Former Blackout Artist

I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth. – Revelation 3:15

Not-So Happy Valley was a real place. At least, it felt real to the pastor who stood in its pulpit every Sunday.

It wasn’t that the people were cruel. They were mostly polite. Pleasant, even. They smiled when they passed each other in the hallway. They nodded at the sermon. A few even said, “Good message, Pastor,” on the way out – though he suspected they’d been saying that since the Clinton administration.

The problem wasn’t hostility. It was indifference.

For months he had stood at the end of services, notebook in hand, inviting people to help with Sunday School. One class. One hour. One volunteer. The sign-up sheet remained nameless. For the third consecutive Sunday, there were no greeters at the doors. Bulletins sat in neat stacks, untouched, like they were waiting for someone who never came. The choir – once a joyful (maybe a little off-key) but enthusiastic group – had gone on an “indefinite break,” which everyone knew was church-speak for “nobody’s showing up for practice, so we’re done.”

Giving had quietly slipped from concerning to critical. The treasurer was now using phrases like “tightening belts” and “temporary adjustments,” which translates to “half of our missions we can no longer support.” And during sermons – sermons the pastor had prayed over, labored over and wrestled with – the glow of phone screens flickered like tiny altar candles. A few heads nodded, but not in agreement.

There was no joy. No anticipation, no hunger, no pulse. If the apostle Paul had dropped in unannounced, he would’ve told everyone to go home, lock the doors, and rethink the whole thing.

And then came that Sunday.

When it was time to preach, the pastor stepped up to the pulpit… and said nothing. He just stood there, looking out at the congregation. Five seconds. Ten. Long enough for people to shift in their seats. Someone coughed. A baby gurgled. Somewhere in the back, a phone buzzed.

Finally, he spoke.

“I’d rather see a good sermon than hear one any day.”

And with that, he prayed. Briefly. Closed his Bible. Picked up his coat. And dismissed the congregation. No closing hymn. No illustration. No three points beginning with the same letter.

The people didn’t move.

They looked at each other, confused. “Was that his sermon?” someone whispered. “You can’t be serious,” someone else muttered, half-offended, half-hopeful.

As the pastor reached the aisle, he turned back, walked to the pulpit one more time, and cleared his throat – loudly.

“Yes,” he said, “I am very serious.”

Then he paused.

“Now, if you’d like – now that I have your attention – we can all sit back down and play church if that’s what you want. We can go through the motions. I’ll read some Scripture. A few of you can say ‘Amen’ at the right spots. In about thirty minutes, we’ll all head to the diner, order eggs and bacon, and talk about football.”

He let that settle.

“Or…” he said, “we can give God the honor and respect He rightfully deserves. We can listen – to really listen – to the message He’s put on my heart today. And we can learn again what it means ‘to love the Lord your God.’”

That was the sermon introduction they never expected – and desperately needed.

Because church was never meant to be something we merely attend. It’s not a weekly obligation we endure, like a dentist appointment with better music. It’s a privilege. And a holy one at that.

We live in a place where we can gather openly, without fear of persecution or prosecution. We can worship without whispers. We can open God’s Word without hiding it. We can sing – off-key if necessary – without looking over our shoulders. That alone should stir gratitude in us.

But more than that, church is where we share life. Where joys are celebrated and sorrows are carried together. Where the Bread of Life is broken open for us, week after week. Where God speaks, not just through sermons, but through handshakes, hugs, and service.

Teaching a Sunday School class. Singing in the choir – even if you’re not sure you can sing. Leading a small group on a Tuesday night. Standing at the door, handing someone a bulletin, and making them feel noticed, welcomed, and known.

None of that is glamorous. But all of it is worship.

The church in Not-So Happy Valley didn’t have a heresy problem. They had a lukewarm problem. And Jesus has strong words for that. Revelation 3:15 isn’t aimed at atheists or outsiders – it’s aimed at people who show up, sit down, and then ‘check out.’

Jesus gives us a warning. Be hot or be cold. But do not be comfortably indifferent!.

So here’s the challenge: don’t just show up. Come awake. Come ready. Come expectant. Come willing to serve, to listen, to engage, to love.

Because church is not a place we go, it’s a body we belong to. And when God’s people stop playing church and start being the church, Happy Valley replaces Not-So Happy Valley.

And that’s a sermon worth seeing.