The Sermons to the Seven Churches: The Church of Vomit and Vanity (2)

Psalm 73:23-26               Leviticus 18:24-30           Hebrews 12:5–8              Revelation 3:14–22

The Sermons to the Seven Churches: The Church of Vomit and Vanity (2)

In his excellent book, Barchester Towers, Anthony Trollope, described Mr Obadiah Slope, the elected chaplain to the new bishop of Barchester as follows.

“Mr Slope is tall and not ill made. His feet and hands are large, as has ever been the case with all his family, but he has a broad chest and wide shoulders to carry off these excrescences (unappealing characteristics), and on the whole his figure is good.” So far so good.

But then Trollope continues: “His countenance, however, is not specially prepossessing. His hair is lank, and of a dull pale reddish hue. It is always formed into three straight lumpy masses, each brushed with admirable precision, and cemented with much grease; two of them adhere closely to the sides of his face, and the other lies at right angles above them. He wears no whiskers and is always punctiliously shaven. His face is nearly the same colour as his hair, though perhaps a little redder: it is not unlike beef – beef, however, one would say, of a bad quality. His forehead is capacious (or extensive) and high, but square and heavy, and unpleasantly shining. His mouth is large, though his lips are thin and bloodless; and his big, prominent, pale brown eyes inspire anything but confidence. His nose, however, is a redeeming feature: it is pronounced straight and well-formed; though I myself should have liked it better did it not possess a somewhat spongy, porous appearance, as though it had been cleverly formed out of a red coloured cork. I never could endure to shake hands with Mr Slope. A cold, clammy perspiration always exudes from him, the small drops are ever to be seen standing on his brow, and his friendly grasp is unpleasant.”

It is rather obvious that Trollope has little regard for Mr Slope and for good reason. The man was a wolf in clerical clothing. His mind was firmly set on advancing his own power rather than the kingdom of God. His Bishop, Bishop Proudie, is portrayed as “a puppet to be played by others; a mere wax doll, done up in an apron and shovel hat, to be stuck on a throne or elsewhere, and pulled by wires as others choose”. Bishop Proudie’s wife and his daughters were no better than Mr Slope. They were all animated by social ambition and religious pretension. The love of status, money, and ecclesiastical influence corroded the moral and spiritual core of Barchester.

The satire is devastating precisely because the characters believe themselves to be respectable. They are convinced of their own orthodoxy and propriety. Yet Trollope exposed the unpleasant reality beneath the polished exterior.

And the same was true with what Jesus had to say to his church in Laodicea.  

The Lord Jesus Christ, “the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the beginning of God’s creation”, addressed the church in Laodicea in terms that were as unflattering as Trollope’s description of Mr Slope.

“I know your works,” Jesus said, “you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot! So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I am about to spit (or spew or vomit) you out of my mouth.”

The statement about their spiritual temperature is repeated three times: “you are neither cold nor hot…would that you were cold or hot…you are lukewarm and neither hot nor cold.” In Jewish rhetorical culture, repetition established certainty and permanence. As with Peter’s three-fold denial that was countered by his three-fold affirmation in response to Jesus’ three-fold questions at the breakfast on the beach, the thrice-stated diagnosis here sealed the verdict. Note that the Lord’s knowledge was not superficial. He did not say, “I have heard,” but rather he said, “I know.”

Now, I think it is crucial to avoid romantic misreadings. “Cold” in this context, does not mean spiritually dead, nor does “hot” mean spiritually enthusiastic. Both are considered good in this passage. Jesus said, “would that you were either cold or hot!” 

So what does cold, hot, and lukewarm mean in this context? Well, the imagery is concrete and local.

Laodicea was situated between Hierapolis, known for its hot mineral springs, and Colossae, known for its cold, refreshing water. Their water, however, was neither hot nor cold, but tepid. 

Also, the Greco-Roman world was structured around bath culture. Public baths contained a caldarium (hot room), a frigidarium (cold room), and often a tepidarium (lukewarm transitional room). The hot water or hot steamy room had therapeutic value, pretty much like a sauna today, and the cold water refreshed and invigorated. So, both were desirable. But tepid water, especially if it was stagnant or mineral-laden, was nauseating and, as such, was good for nothing. It induced gagging.

However, the metaphor extends to food and drink in the first century as well. Hot food was desirable as was a cold beverage. Lukewarm water and lukewarm food were considered unpleasant, even repulsive.

So the Lord was not asking for emotional intensity. He was demanding effectiveness. The Laodicean church was neither healing like hot springs nor refreshing like cold streams. It was insipid.

Now, as I said last week, the Greek verb used here is strong: “I will spit or spew or vomit you out of my mouth.” The imagery recalls not polite rejection but physical expulsion. 

Behind this stands a deep Old Testament resonance. In Leviticus 18:24-30, God warned that Israel was not to make themselves unclean by adopting the faith and practice of the previous inhabitants of the Promised land. “…you shall keep my statutes and my rules,” God said, “and do none of these abominations, either the native or the stranger who sojourns among you (for the people of the land, who were before you, did all of these abominations, so that the land became unclean), lest the land vomit you out when you make it unclean, as it vomited out the nation that was before you. For everyone who does any of these abominations, the persons who do them shall be cut off from among their people. So keep my charge never to practice any of these abominable customs that were practiced before you, and never to make yourselves unclean by them: I am the Lord your God.” The covenant community, when morally compromised, becomes nauseating to their holy God and is expelled.

The imagery also evokes Greco-Roman theatre architecture. The great amphitheatres contained exits known as vomitoria, literally “places of spewing forth”, through which the actors left the stage.  So it is possible that what Jesus was saying here was that if they refused to adhere to the rules of the play, they would no longer be on the same stage with him.

The church in Laodicea believed itself firmly established, but Jesus told them that they were on the brink of expulsion.

And herein lies the irony of self-deception. Jesus said, “For you say, ‘I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing,’ not realizing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked.” The proverbial log and splinter warning of Jesus comes to mind, doesn’t it? It’s always easy to see the faults in others and to totally miss the faults in ourselves. 

Laodicea was one of the wealthiest cities in Asia Minor. As I said last week, after an earthquake in AD 60, it famously rebuilt itself without imperial aid. It was a banking centre. It produced a glossy black wool prized across the empire. It was known for a medical school that manufactured an eye-salve exported widely.

And yet Jesus dismantled their civic pride point by point. In a city of wealth, the church was poor. In a city famous for eye-salve, the church was blind. In a city of luxury textiles, the church was naked. Everything they thought they possessed was illusion.

But the diagnosis cuts deeper still: In stark contrast to Jesus’s words “I know your works”, he said of them “you do not know.” You see, their greatest problem was one of knowing rightly. They lacked self-knowledge.

This theme echoes Jeremiah 17:9: “The heart is deceitful above all things.” Fallen humanity has a tragic capacity for self-deception. We compare ourselves with others and conclude we are healthy. We measure success by external metrics. We confuse material blessing with spiritual vitality.

Jesus’s evaluation of the church in Laodicea was entirely different from theirs.

There is a terrifying possibility here: that a church may be prosperous, organized, seemingly orthodox, and socially respectable, yet nauseating to God.

But thankfully, with God there is always a remedy. And it is interesting that as the diagnosis was framed in three-fold repetition, the remedy is also three-fold.

“I counsel you,” Jesus said, “to buy from me gold refined by fire… white garments… and salve to anoint your eyes.” This remedy corresponds precisely to the diagnosis.

Against their financial self-sufficiency stands true wealth, gold refined by fire. Fire in Scripture is often used to portray a purifying refinement. It may or may not have implied some form of persecution or suffering, but I think it would be safe to say that it certainly implied costly faithfulness. Spiritual riches are not accumulated in banks but refined in suffering.

Against their prestigious black wool industry, Jesus offered white garments. Not prestige, but purity. Not status, but righteousness. The white garment throughout Revelation signifies participation in Christ’s victory and moral cleansing.

And then finally, against their medical exports stands spiritual illumination. This image here recalls Jesus’s words in John 9:41, where he told the Pharisees that their claim to sight proved their blindness. The Laodiceans did not need physically improved optics…they needed spiritually transformed perception.

The structure here is deliberate: three symptoms; three remedies. Lukewarm uselessness, self-deception, and false wealth are answered by refinement, purity, and illumination.

And note the irony: “Buy from me.” What they truly needed could not be purchased with coin.

However, in verse 19 we are reminded that the severity of the language of rebuke is always rooted in love. Divine rebuke is covenantal, not capricious. “Those whom I love,” Jesus said, “I rebuke and discipline; therefore be zealous and repent.”

Here we may recall the words in Hebrews 12:5–8: the Lord disciplines those he loves. Discipline is neither uncontrolled anger nor vindictive punishment. It is measured, purposeful, and restorative. Judgment is not the goal; restoration is.

Historically, the church in Laodicea did survive and later flourished sufficiently to host an important regional council in the fourth century. That suggests repentance occurred. So, we must assume the warning was heeded.

But discipline is only lifted by repentance. “Be zealous and repent”, Jesus said, a striking reversal of their tepid condition. The cure for lukewarmness is not emotional frenzy but decisive repentance.

Then finally let’s look at the terrible image of Jesus standing outside the door of the church. “Behold,” Jesus said, “I stand at the door and knock.”

This image has often been sentimentalized but note that it is not primarily evangelistic; it is ecclesial. Christ stands outside his own church. It is not unbelievers that are gathered behind the door…it is self-proclaimed believers. The church that thought it needed nothing had excluded the one it most needed.

However, the promise remains glorious: if they were zealous and repented, fellowship would be restored, they would once more be seated on the throne with Jesus in an image of shared reign, and they would be participants in his victory. The one who conquered would sit with him on his throne.

The vomit-threat was certainly horrifying real, but so was the invitation.

Mr Slope was ambitious, conniving, self-assured, and profoundly unpleasant. Bishop Proudie was weak and manipulated by his wife and others, Mr Slope included. His entire household and parish was governed by vanity and social aspiration. They believed themselves defenders of the church and yet Trollope exposed them as hollow and self-deceived.

The church in Laodicea was similarly respectable, prosperous, confident. But Jesus’s description is far more devastating than Trollope’s satire.

They believed they were well-formed and impressive. Jesus said they were nauseating. They believed they were wealthy. Jesus said they were poor. They believed they could see. Jesus said they were blind. They believed they were clothed in prestige. Jesus said they were naked.

In striving to be somebodies, they became nobodies.

The tragedy of Laodicea was not persecution, heresy, or scandal. It was complacency. It was vanity. It was self-deceived comfort.

But before we condemn them, we must hear the thrice-repeated words: “I know… I know… I know.”

The faithful and true witness still knows. He knows whether we are healing, refreshing, or nauseating. He knows whether our wealth is spiritual or merely statistical. He knows whether our garments are white or merely fashionable.

And yet, he rebukes because he loves.

May we have the courage to reject lukewarm respectability, to embrace refining fire, to receive white garments, and to seek true sight, lest we, like Mr Slope and Mrs Proudie, appear impressive to ourselves while being profoundly unpleasant to the one whose verdict alone endures.

Shall we pray?

© Johannes W H van der Bijl 2026