for producing. The issue was not what they needed but where they were getting it. They were told to receive from Christ what they had been receiving from their own resources.
Then he says, “be zealous and repent.” Repentance means a change of mind, and this letter names exactly one thing to change our minds about: I need nothing. Being zealous is what keeps that change from quietly reversing itself the next time our numbers look good.
In practice, that starts with naming our own version of “I need nothing.” Every congregation has one, and it is usually phrased as a compliment. We’re a healthy church. We’ve never had to worry about the budget. People love it here. The question is not whether the sentence is true, because Laodicea really was rich. The question is what it has kept us from looking at.
From there we need an assessment we cannot produce for ourselves, and in the letter that assessment comes from Christ. He is the one who tells this church what it actually is, and the salve that lets them see is something they have to buy from him. So this begins in prayer — not prayer that our efforts would succeed, but prayer that admits we may be wrong about ourselves and asks God to show us our real condition, what we are lacking, and how he intends to supply it. That is an uncomfortable thing to ask for. The letter also calls it an act of love: those whom I love, I reprove and discipline.
What comes back may arrive in more than one way. Sometimes it comes through people: those who left, those we have never reached, those nearby who have no idea we exist. Sometimes it comes through Scripture, or through circumstances we would not have chosen. And sometimes it comes quietly, from the Spirit at work in us, showing us something we would not have arrived at on our own. Notice that Jesus does not hand Laodicea a report about itself. He offers salve, so that they may see. The remedy for their blindness is not better information but restored sight — and every one of the seven letters closes the same way, with an ear to hear what the Spirit says to the churches. Laodicea’s problem was never that a church cannot know its own condition. It was that this church had not asked, and had not opened the door.
Once we are asking, we can put the question that the word lukewarm raises most directly: who is different? Not how many attend, but which people have been changed. If no names come to mind, that is the finding.
Which brings us to the last picture in the letter. Jesus is outside the door of this church, knocking, and nobody inside has noticed. The door is shut by people who are certain they need nothing. Opening it is the whole of the repentance he is asking for, in a single image.
And anyone can open it. “If anyone hears my voice” makes the invitation individual, even though the letter is written to a congregation. One person who hears the knocking and admits the need can begin something a whole church had not thought to start. Opening the door means trusting that what Christ brings in with him is better than what we were relying on — that we can afford to ask him to show us our poverty, because the one asking us to see it intends to supply what we lack.
What waits on the other side is not a strategy or an initiative. It is a meal. That is the answer to the prayer: the church that needed nothing sits down and is fed by the one it had not noticed was standing outside.
Hope for These Lukewarm Times 