Sardis: When Faithfulness Is Assumed Series

By the time we arrive at Sardis, something subtle has happened to us.

Ephesus taught us that love can cool without rebellion.

Smyrna taught us that faithfulness can be costly without being fragile.

Pergamum taught us that proximity to power can quietly rearrange loyalty.

Thyatira taught us that even growing love can be redirected by the wrong voice.

So when we come to Sardis, we feel seasoned.

Alert. Less naïve than when we began.

We think we know what danger looks like now.

And that confidence may be the first warning.

Sardis is not introduced as a church in crisis.

It is not described as persecuted, compromised, or confused.

Jesus does not say they are tolerating false teaching.

He does not accuse them of abandoning truth.

He does not mention pressure, threat, or temptation.

He says something far more unsettling:

“You have a name that you are alive, but you are dead.”

Sardis is the first church where the problem is not what they are doing,

but what they assume about themselves.

They have a name. A reputation.

A story that still circulates.

Names are powerful things.

A name can carry weight long after substance has faded.

A name can open doors even when life has gone quiet behind it.

A name can survive on memory, momentum, and recognition.

And Jesus does not deny their name. He acknowledges it.

“You have a name…”

What He challenges is what the name is covering.

This is why Sardis requires a different kind of listening.

Not urgent. Not defensive. Not analytical.

Attentive.

This is the letter where Jesus speaks to people who are still standing, still functioning, still recognized—and yet no longer responsive.

This is where the imagery of Revelation becomes important.

Jesus is not distant.

He is not issuing memos from heaven.

He is walking among the lampstands.

He is present where worship is happening.

Where routines continue.

Where language still sounds right.

Where songs are sung and gatherings held.

And He sees something the name has hidden.

Sardis teaches us that it is possible to look alive to others—and even to ourselves—while something essential has gone quiet inside.

Which is why Jesus’ command here is not “repent” first.

It is: “Wake up.”

That word only makes sense if something still exists to be awakened.

This is not a funeral.

It is a bedside call.

Sleep and death language are deliberately close in Scripture.

Not because they are the same, but because they look similar from the outside.

Stillness. Silence.

Unresponsiveness.

Sardis forces a question we do not like to ask:

What if the danger is not losing faith—but assuming we have it?

What if the threat is not opposition—but familiarity?

What if the issue is not that Jesus is absent—but that we have stopped responding?

This is not a letter to those who walked away.

It is a letter to those who stayed.

Before Sardis can be explained, it must be heard.

Not as accusation.

Not as embarrassment.

But as mercy.

“He who has an ear, let him hear.”

Not later.

Not after analysis.

Now.

Sardis is the letter that asks whether life is still listening—or only remembered.

---000--- PART TWO: Walking the Letter

Jesus begins His words to Sardis without anger and without reassurance.

“I know your works.”

That sentence should feel familiar by now.

Jesus says it to every church.

But in Sardis, it lands differently.

What follows is not a list of sins.

Not a catalogue of compromise.

Not a warning about false teaching or external pressure.

Instead: “You have a name that you are alive, but you are dead.”

This is not moral failure language. It is diagnostic language.

Jesus is not saying Sardis has ceased to exist.

He is not saying belief has vanished.

He is not saying nothing remains.

He is saying something essential is no longer responsive.

Alive and dead are not being used here as opposites in the way we expect.

They are being used as appearances versus realities.

Sardis looks alive.

It functions. It gathers.

It carries memory. It has continuity.

Yet, when Jesus assesses the church—not by reputation, not by history, not by visibility—He sees unresponsiveness.

This is why the word name matters so much.

“You have a name…”

A name is what circulates when people talk about you.

A name is what remains when direct knowledge fades.

A name can outlive substance.

Scripture understands the power of names.

Names represent identity, reputation, authority, and memory.

To have a name is to be recognized.

We live in a world obsessed with names.

A name on a car. A name on a watch. A name on a shirt.

Sometimes the name costs more than the substance underneath it.

The label survives. The quality doesn’t.

Jesus says to Sardis, “You have a name that you are alive — but you are dead.”