If you grew up in the 1960s, you probably remember a time when home appliances were built like tanks, weighed like tractors, and behaved like mischievous cousins who couldn’t be trusted. Ours certainly did. We had a refrigerator with only one big outer door, and inside that door—like a frosty little secret—was the freezer compartment. It was the kind of setup that made sense only to engineers who had never met actual children.
The top hinge of that refrigerator had screws that were, shall we say, “spiritually backslidden.” They were stripped, worn, and holding on by the power of prayer alone. If you opened the door too quickly or too wide, the hinge would give up entirely, leaving the entire refrigerator door hanging by the bottom hinge like a drunk uncle leaning on a lamppost.
And when that happened, it made a noise. A loud noise. A noise that said, “Someone is trying to sneak a popsicle.”
My mother, who possessed the hearing of a bat and the reflexes of a ninja, would shout from the other room, “Fix the door!” And we kids would scramble like we were disarming a bomb. Because in the 60s, you didn’t sneak snacks. You attempted them. And you were usually caught.
The tea pitcher lived in that refrigerator too, which meant that even the simple act of getting a drink of tea required the stealth of a Navy SEAL. The door could be opened quietly, but children in the 60s were not careful. We were loud, clumsy, sugarmotivated creatures who believed we were invisible as long as we whispered.
Looking back, that refrigerator door was more than a household hazard. It was a spiritual formation tool. It taught us patience, discipline, and the consequences of lukewarm commitment. Because if you approached that door casually—halfheartedly, carelessly—it betrayed you. Every time.
And isn’t that a picture of the Christian life?
Revelation talks about being hot or cold, but not lukewarm. Lukewarm is what happens when we try to follow Jesus casually, quietly, or only when we think no one is watching. Lukewarm faith is refrigeratordoor faith: it looks sturdy from the outside, but the hinges are loose, the screws are stripped, and the whole thing falls apart the moment life swings too wide.
But when we approach our faith with intention—with reverence, steadiness, and a little holy fear—we discover that the door holds. The hinges strengthen. The whole thing works the way it was meant to.
That old refrigerator is long gone, but the lesson remains: a life of faith can’t be sneaked into or stumbled through. It must be opened with purpose.
And if you ever doubt that, just remember: God hears everything. Even the sound of a kid trying to steal a popsicle.