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Following Jesus has never been the easiest path. It can cost you comfort, approval, ease—and sometimes it can feel like you're the only one left holding on. But 2,000 years ago, Jesus looked at a group of real people, ordinary churches, struggling, doubting, barely holding on. And he didn't look away.
Jesus, the Lamb seated on the throne for all eternity, spoke to them personally, honestly, and by name. He saw their suffering and called it strength. He saw their weakness and offered his own. And he's still speaking, because we can drift too. We can grow comfortable. We can lose our footing. We can slowly stop holding on. And if we do, he calls us back.
It is by his Spirit that we are strengthened. It is within a community of faith that we find the courage to keep going. You were never meant to hold on alone. So when faith feels costly, Jesus knows, he cares, and he will strengthen you to keep going.
A couple weeks ago I went to my son's first grade graduation. When he spotted me in the crowd, he jumped out of his chair, waving and smiling, unable to contain his joy. No one has ever been that excited to see me in my entire life. And I think that's actually how God designed all of us—when we feel seen, when we feel known, something in our hearts leaps for joy. That's what the text we're looking at is all about.
If you're just joining us, we're walking through the book of Revelation. As we learned last week, Revelation was not meant to scare us—it was meant to prepare us. Revelation is a message of hope to people who are hurting. So whether you're on a mountaintop or in a valley this morning, I believe God wants to give you a fresh dose of hope. Turn with me to Revelation chapters 2 and 3.
Jesus writes seven letters to seven churches, all located along the same postal road, from Ephesus all the way to Laodicea. To each church he says something specific:
"I know your deeds, your hard work, and your perseverance." (to Ephesus) "I know your afflictions and your poverty, yet you are rich." (to Smyrna) "I know where you live... you remain true to my name." (to Pergamum) "I know that you have little strength, yet you have kept my word and have not denied my name." (to Philadelphia)
The Greek word for know here is oida. It doesn't mean "I have heard" or "I'm aware of"—it means I have seen. It means I see you. These churches were in a hard spot, and Jesus wanted them to know: I see you.
If you're here this morning in a hard spot, Jesus says, I see you. If you're a parent of young kids and it feels like a miracle you got to church today, Jesus says, I see you. If your coffee hasn't kicked in yet, that's okay—Jesus says, I see you.
Author Jennie Allen talks about three core lies the enemy wants us to believe: that you are worthless, that you are helpless, that you are unlovable. Left to ourselves, it's easy to let these lies hold us back. But Jesus says, I see you. I see the good in you. I see my Spirit in you. And best of all, he says, I will be with you.
As I prayed about this message, I sensed God speaking encouraging words to my own heart:
I see you. I have chosen you to reflect me so brightly. I care less about your ability and more about your availability. Never confuse your work with my work. My right paths often lead through dark valleys. When I say no, there's a better yes you can't yet see. You don't know what the future holds, but you know the One who holds it.
Jesus says, I see you. I know exactly where you are.
To the church in Ephesus, Jesus says:
"Yet I hold this against you: you have forsaken the love you had at first."
Jesus doesn't just comfort the churches—he challenges them. The Ephesians were doing a lot of good things. They followed the right people, listened to great worship music and sermons. But in the midst of it all, their passion for Jesus had cooled. It had become more about doing things for God than doing things with God.
This is a lot like marriage sometimes. My wife Elise and I have gone through seasons where it felt less like a relationship and more like being roommates. That's not a code red—it's normal. But when we've navigated that, these words to Ephesus have become relevant to us too: "Repent and do the things you did at first." For us, that's meant going back to what we did when we were dating—getting a sitter for date night, taking long walks, just enjoying being together.
Here's what we've found: the more we act like we did when we were dating, the more we start to feel like we did when we were dating. Our feelings follow our actions.
As I prayed about this, I felt convicted in my own relationship with God. I sensed him asking:
Todd, am I still the number one priority in your life, or has your passion cooled off? Are you more passionate for pastoring my church than when you first started, or have the big dreams and bold faith I gave you been replaced with things that feel comfortable? Will you go back to the things you did at first? Will you read my word with fresh expectation? Will you worship your guts out like you did years ago, when you didn't care what people thought? Will you pour your heart out to me again?
If you've lost your first love, Jesus gives this invitation: Return. Go back to the things you did at first.
To the church in Laodicea, Jesus is even more direct:
"I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth."
My first thought was, what's wrong with lukewarm? Personally, I love lukewarm water—I have Raynaud's syndrome and get cold easily, so room temperature water is my preference. But for the church in Laodicea, lukewarm was a dirty word.
Laodicea had a water problem. Nearby cities had great water—Hierapolis had mineral hot springs, Colossae had cool mountain spring water. But Laodicea's water was piped in through aqueducts, full of minerals, undrinkable. In a word: lukewarm.
I think this may be the single biggest danger facing the American church. Right now, in some parts of the world, being a Christian is costly. Around 365 million Christians regularly face persecution and discrimination, and last year alone about 4,000 Christians were martyred for their faith. In those environments, you cannot afford to be lukewarm—there is no middle ground. You are all in or all out.
But in America, it's different. The biggest danger for us isn't persecution—it's disconnection. We're not in danger of losing our lives; we're in danger of losing our connection with God and with each other because things get too comfortable.
As I prayed about this message, I felt God put two big challenges on my heart for our church. We're calling it the 4/3 Challenge.
There are plenty of things that compete for our minds—phones, sports, news headlines. There's nothing inherently wrong with those things, but when we fill our minds with them, we limit our capacity to fill our minds with the things of God.
Research on Bible engagement shows something remarkable. Reading God's Word:
At that tipping point, people report a sharp increase in feeling close to God and sharing their faith, a decrease in destructive behaviors, and their faith becoming central to their identity. So our challenge is this: engage God's Word at least four days a week—or better yet, make it an everyday rhythm. God's Word will transform your life.
Many good things can shape our hearts in place of God—achievements, finances, even family. But when we put something good in the place of God, it becomes toxic to our soul. That's why gathering for worship matters so much. It's the antidote. It declares, God, you are God and I am not. I will lift your name high and bow my heart low. And we don't do that alone—we do it within the body of Christ. As I heard it said recently: the challenge for every Christian is to move from finding God useful to finding God beautiful. That's what worship does—it shapes the tone and posture of our hearts.
Again, research shows a pattern:
Worship isn't meant to be a thing in our lives—it's meant to be the main thing, because worship is the main thing in eternal life.
I recently visited a longtime member of our church in hospice care. She asked me to sing "How Great Thou Art" with her, holding her hand as we sang. Her body was frail, her mind fading in and out, but her faith was strong. As I reflected on that moment, I sensed God give me this phrase: you only get so many breaths to worship your Savior—make those breaths count.
The way we worship today is a foretaste of the way we'll worship Jesus forever.
For the churches in Revelation, Jesus reminded them that he was the one they were truly pursuing—the only one who could give them victory, as long as they didn't give up.
Growing up in the Ozarks, I played trumpet and dreamed of being first chair in band. I tried out in seventh grade and landed third chair—a humbling defeat. I practiced hard for eighth-grade tryouts, determined to move up. Instead, I switched to French horn and gave up on my original dream because it got too hard.
Here's the thing: I don't think God cares which instrument you play. But God does care whether you're committed to your faith. God cares if you don't give up—even when it's hard, even when you're weak, even when there's a temptation to switch to an easier path. After all, Jesus didn't give up. He faced the greatest resistance and the greatest challenges, and he persevered all the way to the cross—finishing his race victorious. That's the challenge he gives as he closes these letters:
"To the one who is victorious, I will never blot out the name of that person from the book of life, but will acknowledge that name before my Father and his angels." "To the one who is victorious, I will give the right to sit with me on my throne, just as I was victorious and sat down with my Father on his throne."
These churches thought their battle was against Roman persecution around them. But that battle was already won—Jesus is King of kings and Lord of lords, and he will reign victorious. The real battle Jesus was pointing to wasn't external. The battle is in our hearts. It's our commitment to put him first, our refusal to lose our first love, our resistance to lukewarm faith. That's the battle the American church faces today.
But if we give our best, because Jesus is the source of our strength, we too will be victorious. We too will be dressed in white. We too will sit with him on the throne. We too will have our names written in the book of life.
As we close, imagine what Jesus might write to our own church today:
I know your faithfulness. I know the sacrifice of so many—the volunteer work most people don't see, the early morning arrivals to prepare for Sunday worship, the late-night conversations as you lead your small group, the example you set for our kids and students, the generous support that fuels this ministry. I see you. I see it all.
But I also see the temptation to drift from going all out to growing lukewarm and comfortable—to let your connection with me and this community of faith get sidelined by the chaos of life. Here's what I want you to know: I am alive in your midst. I am at work in my people. And I am calling you to be a lighthouse of love to the community around you, to boldly proclaim me and the hope that I bring.
I am doing a great work, and I am just getting started. So hold on and stay close. May you go deeper in my word than ever before. May you grow stronger in worship as you lift my name higher. And may your passion for my mission keep burning brighter. For I promised you this: I will build my church. Lean into me, and you will be victorious.
Amen.
