Not too many days ago, I received news of admission status from a graduate program I had applied to: an irritatingly overly-embellished billet doux saying I had been denied admission. The grounds? Nothing specific, but there was something about the admissions committee’s concern about making sure that applicants’ research interests match with faculty’s; and the Department being able to support (also financially) these interests. Apparently, the committee didn’t think me fit for the program. I remember how disappointed I was, for (despite the fact that all things work together for good for us) we know how shattering these experiences can be, especially if we have invested so much effort.
A few days after that, I was reading a chapter of CS Lewis’ Mere Christianity and I met with a phrase about “admission to His [God’s] eternal world”. His subject was different from mine here, but it activated an unlikely connection, lending a new lens with which to read Rev. 3: 1, 2. For a moment I imagined myself as the Church of Sardis, and that I had applied for admission into heaven. I had tried to meticulously meet what I felt were the requirements for admission, even secured brilliant recommendation letters from eminent people, for did I not have such an excellent reputation? Days later, I receive a letter from heaven. My application has been reviewed by heaven’s admissions committee; I’m bubbling with palpable excitement. I do a quick mental scan of my qualifications again. Ah, I think, how mesmerized the committee would have been by the quality of my recommendation letters, not to say anything, even, about my own stellar works!
But the letter’s devastating content make me shudder and wonder if, perhaps, some parts of my application were missing or glossed over by the committee. I read and reread, but the stark verdict does not change:
“I know your works; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead… I have not found your deeds complete in the sight of my God.”
The NLT renders the last part even more poignantly:
“I find that your actions do not meet the requirements of my God.”
Brothers and sisters, let us without hesitation univocally agree that Jesus’ verdict to the Church of Sardis is a fearful one, and that very few verses (with Matt. 7:23 and Matt. 25:41 as possible exceptions) match it in severity. If we wish to dissent about this point, let it be because we feel the qualifier “fearful” distressingly inadequate.
THE SPEAKER
Those who are bent on constantly seeing Jesus as meek and mild, and as a doting friend forever willing to tolerate all our excesses and excuses, would find his tone in Rev. 3 cripplingly disappointing. His verdict here doesn’t fit the saccharine character we are sometimes prone to create of him. Indeed, the Scriptures give no suggestion about Jesus as pamperer of people with lies or soft truths. He is the one who calls the Pharisees and teachers of the law “snakes and brood of vipers” (Matt. 12:34; 23:33) and warns people to repent or perish (Luke 13:5). He tells Peter, his friend (Jn. 15:15), “Get thee behind me, Satan” (Matt. 16:23). In fact, many theologians agree that no man ever spoke about hell more/ clearer than Jesus. And this is not inconsistent with his nature of love. For love, Biblical love, has never meant being sweet and nice, as some emphasize that Christians ought to be. As Paul reminds us, “love does not delight in iniquity but rejoices with the truth” (1 Cor. 13:6).
But let us bring our attention back to this fiery post-ascension sermon. The resurrected Lord Jesus brings two charges against the Church of Sardis: first about their false reputation (namely, that although everyone thought they were alive, they were, in fact, dead); and secondly (ensuing from the first charge), that their actions, when weighed on the scale of God, did not meet His requirements.
“I know your works; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead… I have not found your deeds complete in the sight of my God.”
I am quite aware that I’m flogging a dead horse—and gladly (perhaps, also justifiably) so—in my focus on the (character of the) verdict-deliverer. What I want us to see, first of all, is that these charges, in themselves, do not carry much weight. Many times, who is saying what is more important than what is being said. I started this text, for example, with my being denied admission to a graduate program. Now, assuming that upon more careful consideration I found out that the denial letter was issued by a certain water company 3 kilometres from my house, I would definitely be surprised, maybe confused, and would, of course, ask myself several questions. But what I would not do (at least until I have made direct contact with officials of the graduate program) is to accept the content of the letter as authoritative.
If we apply this logic to the case of the Church of Sardis, it becomes quite obvious that there would be a great difference in the quality of the verdict, assuming it were given by, say, an unbeliever. We could logically reason (even if we were wrong), for example, that this unbeliever might have taken umbrage at the Church of Sardis, perhaps because of the church’s incessant radical evangelism or proclivity to make noise during Friday all-night prayer meetings. The verdict, thus, we could argue, would have been delivered out of sheer spite. Likewise, if the verdict had come from a former associate pastor of the Church of Sardis, who had broken away to form his own church elsewhere, we might with some degree of justification interpret it as a poaching attempt.
The point is that the character (and power/ authority) of the person delivering a verdict, along with his/ her relationship with the one to whom s/he delivers the verdict, affect the credibility of the verdict. The Jews judged Stephen as deserving death but when Stephen looked up, he “saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God” (Acts 7:55). Why do Christians insist on the sinlessness and perfection of Jesus, although the Pharisees and chief priests called him “deceiver” (Matt. 27:63), accused him of being demon-possessed (John 7:20) and casting out evil spirits by the prince of demons (Matt. 9:34)? Does not the Scripture say that at the mouth of two of three witnesses a matter is established (Deut. 19:15)? And yet, Christians choose to overlook all these pieces of evidence, preferring to side, instead, with the assessment of people like John, in his claim that “We know that he came to take away sin, and that in him is no sin” (1 John 3:5). We definitely judge that more credible than those of the Pharisees and chief priests.
The verdict to the Church of Sardis ought to be taken seriously, therefore, because the character of the verdict-giver, along with his relationship to the church, nullify any grounds for arguing that the verdict was delivered out of spite, rivalry, hatred, or ignorance. It is, instead, from no other person than the church’s very head, the Christ. You may look at it as the assessment of an elder brother/ sister to his/ her younger siblings, or of the CEO of a company to his/ her employees. But even these are woefully weak analogies. For one thing, even in such relationships, there can be rivalry. A CEO may consider an extraordinarily gifted worker a threat, just as a Joseph might find himself hated by his big brothers.
HIS QUALIFICATION: “I KNOW [ALL] YOUR WORKS”
Human verdicts are never perfect. They can be outright distorted—especially because we like to suppress the truth (Rom. 1:18)—, understated, or exaggerated. This is in part because we are not omniscient, hence our judgements are based only on the knowledge at our disposal. Our courts are, therefore, rightly called “Courts of Law” rather than “Courts of Justice” because evidence and eloquence, not truth, win.
It is interesting that of all the accolades and titles at his disposal—from “head of the church” (Eph. 5:23) to “firstborn from the dead” (Col. 1:18) to “Alpha and Omega” (Rev. 22:13), among others—Christ chooses to introduce himself as the one who knows all the works of the Church of Sardis. This is an audacious claim. If anyone claims to know all of another person’s works, we would regard them either as naïve, a joke, or a liar. And if they insisted that they were making their claim in earnest, we would simply dismiss them as stupid. But there is another possibility: we could ask such persons for proof of their claim. We would, perhaps, dare them to tell us some secret in our lives that we have never shared with anyone. But even if they managed to tell us this secret through whatever means, it would not necessarily mean that they knew all our works.
However, if it turned out that this person really did know all our works, as is the case of Christ, then we couldn’t simply ignore such a person. In addressing the Church of Sardis, he chooses to remind them about his omniscience. Of course, this fact should be obvious but he is going to deliver a verdict. And he has decided to (re)establish his credibility. He needs to make it clear that he’s not delivering a verdict informed by rumours, opinions, feelings, or by only a partial observation of the actions of the church. He is judge (Jn. 5:22; Acts 17:30,31) and he knows that knowledge is of utmost significance for any sound judgement. We cannot accuse him of bias in whom the father has safely committed all judgement.