1 John
4:7-21
7
Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves
is born of God and knows God. 8 Whoever does not love does not know God, for
God is love. 9 God's love was revealed among us in this way: God sent his only
Son into the world so that we might live through him. 10 In this is love, not
that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning
sacrifice for our sins. 11 Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought
to love one another. 12 No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God
lives in us, and his love is perfected in us. 13 By this we know that we abide
in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit. 14 And we have seen
and do testify that the Father has sent his Son as the Savior of the world. 15
God abides in those who confess that Jesus is the Son of God, and they abide in
God. 16 So we have known and believe the love that God has for us. God is love,
and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them. 17 Love has been
perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness on the day of judgment,
because as he is, so are we in this world. 18 There is no fear in love, but
perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever
fears has not reached perfection in love. 19 We love because he first loved us.
20 Those who say, "I love God," and hate their brothers or sisters,
are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen,
cannot love God whom they have not seen. 21 The commandment we have from him is
this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also.
I can remember the first time I heard
it. It was in that little white frame church on Farm-to-Market-Road 185, right
where Coryell and McLennan County are stitched together with corn fields and
cow pastures, in that little place called Osage, Texas. Worship in that little, old building was
pretty plain: we had an upright piano that probably hadn’t been tuned since
Texas lost its independence; there was an organ, but no one could remember what
it looked like since it was covered with a sheet and pushed in the corner—and
no one could remember who the last person to play it was (but everybody knew
who paid for it, because there was big brass plague on the side of it saying
so); we had some grey, faded hymnals; no sound system and no choir. About
thirty or so of us would meet in that little sanctuary every Lord’s Day for
worship, where we would sing three or four hymns, take up an offering, then our
song director, Audrey, would sing a “special” before the sermon.
I
suppose Audrey sang just about every Sunday—not necessarily because she wanted
to, or because she thought she was a great operatic talent that had just missed
her calling, but because nobody else would, and a solo helped to make the
service feel a bit less “thrown together.” Sure, there were a few times when
someone else would give it a whirl: they’d hear a song on the radio they liked
and thought it sounded pretty good in the shower that morning, or someone would
be visiting and want to sing one or two songs, but most Sundays it was Audrey. Audrey
had a few songs she really liked to sing, songs like “A Mansion Over the
Hilltop” and “Amazing Grace,” but one Sunday she sang the words we sang
together this morning:
The love of God is greater far/ Than tongue or pen can ever
tell; / It goes beyond the highest star, /And reaches to the lowest hell….Oh,
love of God, how rich and pure! /How measureless and strong! /It shall
forevermore endure—/The saints’ and angels’ song…
I can still hear Audrey
singing that song—no accompaniment, a few notes missed, forgotten, or
altogether ignored, but I can still hear it.
I can still hear that
song, like I can still hear those words, those words that changed me forever. The
congregation sang the invitation, the pastor called on someone to pray (we were
all hoping it wouldn’t be Brother Luther, because Brother Luther was one of
those folks who’d thank God for every thread in the carpet and ask him to bless
every person by name before running down God’s accomplishments from Genesis to
Revelation), and after we all heard “Amen,” we started shuffling out of the
pews, heading for the parking lot by the closest door. Before I could get to
the back door, Jimmy caught me by the shirt sleeve, and pulled me into the
little room at the back of the sanctuary we used for storage, weddings, and
occasional Sunday school space. Jimmy grabbed ahold of both of my shoulders,
looked me right in the face and said to me, “Jesus loves you. What are you
going to do about it?” It wasn’t a well-planned evangelistic strategy,
guaranteed to win souls; it wasn’t an hour long sermon on the tormenting pains
of hell, or an eloquent recitation of Scripture, memorized in the lofty
language of the King James Bible. Jimmy was hard to understand half the time
because he talked so fast and all of his words just sort of ran together, but I
heard him that day. I heard those words that day as clear as if they had
thundered from the sky as it tore in two. I heard those words that day as if
I’d never heard them before; as if it never occurred to me that they could be
arranged in that order. I heard those words that forever changed my life, words
I still hear, over and over again. They’re words—words an awful lot like those
in the scripture before us this morning—words I need to hear over and over
again, until they sink in all the way, until they become the only words that
matter: “Jesus loves you. What are you going to do about it?”
Twenty-nine: that’s how
many times the word love is used in one form or another in our text this
morning. Was it because the author of this epistle had a limited vocabulary?
Surely he could have thrown in some loftier words, words the likes of which
theologians in the ivory towers of academia toss back and forth, words that
need page-long dictionary definitions. But “love”…? That word’s been stretched
thin, worn flat, and rung out. That word’s been tattooed on biceps, printed on
countless boxes of chocolates, repeated in too many songs by and about
teenagers, tossed around in conversations about cakes and college football. “Love.”
That’s not a very strong word; it’s only got one syllable of four letters. It’s
a word that has become so commonplace, that I’m afraid when we hear it we just
don’t pay it much attention. Surely the author of this letter could have found
a better word to use than “love.” After all, that word is used all throughout
the Bible, almost like it’s some linguistic key hidden in the lines and
paragraphs of the scriptures, waiting to be discovered so the deep meanings of
life and faith can be unlocked.
It’s a word tossed around
in the books of the Law (the Torah), in passages like Leviticus 19, verse 18: “You
shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you
shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.” It’s a word that
calls out from the words of the prophets, like the words of Isaiah in Chapter
54: “For
the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall
not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed, says the
Lord, who has compassion on you.” It’s a word that that plays like the
overarching rhythm of the psalms, like in Psalm 136: “O give thanks to the Lord, for
he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever. O give thanks to the God of
gods, for his steadfast love endures forever. O give thanks to the Lord of
lords, for his steadfast love endures forever; who alone does great wonders,
for his steadfast love endures forever; who by understanding made the heavens,
for his steadfast love endures forever; who spread out the earth on the waters,
for his steadfast love endures forever…” It goes on like that for 26
verses. Then, there are the words of Jesus in the gospels: “…you
shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and
with all your mind, and with all your strength.' The second is this, ‘You shall
love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no other commandment greater than
these."
That word “love” is a
worn out word in Scripture. No wonder we try to find other words to underline,
other words to shout at those who don’t believe, words like “judgement,”
“wrath,” “heaven,” “hell,” “damnation,” “fear.” Now those words…they’ve got teeth
to them! Those words will make someone stand up and pay attention. They’ll make
your palms sweat, your heart race, cause your mind to contemplate where you’re
going to wind up after they put you down. But “love”…well that word’s too
ordinary, too mild. We say, “yeah, yeah, ‘Jesus loves me this I know, for the
Bible tells me so…’ but what else does it say? What else does it say about
everybody else? What does it say about those folks who act like hoodlums,
making us look bad? What does it say about those folks who I’ve been saying all
along who aren’t any better than a bunch of thugs? What does it say about the
punishment of those who deserve it? What does it say about sin (after all,
preacher, you got to preach on sin every once in a while to really step on
those people’s toes)? I know it says “love,” but what else does it say?”
It’s like a broken
record, a skipping CD, a bad scratched DVD: it just keeps repeating the same
thing over and over, but we want to get passed it to the parts we like, the
parts that aren’t so danged repetitive. But you know what I’m finding as I read
Scripture more and more, as I spend time with God, listening, praying, reading?
You know what I’m finding? All of those other parts I want to get to, all of
those other parts that aren’t so repetitive, all of those other exciting words
like “judgement,” “wrath,” “damnation,” “fear,” all of those words are
swallowed up in that one word that plays over and over: “love.”
It never fails. Every
time I go to the Bible, looking for an excuse, looking for a verse or two I can
pluck from the page to fling at all of “those people,” God whispers that word,
that same, old, worn out, flat word—“love.” It just won’t leave me alone. It’s
a word I need to hear over and over again, until it sinks in all the way, until
it becomes the only word that matters: “Love.”
May that word change you.
May that word shape you. May that word repeat over and over in your heart until
it becomes the only words that matters. Amen.
