The First Four Lamps

Ephesus, or: the orthodox believer no longer in love

The first letter goes to Ephesus, and it is almost a hymn of praise. This church is a model church. It works hard. It perseveres. It tolerates no evil. It has tested false apostles and unmasked them as liars. It hates precisely the things God hates. If you were looking for a church with its doctrine in order, the disciplinary record up to date and not a hairline crack in its confession — Ephesus was your church. Top marks for orthodoxy.

And then comes the sentence that overturns everything: "But I have this against you, that you have left your first love" (Revelation 2:4).

Do you feel it coming? There stands the perfect church, its arms full of proofs of its own rightness, and the Lord looks at it and misses only one thing. The one thing. The fire. They do everything lovers do — faithfulness, zeal, vigilance — but the glow is gone. It has become a marriage in which nothing goes wrong anymore and nothing lives anymore. Two people who do everything right and have not looked at each other for years. The orthodox believer who smells every false teaching at fifty paces — and who no longer knows when he last wept over Jesus.

And now the mirror, for I promised mirrors. I know that church from the inside, for I am a citizen of it. I can dissect a sermon for its weak exegesis. I can give you three reasons why that other movement has it wrong. I smell error the way a dog smells drugs. And the Lord taps me on the shoulder and asks very softly: all very fine — but when were you last in love? Am I doing it better than Ephesus? I, with my tidy little lamp and my cold heart?

In Depth — Ephesus: the seven stars in His hand, the tree of life restored

Ephesus was the largest city of the province of Asia, a port city where the temple of Artemis stood, one of the seven wonders of the world, with a thriving trade in silver votive figurines — exactly the industry that rises up against Paul in Acts 19. (Well documented.) A city full of cult, magic and money; the church that stood there had to learn to discern, and was able to. The opening address is tuned to that: "These things says He who holds the seven stars in His right hand, who walks in the midst of the seven golden lampstands" (2:1). The verb is upgraded from "to have" to krateo, to hold fast, to grip firmly — He holds His churches fast, and He walks actively among them, no distant but a present, inspecting Lord. For the chief church of Asia, jointly responsible for the other six, the image of the one hand that encloses all seven stars is fitting. (Weighed reading.)

The threat this model church hears — "I will remove your lampstand from its place" (2:5) — is not a loss of salvation for individuals, but the ceasing of the church as light-bearer: the extinguishing of its witness. Telling, that precisely the most orthodox church hears this: being a lamp does not hang on the correctness of doctrine alone, but on love. (Weighed reading.) And the promise to the one who overcomes cuts in precisely the opposite direction: "To him I will give to eat from the tree of life, which is in the midst of the Paradise of God" (2:7). That reaches back to Genesis 2–3, the tree from which man was cut off after the fall, and it stretches the arc to the close of the book, where that same tree stands in the midst of the new Jerusalem, "and its leaves were for the healing of the nations" (22:2, 14). (Well documented.) To the church that let go of its first love, the restoration of the first garden is promised — finely tuned, and one olive tree: no other people that takes over its place, but man returning to where he was once sent away.

Smyrna, or: the beggar who was rich

The second letter receives not a single rebuke. Not a word. Smyrna is poor, persecuted, plundered, hounded — and the Lord says: "I know your tribulation and your poverty — but you are rich" (Revelation 2:9). There it is, in seven words, the whole reversal of the gospel: you are poor, but you are rich.

In Smyrna an old man later stood on a pyre, Polycarp, bishop of that city, and the Romans offered him his life if he would curse Christ. He was eighty-six. And he said: "Eighty-six years I have served Him, and He has never done me wrong; how could I blaspheme my King, who saved me?" And then he burned. That is Smyrna. Nothing in the hand, everything in the heart.

The mirror here cuts the other way, and it cuts deeper because there is nothing to criticize. For I do not need to compare myself with a failed church — I must compare myself with a successful one. They had nothing and called themselves rich. We have everything and call ourselves poor. We, with our heated church halls and our projectors and our three kinds of coffee after the service, complain that faith has become so hard, that the culture is against us, that we have it tough.

In Depth — Smyrna: the First and the Last, the crown of life

Smyrna, present-day İzmir, was a wealthy port city, famous for its beautiful layout — a "crown" of public buildings on Mount Pagos, in ancient sources often called the crown of Smyrna. (Weighed reading.) The city was outspokenly loyal to Rome: as early as 195 BC it built a temple for the goddess Roma, and in the year 26 it won, against eleven rivals, the right to a temple for the emperor Tiberius — a center of the imperial cult. (Well documented.) That explains the pressure on those who refused to render the emperor divine honor. The opening address comes straight from the opening vision: "These things says the First and the Last, who was dead, and came to life" (2:8). In Isaiah "the First and the Last" is a name of God Himself (Isaiah 44:6); the exalted Christ applies it to Himself. (Well documented.) To a church facing martyrdom, He appears who Himself passed through death and lives again.

Smyrna receives not a single reproach. Christ knows their tribulation, their beggarly poverty — and corrects immediately: "but you are rich" (2:9). The paradox stands diametrically opposite Laodicea, which says it is rich and is poor; the two are each other's mirror image. (Well documented.) The call is "be faithful unto death" — not faithful until you die, but faithful even into death, if need be at the cost of life. (Well documented.) The promise to the one who overcomes is twofold: "the crown of life" (2:10) — not the royal diadem but the stephanos, the victor's wreath, and specifically the wreath that is eternal life itself; and: he "shall by no means be hurt by the second death" (2:11). The second death is described further on in the book as the lake of fire, the definitive separation after the judgment (20:6, 14; 21:8). (Well documented.) The point is sharp: whoever is faithful unto the first, bodily death escapes the second, eternal death. And somewhere an eighty-six-year-old on a pyre looks at us and smiles, not mockingly, but sadly. Have I ever had anything I was unwilling to surrender? Am I doing it better than Smyrna? I scarcely dare ask the question.

Pergamum, or: the bride who went to work at court

The third letter goes to Pergamum, and the Lord names the address with a shudder: "where Satan's throne is" (Revelation 2:13). No exaggeration. Pergamum was the city of the great altar to Zeus, high on the mountain, and — worse still — the first city of Asia with a temple for the living emperor. Here you knelt not before a dead idol but before power itself, in person, with a crown on its head. And yet, says the Lord, this church held fast to My name, even when Antipas, My faithful witness, was killed. Brave. Truly brave.

But — and there is the serpent — "I have a few things against you: you have there those who hold the teaching of Balaam" (2:14). Balaam: the prophet who could not curse Israel, and then seduced it instead, with women and with idol-meat, until it destroyed itself. The teaching of Balaam is the teaching of mixture. Go along a little. Feel free to eat of the sacrificial meat. There is no need to be so sharp about those boundaries.

And this is precisely the century, the commentators say, in which the church married the throne. When the persecution ceased and the emperor himself became a Christian and the church suddenly received a seat at the table of power. A triumph, it seemed. And it was gain too — no more pyres. But something crept inside. The bride went to work at court, and a bride who goes to work at court slowly forgets that she is a bride and begins to behave like a courtier. She learned the language of power, and unlearned the language of the Lamb.

The mirror. I so badly want to be relevant. A place at the table. To be heard, to count, to have influence, for the world to take us seriously. And the question of Pergamum is: what do I give up for that? Which sharp edge do I file off so I may keep my seat at the table? How often have I called "going along a little" what was really "a little Balaam"? Am I doing it better than Pergamum? Or am I too already, without noticing it, adjusting myself to the host?

In Depth — Pergamum: the two-edged sword, the hidden manna

Pergamum was the official administrative seat of the Roman province of Asia, built on an imposing citadel hill, and the first city of Asia with a temple for the imperial cult (29 BC). (Well documented.) On the acropolis stood a gigantic altar of Zeus; lower down lay a renowned sanctuary of Asclepius, the healing god with the serpent as his symbol. Each of these — the Zeus altar, the Asclepius serpent as a counterfeit of the Savior, the bundled state cult — has been connected by commentators with "Satan's throne" (2:13); which exactly is meant admits of no firm proof. (Disputed.) The opening address is bitingly tuned: "These things says He who has the sharp two-edged sword" (2:12). Pergamum was the seat of the proconsul, who possessed the ius gladii, the right of the sword over life and death. Over against that earthly sword stands the sword from Christ's mouth — His word, which judges. (Weighed reading.)

The church held fast bravely, even when Antipas, "My faithful witness", was killed — the same title given in 1:5 to Christ Himself; the martyr shares in the title of the Martyr. (Weighed reading.) But it tolerated the "teaching of Balaam": the prophet who could not curse Israel and then seduced it into idol-sacrifices and fornication (Numbers 25). What violence could not do, compromise did from within. The promise to the one who overcomes sets against that three images, all directed against the temple compromise: "the hidden manna" — over against defiled sacrificial meat the true heavenly food, the golden jar of manna that was kept hidden (Exodus 16:33–34); "a white stone", the color that throughout the book signifies purity and victory, possibly an admission token to the wedding feast; and "a new name which no one knows except him who receives it" (2:17) — a personal, inalienable bond, as Abram became Abraham (Isaiah 62:2). (Weighed reading.) The line runs on to the city where His name stands on the foreheads of His own (22:4).

Thyatira, or: the generous church that let the sorceress stay

The fourth letter is the longest, and it goes to the smallest, most insignificant little town of the seven — as if the Lord wanted to say that He skips no provincial places. And it begins warmly, more warmly than with all the others: "I know your works, your love, your service, your faith, your perseverance — and your last works are more than your first" (Revelation 2:19). This church grows not colder but warmer. It grows in love. It serves. This is, in the timeline scheme, the long centuries-stream of the medieval church — and it has become fashionable to do nothing but rail against it, but the Lord does not do that. He sees the monasteries that cared for the sick, the cathedrals that let heaven sing in stone, the endless quiet faithfulness of nameless believers. Real love, real service, century after century.

And then, in the midst of that warmth: "But I have this against you, that you let that woman Jezebel be" (2:20). Jezebel — the queen who once had the prophets murdered and carried her own gods into the temple. The church of Thyatira did so much good, and at the same time, calmly, in a corner of the sanctuary, let the painted sorceress sit who seduced it. Not out of malice. Out of convenience. It was too much trouble to put her out. She just belonged now.

The mirror, and it is almost too recognizable. Not: what great evil do I do? But: which Jezebel do I calmly let sit because sending her away is too much trouble? Which familiar, cozy, long-naturalized lie has been given a fixed chair in my life, simply because it is too uncomfortable to stand up and say: out? Thyatira did not perish from what it did, but from what it tolerated.

In Depth — Thyatira: the eyes as fire, the morning star

Thyatira was the smallest, least notable of the seven cities — and receives the longest letter. (Well documented.) No religious or administrative center, but a commercial and craftsmen's city, famed for its guilds: wool-workers, bronze-workers and above all purple-dyers. Not by chance the only Thyatiran in the New Testament is Lydia, "a seller of purple" (Acts 16:14). Each guild had a patron god and held meals in the temple, with sacrificial meat — which made membership for Christians a matter of conscience: without the guild hardly any bread, with the guild the pressure to go along. That is the background of the Jezebel question. (Weighed reading.) The opening address is the only one of the seven where the title "the Son of God" appears: "who has eyes like a flame of fire and feet like fine brass" (2:18). The letter then quotes Psalm 2, the "You are My Son" text; title and quotation belong together. Over against an oracle-prophetess who claims "depths" stands the Son with eyes that look straight through all pretense and "searches the minds and hearts"; over against the bronze-founders stand His feet like glowing metal. (Weighed reading.)

The praise, unlike with Ephesus, places love first, and it is still growing: "your last works are more than your first" (2:19). But the church "lets the woman Jezebel be" — a symbolic name, drawn from the queen who brought in the Baal cult (1 Kings 16:31) — who justified the guild compromise theologically. The promise to the one who overcomes, with the condition "and keeps My works until the end", is twofold: "power over the nations" with the iron rod, almost word for word Psalm 2:8–9 — the believer shall reign together with Christ, "as I also have received that power from My Father"; and "the morning star" (2:28). That morning star turns out at the close to be Christ Himself: "I am the Bright Morning Star" (22:16) — the one who overcomes receives the Lord in person. (Weighed reading.) The morning star moreover echoes Numbers 24:17, "a Star out of Jacob" — spoken by Balaam, which subtly binds the letter back to Pergamum. And I? I am hospitable to all sorts of things I should long ago have shown the door. Am I doing it better than Thyatira? I fear my guest list already answers that question.