Something is unsettling about receiving a letter from Jesus.
The church at Ephesus got one. And if we're honest, most of us would rather not. We prefer the affirming nod, the "keep up the good work" pat on the back. But Jesus doesn't do superficial assessments. When He walks through your congregation—and make no mistake, He does—He sees everything. The good. The troubling. The thing you've lost without even realising it is gone.
Ephesus teaches us a profound lesson: you can do everything right and still miss the point entirely.
The Christ Who Sees
"To the angel of the church of Ephesus write, 'These things says He who holds the seven stars in His right hand, who walks in the midst of the seven golden lampstands'" (Revelation 2:1).
Jesus opens with His credentials. Not arrogance—necessity. Before he can say what needs saying, they need to know who's saying it.
He's not a distant deity issuing mandates from heaven's throne room. He walks among them. Present tense. Active. His hand grips the stars—the messengers, the leaders—but His feet move through the aisles, past the pews, around the altar. He observes. He knows.
This should comfort us and terrify us in equal measure.
You are not alone in your ministry. No church is. The One who conquered death maintains His presence among His people, holding us secure even as He evaluates us honestly. That's the paradox of grace—He holds us tightly while refusing to overlook what's killing us slowly.
"The gates of Hades shall not prevail against it," Jesus promised about His church (Matthew 16:18). Not because we're impressive, but because we're built on bedrock. On Him.
When Jesus Reviews Your Resume
"I know your works, your labor, your patience, and that you cannot bear those who are evil. And you have tested those who say they are apostles and are not, and have found them liars; and you have persevered and have patience, and have labored for My name's sake and have not become weary" (Revelation 2:2-3).
Here's what the Ephesian church got right, and it's no small list:
They worked. Hard. The kind of exhausting, thankless labour that most people never see. Maybe you know that weariness—the setup, the cleanup, the showing up when it would be easier to stay home. Jesus sees it. Paul reminds us,
"Therefore we make it our aim, whether present or absent, to be well pleasing to Him" (2 Corinthians 5:9).
Your hidden faithfulness isn't hidden from Him.
They had a doctrinal backbone. Theological precision. They wouldn't tolerate false teaching, tested every claim against Scripture, and protected truth like guards at the gate. In an era drowning in spiritual counterfeits, they remained discerning. Impressive.
They endured. Persecution didn't break them. Fatigue didn't stop them. They kept going.
By any measurable standard, Ephesus was a model church. Bible-teaching. Mission-minded. Doctrinally sound. If they existed today, seminaries would study them. Church-growth conferences would feature them.
But Jesus wasn't finished.
The Thing You've Lost
"Nevertheless I have this against you, that you have left your first love" (Revelation 2:4)
Four words that change everything: "left your first love."
Not lost. Left. There's intentionality in that word, even if unintentional. Somewhere between the Bible studies and the doctrinal debates and the tireless service, they walked away from something essential. The something without which everything else becomes noise.
Paul understood this danger. In his magnificent discourse on spiritual gifts, he wrote,
"Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal" (1 Corinthians 13:1).
You can preach eloquently, serve sacrificially, defend truth courageously—and still be making noise instead of music.
Love isn't the cherry on top of Christian ministry. It's the oxygen. Without it, everything suffocates.
Think about when you first encountered Jesus. That raw, unfiltered wonder. The way His grace broke over you like a wave. How His presence felt less like a religious obligation and more like coming home. The Ephesians had that once. Somehow, in the machinery of church activity, they misplaced it.
And here's the terrifying part: they didn't notice.
Their works continued. Their doctrine remained sound. Their standards stayed high. But the engine was running on fumes. Service without love becomes duty. Doctrine without love becomes weaponry. Endurance without love becomes mere stubbornness.
When love drains from ministry, what rushes in to fill the vacuum? Anger. Division. Selfishness. Bitterness. The very things that destroy what we're building.
The Warning We Can't Ignore
"Remember therefore from where you have fallen; repent and do the first works, or else I will come to you quickly and remove your lampstand from its place—unless you repent" (Revelation 2:5).
Jesus doesn't suggest. He commands. Three verbs that form a path back:
Remember. Look back at what you once had. That initial devotion wasn't naive or immature—it was pure. Unspoiled. Real.
Repent. Turn around. Acknowledge you've been walking the wrong direction, no matter how busy or doctrinally correct your journey has been.
Return. Do the first works again. Not just remember them fondly. Actually do them. Recover that white-hot passion that made loving Jesus feel less like an obligation and more like breathing.
Or else.
Those two words carry weight. "I will come to you quickly and remove your lampstand from its place." The lampstand represents the church's witness, its light in darkness. Jesus promised to snuff it out. Not to destroy the building. Not strike them with lightning. Simply remove their purpose. Make them irrelevant.
Look at Turkey today. Once home to seven vibrant churches addressed by Christ Himself, now dominated by a different faith entirely. The lampstand of Ephesus? Gone. Removed. The warning wasn't empty.
This should shake us awake. How many churches today function with impressive programs, solid preaching, and organisational excellence while the lampstand flickers? How many of us maintain the appearance of spiritual vitality while our love grows cold?
The Promise Worth Fighting For
"He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To him who overcomes I will give to eat from the tree of life, which is in the midst of the Paradise of God" (Revelation 2:7).
Even in confrontation, Jesus extends a promise. For those who overcome—who hear His warning and respond—paradise awaits. Not metaphorical paradise. Actual paradise. The same one Jesus promised the thief on the cross:
"Assuredly, I say to you, today you will be with Me in Paradise" (Luke 23:43).
The one Paul glimpsed and couldn't find words to describe:
"caught up into Paradise and heard inexpressible words, which it is not lawful for a man to utter" (2 Corinthians 12:4).
The tree of life. Access to eternal communion with God. The restoration of everything broken since Eden.
That's what's at stake. Not just avoiding rebuke. Gaining everything.
The Mirror We Need to Face
This isn't just ancient history for a long-gone congregation. Jesus addressed seven churches, but He spoke to the whole body of Christ. Across time. Across geography. To us.
I encourage you: read about the other six churches in Revelation 2-3. Watch how Jesus introduces Himself uniquely to each one, tailored to their specific situation. Notice what He knows about them—their strengths and their fatal flaws. See how He encourages, rebukes and challenges. Study the promises He extends.
Then ask the dangerous questions:
What would Jesus say about your church? If He walked through on Sunday morning, if He sat in the business meeting, if He observed the way you treat each other when the service ends—what letter would He write?
And more personally: You are the temple of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19). What would He say about you? About the state of your devotion, the quality of your love, the authenticity of your worship when no one's watching?
Are you serving faithfully but with a cooling heart? Defending truth while forgetting tenderness? Enduring admirably while losing the joy that made you start running in the first place?
The Way Back
The beautiful thing about Jesus' confrontation is that it's always an invitation. He doesn't expose our failure to shame us but to save us. The warning proves He cares too much to let us coast into irrelevance.
So return. Not to religious performance. To Him. To that first-love simplicity where knowing Jesus mattered more than knowing about Jesus. Where serving Him flowed from delight rather than duty. Where your heart quickened at the sound of His name.
The lampstand can burn bright again. But only if we tend the flame.
Only if we remember that all our works, all our doctrine, all our perseverance mean nothing if we've left our first love somewhere along the way.
He's walking through your church right now. Through your life. Holding you securely. Seeing you clearly.
What will He find?
Comments
Post a Comment