Christ lived for the open door—to enter Jerusalem and our lives, to assert the rule of God over all creation.
And so Christ entered Jerusalem, riding on a colt. He was the first one since Solomon to enter Jerusalem like that, and the parallelism wasn’t lost on the people. They saw the point of his entrance and proclaimed with great joy his rule over them: “Hosanna!” When Christ entered, he entered to rule as the king. Not just to teach, not just to heal, not just to help, not even to remind the people of the nature of God—but to rule.
Christ invaded this world to finally rule over us. He was the missile of God with purpose and destination. We hear a lot about UFOs and aliens these days. Behind the fascination with them and all the speculation, there reappears from time to time an eerie feeling that perhaps someone, some other creature capable of ruling over us, is about to impose a new authority over us, about to take over. And we are fearful of that. Maybe some of the same avoidance is in our thinking about Christ. He came to rule. Christ lived for the open door—to enter Jerusalem and our lives, to assert the rule of God over all creation.
* * *
As I see it, there are three possible reactions when the rule of Christ enters our sphere: joy, weeping, and anger. They are not necessarily mutually exclusive.
First, joy. Those ruled by God are in tune with him and living the fullness of their lives. Christ himself is an example of remarkable joy and celebration at many moments in his ministry. His kingdom rule brings joy.
But there is also weeping when his rule encounters an obstacle in the human heart. Jesus wept when he looked over Jerusalem and recalled the massive indifference of the city to the claims of God upon it. He knew that their indifference to his rule and the prophets who preceded him would mean great suffering for them. There was no alternative but to lament and mourn. We should look to him for an example.
And finally there is occasionally anger in the face of injustice or the cheapening of what is sacred for profit. Remember that the rule of God meant the cleansing of the temple. Many of the things that people had been doing up to that point could be done no longer, so Jesus threw them out. He was angry, and rightfully so.
So for us, the rule of Christ is not all joy. There is weeping and anger too. But for people under Christ’s rule, even in this troubled world, joy is dominant.
The promise to the church in Philadelphia that goes through this open door is this: “He who conquers, I will make him a pillar in the temple of my God; never shall he go out of it” (Revelation 3:12). Philadelphia was an earthquake city. The population repeatedly had to run out of the city when the earthquake tremors began. Sometimes they seemed to be living in a perpetual escape from destruction. To them came this promise (I paraphrase): “You who go through this open door become the missile of Christ; you will finally be established in a certain place where you will have to go out no longer. You will be a pillar.”
With the command of the open door before us, with the example of Christ, who entered into our existence through the open door of Jerusalem, we must pray from deeply felt conviction, “Rule over us, Christ our king.”
Our church has long emphasized the primacy of the rule of God over all people in all areas of their lives—economic, social, political, religious. Our church picked up the emphasis in our name, “Christ Our King.” With the command of the open door before us, with the example of Christ, who entered into our existence through the open door of Jerusalem, we must pray from deeply felt conviction, “Rule over us, Christ our king.”
Amen.
Skip Notes
*1 Editor’s note: To balance this dated cultural depiction, it is important to note the deep respect with which Eugene spoke of Native Americans throughout his private and public life. I’ve elected to retain this boyhood story, which reflects common twentieth-century stereotypes, in keeping with Eugene’s intention in preaching it—to highlight the human desire for more.
*2 Editor’s note: Eugene is likely referencing the 1959 novel Hawaii by James A. Michener and the 1921 short story “Rain” by W. Somerset Maugham. Both feature the relationships, sometimes tragic, of out-of-touch missionaries with the people they have been sent to convert.
*3 Merriam-Webster, s.v. “missile,” www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/missile.
The Test of Our Commitment
John the apostle was the first person to believe in the resurrection of Jesus. Mary and Peter were the first to see the evidence, but it was John who made the leap of faith from the empty tomb to the risen Christ. John’s Easter morning belief radiated outward and gathered the despair, guilt, futility, and skepticism of person after person into living praise of this alive and present Savior.
Sixty years later, John the pastor was still presenting this same resurrection event with undiminished fervor to steady, encourage, and motivate his seven congregations of Christians through difficult times. The first Easter morning was an explosion of energy. Did it have detonative power sixty years later? Does it have it still, two thousand years later? It did and it does.
Because it must. For even though the Resurrection doesn’t grow dim, we do. We lose our fervor. Especially when we get what we call a well-off life, we lose touch with the elemental, personal, and essential glories of God and our own terrifying needs. We become like the Laodiceans: neither cold nor hot but a comfortable and civilized lukewarm.
The Resurrection? Oh yeah, an important doctrine but unfortunately rather clouded by controversy. Easter? Certainly a significant holiday, and the pagan parallels are interesting too!
Laodicea, the location of the seventh of John’s churches, was the only congregation of the seven where it was not dangerous to be a Christian. Unlike with the others, there is no mention in this message of suffering or martyrdom. Lucky Laodiceans! Those Christians enjoyed what Americans take for granted: freedom to worship, safety from persecution.
There is another similarity to American conditions—it was a consumer society. Archaeologists have poked around in Laodicea, and historians have sifted through old documents and found that it was a banking center, a fashion center, and a medical center. The combination of money, fashion, and medicine made Laodicea a good place to live.
As the years went by, a terrible thing happened to the Christians of Laodicea. They became more influenced by their affluent culture than by the Cross. They became consumers. They began to treat Christ as a consumer item. They invested in religion the way they invested in the financial market. They shopped for religion the way they shopped for clothes. They used religion the way they used medicine. They treated Christ with the cool calculation of consumers.
As the years went by, a terrible thing happened to the Christians of Laodicea. They became more influenced by their affluent culture than by the Cross. They became consumers.
Do we? John interrupts our tepid consumer mentality with an urgent word from the risen Christ: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any one hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me” (Revelation 3:20).
Here is the passion test. We cannot be lukewarm spectators before such a Christ. We can be only passionate participants or ice-cold deniers. We can keep him at arm’s length for only so long—his persistent knocking rouses us to respond. The moment we do, he is in and we are head over heels in love, invaded by our Lord, somersaulted into a life of praise by the power of the Resurrection.
We cannot be lukewarm spectators before such a Christ. We can be only passionate participants or ice-cold deniers.
As we’ve moved quietly through these letters from John to his beloved congregations, we have voluntarily submitted to an examination by Christ. We’ve considered the deep insights and questions posed by these letters to first-century churches. As we know, Christ “stood” in the midst of each congregation and examined its works, then commended or condemned the Christians in those seven cit
ies, depending on what the examination revealed.
But what of us? My prayer and hope are that we have been caught by the intense seriousness of our Lord’s words and have been impressed by their relevance to us. Christ is examining us in specific ways, and we have been given warm words of commendation, sharp reproofs, and urgent promises. It is nearly two thousand years after these original words were written. But the testing is still needed. Particularly, the testing of our commitment.
* * *
With this in mind, we now read the last letter, the letter to the Laodiceans.
The examining Christ is described as “the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the beginning of God’s creation” (verse 14). “Amen” means the affirmation, the yes of God, the certainty and guarantee of God. “Faithful and true witness” certifies his reliability as the Word of God. “Beginning of God’s creation,” or, as some translators prefer, “source of everything there is,” puts him as that one outside which nothing can exist—the origin of existence.
These three descriptions together give us a Christ who includes all reality, behind whose back nothing is done, who doesn’t leave out a thing. He is described this way because the people he was to examine thought they had developed a way of life that was pretty satisfactory apart from God. For them, God existed, but on the periphery. They were not deniers of religion; they simply kept religion in its place.
They were the kind of people who would say, But there is so much to do and know and possess. I cannot confine myself by religion. It is such a narrowing dogma. It is too stifling for words. Not that I don’t see the use of it, you know. I want my children to be in Sunday school, and I attend church myself pretty regularly—but I’m a modern, cultivated person. I have a lot of other interests. I certainly don’t want to be fanatic about it. These are the people Christ confronted, and he confronted them in massive dimensions.
However affirmative their lives were, he is more. He is the Amen. However life loving they appeared to be, he is more so. He is the faithful and true witness. However inclusive their lives attempted to be, he is even more inclusive. He is the source of all creation. Nothing escapes him. And this all-inclusive, cosmopolitan Christ examined the Laodicean sophisticates—the people German theologian Schleiermacher called religion’s “cultured despisers.”*1
His examination of their lives was harsh: “I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were cold or hot! So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth” (verses 15–16). This is the sternest word that came to any of the seven churches. It was a severe word provoked not by (note this well) any flagrant sin, horrible heresy, or cowardly defection. It was provoked by their insipidity. As John Stott wrote, “Jesus Christ would prefer us to boil or freeze, rather than simmer down into a tasteless tepidity.”*2
The accusatory examination comes perilously close to home. Laodicean lukewarmness seems to be characteristic of the church in our times. Sometimes it seems to me that if you are interested in being hotly fanatic about Jesus Christ, you join one church. If you are icily frigid to him, you join another. But if you are merely lukewarm, you join the Presbyterians. Yet I am sure that is an unfair view, for conversation with other pastors of other churches reveals the same opinion, only in relation to their own denominations. Lukewarmness is not just a Presbyterian trait; it is a human trait.
* * *
What is behind this lukewarmness? In one word, prosperity.
The Laodiceans were citizens of an affluent society, quite as much as we are. Their social and economic situation closely parallels our own, and the identical spiritual condition is the product.
Laodicea was a notably wealthy city, easily the wealthiest of the seven in eastern Asia Minor. Its wealth was based on three things. First, it was a banking center. The banking arrangements for that part of the world were made there, and coins were minted there. It was a combination of Wall Street and Fort Knox.
What is behind this lukewarmness? In one word, prosperity. Lukewarmness is the special fault of the successful.
Second, it was also a garment center. The hills around Laodicea were famous for a certain breed of black-wooled sheep. From this wool, garments and carpeting were manufactured in Laodicea. Fashions were created there, in this mixture of a Paris salon and New York’s Fifth Avenue.
Third, it was a medical center. There was a medical school there, which had a worldwide reputation for two locally produced medicines. One was an ointment of nard, which was used to cure sore ears. But above all, it was famous for a certain eye powder. It was exported in tablet form, and the tablets were ground down and applied to the eyes as a cure for ophthalmia. It was a Johns Hopkins Hospital and Mayo Clinic to the ancient world.
Money, fashion, medicine—these three successes brought the Laodiceans affluence and prosperity. They were so completely successful in these material blessings that they quite forgot about any other aspects of the world or existence. They were anesthetized by their affluence, and they lost all sense of God.
There was no need in a city like Laodicea for extreme exertion, for enthusiasm, for zeal. All that was behind them, as they were living comfortably on the plateau of success. They were neither cold nor hot. They were lukewarm.
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 in these times.
* * *
The risen Christ said to the Laodicean church,
You say, I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing; not knowing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. Therefore I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire, that you may be rich, and white garments to clothe you and to keep the shame of your nakedness from being seen, and salve to anoint your eyes, that you may see. (Revelation 3:17–18)
How appropriately our Lord counseled them! They thought they were rich with their banks and hoards of money, when in reality they were poor and wretched. So, “get some gold from Christ.” They thought they were fashionably clothed with their classy black wool clothes, yet inwardly they were shamefully naked. So, “get some white garments from Christ.” They thought they had the best eyesight in the world and the sure cure for any ailments of vision. But they were so blind that they could not see even God. So, “come to Christ for some eye salve so that your vision may be healed.”
The plain fact is that a person cannot live without God. But to live with God means to be God dominated. Christ did not condemn the Laodiceans’ affluence; he did not decry their prosperity. We sometimes hear the Christian life described in such a way that in order to be a saint, one must be poor, and conversely, to be rich practically eliminates someone from any serious consideration as a faithful disciple of Christ. But Christ did not imply that. He had nothing derogatory to say about their money or their fine clothes or their medicines.
The plain fact is that a person cannot live without God. But to live with God means to be God dominated.
But he mercilessly stripped from them the illusion that any of these things have any eternal value. And he harshly rebuked them for allowing such things to divert their attention from God in their lives and lull them into a somnambulant ease separated from any obediently vigorous response to Christ. “Those whom I love, I reprove and chasten; so be zealous and repent” (verse 19).
* * *
One of the final verses of the message to the Laodiceans gives one of the most beautiful invitations in Scripture: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any one hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me” (Revelation 3:20).
With all the rebuke and censure and violent language, there is no force at the end. Our Lord stands to be invited in. He will not barge into anyone’s life. He knocks courteously. As Saint Francis of Assisi is said to have stated, “God is
always courteous and will not invade the privacy of any human soul.”*3
George MacDonald put it this way:
Nor will God force any door to enter in. He may send a tempest about the house; the wind of his admonishment may burst doors and windows, yea, shake the house to its foundations; but not then, not so, will he enter. The door must be opened by the willing hand, ere the foot of Love will cross the threshold. He watches to see the door move from within. Every tempest is but an assault in the siege of love. The terror of God is but the other side of his love; it is love outside the house, that would be inside—love that knows the house is no house, only a place, until it enter—no home, but a tent, until the Eternal dwell there.*4
There are two things we as a church do, which are illuminated by the scripture we have been reading. One is the service of confirmation. In that service, young people from our congregation make their profession of faith in Jesus Christ and promise to be faithful disciples, to obey his Word, and to show his love. As they make this act of commitment to wholehearted response to Christ, they remind us all of the call to discipleship that our Lord speaks personally to each of us.
Second is the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. As we receive the sacrament, we are receiving Christ. We are responding to his knocking at the door of our lives. We are saying yes to his request to come “into” us, to enter our interior lives and sup with us. As we take in the bread and wine, we are taking the whole Christ into our lives.
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