Oak Chapel United Methodist Church

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For a few moments this morning, if we are able, I hope we might restrain our sentimentality about these famous words from I Corinthians -- Paul's so-called agape hymn, his essay on love -- and even that we might repress, if we are able, those sappy, syrupy renditions of it we have heard read at weddings, by breathless bridesmaids. Let us simply listen to Paul himself and try to understand what he is saying. Actually, it's not very complicated. Two points, really. First, if we (as Christians) don't have love, anything else we might have isn't worth a tinker's damn. And (second) love (like almost nothing else in this world) lasts forever. Faith, hope and love, he says, only these three, transcend this vale of time and space and go with us into eternity. And, of the three, the greatest is love.

As in all Christian teaching, love is two-sided. There is the amazing, inexplicable love of God for us, and (as an extension of that, and never really existing without it) there is the love we have for each other. You will remember from Sunday School, I am sure, that the Greek word here is agape. And agape is not just any old kind of love, but love unlimited and unconditional. (It's not filias, brotherly love, not eros, romantic love, not the love a person might feel for his country, or his job, or his friends. The Greeks had another word for each of these.) No, agape (a word which was commandeered by the Christian Church) is unconditional, unfaltering love of the kind a mother might have for her misbehaving child, or (to use Jesus' image) a father might have for a wandering son, the kind of love that makes us vulnerable. The kind of love we see in the cross. Agape is not a feeling, nor is it deeds, it is motive and character. And if we don't have agape, Paul says, if we don't have this, the purest form of love, even if we have a thousand other gifts, we are nothing.

There was trouble in Corinth. It had to do, apparently, with Christians who had received certain gifts from God lording it over others. Some had received the gift of speaking in tongues, others thought they possessed special knowledge, some had the gift of prophecy, some the gift of healing, some were even preparing themselves for martyrdom, offering their very bodies to be burned. But some, at least, had received their gifts not as signs of responsibility but of superiority. My gift is better than your gift. And, if I have a gift and you have none, I must surely be more favored of God. Paul explains patiently (in the Chapter preceding this famous passage) how in God's church there are "varieties of gifts." To one the Spirit gives this, to another that. All gifts are needed, and none can disparage another. He uses the human body as a metaphor: Just as the body is made up of many parts, he says, with each part an intrigal piece of the whole (so that, you remember, the foot cannot say to the hand, "I do not need thee", nor the eye to the ear) and all is unified and coordinated by the head, so the Church is made up of people with differing gifts, and Christ (who is the head of the Church) brings it all together.

It's a wonderful metaphor, one that has put an end to many prideful things in God's church over the years. But here Paul suddenly stops. (I think God must have granted him a special inspiration at this point.) He picks up his pen this time and sets the whole discussion on higher ground. He reminds those Corinthians (as I'm sure he would remind us, were he here today) that the preeminent gift of the Spirit is love. Even if I can speak in tongues (the tongues "of angels"), even if I can prophesy (and understand all mysteries), even if I have a faith strong enough to move mountains, even if I give away every earthly possession , and (yes), even if I give my body in a martyr's death, if I don't have love, I am nothing. Not a half-Christian. Not a quarter-Christian. If I don't have agape, I am nothing.

And then, "Love never ends." We don't have an English equivalent for the Greek word here. It means both "unending" and "unfailing". One scholar suggests we can capture both meanings by translating it, "Love never lets us down." We can't say that about much, can we?

When Pap got drunk he got mean. When he was too outrageous, his wife, who was afraid to him like that, would call me and ask if I would come and talk to him. (Not just for protection. She knew, if the preacher were there, Pap wouldn't loose it all together.) He never came to church, but on the whole he was a decent enough person. He had spent his entire life working hard, building up a business there by the church, had raised two children, and saved enough to assure himself and his wife a comfortable retirement. But, in his mid-sixties, Pap had suffered a stroke. Paralyzed his left side, and (for some strange reason) made him uncomfortable wearing anything above the waste. And it made him bitter. I would see him dragging himself around his property, a brace on one leg, using a heavy, wooden cane, his upper body naked even on cold days, barking and growling at the world. And when it got too painful, I guess, he drank.

I would come down, and sit forlornly at that little kitchen table, while Pap, half-naked, stormed around the room , swinging his cane and threatening murderous things. After an hour or so, he would calm down and we would put him to bed. I remember most vividly the time he suddenly slammed down that great cane on the table, with all his might, and I jumped out of my skin. Then he leaned over so far that it seemed he was looking straight down at me, and said, "Spend your money now, Bill. Spend your money now."

I didn't have any money. But there was something so pitiful about that old man, who was nearing the end, looking back, and wishing he had played his cards differently -- wishing, at least, that he had stopped to enjoy the fruits of his labor before it became impossible for him to enjoy anything, wishing, perhaps, that he had invested his life in something that would last, that would see him through even sickness and death. There's not much in this world that holds up, not much (in the long run) that merits our devotion. Most earthly endeavors, even all those other kinds of love, fail in the end. But agape does not. What survives the grave? Not our ectacies, Paul says, not our prophecies, not our knowledge, not our sacrifices, -- but love. Beloved, I hope you see that argument today. If God's very nature is love, then whatever tiny approximation of love we can achieve ties us to the very heart of God, and makes us eternal. Love never lets us down.