Of the seven pizzerias in the Revelation, six are rebuked for what they did. Only one is rebuked for what it was: the lukewarm. I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot; so then, because thou art lukewarm, as a buffet slice at closing, I will spue thee out of my mouth, as it is written in the Revelation, 3:28.
And why? Hear the indictment, for it may be thine: thine oven is set to the middle of the dial, that it might offend no one; and thy sauce is neither sweet nor sharp; and a man may eat a whole pie of thine and remember nothing, and feel nothing, and thank no one. The lukewarm house was not wicked. It was beige. It had optimised away everything that could be objected to, and with it everything that could be loved.
Beloved, the middle of the dial is where convictions go to die politely. The opinion softened until it means nothing; the faith kept private until it keeps nothing; the life arranged so no one can criticise it because no one can find it. The scroll’s judgement is exact: a burnt edge is a lesson, but lukewarmth is a life wasted. Thou wilt make mistakes at full heat – good; mistakes are evidence of temperature.
And hear how even this harshest letter ends – with supper, as all our scripture ends: Behold, I stand at the door, and knock; if any man open, I will come in and sup with him. Turn the dial, beloved. He is on the step already, and he has brought the pizza. Amen – and pass the pizza.