Love That Does Not Depend on You

Nicodemus was a Pharisee — the religious elite of his world, a member of the Sanhedrin, a man who had spent his entire life trying to earn the favor of God through meticulous observance of the law. He came to Jesus at night, perhaps afraid of what his colleagues would think, but unable to stay away. Something in Jesus had unsettled everything he thought he knew.

Jesus told him something that cut across every framework Nicodemus had. You must be born again. Not reformed. Not try harder. Born again. Nicodemus, literal and confused, asked how a grown man could reenter his mother's womb. Jesus answered with the most quoted sentence in history: "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life."

The word Jesus used — agapē — describes a love that does not compute. It is not love earned by Nicodemus's Torah-knowledge or religious pedigree. It is love given to the world — the entire world — as a gift, at ultimate cost, with no guarantee that the gift would be received.

Nicodemus came asking about miracles. He left holding something more extraordinary than any sign — the knowledge of a God whose love has no conditions attached.

Paul writes Romans 5 to people who understand what it means to be on the wrong side of something — estranged from God, enemies by nature, caught in the spiral of sin with no way to break free from the inside. He has spent chapters explaining the depth of the problem. Then he turns to explain the staggering nature of the solution.

God didn't wait for Israel to get its act together before sending Christ. He didn't wait for Paul to stop persecuting Christians. He didn't wait for you to pray a certain number of prayers or develop a certain level of spiritual maturity. He acted while the problem was still at its worst — while we were still enemies, still sinners, still completely without merit.

The cross was planted in the worst moment, not the best. That is what makes agapē so different from every other word for love in Greek — phileo (friendship) and eros (desire) both require something in the beloved that calls the love forth. Agapē requires nothing. It simply gives, even to those who have not asked for it yet.

John is old when he writes this letter. He has outlived almost everyone who walked with Jesus — all twelve apostles except himself, most of the early church leaders, countless friends. He has seen the church planted and persecuted and scattered. He has written a gospel, three letters, and a vision of the end of all things. And what does he keep coming back to? Love.

Not doctrine first. Not discipline first. Love first. "Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love."

He had watched Jesus wash feet. He had leaned against Jesus at the last supper. He had stood at the foot of the cross — the only apostle who stayed. And he had run to the empty tomb. All of it, in his telling, comes down to this: God is love. Not God loves. God is love. The universe came from that. Salvation came from that. And the community of believers should look like that.