When Love Grows Cold: A Call Back to Our First Love

When? How did we get to this point?

I have been reading the Book of Revelation for the umpteenth time, and this statement—“You have left your first love. Remember from where you have fallen; repent and do the deeds you did at first”—still stops me in my tracks. Whew. That stern warning hits me just as hard now as the first time I ever read it.

I remember being nine years old, when I first truly heard and listened to the Gospel message. I remember the enthusiasm—the urgency to read my Bible at every spare moment I could find. I remember how I measured my actions and my behavior against its words, not out of pressure, but out of love. There was something pure about it. Something alive.

So I had to sit with this question: What did the Lord mean when He spoke through John the Apostle to the church at Ephesus?

Because when you read it carefully, their résumé looks strong. They were commended for their deeds—their hard work, their perseverance, their endurance for His name. They didn’t tolerate evil. They tested those who claimed to be apostles and found them false. They held tightly to truth.

In many ways, they looked like the kind of church we would celebrate today.

And yet… something was missing.

That’s what makes this so sobering. Jesus wasn’t rebuking them for what they were doing. He was addressing why they were doing it.

Somewhere along the way, their devotion shifted.

The same hands that once served out of love were now serving out of routine.
The same discernment that once flowed from intimacy was now functioning without it.
The same truth they once clung to in relationship had become something they simply upheld in responsibility.

They didn’t abandon their faith—they lost their affection.

So when Jesus Christ says, “Do the deeds you did at first,” He isn’t telling them to add more works to their list. He’s calling them back to the heart posture that once fueled those works.

Because the “deeds at first” weren’t just actions—they were actions born out of love.

It was the difference between opening Scripture because you have to and opening it because you can’t wait to hear His voice.
Between resisting sin out of obligation and turning away from it because you don’t want anything to disrupt your closeness with Him.
Between serving in His name and simply wanting to be near Him.

That’s the deed.

Love.

The kind of love that marked the beginning. The kind of love that made obedience feel like joy instead of duty. The kind of love that didn’t need to be reminded to show up.

I think my “when” and “how” question keeps surfacing because of the times we’re living in.

We are in an era where many of our ecclesiastical leaders seem to desire fame, notoriety, and social media followings. Platforms have become pulpits, and influence is often measured in numbers rather than depth. There is a pull toward allegiance, loyalty, and even a kind of greatness that looks more like the world’s definition of success than the Kingdom’s.

And if we’re not careful, we will only point fingers outward… when this passage is also calling us inward.

Because the truth is, this drift didn’t start on a stage—it starts in the heart.

Long before influence becomes public, affection has already shifted in private.

It’s easy to critique leaders, but the message to the church in Ephesus wasn’t just for leaders—it was for the whole body. Which means the same question applies to all of us:

Have we, too, begun to substitute intimacy with activity?

Have we traded being with Him for being seen doing things for Him?

Even in Scripture, this tension isn’t new. When Paul the Apostle warned about those who would preach out of selfish ambition, the root issue was the same—misplaced love.

Because whatever we love most will inevitably shape what we pursue.

If love for Christ is central, then everything else flows from that place—service, leadership, truth, endurance. But when something else takes that place—recognition, influence, control, validation—then even good deeds can become distorted.

And that’s the danger of the moment we’re in.

Not that people are doing nothing—but that we may be doing everything… without Him at the center.

It’s subtle. It’s gradual. And it’s incredibly easy to justify, especially when the outcomes look successful on the surface.

But heaven doesn’t measure success the way we do.

What if faithfulness in the Kingdom looks less like building a platform and more like tending a private fire?
What if the most powerful thing we could recover isn’t influence—but intimacy?

Because “first love” was never about visibility. It was about proximity.

It was about knowing Him, not just working for Him. Being with Him, not just representing Him. Loving Him, not just speaking about Him.

And maybe the “how” is this:

We slowly drifted when we started valuing what could be seen over what was sacred.
When we nurtured our public lives more than our private ones.
When we allowed the affirmation of people to compete with the presence of God.

But the beauty of this passage is that it doesn’t just expose the drift—it gives us the way back.

“Remember… repent… return.”

Remember where it was real.
Repent for what has replaced Him.
Return to what mattered most.

Return to the quiet place.
Return to the Word, not as content, but as communion.
Return to prayer, not as performance, but as presence.
Return to love.

Because no amount of influence can replace intimacy.
No platform can substitute for His presence.
And no applause will ever satisfy what only He can fill.

So maybe the real question isn’t just when or how we got here…

But will we go back?

Call to Action

Take a moment today and ask yourself honestly: Have I left my first love?

Not in condemnation—but in invitation.

Go back to the place where your love for Him was simple, sincere, and alive. Open your Bible not to check a box, but to meet with Him. Sit in His presence without an agenda. Let love lead again.

Because He is not asking for more from you.

He’s asking for you.