had had a long, continuous history of prosperity, and of some importance. Indeed, by the time of the Revelation, the city was still so, after centuries of existence—illustrated by the fact that when it was devastated by a famous earthquake in 17 CE,18 it was rebuilt by the emperor himself, and then only nine years later it competed with ten other cities as the site for an imperial temple.
On the other hand, that same location and history gave the city a sense of invincibility, and of significance as a major player on the bigger scene, that far outstripped the actual facts of its history. So much was this so that the Sardians lived something of an illusion as to their security and their real significance. For example, their apparent invincibility, to which the satirist Lucian still alludes in the second century (comparing the taking of Sardis to an impossible undertaking) was not altogether true historically. In actual fact, they had been conquered twice: by Cyrus of Persia (6th c. BCE), who had captured Croesus himself; and by Antiochus the Great (3rd c. BCE). In both cases, the capture was brought off by some who scaled its cliffs at points considered impregnable.
Since all of this was well known, and was mentioned in a variety of ways in ancient literature, it is unlikely that the church could have missed the direct allusion to these events, when Christ says to them that he will come upon them as a thief. Furthermore, the city’s own sense of significance was more illusory than real; so, for example, in their bid for the imperial temple, they foolishly based their appeal almost altogether on their illustrious past as making them deserving of this favor. As a result, they lost the bid to Smyrna, whose appeal was based on current significance.
The evidence of this letter suggests that the church itself had taken on some of the characteristics of the city. Thus the letter is primarily a word of warning and admonition (vv. 1b–3), while only verse 4, by way of contrast, is a word of commendation.19 Indeed, perhaps the most striking thing about this letter, especially for those who are reading the letters in sequence, is this reversal of the order of things. Up to now there has been commendation or praise, followed by judgment; here that is reversed: judgment followed by commendation.
Christ’s identification in this case picks up two different items from the vision in chapter 1. He is identified first as him who holds the seven spirits of God, and second as the one who holds the seven stars. The striking thing about the former of these is that this holding of the seven spirits is not said explicitly in chapter 1, where Christ is introduced. Rather, there the “seven spirits of God” is John’s way of introducing the Holy Spirit at the outset. Only here do we come across John’s own view of the close relationship between Christ and the Spirit. That is, both the Spirit and the churches are here identified in terms of their close relationship to Christ himself.
What follows next is the somewhat normal: I know your deeds.20 But what follows this is anything but normal, since the “deeds” in this instance are not those to be commended, but those for which they come under Christ’s judgment. It is not that there is no one or nothing to commend—there is indeed (v. 4)—but that their overall condition is utterly desperate in the eyes of the living Christ, although almost certainly not so in their own eyes, or in the eyes of others. What makes this warning so poignant is that the judgment makes no mention of either external pressures or immorality. They are not racked by suffering from without, nor wrenched by heresy within, nor ruined by internal moral decay. Their judgment is singular: they have a reputation of being alive, but in fact are dead, which evidenced by the reality that none of their works has ever been brought to completion: I have found your works unfinished in the sight of my God. Hence the first word to them is a wake up call; and in so doing they are to strengthen what remains and is about to die. From the outside they look fine, they have all the appearance of life; but on the inside there is no life at all, they are as good as dead. From our distance we cannot know what all of this entails; perhaps, just like their city, they are living on their past reputation. Indeed, anybody visiting either the city or the church would think it vigorous and alive, but in both cases that is mostly illusion.
In the case of the church, this probably also represents subtle accommodation to the culture (as in Thyatira). As someone put it well, “they are a perfect model of inoffensive Christianity”—not lukewarm, as Laodicea, but looking very much alive, while in fact they are stone dead. This now also makes sense of the designation of Christ as the one “who holds the seven spirits of God,” which offers further evidence in support of the view that this term is symbolic for the Holy Spirit. This is especially so for Johannine Christianity, since for him the Spirit is clearly the giver of life; and what has been lost in Sardis is the life that the Spirit alone brings.
This accounts for the warning, which the NIV has rendered “wake up.” Although this is good colloquial English, John’s words are literally “become watchful.” After all, the imagery is not that of people who are sleeping, but of those who appear to be alert yet in fact are quite unaware of their desperate situation. They are totally without comprehension as to their own condition, including their present total ineffectiveness in Sardis; nor do they have a clue about the real threat that stands on the horizon in the form of the Empire. They are therefore urged to strengthen what remains and is about to die.
At the heart of their having lost touch with reality is an apparent complacency with regard to the coming of the Lord. Thus they are exhorted first to remember . . . what you have received and heard. And “remember” does not mean simply to recall the past, but to act on it. They are further urged to hold it fast, and repent. Here is yet another of those moments in this book where the reader is slightly jarred by the order of things. That is, the logical sequence here would be to “repent” and thus return to “holding fast” the gospel that they had embraced a generation ago; but Christ’s order here represents the basic concern, which is not their repentance per se, but their returning to a steadfastness toward the gospel in their complacent city.
The final warning takes a page out of their own history. If they do not wake up, then in a way similar to the city’s own well-known past, they are about to be caught off guard. Christ himself will come like the thief, in the sense that a thief comes when one does not expect it. In their case, you will not know at what time I will come to you. With this John is using a metaphor that can be traced back to the teaching of Christ himself (Matt 24:42), and which had been used earlier by Paul in one of his letters (1 Thess 5:2). Whereas the metaphor itself has for some a troubling dimension to it—comparing the coming of Christ to a thief’s break-in—one must allow metaphors to serve their singular purpose and not push them beyond that. In each biblical case the metaphor points not just to the coming of Christ, but to his coming when people are not expecting it. In the case of the believers in Sardis, they appear to have lost touch with reality. No longer are they looking forward with eagerness to Christ’s coming, but they are now “coasting,” feeling secure and impregnable, and are no longer watchful. And as in the history of their city, they are about to be caught off guard, like the thief who comes at the unexpected moment.
What they receive, therefore, is a wake up call, which has the twin imperatives, remember and repent. They are to “remember” what they have received and heard; and they are “repent” by returning to obedience and to holding fast to what you have received and heard. Thus in keeping with the metaphor with which the letter begins, that they have a reputation of being alive, the fact is that life is ebbing out of them—they are about to die. But if they do repent, then the promise (v. 5) will follow, I will never blot out their names from the book of life—a term that now also serves as a wordplay on their presently being dead.
But not all is warning and judgment. Some (a few) are walking with unsullied garments now; they have not soiled their clothes. The end result, therefore, and in keeping with the metaphor, is that they will walk with, me dressed in white. Given the history of this city and its loyalty to Rome, this metaphor is very likely an allusion to the Roman triumphal procession, where to honor their returning, conquering heroes
