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Part 7
CHAPTER VII. THE SARDIS LETTER. And to the angel of the church in Sardis write, These things saith he that hath the seven spirits of God, and the seven stars.
I know thy works, that thou hast a name that thou livest, and thou art dead. Be thou watchful, and establish the things that remain, which were ready to die. For I have found no works of thine fulfilled before my God.
Remember, therefore, how thou hast received, and it's tear, and keep it, and repent. If, therefore, thou shalt not watch, I will come as a thief, and thou shalt not know what hour I will come upon thee. But thou hast a few names in Sardis which did not defile their garments, and they shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy.
He that overcometh shall thus be arrayed in white garments, and I will in no wise blot his name out of the book of life, and I will confess his name before my Father, and before his angels. He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith to the churches. REVELATION CHAPTER III.
There is a marked change in our Lord's method of address to the church at Sardis. Hitherto he has commenced with words of commendation. Here he commenced with words of condemnation.
In the other churches evil had not been the habit, but rather the exception, and therefore it was possible first to commend. Here the case is reversed, and no word of commendation is addressed to the church as a church. The Lord addressed the church as, He that hath the seven Spirits of God and the seven stars.
And this commendation marks those aspects of his personality which characterize his dealing with a church in such condition. He that hath the seven Spirits of God. This description indicates his fullness of power and also his fullness of wisdom.
The church, for lack of life, is full of unfulfilled works, and the Lord approaches them in all the plenitude of his power and his wisdom. He that hath the seven stars. The symbol is suggestive at once of the perfection of ministry which he places at the disposal of the churches, and also therefore of his knowledge of all such ministry as the churches have received.
His complaint is startling and terrible. I know thy works, that thou hast a name, that thou livest, and thou art dead. With what changed emphasis we read the words, I know.
The whole tone of it has been full of tenderness and comfort. Now it is a trumpet blast of terror. I know thy works.
The church at Sardis is not devoid of works. Indeed, it is so full of them as to give it a name of being alive. In all probability there was full and correct organization.
The ordinances of the church were regularly observed. They gathered upon the first day of week for worship. They contributed systematically to the necessities of the work.
In brief, it is most likely that to all outward appearances they fulfilled the description of the early church in the Acts of the Apostles, in that they continued steadfastly in the Apostles' doctrine, in the breaking of bread, and in fellowship, and in prayers. Thou hast a name that thou livest. There can be but one signification of this statement.
Nothing is lacking as to external manifestation. And yet Christ says, Thou art dead. He who seeks first for the inward life finds nothing to satisfy his heart in this church.
Scaffolding is of no value to him if the building be making no progress behind it. The whiteness of a sepulcher does not attract him if within there be nothing but dead bones. He seeks always for the inward, and only for the outward as it continues to be the expression of the inward.
The breaking of bread is nothing save as there is the spiritual feeding upon himself. The meeting for worship is valueless save as through the externals the soul passes into communion with him. Gifts are not accepted when they are the mere observation of a duty, and not the expression of the heart's adoration.
The life which expresses itself in love was absent, and so the church lacked what would be acceptable to Christ, and would satisfy for all the toil he had endured to win it for himself. Thou art dead. Flowers there may be, but of wax, poor imitations of the flowers of God which grow and bloom and shed their fragrance.
The form of manhood may be there, and the garments in which the form is draped be gorgeous, and the trappings speak of royalty, and yet the body be loathsome to Christ, for the eye lacks luster. The arm is nerveless, the heart is still. Death reigns, and corruption is already holding high carnival.
Thou hast a name that thou livest, that is to say, that there was everything in Sardis that would satisfy the outside observer. And thou art dead, that is to say, there was nothing in Sardis that could satisfy the heart of Christ. This seems difficult to comprehend, but the explanation is to be found in the further words of Christ.
I have found no works of thine fulfilled before my God. There was great promise, but no result, that is, nothing fulfilled before God. Was there no prayer? On earth there were prayers, but they did not reach the heavens.
Were there no songs? In all likelihood, the music was correct and elaborate, but no harmony was heard in the heavenly temple. Were there no gifts? In all probability gifts were bestowed with unfailing regularity, but they were not registered in the treasury of the inner sanctuary. Everything stopped short of the inner temple.
All kinds of committee meetings attended, but nothing done, nothing finished, nothing fulfilled. Resolutions and promises, and a great showing upon paper, but nothing reaching fruitage before God, nothing that satisfied the divine heart, nothing that answered the divine purpose. Outward forms, ceremonies, organization, but death reigned.
The essence of worship is that while it begins in the church, it takes hold upon heaven. If the hymn is simply a musical expression of pleasant feeling, there is no worship in it. But if upon the wings of sacred song our spirits find their way into the holy of holies, then that song is fulfilled before God.
If the prayer we utter is a compilation of sentences spoken for the fulfillment of duty, it is not prayer. But if the prayer, expressing a sense of need, finds its way above the myths and the mysteries of life, to the throne, it is fulfilled before God. If our gifts are bestowed that we may be kept square with duty, they are utterly refused in heaven.
But if they express a sacrifice and a sympathy, though they be but small according to the arithmetic of men, they are counted of great worth in the temple where gifts are valued according to the givers. In the church at Sardis there were plans, schemes, programs, but nothing fulfilled before God, no growth into the likeness of Christ, no enlargement of the church through the propagation of the Christ life, no compassion for souls, no fellowship with the sufferings of Christ. There were many things fulfilled before men.
Indeed, the church had come to the place where it lived before men rather than before God, more anxious in all probability about their reputation in Sardis than their reputation in heaven, more desirous for the good opinion of neighboring churches than for the commendation of the head of the church. Thou hast a name, everything that will satisfy the craving for reputation, and thou art dead, nothing that gladdens the heart of God. Having thus in one swift sentence revealed the church's lack, he continues in words of gracious counsel, Be thou watchful, and establish the things that remain, which were ready to die, for I have found no works of thine fulfilled before my God.
Remember, therefore, how thou hast received, and didst hear, and keep it, and repent. If, therefore, thou shalt not watch, I will come as a thief, and thou shalt not know what hour I will come upon thee. And then, O many, the next verse, He that overcometh shall thus be arrayed in white garments, and I will in no wise blot his name out of the book of life, and I will confess his name before my Father, and before his angels.
His words of counsel contain, first, advice to the church, secondly, an incentive to obedience, and a warning, and lastly, his promise to the overcomer. Establish the things that remain. If the church was dead, what things remained? The unfulfilled things.
The very forms and ceremonies which had given the church its name to live, Christ did not suggest that these people should put aside any of their externalities, but that they should fulfill them. They were not to cease assembling for worship, but they were to worship. They were still to send their help, and give their gifts, but these were to be the expressions of their devotion to the Lord, and not the price they paid for the good opinion of others.
The forms were not wrong. They needed to be filled with power. The dry bones were necessary, but they needed to be clothed with flesh, and become instinct with life.
The organization must not be neglected, but it should act in the power of vital force. There can, I think, be no other understanding of this expression, the things that remain. He cannot have reference to a faint life that need a revival, for he distinctly says, Thou art dead.
This part of the message is not for the few in Sartis, for to them he has a special word. No, it is rather that in tender grace he recognizes the outward symbol, the unfulfilled things, the very forms and ceremonies that have been earthbound, and he says, Strengthen them, establish them, fill them to the full, be no longer satisfied with externals. That is ever Christ's message to the formalist.
He does not ask that outward forms should be given up, or helpful rite abandoned. He will not suggest the setting aside of any form or ceremony that in itself is helpful. He has no criticism for these things.
He permits the music and the methods, always providing that they are expressive of the deeper fact of life. These things he hates when they become the grave clothes wrapped about death. The true idea of worship is that of man communing with God.
Through what forms that worship expresses itself is of little moment. Christ does not call the church at Sartis to abandon these, but to establish them by making them instinct with life, especially mark the significance of the words that follow, Which were ready to die. This is a solemn note of warning.
It indicates the fact that even these outward forms will cease, unless there be behind them the throb of life. They are ready to die, as all that is merely outward perishes. The very things that remain, the outward forms and ceremonies, which give the church a name to live, are ready to perish if the heart and life have passed away.
It is always but a step from formalism to rationalism, and if external things lack internal force, they themselves will crumble to decay, and presently there will remain in Sartis not even a church having a name to live. No man can live long on ritual. How often has the church had proof of this? Stretching over the hillside yonder is a forest of mighty oaks, and among them I see one necessarily attracting attention by the magnificence of its form and the splendor of its outward appearance.
It is easily the king of the forest, but presently under stress of sweeping storm that tree is bowed and broken. We approach in wonder, to discover the reason, and find that through processes we did not observe, which were secret and silent in operation, an inward decay had long been at work. The life-forces within had been weakened, and in the rush of the tempest the outward appearance was destroyed.
So also with the church. When its inward life-force has ebbed away into orthodox organizations, it is ready to die, to perish. In the sight of Christ it is dead already, though it has yet a name to live.
And when dead in his sight, it will surely soon be seen to be dead even by those among whom for the moment it has a name to live. What is true of the church is equally true of the individual. No man can become absorbed in the external to neglect of the inward and spiritual without being in danger of losing the external manifestation also.
How often have we seen it? Men leave the plain and simpler forms of worship for outward magnificence of manifestation, hoping by these things to compensate for lack of spiritual power, and the next thing we hear of them is that they have abandoned their outward relation to the church also. It is of little importance what the outward form may be, providing that the inner life is there, and that through the externalities it is finding full expression. Works unfulfilled before God must sooner or later manifest their emptiness before men.
Therefore let the things that remain, which were ready to die, be established. As an incentive to obedience, the Lord utters a solemn warning. If, therefore, thou shalt not watch, I will come as a thief, and thou shalt not know what hour I will come upon thee.
How differently the promise of his coming sounds under different circumstances of church life and church character. When sacred things lose power, precious things lose blessing. When faith is dead, hope becomes dread.
In the early first love of Christian experience, the thought of the advent of Christ is a thought of hope. When that love is lost, and death reigns, that which is the brightest star in the firmament to the trusting heart becomes a dread of darkness. The promise which produces a thrill of joy becomes a thought of terror to the men who have fallen out of harmony with the Lord and Master.
In scripture, the advent of Jesus is constantly described under two aspects. The last prophecy uttered before his first advent has the same recognition of dual significance. For, behold, the day cometh, it burneth as a furnace, and all the proud, and all that work wickedness, shall be stubble.
And the day that cometh shall burn them up, saith the Lord of hosts, and it shall leave them neither root nor branch. What a terrible announcement! But yet listen again, for the prophet proceeds without break. But unto you that fear my name shall the Son of Righteousness arise with healing in his wings, and ye shall go forth and gamble as calves of the stall.
What a contrast! On the one side a day of burning and destruction, on the other the sun rising with healing in its light. Are these two different advents? No, the difference is created by the condition of the people at the dawning of the day. To those who work wickedness the day will be one of burning and destructive heat.
To those who fear his name the day will be of healing, the dawning of the morning, the breaking of light. The sun has two effects. It will burn up the parched ground until it becomes like a cinder.
A plant in such ground, devoid of water, will be killed by the heat. But if a tree be planted by the rivers of water, and its roots go down and take hold of the springs of life, the sun will be the messenger of health and growth and advancement. So also with regard to the second advent.
The Church's attitude toward the doctrine is always a revelation of the Church's spiritual condition, and the attitude of the individual soul toward the thought of the Lord's return is always a revelation of that soul's condition before God. If I have a name to live while I am dead, then his announcement, I will come, is a thought of tear. But if I have life and love and loyalty, the promise of his coming is the promise of daybreak.
In referring to the second advent, the apostle of love wrote, And now, my little children, abide in him, that, if he should be manifested, we may have boldness and not be ashamed before him at his coming. Two attitudes toward his coming are here revealed. Boldness.
Ashamed before him. The difference is created by the condition of those who wait for him. If abiding in him, then at his coming we shall have boldness.
If not abiding in him, we shall be ashamed before him. This is a very searching test of our personal condition. If, when we hear the coming of Jesus spoken of, it is as the voice of music in the soul, then we are fulfilling our works before God.
If, on the other hand, the mention of the possibility of his approach creates the desire to postpone that coming, it is because our relation to him is formal rather than living. The soul that lives in Christ, and works with him amid the defilement of a decadent age, never hears his message, Behold, I come quickly, without answering, even so come, Lord Jesus. This announcement of his coming gives force to the word, Remember, therefore, how thou hast received, and didst hear, and keep it, and repent.
If the church hear his warning, and repent, and watch, and establish the things remaining, the promise of his coming will have in it no terror, but be a veritable gospel of hope. But if the church abide in the realm of formalism, having a name, but lacking life, then the declaration that he will come can produce nothing but fear. To the overcomer the Master says, He that overcometh shall thus be arrayed in white garments, and I will in no wise blot his name out of the book of life, and I will confess his name before my Father, and before his angels.
The man that overcomes is the one who remembers and repents. To such he promises the final robing, he shall thus be arrayed in white garments, and a recognition in the final roll call, I will in no wise blot his name out of the book of life, and I will confess his name before my Father, and before his angels. The robing in white garments is symbolic not of the purity of Christ, but of the manifestation of the works of the saints, works purified by Christ, and revealed in the light of the Father's house.
And the names of such Christ will confess in the presence of his Father and of the holy angels. Then there is also that tender word of commendation, almost a parenthesis, not spoken to the whole church as describing it, but of a remnant that have not passed under the condemnation. But thou hast a few names in Sardis which did not defile their garments, and they shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy.
In the midst of the formalism of the many, there were a few who lived and fulfilled their works before God, who did not defile their garments, and to these the Master says, They shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy. In Scripture the robing of the saint is ever an expression of the saint's own service and character. In the description of the white-robed multitude in Revelation, it is said that their white robes are the righteousness of the saints, not the righteousness of God, but the righteousness of the saints.
That is to say, that fidelity of character and of service shall presently have its outward manifestation. Is not some very beautiful light thrown upon the thought by the fact of the transfiguration of Jesus? On the holy mount his raiment became white and glistening, and the glory which the wandering disciples beheld was that of the outshining of his own perfection, which made even the homely garment that he wore flash with the splendor of heaven's own whiteness. Those who on earth did not defile their garments shall finally walk with him in white.
They shall come to the time when there shall be manifested in outward glory their inward loyalty to Christ. The chief thought of the church in Sardis has been that of popularity, of having a name. A few have been supremely anxious to be approved of him, and concerning them he says, one day they shall be manifested in the glory of their own fidelity.
That which is visible now to the eye of Christ shall finally be seen to be beautiful by others. There is an awful possibility threatening the life of all of our churches, and the church at Sardis is an example of warning concerning it. It is a possibility, so subtle and insidious, that almost before knowing the church may have drifted into the peril.
It is that of a dead orthodoxy, a dead correctness. There may be flourishing finances, large numbers attending the services, varied and ever-increasing organizations, correct expositions of truth, and yet the church may be dead. It may have a name to live.
It may be such as will always be spoken of as a living church. Surrounding churches may flatter it, and it may even be deceived itself. And yet Christ may find in it no element of value.
Such a statement as that, such a solemn and awful statement, should lead us to ask in all seriousness, what are the true signs of life in the churches of Jesus Christ? If the presence of life may not be judged by these things, how may we know whether the church is living or dead? The evidences of life are at least fourfold. In a living church there will be growth, compassion, union, and emotion. There will be growth.
The principle of life makes stagnation impossible. Growth in the individual character of the members, and growth in the membership of the church, not merely by accretion from without, but by expansion from within. That church is in a sorrowful condition that has added nothing to its membership through the propagative life forces of its own communion.
The membership that only grows by the accident of removals and letters of introduction is in a terrible condition. If none are born again directly through the working of the church, we may almost certainly say that the church is dead. I say that in all seriousness, and without apology.
I would be afraid to remain as pastor or member of a church if for any length of time there were none added to its fellowship upon confession of faith. In this matter, the minister cannot be held wholly responsible. He may travail in birth for souls, but unless the church is in cooperative and living sympathy with him, there will be no result.
But where the whole communion is serving in the power of a great life, then through the Sabbath school, through the varied agencies, through the living influence of individual members, the life will be propagated, and men and women will be gathered into the fellowship upon confession of faith. Whatever else may be true concerning the church, if there be no additions by new birth, the church is dead, though it have a name to live. Life is always propagative, and that is nowhere so actually and forcibly true as in the realm of Christianity.
Another sign of life is that of compassion. The true consciousness of the church is the consciousness of the Christ, and the consciousness of the Christ is that of love. That church which has no heart of compassion for the lost is dead.
The suburban church that attempts to buy off its own personal responsibility by making donations to send men down to work in slums, which it does not care itself to touch, is dead. Such responsibility can never be delegated. A church into which only one class or caste of persons gathers for purely selfish preservation is a libel upon the very name of Christ.
Every church should be an asylum for the lost, a refuge for the broken-hearted, a home of welcome for the harlot and the publican. In God's name let us take down the signs that label us churches of Christ if we have no compassion for such, and we have no compassion if it be not strong enough to overcome sentimental prejudices which result from the mere accident of birth. A girl of good family and excellent opportunities, of much culture and refinement, once said to me when I asked her to visit in a neighborhood characterized by suffering and sin, I really could not do it.
I am so sensitive. It makes me ill. God have mercy on such idle pretense.
Can any be more sensitive than Jesus the Savior? Can any refinement be superior to that of the perfect one of Nazareth? I blush with shame at a sensitiveness which proves an absence of compassion. It is only as we find our pride and prejudices whelmed in the strong sweep of His great love that we shall ever be prepared to touch the depraved. We are dead indeed if we lack compassion.
If the love of Christ is shed abroad in the heart, and the church is swept by that love, there is utter forgetfulness of all things that are objectionable. Refinement that refuses to relieve is nothing more than cultured paganism. If there be love, there will also be union.
Disintegration is a sign of death. If the church be filled with sections and parties, and there be strifes and schism, it is because of the lack of the life element. The prevalence of caste, and the existence of division within the borders of the church, is a sure proof of its lack of life.
In the full tide of divine love, there is a constant consciousness of the unity of the Spirit. And yet again, where there is life, there is emotion. Sometimes it seems as though the day has come when the highest type of life is supposed to be that which is most free from the possibility of emotion, and yet how false is the idea.
When I am alive, and because I am alive, I weep, I sing, I laugh, I mourn. It is the dead that have no tears, no laughter, no music, no mourning. I have no patience with the man who boasts that his religion lacks emotion.
The church without tears and laughter Christ has little use for. I put these things together, for they are together. You cannot have tears without laughter.
You never found a man capable of humor that was not also capable of sorrow. And no church that lacks joy has compassion. The church that lives thrills with emotion, is full of laughter, and full of tears, perpetually breaks into song, and is silent again in the silence of pain.
The experience of the individual members is realized within the great union. If these things be lacking in the church, it is dead indeed. The signs of life are growth, compassion, union, and emotion.
These being absent, there may be very many other things that give the church a name to live among men. But Christ, walking amid the lampstands, counts as nothing worth the externalities, and hungers for the growth, the compassion, the union, and the emotion that prove the life. End of chapter 7