Bible Commentaries

Letter to Ephesus

Revelation 2:1-7

I.

The Head of the Church has a minute knowledge of all the services of his people. First. There is distinguished labour. "I know thy works, and thy labour." The church at Ephesus had been a working church. It had been operating on the surrounding regions of depravity, darkness, and death. In its early life it was eminently an aggressive church. For my own part, I would have Christ's Church as ambitious as Alexander. As he waved his battle-flag over a conquered world, so would I that the Church might unfurl the banner of a nobler conquest over every nation, and kindred, and people, and tongue.

Second. There is distinguished patience. The "patience" is twice referred to. This patience may be understood as indicating longsuffering in relation to those by whom the saints in Ephesus were surrounded—long-suffering, both in waiting for the germination of the seed which they had sown in many tears, and in the meek endurance of fiery trials. God specially marked this excellence. This meekness of love was known to the Head of the Church; and this suffering in silence was as acceptable as a chorus of praise. The point to be noted here Revelation 2:8-10

I.

Christ reveals himself to his people according to their moral condition. In support of this assertion it is only necessary to read the superscriptions of the letters "unto the seven churches which are in Asia." By the title or representation which the Son of man assumes, we may anticipate the revelation in which he is about to appear. His very names are vital with moral significance, as the very hem of his garment is impregnated with remedial power. A casual examination of the superscriptions will illustrate the point. Take for example:— First. "To the angel of the church in Pergamos write; These things saith he which hath the sharp sword with two edges." Given such a superscription to find the moral purpose of the epistle which it introduces, what may we expect from a Divine speaker who bears "the sharp sword with two edges"? Can you expect him to utter words of gentle sympathy and consolation? Would such words be in congruity with the attitude and weapon of battle? From such a superscription may we not naturally infer a purpose to smite, to avenge, to "break in pieces the oppressor"? You find that such an inference is justified by the exclamation of the offended Judges ,—"Repent; or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will fight against them with the sword of my mouth."

Second. "Unto the angel of the church in Thyatira write; These things saith the Son of God, who hath his eyes like unto a flame of fire, and his feet are like fine brass." Can there be any hesitation in foretelling the moral intent of such a superscription? When the Son of God enters a church with "eyes like unto a flame of fire," that church may expect examination, scrutiny, trial, penetration that cannot be resisted. A glance at the epistle will show that the aspect and the purpose are in perfect harmony:—"I am he which searcheth the reins and hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works."

Third. "To the angel of the church in Philadelphia write; These things saith he that is holy, he that is true, he that hath the key of David, he that openeth and no man shutteth, and shutteth and no man openeth." Is such a superscription at all enigmatical? He who lays his hand upon the doors of the universe, and bears upon his shoulder the key of David, is surely about to commission his saints to arise and grasp some opportunity that is fraught with eternal blessing, to enter upon a course of service which will involve and sanctify the highest interests of humanity. Is such an anticipation warranted by the genius of the letter? Let the letter answer:—"Behold, I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it."

Fourth. "Unto the angel of the church in Smyrna write: These things saith the first and the last, which was dead, and is alive. The introduction prepares the way for a gush of tenderness; such a reference to the most pathetic facts of his earthly history must anticipate a stream of infinite pity and tenderness, and that such anticipation is realised will be seen as we proceed. The Church in Smyrna was a suffering Church. It sat in the dust, and its lamentations were turned into mockery by a malicious and triumphant foe. Its history was one of toil and tribulation, and the prophetic throbs of the coming time foretold suffering, imprisonment, and death. The Church assumed a mourner's attitude and gathered sackcloth round its trembling frame; and to such a Church how could the Saviour come, but in the tenderest aspect of his holy and blessed nature?

Enough, then, may be seen from these four examples to, support the assertion that Christ reveals himself to his people according to their moral condition; and when I say to his people, I mean to the saint alike in his individuality and in his confraternal relationship. In this, I am persuaded, we have an explanation of the varying experience of the Christian, and of the diversified and changeful mission of the Church. To one man, or to one Church, Christ presents himself bearing "the sharp sword with two edges"; to another, with eyes blazing with penetrating light; to another, as holding the key of opportunity; and to another, as grasping infinitude, and girt with the memorials of death and the pledges of ascension. It is possible to have all these, and many more, visions of the selfsame Saviour. Our apprehensions of his identity are regulated by our moral conditions, so that every man has only to declare what aspect of Christ he beholds, in order to declare the attitude and tone of his own soul. With this before us as a general principle, it will not be difficult to show how such a superscription would animate and sustain the Church in Smyrna. The reasonings of that Church might easily fall into some such form as this:—

First. As our Saviour is the First and the Last, all things must be under his dominion.

"The First"—Who can reveal the mystery of these words, or number the ages we must re-traverse, ere we can behold the first gleam on that horizon which encircles God as an aureole of un-waning light! The expression takes us back over immeasurable gulfs in which the centuries have sunk; we wing our way beyond the dust of every empire; pass every orb which burns in mysterious silence in the domes of creation; penetrate far beyond the sound of the song of the oldest seraphim; we enter the solemn pavilion of the unpeopled infinitude; no voices sing, no footfall resounds, no heart throbs; we stand trembling at our own temerity in the palace of the solitary God,—in a silence so terrible that it speaks; we are there, before the "Be" of infinite power has hurled the orbs through the silent voids; all this, and infinitely more, we must realise in order to attain the dimmest apprehension of the mystery of being the First

"The Last." Another mystery! This expression bears us onward until the surging sea of life is for ever hushed, until the divine government has answered all the purpose of Infinite Wisdom. Over what cemeteries we must pass, I know not; we must advance until the Creator exclaim from his throne, as the Redeemer cried from the Cross, "It is finished!" Thus far must we go, or remain for ever in ignorance of the secret which vitalises the declaration, "I am the Last." Now see how the eyes of the suffering ones brighten! Their reasonings are set to music. "As our Saviour," say they, "is the first and the last, all things must be comprehended in his dominion." If we look back, beyond the birth of time, or the worship of angels, or the fabrication of worlds, behold, he stands in solitary sovereignty—divine, yet human—a God in the silence of his own unity, yet a slain Lamb receiving in anticipation the adoration of a grateful universe: and if we look forward, we behold him in the far-off horizon, King of kings, and Lord of lords, crowned with unnumbered crowns, human as when on earth, yet divine as in the unbeginning eternity.

Second. As our Saviour was dead and is alive again, so we, who are now enduring the fellowship of his sufferings, shall know the power of his resurrection. The process is—suffering, death, resurrection: all who follow Christ pass this discipline. The story of the resurrection is far from having been fully told. The angel sitting at the head of the grave could tell us much more, could we but command the courage to listen to the radiant messenger. "I was dead." The counsels of eternity are epitomised in this declaration. The problem over which the ages bent in perplexity—at which they looked again and again in the wonder of a great agony, and which they bequeathed to posterity with a hope that was broadly streaked with the blackness of despair— is, in reality, solved by this fact. All the love which glows in the infinite heart is expressed in words so simple,—"I was dead"—"Alive again." Let me inquire around what centre the Church assembles. Do you hasten to reply, The Cross? I answer, Not there only. The Cross first, but afterwards the grave! "If Christ be not risen from the dead, then is our preaching vain, and your faith is also vain." In the centre of the Church is an empty tomb, and to a doubting world the Church can ever answer, "Come, see the place where the Lord lay." And, "seeing" it, what then? Why, from the sacred rock a living stream breaks, and as the countless multitudes drink, they exclaim, "These are the waters of immortality."

Need more be said to establish the congruity between the method of revelation and the moral condition of the Church in Smyrna? Could suffering have been approached with greater tenderness? Never was Grief asked to look through her weary and swollen eyes at an image so beautiful and inspiring as this; and all the saints of God who are called to the discipline of pain may gaze on the same aspect. When thou art in sadness, O child of God, go, see the place where the Lord lay; when all thy aspirations darken into clouds, and hang heavily around thee, go, see the place where the Lord lay; when thy questionings, and wonderings, and yearnings beat back upon the soul whence they issued, finding no rest on earth, no entrance into heaven, go, see the place where the Lord lay; and as thou art gazing in thickening perplexity on the forsaken rock, a voice, tremulous with music which cannot be described, shall, by the sympathetic pronunciation of thy name, recall thy fondest memories, and unseal the fountains of unutterable love.

II.

Christ assures his people that he is intimately acquainted with every feature of their history. "I know thy works, and tribulation, and poverty." You can conceive the thrilling joy with which these words would be heard by the suffering saints of Smyrna. It is something to know that every wound, every pang, every sorrow we endure for Christ is perfectly known to him, who carried our sorrows and bare our sicknesses. How deep soever the secrecy in which your tears are showered, the eye of Jesus is full upon you in every crisis of woe; and when, in the bitterness of imagined solitude, you exclaim, "Oh, that I knew where I might find him!" He reveals himself through the darkness of your grief, and says, with his own infinite gentleness, "I know, I know." Is not that enough? The "I know" of love is the smile of God. There is a child, let us suppose, who is called to suffer much on behalf of his father; that father is in a position which enables him to observe every action of the sufferer, without the sufferer himself being immediately aware of the paternal supervision. The watcher marks how bravely his boy conducts the defence; how he resists every blow, and hurls back every bolt, having first made it hot by his eager grasp, on the head of his enemy; sees the quiver of his lip, and the gleam of his eye, and all the passion of his insulted love; and as the suffering child looks around in his weakness, and pants for greater power, the strong and all but adoring father clasps him to a grateful breast, and interrupts the hurried utterance of the weary one by saying, "I know, I know." And it was well he did know, for among the many things which must be seen to be appreciated, filial heroism occupies no obscure place. You may tell that the lip quivered,—but to have seen it! You cannot describe the flush of passion in words worthy of its warmth: your own eye must be upon it, and you must immediately receive the mystery into your own wondering and thankful heart. Men make but poor work of painting a sunset; and a thunderstorm is never so degraded as when it is talked about. Thank God! Jesus sees our sufferings, is present in the cloud of our sorrow, needs not to be told what the soul has undergone, but breaks in upon the gathering darkness with words which bring with them the brightness and hope of morning, "I know, I know."

The fact that Jesus knows all that we suffer for him should serve three purposes:—(1) It should embolden us to seek his help. He is within whisper-reach of all his saints. All the desires of the heart may be expressed in one entreating sigh—one appealing glance. The soul's necessities may be too urgent to set forth in words. We have seen a little child lift its tiny finger and point to an object which it desired to possess, and that outstretched finger has been prayer enough to avail with the loving mother. Ay, and there have been hours in the experience of every saint in which he could but point, or yearn, or glance, or groan, without uttering a word; and in such hours the heavens have often dropped upon him the most golden blessings. Seek the help of the all-knowing Saviour; he stands by thy side, only shrouded lest his glory might quench the flickering of thy frail life. (2) It should inspire us with invincible courage. As the presence of a valorous leader stimulates an army, so should the assured guardianship of the Son of God inspire every soldier of the Cross. The shadow of Christ falls upon us, and that shadow is stronger than a thousand shields. "Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world," is an assurance which strengthens our faith that "if we suffer, we shall also reign with him." Does your courage fail? I point you to the Son of God, whose eye is evermore gleaming upon you. He knows your frame; he remembereth that you are but dust; he giveth power to the faint, and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. You fail, but he never! "He fainteth not, neither is weary." I say, then, that his presence amongst us, and his consequent knowledge of all the circumstances which constitute our history, associated as that presence is with "exceeding great and precious promises," should inspire the saint and the Church with invincible and immortal courage. (3) It should clothe us with profoundest humility. That we can do anything for Jesus is a fact which should extinguish all fleshly pride. The true honour is that which most abases the carnal man. That Jesus should permit his Church to receive a single blow, which was intended for his own heart, is a circumstance which should not only awaken the most rapturous joy, but overwhelm us with the profoundest sense of our unworthiness to sustain so transcendent a dignity. He might have deprived the Church of this luxury of suffering in his stead; but it hath pleased him, in the infinite fulness of his love, to permit us to be wounded for the sake of his name. The apostles appreciated their high calling in this matter of doing and suffering: when their cheek was smitten, and their honour insulted, and their name cast out as an abomination, their hearts were filled with ecstatic joy—"they departed from the presence of the council, rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer for his name." Humility and joy there held sweet fellowship. The voice of God and the history of believers upon this question concur in a loud and penetrating call upon all ages of the Church: "Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you." "We glory in tribulation,... knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience experience; and experience hope: and hope maketh not ashamed." "I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong." Such is the sweet assurance of Christ, and such the resulting experience of suffering saints. Are you a sufferer? To thee Jesus says, "I know." Is not that enough? The tear, indeed, falls downward, but the sound of its falling flieth upward to the ear of God.

III.

Christ reveals to his suffering saints the fact of their imperishable wealth. Turn your attention to the ninth verse, and determine which is its brightest gem. The verse is this:—"I know thy works, and tribulation, and poverty, (but thou art rich) and I know the blasphemy of them which say they are Jews, and are not, but are the synagogue of Satan." Can there be any doubt as to the most golden expression in such a verse? Look at the parenthesis, and you have it! Such a parenthesis could have been dictated only by the Son of God. How like the effusion of the Infinite mind! A volume in a sentence—noontide in a glance—eternal harmonies in a breath—heaven in a parenthesis! Often, in hours of trouble, I have looked at this sentence and its surroundings. It flashes upon one so unexpectedly. It is a garden in a wilderness, a song of hope mingling with the night-winds of despair. Slowly we pass over the dismal words, "Thy works, and tribulation, and poverty," and with startling suddenness we overpass the separating parenthesis, and then—then! Outside of it we have cold, shivering, desolate "poverty"; and inside "an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away"! Think of it! The very typography is suggestive; only a parenthesis between "poverty" and "rich"! And is it not so even in reality? What is there between thee, O suffering saint, and joys immortal? What between thee and heaven? What between thee and thy soul's Saviour? Only a parenthesis—the poor, frail, perishing parenthesis of thy dying body. No more. There is but a step between poverty and wealth. The history of transition is condensed into one sentence, "Absent from the body, present with the Lord." Let the parenthesis fall, and you will see him as he is. Sometimes, indeed, it becomes, as it were, transparent, and the saint has seen the coming wonders, while as yet they were unrealised. Hear the words of a dying martyr,—"Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of man standing on the right hand of God." Hear the words of another, who was bound to the altar,—"I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judges , shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing."

When, therefore, we estimate the wealth of a good man, we must remember that there is a moral as well as a material, an invisible as well as a visible, property. The good man is an heir, and his heirship relates to possessions which no human power of calculation can compute. In the days of our inexperience, we imagined that one word could be amply explained by another; we deemed that all interpretations of language could be discovered through the aid of the lexicographer. We have lived to see the vanity of such imagining. Some words alter their meaning according to the character of the speaker who employs them. Character is the lexicon which gives the true meaning of moral terms. A word often alters its meaning according to the position of the circle in which it is employed. Take, for example, this word in the parenthesis,—the word "rich." Of this word almost every man has a definition of his own. You may have had occasion to visit a poor man, and, as you have encouraged him to talk, he has told you that if he had from twenty to thirty shillings per week he would account himself "rich." But go to the lord whose land the poor man cultivates, and see whether the poor man's definition of "rich"will be accepted by the baron. And so, the higher the circle into which you penetrate, the more will significations vary. Pass, then, into the highest circles of all, where the Lord Jesus sits enthroned amid his own unsearchable riches, and ask him what is the meaning of the word "rich." O Son of God, in whom dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead, by whom were all things created that are in heaven and that are in earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers, reveal to us the meaning of thine own language; make this word, as it were, a rent through which we may catch a glimpse of our bright reversion in the skies, and give to us the exceeding comfort of an imperishable hope! Happy the Church into whose history this parenthesis is interjected by the Son of God. If you as a Church ask me how you may ascertain whether you are "rich," I should answer, (1) Is your faith strong? (2) Are your labours abundant? (3) Are your spiritual children numerous? Every holy, faithful, laborious, humble, trustful Church may claim this divine parenthesis; and how much soever the tempests may howl around it—there may be poverty on the one side and persecution on the other—the time shall come when this parenthesis alone will express your glorious and blissful destiny. But mark, you cannot enter, so to speak, the parenthesis without going through the exterior discipline. This parenthesis sums up the results of many a battle, intermingles the grace of God, and the work of Jesus, and the response of man; it marks the ultimate evolution of a history in which the light of heaven and the darkness of earth have played mysterious parts; it is the dawning of eternal day upon those who have served the Saviour through the weary watches of the tempestuous night.

IV.

Christ comforts his suffering ones by disarming their fears. "Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer: behold, the devil shall cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried, and ye shall have tribulation ten days." I cannot arbitrate between contending critics as to the precise signification of the expression "ten days." It may, indeed, be that the word "day" is to be regarded as equivalent to the word year, and that the "ten days" refer to the ten years of sore persecution which befell the Asiatic Churches during the reign of the tiger-hearted Diocletian. This may be the case, but I care not to fabricate a strong plea in its favour. It is enough for me to secure a firm footing on the general principle which underlies the prediction. That general principle is, that there is a limit to the suffering of the Church. Persecution is an affair of "ten days." Diocletian is the tyrant of a vanishing hour. To-day he raves in madness, tomorrow his last yell has for ever expired. "Our light affliction, which is but for a moment." The Apostle triumphantly contrasts the brevity of suffering with the duration of glory. Hear him! the words seem to quail under the weight of thought with which they are charged; brighter and brighter flames the vision as the Apostle towers to the summit of his climax. "Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." The "ten days" of oppression vanish in the infinite perspective; the fires of martyrdom pale before the effulgence of a sun which burns with eternal lustre; the sigh of suffering is lost in the pealing harmonies of unceasing song. In prospect of suffering, Christ says to his people, "Fear not." But why this counsel? Does it not stiffen the heart as a word of chilling mockery? O Son of God, why tell the people not "to fear"? It is because he knows the full interpretation of suffering. Suffering is education. Grief is discipline. Let me remind you that the suffering referred to is external. The house is smitten, but the tenant is infinitely beyond the sphere of flood, or flame, or steel. Let me further remind you that those sufferings have been overcome. Suffering is a vanquished power. "I have overcome the world." We have fellowship in our suffering, a fellowship that is mastery. Are you in Gethsemane? Do the winds howl drearily around you? Is it a sevenfold darkness that shuts out the light of the stars? Ah me! I know full well the meaning of your great suffering; the iron hath been crushed through my own swelling heart, and I can therefore sympathise with the children of grief. You say you hear the approach of the ruffianly band, and that the flare of the traitor's torch falls upon your drenched cheek. True. Yet, courage! Snatch that torch from his grasp, hold it to the ground—close! What see ye? A footprint? Ay! Any inscription? Ay! Read it—dash off the new-starting tear, and read! Speak aloud! Refrain not! "Be of good cheer; I have overcome." Why, it is the footprint of Christ! He has been standing just where you are! You have not gone farther down the troubled valley than your Master; you cannot get beyond the sphere of Christ; your suffering cannot lay claim to originality; every pang has been anticipated; your streams of grief mingle with his rivers of sorrow. We "know the fellowship of his sufferings." Every woe bears the inscription, "Overcome."

We can identify this "Fear not" as the solemn word of Christ. It is a form of expression peculiarly his own. It bears his image and superscription. We often heard him employ it when he walked amongst us in the form of a man. When we were tossed on the troubled sea, he came near and said, "Fear not; it is I." When we were few in number, and the objects of a haughty scorn, he gently said to us, "Fear not, little flock, it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." When he told us that bonds and imprisonments awaited us in every city, he added, "Fear not them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do." We were well accustomed to his "Fear not"; and now that he has ascended to the throne, and once more addresses us in this familiar tone, we exclaim with reviving courage, It is the voice of the Conqueror—the cry of the King!

V.

Christ soothes and nerves his suffering saints by the promise of infinite compensation. "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life." The word compensation is to be accepted in this connection with the fullest recognition of those limitations which the regenerate mind will instantly suggest. The help which analogy can afford in the understanding of Christ's promise is but partial—necessarily and most happily partial—yet it may shed a trembling ray on the central question before us. The saints are not for ever to lie under the cruel imputation of unworthiness. As in the case of a man who has been wantonly defamed and injured, is it enough that his peers pronounce him merely "Not guilty"? Is no account to be take of the wrongs he has endured? Are his wounds to be unmollified, except by the healing power of tardy time? In the name of humanity, No! "Not guilty" is to be translated into "innocent"; justification is to be succeeded by compensation; well-attested faithfulness is to be adorned with a crown. It is so, only in an infinitely higher degree, in the spiritual life. Jesus Christ will not only deliver his saints from the sphere of suffering; he will introduce them into the sphere of eternal rest and joy. There is "a recompense of reward." The languid eye of the suffering saint is turned to no merely negative heaven; it kindles into eloquent brightness as it gazes upon the "inheritance incorruptible," and the crown radiant with immortal glory. Every pang is to become a pleasure, every scar an abiding memorial of honour. We have to do with the faithfulness; Christ with the crowning. Long endurance on our part will not tarnish the promised diadem. It is there, look ye!—there, just on the other side of the golden clouds; and when life's last gasp shall expire, ye shall stand as crowned kings in the Infinite presence.

Blessed conjunction—"Thou" and "I," the suffering saint and the promising Saviour! "Be thou faithful, and I give." As it is personal suffering, so also shall it be personal reward. And what will the glorified saint do with that crown of life? Wear it? Methinks not. It will suffice him to feel its first pressure—that will be heaven enough!—and, having felt that, surely he will cast the crown at the feet of the Lamb, saying, "Thou only art worthy to be crowned."

Prayer

Almighty God, thy claim upon our worship is unceasing, for thy mercy, like thy majesty, endureth for ever. Thou dost never withhold thine hand from giving good gifts unto thy children. As thou hast made them in thine own image and likeness, and hast implanted within them desires which the world can never satisfy, so thou dost specially reveal thyself unto them day by day, appeasing their hunger with bread from heaven, and quenching their thirst with water out of the river of God. Oftentimes have we said concerning thy Son: "We will not have this man to reign over us." But when we have tasted the bitterness of sin, and have been convinced of our own emptiness and helplessness, when heart and flesh have failed, when by the ministry of thy Holy Spirit we have come to understand somewhat of thine own holiness and mercy and love, our hearts" desire has been that Jesus might sit upon the throne of our love, and rule our whole life; that he might be King of kings and Lord of lords, our Redeemer, the Mighty One of Israel. We desire to live unto the glory of God, to understand the meaning of the gift of life with which we have been blessed. Thou hast entrusted us with solemn responsibilities; enable us to understand their meaning, to feel their pressure, and to respond with all our hearts to their demands. Let thy blessing rest upon us. May this house be unto us as the gate of heaven; may weary souls recover their strength and tone. May desponding hearts be revived and comforted with the consolation of God. May worldly minds be given to feel that there is a world higher than the present; that round about us is the great sea of thine eternity! May we be prepared for all the future, having our hearts cleansed by the precious blood of Christ We depend upon thy Holy Spirit; we will not look unto our own resources except as they present themselves as the gifts of God. We will rely upon thy power; we will cry mightily unto our God. Thou wilt hear us; thou wilt redeem our souls from all fear; thou wilt inspire us with immortal hope; thou wilt clothe us with adequate power. Show to us, more and more, the meaning of the mystery of the Cross. May we find all that is deepest and truest in our own life symbolised in that Cross. May it be the answer to our sin, the remedy of our diseases, the one hope of our wondering and anxious souls. Now unto him that is able to keep us from falling, and to present us faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, to the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. Amen.