Letters to the Churches: Revelation 2-3
This Sunday, we continued our journey through Revelation by listening in on some of the most searching words Jesus ever spoke — His letters to the seven churches in Asia Minor. Pastor Dave reminded us that these aren’t ancient relics or irrelevant footnotes. They’re a spiritual report card from the Risen Christ — and they still speak to us today.
When we were kids, report card day might have been a mix of pride, relief, or dread. You could hide a grade, toss the envelope, or promise to “do better next time.” But the Church’s “report card” in Revelation 2–3 isn’t something to hide — it’s a living Word meant to shape us, stretch us, and draw us back to our first love.
These letters are addressed to the “angels” of the churches — a reminder that what happens in a local church echoes in the heavenlies. The Church is not just a building on a street corner — it’s a lampstand in the presence of God. Jesus Himself walks among these lampstands, tending the flame. He sees what no one else sees. He knows what the world overlooks. And because He loves us, He speaks — honestly, directly, faithfully.
Over and over, He says: “I know your works.”
He knows our toil, our endurance, our afflictions, our sacrifices. To Ephesus: “I know your toil and patience.” To Smyrna: “I know your poverty and suffering.” To Pergamum: “I know you didn’t deny my name, even when it cost you.” Nothing is hidden. Nothing is wasted. Jesus delights to commend what is faithful — to honor even the smallest act of obedience.
But He doesn’t stop there. Love doesn’t just affirm; it corrects. Jesus exposes what is lacking — not to shame us, but to heal us. He confronts the drift that so easily happens when faith becomes routine. He shows us the danger of a lukewarm faith that says, “I’m fine. I have enough. I don’t need anything more.” And yet, He stands at the door and knocks — not demanding better performance but inviting deeper fellowship.
Again and again, the pattern is the same: affirmation and correction, grace and truth. Some churches had the truth but no love. Some had love but no boundaries. Some looked alive but were spiritually asleep. Some were materially rich but spiritually bankrupt. They weren’t throwing Jesus out — they were putting Him on the shelf. And He says, “That is just as dangerous.”
The haunting words to Laodicea echo to us too:
“You do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked… I counsel you to buy from me gold refined in the fire.”
Pastor Dave reminded us that lukewarmness is subtle but deadly. The moment we believe we don’t need more of Jesus, we drift further from Him without even noticing. The more self-sufficient we feel, the less room there is for the Spirit to truly transform us. So these letters ask us searching questions:
Are we still listening when Jesus speaks — especially when it’s not what we want to hear?
Are we still repenting when He corrects?
Are we still burning bright with truth and love?
Are we still open to being shaped by the Spirit into a people who reflect His glory?
This isn’t just about church history — it’s about us. The question isn’t “Which church are you like?” but “Are you opening the door to Jesus today?” Maybe you feel like Ephesus — holding truth but losing love. Or Thyatira — overflowing with love but tolerating what should be confronted. Maybe you’re weary, coasting, drifting into “good enough.” But Jesus doesn’t say, “Pick which one you’ll settle for.” He says, “Open the door. Let Me in. Let Me make you whole.”
Revelation 3:20 is the heartbeat of these letters:
“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.”
Jesus isn’t interested in tweaking our behavior or fine-tuning our theology without transforming our hearts. He wants to dwell with us. Because only His presence can make us a church that burns bright — a church full of truth and grace, a church that stands firm when it costs everything, a church that overcomes.
The promise at the end is stunning:
“To the one who overcomes, I will give the right to sit with me on my throne.”
That’s where this all points — not to our comfort, but to glory with Christ. So don’t drift. Don’t settle for lukewarm faith. Don’t believe the lie that you have enough Jesus already. Open the door — to His correction, His comfort, His presence, His transforming power.
Because He still speaks. He still walks among His lampstands. He still holds the keys. And He is worth it.
