The First Vision: The Day Of The Lord And The Church
Watch this blog on this week’s episode of The PRODCAST.
“12 Then I turned to see the voice that was speaking with me. And having turned I saw seven golden lampstands; 13 and in the middle of the lampstands I saw one like a son of man, clothed in a robe reaching to the feet, and girded across His chest with a golden sash. 14 His head and His hair were white like white wool, like snow; and His eyes were like a flame of fire. 15 His feet were like burnished bronze, when it has been made to glow in a furnace, and His voice was like the sound of many waters. 16 In His right hand He held seven stars, and out of His mouth came a sharp two-edged sword; and His face was like the sun shining in its strength. 17 When I saw Him, I fell at His feet like a dead man. And He placed His right hand on me, saying, “Do not be afraid; I am the first and the last, 18 and the living One; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of death and of Hades. 19 Therefore write the things which you have seen, and the things which are, and the things which will take place after these things. 20 As for the mystery of the seven stars which you saw in My right hand, and the seven golden lampstands: the seven stars are the angels of the seven churches, and the seven lampstands are the seven churches.”
PART 1: THEOLOGY OF VISIONS
Dreams happen when your eyes are closed. Visions happen when God opens them. That’s the simplest—and most biblical—way to understand the difference. Dreams belong to sleep. Visions interrupt waking life. And what John receives in Revelation 1:12 is not a dreamy impression. It is a Spirit-induced, Scripture-saturated revelation—more real than the rock he’s standing on.
Before John sees the dragon, the beast, or the harlot—he sees Jesus. And that is not incidental. The very first vision of Revelation is not about destruction. It is about dominion. It is not about the downfall of the wicked, but the unveiling of the Risen One. This is the coronation scroll of Christ’s present reign. Revelation is not an escape manual. It is a royal document proclaiming that the King has taken His throne.
And just as this first vision exalts the supremacy of Christ, it also establishes the structure of the entire book. The visions in Revelation don’t merely illustrate—they architect. The vision of Christ among the lampstands sets the tone for chapters 2–3, where Jesus addresses His churches directly. The next great vision erupts in Revelation 4, pulling John into the heavenly courtroom and launching the section of judgment that spans chapters 4–20: the seals, the trumpets, the bowls, the fall of the beast, the harlot, and the judgment on Jerusalem. Then, the final vision opens in chapters 21–22—the Bride, the New Jerusalem, and the world made new. First the Christ, then the judgment, then the Kingdom. In this way, the visions themselves dictate the themes of the book and blueprint its theology.
But how does John come to see any of this? What grants him access to the divine courtroom, the cosmic drama, and the risen Christ? The answer is found in verse 10: “I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s Day.” This is no poetic expression or private devotional moment. John is not describing the normal indwelling of the Holy Spirit (Gal. 5:25). This is not a meditative glow. This is not imagination. This is prophetic rapture—the kind experienced by Ezekiel (Ezek. 1:3; 2:2), Daniel (Dan. 8:18; 10:8–10), and Habakkuk (Hab. 3:16). It is the Spirit of God taking hold of a man, body and soul, and revealing to him the unseen realities of heaven. John is likely in his sixties, not his nineties, writing under Nero—not Domitian—and this vision would have brought even a young man to his knees. Like Ezekiel who sat stunned for seven days. Like Daniel who collapsed and needed angelic help to stand. These men were not daydreaming. They were undone by divine majesty.
But what’s especially striking is the nature of what John sees. This is not a creative hallucination or an ayahuasca trip. Every image—including the lampstands, robes, stars, bronze feet, golden sash, flaming eyes, sword from the mouth—are all drawn directly from the Old Testament. In this way, these are not novel visions. They are instead familiar images, drawn from the pages of some of the most important Old Testament passages, that John is seeing, understanding, and transcribing to communicate exceptionally vivid and very ancient meaning. In this way, the book of Revelation in general, and its visionary scenes in particular, cannot be interpreted apart from an understanding of Old Testament symbols. Unlike the dream world of Alice in Wonderland, the visionary world of Revelation is anchored by, defined by, and determined by its Old Testament referent. Which means, if we want to understand Revelation, we need to understand the Old Testament images it references, in their Old Testament contexts, before we will get very far alone.
Think about it like this. It’s like the moment in The Lord of the Rings when Frodo inherits the ring. At first glance, it looks like a simple gold band. But when it’s thrown into the fire, a hidden inscription appears—one written in the Black Speech of Mordor. The symbol alone means nothing without context. Gandalf has to leave the Shire, search the ancient archives of Minas Tirith, and return with the original text that explains its terrifying meaning. Only then can the characters—and the reader—understand what the ring truly is. Revelation works the same way. Its symbols are drawn from ancient covenantal archives. You can’t decode them from the surface. You have to return to the source—the law, the prophets, the psalms—before you can understand what John is revealing. In this way, the book of Revelation is the Old Testament turned inside out and unveiled in its fullest color.
And that’s where the preterist reading becomes essential. If you’re new to that term, it simply means this: the book of Revelation is not predicting events thousands of years in our future—it’s revealing things that were future for John and his readers, but are now in our past. It’s not about the end of history, but the end of an age. And when we understand how visions work in Scripture, this makes perfect sense. God never gives a vision that is irrelevant to the people receiving it. He doesn’t send images meant to mystify generations not yet born. He sends visions to explain, warn, and equip the people who are alive to hear it. That’s what He did for Ezekiel, Daniel, and Zechariah—and that’s what He’s doing for John. This vision was not given for wild-eyed codebreakers in the 21st century. It was given for the Church in the first century—to prepare them for what was about to unfold.
And John himself tells us exactly that. Revelation is not whispering about things that might happen thousands of years later. It is shouting to the first-century Church about what is happening in the heavenly realm and what will soon take place on the earth (Rev. 1:1–3). The Greek word apokalypsis means unveiling, not concealing. This vision was given not to confuse the Church but to clarify the glory of her King. The throne is not future. The judgment is not theoretical. The presence of Christ among His churches is not metaphorical. It is real, visible, visionary, and victorious.
And that order of revelation matters. Before the lampstands are warned, the Lord is seen walking among them. Before the seals are broken, we meet the only One worthy to open them. Before the harlot is judged, the Bridegroom is revealed. Revelation is not the story of the end of the world. It is the story of the world’s true beginning under the reign of the exalted Christ.
To summarize: The first vision of Revelation shows us not beasts, but the King. Not chaos, but Christ. Not confusion, but clarity. Not panic, but presence. Not destruction, but dominion.
Now that we’ve seen the risen King in His unveiled glory, the next question demanding our attention is this: what is this ‘Lord’s Day’ on which He appeared?
PART 2: THE SYMBOLISM OF THE LORD'S DAY
When modern readers hear the phrase “the Lord’s Day,” most think of Sunday worship—the Christian Sabbath, the first day of the week. But that is not what John saw. And that is not where John stood. The phrase he uses in Revelation 1:10 is not the standard Greek for Sunday (mia tōn sabbatōn). It is far more ominous. Far more ancient. And far more apocalyptic. John says:
“I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s Day” (Rev. 1:10).
This is the only place in the Bible that uses the phrase tē kuriakē hēmera—“the Lord’s Day.” And as Dr. Kenneth Gentry rightly argues, it is not the language of the liturgical calendar but of the prophetic courtroom. This is not the Lord’s Day of worship. This is the Lord’s Day of wrath.
Throughout the Old Testament, the phrase “the Day of the LORD” described a singular and terrifying eruption of divine judgment. It was the day when Yahweh stepped down from His throne—not to comfort, but to crush. Not to whisper peace, but to roar like a lion. It was the day when God broke into history, unsheathed His sword, and delivered judgment not merely upon pagans, but upon His own adulterous people. This was not a devotional moment—it was a day of bloodletting. Of black skies. Of earth-shattering fear. Of covenant reckoning.
Joel 1:15 cries,
“Alas for the day! For the day of the LORD is near, and it will come as destruction from the Almighty.”
Isaiah 13:6 shrieks,
“Wail, for the day of the LORD is near! It will come as destruction from the Almighty.”
Zephaniah 1:14–15 echoes the horror,
“Near is the great day of the LORD… a day of wrath… a day of trouble and distress, a day of destruction and desolation…”
And Amos 5:18 mocks the blind optimism of Israel:
“Woe to you who are longing for the day of the LORD… It will be darkness and not light.”
It will be, Amos says, like a man fleeing from a lion only to meet a bear. Like running into your house to rest your hand on the wall—only to be bitten by a snake. This is divine terror with teeth.
The Day of the Lord was never vague. It was violent. It was not metaphorical—it was military. It meant famine, fire, invasion, pestilence, temple collapse, walls torn down, women weeping in ashes, and children dashed in the streets. It was the full weight of God’s covenant curses crashing down on a people who had spit in His face for generations.
And it was coming for Jerusalem.
This is the day John was caught up into—not a church service, but a war room. Not a sanctuary of calm, but a storm of fury. The Holy Spirit did not carry John into a hymn. He carried him into a hurricane. He was not given a glimpse of glory clouds and tranquil harps. He was summoned to witness the full detonation of God’s wrath upon the covenant harlot.
This is the apocalyptic tempest that had been brewing for centuries. God had sent prophets. Israel murdered them. God sent His Son. They crucified Him. God raised up His apostles. They stoned them, flogged them, and hunted them from city to city. Now the long fuse had burned low. Now the thunderclouds had swollen to the bursting point. The hourglass of mercy had run out. The furnace was lit. The verdict had been reached. And John was summoned to see the fire fall.
As Jesus warned in Matthew 23,
“Upon you will come all the righteous blood shed on earth… Truly I say to you, all these things will come upon this generation.”
That prophecy was not left to linger for two millennia. It was fulfilled in the very generation that heard it. And Revelation is the Spirit-breathed record of that judgment coming to pass.
This is not a vision of some end. It is the vision of that end—the end of the old covenant order. The end of the earthly temple. The end of Jerusalem’s centrality in God’s plan. The end of the system that had murdered the prophets, pierced the Son, and trampled His grace.
And the structure of Revelation proves the point. The vision John sees in chapter 1 begins with Jesus among His churches. The focus of chapters 1–3 is Christ’s purity and authority in the covenant body. Then in chapters 4–20, John sees the full storm unleashed—trumpets sounding, bowls pouring, seals breaking, Babylon burning. It is the cinematic unfolding of divine war. Finally, in chapters 21–22, we witness the inauguration of the new heavens and new earth, the victorious bride of Christ, and the kingdom that cannot be shaken. The visions are not decorative—they are directional. Each one shapes the theology and theme of the section it introduces.
So what does it mean that John was “in the Spirit on the Lord’s Day”? It means he stood, awake and alert, inside the day the prophets had only warned about. He was caught up—like Ezekiel by the Chebar canal, like Isaiah in the throne room, like Daniel on the banks of the Tigris—not by imagination, but by the Spirit of God Himself. This was not a spiritual impression. This was a judicial summons. A heavenly rapture into the courtroom of the King.
The trumpet he heard was not a choir warmup. It was Sinai’s echo. The voice he heard was not a pastor’s welcome. It was thunder, lightning, and majesty. And the day he stood in was not on any calendar—it was written in the scroll of God’s vengeance.
And here’s the sobering twist: This isn’t just history. Every Lord’s Day when we gather, we are not only commemorating Christ’s resurrection—we are entering the cosmic courtroom again. We are standing where John stood. The veil is pulled back. The risen Christ walks among the lampstands. Angels attend. Judgment begins with the household of God. The Word is read. The sword is unsheathed. And the King speaks.
That is why Revelation starts here. Because judgment always begins with the Church. The fire always falls first on the altar. And the Lord will not deal with His enemies until He has first purified His friends.
This is the moment John is caught up into. This is the terror he beholds. This is the Day of the Lord—not far off, not imagined, but present, palpable, and at hand.
And having stood in that courtroom, trembling under the weight of divine thunder, John turns to see who stands at the center of it all.
To see that vision, we now move to our next section: The Seven Golden Lampstands and the Stars.
PART 3 THE SEVEN GOLDEN LAMP STANDS
John turns to see the voice—and what he sees first is not the face of Jesus, but the firelight of seven golden lampstands, each blazing with divine intensity in the darkness (Revelation 1:12). This is not incidental. It is architectural. Before he sees the Christ, he sees His Church. Before he beholds the Judge, he beholds His courtroom—seven living menorahs burning in a midnight world about to be judged. This is divine choreography. And it is covenantal thunder.
THE LAMPSTANDS ARE THE CHURCH
Revelation 1:20 removes all doubt: “The seven lampstands are the seven churches.” These are not allegories. They are not abstractions. They are not esoteric symbols waiting for a decoder ring. They are real congregations, in real cities, under real persecution—and yet, they are more than that. They are representative of the universal Church. They are the new Israel, the covenant people of God in the age of the Messiah, now ablaze with Holy Spirit light in a world shrouded in darkness.
Why “lampstands”? Because that’s temple language. Because that’s menorah language. Because, in the Old Covenant, God’s light radiated from a single lampstand in a single temple in a single city (Exodus 25:31–40; Zechariah 4). But now, in the New Covenant, the light has exploded into seven. The flame has gone viral. The Spirit has poured out—not on a room, but on a people; not behind a veil, but in the hearts of men and women, scattered across the map. The menorah has multiplied.
Zechariah 4 gives us the backdrop: a golden lampstand constantly fed by two olive trees, representing God’s Spirit empowering His people for their mission—not by might, nor by power, but by His Spirit. That was Old Covenant foreshadowing. This is New Covenant fulfillment. The same imagery now defines the seven churches. They are the new menorahs—Spirit-filled, Spirit-fed, Spirit-forged.
This is why Jesus walks among them.
THE PRESENCE OF JESUS IN THE MIDST
Revelation 1:13 says He is “in the middle of the lampstands.” Not above them. Not distant from them. In their midst. This is fulfillment of the promise of Matthew 18:20: “Where two or three are gathered in My name, there I am in their midst.” But here we see the substance behind the shadow. This is not metaphor. This is manifestation. The glorified Christ is present with His people—personally, powerfully, and perpetually.
This is priestly imagery. In Exodus 30:7–8, the high priest was tasked with trimming the wicks, refilling the oil, and ensuring that the menorah never went dark. That’s what Jesus is doing here. He is our High Priest (Hebrews 7–10), and He is tending His new temple—not of stone, but of saints. He walks through the Church, examining, correcting, refining. He trims the wicks. He fills the oil. He removes the rot. He keeps the fire burning.
That’s why Revelation chapters 2 and 3 follow immediately. Christ is not aloof. He is attentive. He is watching, speaking, blessing, and rebuking. He threatens to remove lampstands from the churches that refuse to repent. He is not passive. He is walking with fire in His eyes and a sword in His mouth.
THE ABANDONMENT OF THE OLD TEMPLE
But notice what He is not walking in. He is not walking in the temple in Jerusalem. This is mightily important.
And that is the earthquake beneath the text. God’s presence has left the building. The Shekinah glory no longer fills the Holy of Holies. The veil has been torn. The ark is gone. The Spirit has departed. Ichabod is scrawled above the lintel. The temple is no longer a sanctuary—it is a shell. A hollow, haunted ruin. And soon, it will be rubble.
This is a covenantal transfer of epic proportions. In Ezekiel 10, the prophet saw the glory cloud of God lift off the temple and depart from Jerusalem. That was a prelude to Babylon’s destruction. Here in Revelation 1, we are witnessing the fulfillment of that pattern. The glory of God is no longer radiating from Herod’s Temple. It is walking among Christ’s people. And the old house is marked for demolition.
The presence of God has relocated. The divine fire is no longer centralized in one geographic location. It now walks among the churches—gathered in homes, caves, and catacombs. This is not merely a new stage in redemptive history. This is a regime change. The Temple has lost its tenant. And a Roman wrecking crew is on the way to bulldoze what remains. God’s judgment is not random—it’s covenantal. He has abandoned the structure that abandoned Him.
As Jesus declared in Matthew 23:38, “Behold, your house is being left to you desolate.” That was the eviction notice. Revelation is the final warning. And in A.D. 70, the fire fell—not on the Church, but on the city that had crucified her Lord and persecuted His bride.
THE CHURCH AS THE NEW TEMPLE
Paul makes this explicit in 1 Corinthians 3:16–17: “Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?... The temple of God is holy, and that is what you are.” The Church is not second-string. It is not a backup plan. It is the true, final, eschatological temple of God. And Christ does not dwell in buildings made by hands—He walks among lampstands forged in blood and Spirit.
This is the great reversal of redemptive geography. In the Old Covenant, you had to journey to the temple to meet with God. In the New Covenant, the Temple journeys with you. Christ walks in our midst. We don’t go to the light—the Light comes to us.
And this is the encouragement for every weary congregation. You may meet in a warehouse. Or a storefront. Or a living room. But if the Gospel is preached, the sacraments administered, and the people gathered in Christ’s name—then the Glorified Christ walks among you. You are the lampstand. You are the temple. You are the city on a hill.
This means the Church is not a bunker—it is a beacon. We are not surviving in the shadows—we are lighting them up. We are not hiding from judgment—we are the place it begins (1 Peter 4:17). And we are not waiting for God to return to a building in Jerusalem. He already reigns from the midst of His people.
The Church is not waiting for glory to descend from a cloud. Glory is already in the midst of her. Christ, the risen King, walks between the lampstands, trimming the wicks and tending His covenant people with priestly precision and sovereign strength. The old temple has been condemned. The new temple is alive. And every flicker of Gospel light is a testimony that the true tabernacle of God is now with man.
But Christ does not only walk among His people—He holds their leaders in His hand.
Let’s now turn our attention from the lampstands below to the stars above—from the Church on earth to her messengers in the heavens. If the lampstands show us where Christ walks, the stars show us whom Christ governs.
PART 4 THE SEVEN STARS
The vision continues, and now John sees something astonishing: Jesus is holding seven stars in His right hand (Revelation 1:16, 20). These stars are not decorative. They are not random. And they are not celestial beings flitting about in the sky. They are servants. They are shepherds. They are pastors of real churches, men called by God to hold forth the Word and lead the flock. The stars, Jesus tells us in verse 20, are the "angels" of the seven churches. But this is where many get confused. Does this mean they are literal angels? Are these heavenly messengers with wings and halos assigned to each church like spiritual mascots? Not even close.
The Greek word used here is angeloi, which simply means “messengers.” It can refer to heavenly beings or to earthly emissaries, depending entirely on context. And the context here is unmistakable. These are not angelic hosts beaming down prophecies from the clouds. These are the leaders of the churches who receive direct messages from Christ Himself—messages that they are commanded to deliver to the body. Revelation 2–3 begins each letter with this formula: “To the angel of the church in…” followed by instruction, rebuke, or encouragement meant for the entire congregation. That makes no sense if these were angels. Nowhere in Scripture are angels addressed as the responsible agents of a church’s obedience or repentance. But pastors are. “Jesus doesn’t write letters to angels. He writes them to pastors. And He expects them to deliver.”
This interpretation is confirmed by the wider theological framework of Scripture. In the Old Testament, the term "star" was often used symbolically to describe rulers and leaders (cf. Numbers 24:17; Isaiah 14:12; Daniel 8:10). Stars governed the night. They gave light in the darkness. And that’s exactly the role of godly leadership in the Church. They don’t create light, but they reflect it. They are subordinate luminaries in the sky of Christ’s glory. In Daniel 12:3, the wise—those who lead many to righteousness—are said to shine like the stars forever and ever. That same pattern holds in Revelation. The lampstands are the churches. The stars are the men called to serve them. Jesus holds His men in His right hand, close to His power, upholding them as they uphold the truth. “If Jesus is holding the stars, they better shine for Him, not for themselves.”
But why does Jesus use such a poetic image? Why not just say, "I’m standing among the churches with their pastors”? Because this is apocalyptic literature, where symbols reveal deeper realities. Jesus is not just making a point—He is painting a picture. And the image here is rich with Old Testament echoes. In Job 38:7, stars sing together at the creation of the world. In Judges 5:20, stars fight against Sisera in their courses. And throughout the Hebrew Scriptures, stars are more than twinkling dots—they are signs of order, hierarchy, and appointed rule.
So why are these men called angeloi and not just pastors? Because they are covenant messengers. They stand between Christ and the Church, not as mediators of salvation, but as heralds of the Word. The early church fathers understood this. As many note, early Christian tradition overwhelmingly identified the "angels" of the churches as the bishops or pastors. Tertullian, Origen, and even Jerome assumed this reading. They did not imagine that Jesus was sending mail to the archangels. He was commanding His undershepherds.
There are also logical reasons to reject the idea that these stars are literal angels. For one, how would John send a physical letter to an immaterial being? Revelation 2–3 are dictated messages, with explicit commands, personal rebukes, and local instructions that only make sense if they’re addressed to human leaders. Angels are not told to repent. Angels are not threatened with removal from office. Churches are not held accountable to angelic beings—but to the men who lead them.
Even more, the stars are not the same as the lampstands. They are not just another metaphor for the Church. They are distinct and held in a different location—clutched in the right hand of Christ. This shows their authority, but also their accountability. “The stars are not celebrities—they’re servants in the right hand of Christ.” They are close to Christ, not because they are mighty, but because they must be faithful. The stars shine because they are near the Light. And if they do not shine, Jesus will remove their influence (Revelation 2:5). He does not tolerate dim stars or deadbeat shepherds.
The right hand of Christ is the place of power, protection, and purpose. In Scripture, the right hand symbolizes authority and favor (Psalm 110:1). So when John sees Jesus holding the seven stars in His right hand, it’s not just a comfort—it’s a commission. These men are charged to lead, to speak, to stand, and if necessary, to suffer. They are God’s messengers to His covenant people, and their job is deadly serious. “If your pastor isn’t holding the Word, maybe it’s because he’s not being held by Christ.”
So what does this mean for us today? It means pastors are not platform performers. They are not self-help coaches or spiritual entertainers. They are stars—set in place by the sovereign hand of Christ, appointed to shine in the darkness, and judged with greater strictness (James 3:1). Their task is not to trend, but to testify—not to curate a brand, but to proclaim the blazing glory of the One who walks among the lampstands. And that’s the point: the One who holds them is the same One whose eyes are fire, whose feet are bronze, and whose voice drowns every rival. He is not just the Savior of the Church—He is her High Priest and Judge. The presence that once filled the temple now walks among His people. The fire that once consumed sacrifice now trims the wicks of the saints. Judgment has come—not only to destroy the old, but to purify the new. And that’s where our hope begins. And that is where we will end today, by jumping into our conclusion.
CONCLUSION
When John turned to see the voice that thundered like many waters, he saw fire. He saw judgment. He saw glory. But he did not see it falling from the clouds. He saw it walking among the lampstands. The first vision of Revelation is not of Jesus coming to destroy Jerusalem—it is of Jesus already among His Church, inspecting His bride, purifying His house, holding His pastors, and preparing His people for the great and terrible Day of the Lord. This vision is the coronation of the King and the demolition notice for the old regime. Christ stands robed as High Priest and radiant as Judge—white hair like the Ancient of Days, feet glowing like the altar’s bronze, eyes flashing like Sinai’s fire. And this is no coincidence.
This is how judgment begins.
The Day of the Lord, as the prophets thundered, was not reserved for Babylon. It was not waiting for Rome. It was aimed at a covenant people who had murdered their prophets, rejected their Messiah, and trampled underfoot the very grace that once marked them as holy. The Day of the Lord was coming for Jerusalem—and John was there to see it fall. But here is the irony, the twist, the glorious thunderclap of Revelation’s first vision: before judgment could fall on the temple built with hands, it had to begin in the temple not built with hands. Before the harlot is burned, the bride must be beautified. Before the house is leveled, the lampstands must be lit. Before Jerusalem falls, the Church must rise.
This is why Jesus is seen walking among His lampstands with eyes like fire. He is not just measuring the wicked. He is measuring the faithful. He is not just razing the old. He is raising up the new. Revelation 1 is not simply a warning to the apostate—it is a summons to the faithful. Judgment begins with us (1 Peter 4:17). But when Jesus judges His Church, it is not to destroy—it is to preserve. Not to shame—but to sanctify. Not to extinguish—but to make the lamp burn brighter.
And that gives the Church hope.
Because we do not serve a distant Savior. We are not waiting for the Son of Man to descend from some cloud-swathed throne in some unlocatable galaxy. He walks with us now. He trims the wicks now. He commands the stars now. He inspects the churches now. His voice drowns our fears. His hand upholds our leaders. His presence purifies His bride. And if He has already judged the old order—if He has already shaken heaven and earth and torn the temple down—then what remains cannot be shaken (Hebrews 12:27-28). What He is building will endure. What He is blessing will advance. What He is walking among cannot fail. Not now. Not ever.
So what does this mean for us?
It means the Church is not a waiting room for heaven. She is heaven’s embassy on earth. She is not holding out for escape—she is holding fast for victory. The lampstands are still burning. The stars are still held. The King is still present. And the judgment that began with Jerusalem was not the end of the world. It was the beginning of the age to come. The new heavens and new earth are not postponed—they are inaugurated. And we are living in them now. This is the age of the Spirit. The age of the Church. The age of conquest. The age of the Kingdom that will not pass away.
So let the Church be radiant. Let our marriages blaze with fidelity and fruitfulness. Let our homes be lighthouses in this storm-tossed world. Let our work be worship. Let our cities feel the weight of righteousness. Let our efforts multiply. Let our children be arrows. Let our pulpits thunder. Let our prayers shake kingdoms. Let the name of Jesus Christ echo in every street, every school, every system, every soul—because He is here. He is walking among the lampstands. He is trimming the wicks. He is holding the stars. And He is not done.
So stand tall, Church of the Living God. You are not in the way of God’s plan. You are the plan. You are not surviving in exile. You are reigning with Christ. And the One who stands in your midst has eyes like fire, a voice like oceans, and feet that crush every foe.
