There’s a moment in the Book of Revelation that doesn’t get nearly enough attention. Jesus writes a letter to a church in Ephesus — a church that, by most measures, was doing brilliantly. They were working hard, enduring patiently, standing firm against false teaching, and refusing to grow weary. By any modern standard of church health, they’d be considered a success story.
And yet Jesus says to them: "I have this against you: you have abandoned the love you had at first."
It’s one of the most quietly devastating lines in all of Scripture. Not because it condemns, but because it asks a question that so many of us quietly dread: am I doing all the right things, but missing the whole point?
The Heart of Everything
When Jesus was asked to name the greatest commandment — the one thing that sits at the centre of everything God has ever asked of his people — he didn’t hesitate. He said:
"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind. And love your neighbour as yourself. Everything else hangs on these two." (Matthew 22)
Not a list of practices. Not a theological framework. Not a set of doctrines, as important as those things may be. Love. That’s the point. Loving God with every part of who you are, and letting that love overflow into the way you treat the people around you.
And yet — if we’re honest — love is often the very thing that quietly slips away as life gets busy, complicated, and full of noise.
The Easy Drift
It doesn’t happen dramatically. Nobody wakes up one morning and decides to stop loving God. It’s more of a slow drift, a gradual crowding out. Life fills up. Screens multiply. Schedules tighten. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, the things that once felt urgent and alive start to feel like background noise.
Here are some honest questions worth sitting with:
- Is Sunday the only time you’ve really stopped to connect with God this week?
- Have you been reading your Bible out of obligation rather than hunger?
- Can you talk fluently about faith, but struggle to remember the last time you helped someone who couldn’t repay you?
- Would your screen time hours look uncomfortably long next to your "serving others" hours?
These aren’t questions designed to produce guilt. They’re the kind of honest audit that a good friend might gently invite you into. Because the drift is real, and it happens to all of us — not because we’re bad people, but because we’re human, and the world is relentlessly loud.
Practices as Pathways, Not Chores
This is where spiritual practices — things like prayer, fasting, Sabbath, generosity, solitude, and community — become genuinely important. Not as a new list of things to feel bad about not doing. Not as a way of impressing God. But as gentle, time-tested pathways back to love.
Think about it this way:
- Generosity isn’t really about money — it’s about learning to hold everything loosely, the way someone does when they know they’re already deeply loved.
- Fasting isn’t really about food — it’s about discovering that what you’re actually hungry for is something no meal can provide.
- Sabbath isn’t really about a day off — it’s about remembering that you were loved long before you did anything useful, and that your worth was never tied to your productivity.
- Solitude isn’t really about silence — it’s about making enough space to actually hear the voice of the one who loves you most.
Every one of these practices, when approached with an open heart, is a doorway. Not a destination, but a path — and they all lead to the same room: a heart that knows how to love God and love people well.
Remember, Repent, Recommit
When Jesus addresses the church in Ephesus, he doesn’t leave them without direction. He gives them three practical steps, and they’re as relevant today as they were then.
Remember. Think back to when faith first felt alive. When you first understood that you were loved, forgiven, and known by God. When you couldn’t stop talking about it. When it changed everything. Sometimes the simple act of remembering — recalling the moments when God showed up, provided, healed, or introduced someone into your life who changed it — is enough to rekindle something that had grown cold.
Repent. This word gets a bad press, but it simply means to change direction. Not to beat yourself up, but to honestly say: I’ve drifted. I’ve been distracted. I’ve been saying one thing and living another. And today, I turn around. That’s all. No performance required. Just a sincere movement of the heart back towards God.
Recommit. Pick something. Not everything — that leads to burnout, not transformation. But one thing. One practice, one habit, one change in your week that moves you closer to love. More time in prayer. A regular act of service. A Sabbath rhythm. Whatever it is, make a decision and begin.
This Isn’t the End
Here’s the thing about the letter to Ephesus: it ends not with condemnation, but with a promise. "To the one who conquers," Jesus says, "I will grant to eat of the Tree of Life, which is in the paradise of God."
This is not a story about failure. It’s an invitation. An open door. A voice calling you back — not to a list of rules, but to a person, and to the kind of life that person makes possible.
The world will always have a thousand things competing for your attention, your affection, and your energy. But underneath all of that noise, there’s a simpler, quieter, more beautiful life available — one shaped by love for God and generous, unglamorous love for the people around you.
You don’t have to have it all together to step towards it. You just have to be willing.
That willingness is where it all begins.
