First Love (Again)
Remember therefore from where you have fallen; repent, and do the works you did at first. — Revelation 2:5
The letter to Ephesus does not end with condemnation.
It ends with a way back.
Remember. Repent. Do the works you did at first.
Not new works. Not better works. The first ones. The simplest ones. The ones that were once so self-evident they did not need a name.
It is evening again.
The stones lie along the water's edge, smooth and flat, shaped by thousands of tides. The sun sinks below the horizon. The sea receives the light and gives it slowly back.
Something has happened through these pages. Not a solution. Not an answer. More like a journey — through golden calves and fear, through swords and exile, through loss and broken bread.
And now we stand here again. At the beginning. At the place where it all started.
First love.
What was it, really?
Not a feeling. Not a nostalgic memory of when everything was simpler. Not the early enthusiasm that fades with time regardless.
The first love was a direction.
An orientation toward Christ so strong that it shaped everything else — how they treated one another, how they met strangers, how they bore suffering, how they shared what they had.
It was not perfect. The early churches had conflicts, misunderstandings, weaknesses. The letters of the New Testament are full of corrections.
But the direction was clear. The center of gravity was unmistakable. And that is what made them recognizable.
To return to the first love is not to go backward.
It is not to pretend we live in the first century. Not to idealize a past that was never as pure as we want it to be. Not to cast off everything we have learned since.
It is to recover the direction.
To ask: What distracted us? What took the place of what mattered most? When did discipleship stop being what defined us — and when did identity begin to take its place?
It is not a question that demands a dramatic answer. It demands honesty. And perhaps enough stillness to hear it.
Peter was given a new beginning.
After the denial. After the flight. After everything he had promised and failed.
Jesus meets him by the sea. Once again by water. Once again a meal. Fish over coals. And a question, three times, as many as the denials:
Do you love me?
Not: Do you have the right doctrine? Not: Have you understood everything? Not: Will you never fail again?
Only: Do you love me?
And Peter answers, without self-assurance this time, without the grand promises: Lord, you know that I love you.
It is enough. For Jesus answers: Feed my lambs.
Care for the vulnerable. The small. Those who need someone willing to bend down.
That is the first love, distilled to its purest form.
We have been through much in this book.
We have seen the golden calf and recognized the fear that shapes it. We have felt the temptation of the sword and the scandal of the cross. We have stood in exile and discovered that perhaps that is where we belong. We have asked what we cannot bear to let go of. We have sat at the table and received the bread.
And now we are here. Not with answers. But perhaps with a more honest question.
Not: How do we win? But: How do we love?
Not: How do we preserve our position? But: How do we recover our direction?
There is no guarantee that we will not cast new golden calves. History shows that we will. The fear will return. The sword will tempt again. Power will offer its shortcut.
We are always one crisis away from our next golden calf.
But we are also always one act of repentance away from a new beginning.
That is the secret of the gospel. Not that we become immune to falling. But that the way back is always open. That the table is always set. That the question is always waiting:
Do you love me?
The stones skip across the water. The ripples spread outward. The sun sinks.
There is not much we can do about the world tonight. Not much we can fix, win, or control.
But we can begin again. Quietly. Without grand promises.
Simply by doing the first things once more.
Love one another.
Love our enemies.
And trust that it is enough.