Neither Cold Nor Hot (Laodicea)

Revelation 3:14-22

Pentecost 6

July 7, 2024

William G. Carter



“And to the angel of the church in Laodicea write: The words of the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the origin of God’s creation: “I know your works; you are neither cold nor hot. I wish that you were either cold or hot. So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I am about to spit you out of my mouth. For you say, ‘I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing.’ You do not realize that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. Therefore I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire so that you may be rich; and white robes to clothe you and to keep the shame of your nakedness from being seen; and salve to anoint your eyes so that you may see. I reprove and discipline those whom I love. Be earnest, therefore, and repent. Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me. To the one who conquers I will give a place with me on my throne, just as I myself conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne. Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.”

It was a portrait in stained glass, the first window on the right in the transept. A figure stands outside a closed door. His right fist is raised. He is ready to knock. If we did not have this scripture text, we could still identify the figure. The brown beard, the white tunic with a red wrap – looks just like Jesus.

Looks like our bulletin cover, too. This dramatic picture of Jesus knocking the door, waiting to be welcomed – it is a common image in religious art. It’s a picture that shows up in a couple of couple of church hymns. Some of you may be old enough to remember the first line of a hymn from 1867:

O Jesus, thou art standing outside the fast-closed door,

In lowly patience waiting to pass the threshold door.

That one didn’t make the cut for our new hymnal, but right after the sermon we will sing a great, old spiritual.

Somebody’s knocking at your door. Somebody’s knocking at your door.

O sinner, why won’t you answer? Somebody’s knocking at your door.

Knocks like Jesus! Somebody’s knocking at your door.

The insistent refrain defines the scene. Knock, knock, knock! He wants to be let in. Open the door. Let him in. But the people inside don’t seem to be paying attention.

It’s remarkable, given the way the book of Revelation begins. The prophet John hears a Voice, then falls to his knees with a vision. It’s the Heavenly Christ, in the full power of the Resurrection. His eyes are burning. His face shines like the sun. His Voice thunders – and he holds seven stars in his right hand. His Word cuts like an enormous sword. Why does he bother to knock? Why not blast the door in? He has the power.

John is telling us something true about the Gospel. Christ rules eternally over both universe and church. Yet we can’t see him unless we open the door. Not yet. Oh, the day will come when his gracious dominion will be obvious to all. But here, now, just as back then, Christ is knocking, and the door remains shut.

Now, I suppose we can take this in personal terms, but Jesus is writing to a church. The church in Laodicea was different from the other six that received letters from the Lord. Ephesus was a hot bed of persecution, but not in Laodicea. Smyrna was impoverished, but not Laodicea; when devastated by an earthquake, the city leaders told the Empire, “We do not need any help from you. We have plenty of money to rebuild.” Pergamum and Thyratira were overrun by evil, Laodicea was doing just fine. Sardis was a dead town, Laodicea was alive. Philadelphia struggled, but Christ set before them “an open door” of opportunity. By contrast, Laodicea’s door remained shut.

 What was the problem? It was a wealthy city, with strong financial institutions and a thriving textile industry. The city had art and culture, evidence of its affluence. There was a medical college that specialized in curing eye diseases. It was a most impressive city.

 Yet it had one enormous problem: there was no fresh drinking water nearby. The city planners thought they had addressed the shortage through an ingenious series of aqueducts. They brought in cold water from a town six miles to the south. From the city of Hieropolis to the north, they piped in water from the hot springs. Great ideas, but by the time the cold water came down it had warmed up. The hot water cooled off. All of it left a calcium residue, which tasted awful – and the water was lukewarm. Yuck.

So, Jesus dictates this letter and gives the church in that city a sharp elbow. Pokes them where it hurts. They aren’t hot. They aren’t cold. They’re not…anything. Well, they are something. They are a disappointment.

The faith in the Laodicea church resembles the cup of coffee that I left on my desk and forgot about. That was bad enough. And I had brought up some dairy creamer from the church kitchen and it left on the warm office shelf. It curdled my lukewarm coffee. I considered drinking it anyway. One sip, and I decided to throw it out.

Jesus says, “Laodicea Church, you’re not hot. You’re not cold. You’re lukewarm.” In King James language, “I want to spew you from my mouth.” They had money, they had fashion, they had medicine, they had an extremely comfortable lifestyle. Didn’t have to labor for anything. So, Eugene Peterson comments, “Lukewarmness is the special fault of the successful. Those who have achieved or inherited are particularly prone to it. It is a basic threat to our church and our Christian faith.”[1] Neither hot nor cold; lukewarm.

When she joined our congregation, folks thought she was so full of promise. She came every Sunday, brought in her friends, sang with exuberance. She came to Bible studies, tried out the choir rehearsals, and signed up for all the events she could get to. Her enthusiasm was matched by a most generous weekly donation. People noticed.

Somehow, she went missing. A deacon called, had to leave a message. The pastor called, she said, “I’ll have talk later, I’m getting a bigger car.” Somebody saw her at the garden shop; she waved and kept moving. And then she was out of sight. Everything OK? “Sure, all’s fine, see you on Christmas Eve.” She missed that, too. All the while, the generous donations kept coming in. But can I say it? It did not seem her heart was in it.

What happened? I don’t know. You tell me. I’m paid to show up, plus I enjoy the work. Yet why do the warm souls fizzle out. Why do the chosen stay frozen? Who knows?

• Maybe it’s the rumor in the hallway or the plot in the parking lot.
• Or somebody flinches when the Gospel challenges them, so they back off.
• Or they try to get their way and can’t.
• Or they make a suggestion, and nobody listens.
• Or they believe everybody should agree with them, and they don’t.
• Or some insect crawls up their nostril and they can’t get over it.
• Perhaps they learn the hard way that the church is full of sinners. Every pew has a sinner.
• Or they have some distaste in discovering all the sinners get forgiven. 

Any of it, or all of it. I don’t know. But remember, Jesus is writing to a church, not a person. And in that light, Eugene Peterson may have it nailed when he says a lukewarm church can be diagnosed with a single word: affluence. The evidence from Laodicea is compelling. Jesus quotes what he overhears from the Laodicean church parking lot. The people are saying, “I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing.”

To which Jesus counters, “Don’t you realize your own needs? You have so much, and you are so poor. You have a major eye clinic in your town, and you cannot see. You have a flourishing garment industry in your city, and your souls are naked. What a pitiful sight? I have the only gold to make you rich, and the Easter robe to cloth you, and the medicine to let you see.”

One thing more, he says: “And I love you. That is why I am talking to you this way.” Jesus loves the lukewarm church. Jesus loves the lukewarm people in the church. He raises his voice and knocks on the door. And he waits for them to warm up and come to their senses.

Now, he is knocking. He’s always knocking. The Jesus of eternity has given himself to church and world. He won’t back off. He commits to our wellbeing. He gives his life for the planet’s health. He refuses to be lukewarm about his mission to heal our broken spirits, ignite our frozen hearts, and straighten our tangled ways.

Yet we must do something about it. We cannot sit and watch for him to do it all. We cannot nod our heads in agreement, and then fold our arms in indifference. We cannot wait for others to step and do what Christ is nudging us to do. Otherwise, we are hiding behind an unlocked door. And he is on the other side - knock, knock, knock.

We can mute the sound. We can soften the insistence. We can postpone the response. And he’s still there – knock, knock, knock.

What happens if we open the door, just a little bit? We see him nod in recognition. If we open a little more, we discover he’s not going to blast it down; the responsibility has been given to us. And if we pull the door completely open, he doesn’t yell. He doesn’t say, “Why did it take you so long?”

No, Jesus leans in the threshold to say, “How about if we get something to eat?” Just a little bread, just a little wine. That’s all we need to welcome his love. Some bread and wine … and a door that we have opened.

Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.

 

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

---

[1] Eugene Peterson, The Hallelujah Banquet, (Colorado Springs: Waterbrook, 221) 137.