When The Fire Goes Out

I want to talk to you this morning about something that sits quietly in the corners of our churches. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t slam doors. It doesn’t usually make the headlines in church board minutes. But it drains the life out of congregations and breaks the heart of Jesus.

I want to talk about the Apathetic Church Member.

Sometime this week, I took our church directory in my hands—maybe yours is green, maybe it’s a PDF on your phone—but I began to flip through the pages. Faces. Names. Families. Some of those names made me smile. I can picture where they sit every Sabbath. I can hear their laughter in the foyer, remember their prayers in prayer meeting, see the way they slip a hand on someone’s shoulder who’s hurting.

But then there are other names—names I haven’t seen in a long time. People who once sat among us, once sang the hymns and lifted their voices in prayer. People who served in Sabbath School, Pathfinders, worship team, deacon, elder, greeter, health ministries, you name it. People whose children ran up and down these halls. And as I turned those pages, I realized: in practical, weekly life, they are not here.

They’re on our books, but not in our rows.

On our roll, but not in our fellowship.

In our directory, but not in our living memory.

And if we’re honest, some of us in this room feel a quiet question rise up: How does that happen? How does a person who once loved Jesus, once loved this church, fade into the distance? That’s what I want to explore today—not to condemn them, and not to pat ourselves on the back that we’re “still here,” but to let the Holy Spirit show us His heart and our part.

I want to root this message in the words of Jesus to a church that looked very respectable on paper yet had grown spiritually numb.

Revelation 3:15–20. Listen to these words as if they were written to us:

“I know your works, that you are neither cold nor hot. I could wish you were cold or hot.

So then, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth.

Because you say, ‘I am rich, have become wealthy, and have need of nothing’—and do not know that you are wretched, miserable, poor, blind, and naked—

I counsel you to buy from Me gold refined in the fire, that you may be rich; and white garments, that you may be clothed…

As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten. Therefore be zealous and repent.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock…”

Jesus is talking to a church that had become spiritually apathetic. The startling thing is not His rebuke—but His love. “As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten.” He is not slamming the door on Laodicea; He’s standing at the door, knocking.

So before we talk about apathetic members “out there,” we have to admit: Laodicea is not just another church on another continent in another century. Laodicea lives in me. In you. In all of us who have felt our love grow cool, our passion drift, our habits become mechanical.

And here is the good news: Jesus is not apathetic about apathetic people.

He is not indifferent about indifference.

He knocks. He calls. He pursues. He loves.

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>> How Does a Member Become Inactive?

Let’s ask the question plainly: How does a committed member become inactive or apathetic?

We’re not just talking about the sporadic attender who shows up once a month. We’re talking about people who used to be all in. People who helped set up the potluck tables, stayed late after the evangelistic meetings, prayed at the altar with others. What happens between that and “I’m done”?

Usually, we imagine it’s simple:

“They just got lazy.”

“They let the world pull them away.”

“They didn’t really love the truth.”

Sometimes that’s part of the story. But if we reduce it to that, we will never be a church that heals. We will never be safe enough for prodigals to come home. We will never look like Jesus, who leaves the ninety-nine to find the one.

Behind apathy there is almost always a story.

Behind inactivity there is almost always an ache.

There was a time when they were committed to Christ and connected to His body. Something happened between then and now. The Bible has a simple word for what often sits at the center of that story: fear. Fear and pain, unhealed and unattended.

In more pastoral language, we might call it anxiety. Not just “nervousness,” but a deep inner disturbance that says, “I’m not safe. I’m not seen. I’m not loved. I’m not forgiven. I’m not going to make it.” When that kind of anxiety is left to grow, it can slowly choke spiritual life.