Love and its opposite
I think we have a tendency to look back on certain times of our lives selectively. We might even identify some portions as “the glory days,” neglecting to consider the challenges that existed during those points in time. For instance, I get nostalgic when I hear 80s hair band music, sometimes recollecting speeding down country roads in my Monte Carlo, perhaps on my way to the nearest record store to buy the latest Def Leppard album. Would I switch places with the 17-year-old driving that Chevy, though? Certainly not, if I allow myself a more complete view of the past. On reflection, I remember that at that time I had to work three hours to make enough money to afford that Def Leppard cassette, I couldn’t listen to it until I got home because my car had only an AM/FM radio, and playing “Love Bites” only led to angst since my dating life was highly unsuccessful.
I think sometimes we think the church had glory days as well. Some might point to the middle of the last century and the construction of so many large churches as such a time, forgetting that racism, sexism, and nationalism were often part of the mix. Some might point to the spread of Christianity in the first millennium as such a time, forgetting that faith and military force should never be combined. Some might point to the first century of the church as such a time. Certainly there are good reasons for this: For one, the earliest Christian church was formed in part by some who had known Jesus personally. And if you read the book of Acts, which tells the story of the earliest days of the church, it makes it sound like Christianity spread smoothly and cooperatively for the most part.
Then you come to epistles like the one in which today’s scripture passage appears. Often the letters found in the New Testament were written in response to a crisis or conflict, and 1 John is no exception.
Biblical scholar Colin Kruse describes the background thus: “The Letters of John provide readers with a cameo of life in one part of the early church. They represent an unhappy time in the life of the Christian communities involved; a time of dispute between believers involving both theological and behavioural concerns.” (Kruse, 1) Around 60 years after the ascension of Jesus, a group of itinerant preachers had emerged in some of the churches around Ephesus. They did not believe Jesus was the son of God, that he had lived as a human, “and that his death was necessary for the forgiveness of sins.” (Kruse, 2)
The writer of John’s gospel, sometimes referred to as the Elder, took issue with these beliefs. Jesus-followers were still trying to figure out what it meant to be a Christian, and for the Elder and many others who knew Jesus, the divinity of Christ was non-negotiable. Yes, his teachings were important, but that is not what is emphasized in today’s passage. The Elder is making more of a theological argument. As biblical scholar Thomas Bennett writes, “John is not ignoring Jesus’s life and ministry so much as he is describing agapē. And agapē reaches its climax, its fullest manifestation, in a Son who deigns to shed blood for the very world that demands his death.” (Bennett, 78) The Elder believed that the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus had cosmic significance, a significance that can’t be realized by someone simply living an exemplary life.
First John and the other writings that form the Bible’s New Testament were written in ancient Greek. In my experience, Greek — and especially ancient Greek — lives up to its reputation as being a challenging language to learn. That said, I came away from my Greek classes with an appreciation for some aspects of the language. One of them is the different words it provides to describe types of love. The author of 1 John uses one of those words, αγάπη, multiple times in today’s passage, making a powerful statement about its significance. Sadly, when we read 1 John, αγάπη is translated into the English “love,” and seems to have less impact (at least to me).
Thomas Bennet suggests the following explanation:
“In the twenty-first-century West, the watering down of ‘love’ has turned John’s radical confession into a bumper sticker. . . . Great affection and kindness are no doubt present in agape community, but they are augmented or fleshed out by sacrificial self-giving. Agapic community hurts; it is uncomfortable.” (Bennett, 83)
And discomfort is something we generally don’t like to experience. We shy from circumstances that threaten our comfort, whether the comfort in jeopardy is physical or even situational. When we have the option, we often gravitate to communities of folks who look or think like us. We might even come to demonize discomfort, or those who make us uncomfortable, going to great lengths to maintain separation from them. That separation can lead to what I refer to as “othering,” or dehumanization.
Our society is polarized over a variety of issues, but one in particular stands out to me when it comes to the concept and practice of αγάπη, and that is the climate catastrophe. Climate change and humanity’s role in its acceleration involve partisanship, perceived threats to comfort and familiarity, dehumanization, and a focus on our own needs.
If one were to learn about this situation in a vacuum, they would be surprised to hear that there’s any partisanship involved. Those on both sides are humans, and the climate catastrophe is an existential threat to human life, so you’d think all of the humans involved would want to take steps to, for instance, stop the burning of fossil fuels.
That’s where the opposite of αγάπη takes effect for those who side with climate inaction. When one makes money from the burning of fossil fuels, or is paid by those who do, the equation changes for them. So we see the situation muddied by some of those in power. They pose sustainable energy solutions and practices as threats to comfort, freedom, or income. They dehumanize those who suffer most from the climate catastrophe, sometimes blaming them for their circumstances. They even spread disinformation to sow fear among those who might otherwise choose a better path.
So we find ourselves in a reality in which one has to work harder to live a life that does less harm to our neighbors. Fast food restaurants push artificially inexpensive burgers while healthy diet options remain expensive. Rather than improving mass transit and building an EV-charging network, our tax dollars fund subsidies to reduce the cost of a gallon of gas by two-thirds. We’re awash in single-use plastics rather than materials that can be effectively recycled, so shopping conscientiously can prove difficult.
In short, elements of our society are so backward that exercising αγάπη can prove challenging even when one *tries* to put the needs of others ahead of their own.
Thomas Bennett might concur with that statement. He writes that “John’s analysis is uncompromising and stark: agapē is inhuman; it is not something natural to or originating in humanity, not even in the human pursuit of and love for God.” (Bennett, 77) It might not be unusual to run across people who are polite or warm, but agapē goes beyond such sentiments. When the Elder writes that God is love, he is speaking of an expression of extreme selflessness that runs counter to collective human inclination; indeed, its origin is God.
What does this love look like according to today’s passage? Sharing our lives, perhaps even to the extent we lose our own. Serving one another with humility. Living in the example of Christ. Extending love and not hate. (Jones, 201) While the Elder is taking the role of theologian in his writing, he is also, as Biblical scholar Peter Jones writes, “identifying with his readers, accepting responsibility for love of one another for himself and standing with them, and modeling a teaching style with and not at them. The perspective reflects community and not just individualism. Such mutual love for this writer includes the sharing of one’s earthly goods with sisters and brothers, embodying the present love of God in community.” (Jones, 186)
You might say that all of the following is intertwined: our love for one another, love from God to us, our knowledge of God, the revelation of God’s love in Jesus, and the Holy Spirit’s movement among us. Writing of that movement, Biblical scholar Robert Yarbrough writes that “The Spirit is the link, even agent, who permits believers to see this reciprocity for what it is: a token of God’s very presence among them, assuring them of the veracity of the message they have received and the importance of the ethic they are being called to embrace.” (Yarbrough, 246)
What you won’t find in the equation is fear — which is cast out by love — or indifference toward our siblings in need. At our Bible study last week when we were discussing this passage, the message against fear resonated with us. On too many occasions throughout church history, and in too many scary theologies, fear of hell and judgment has been a focus. Here the Elder pushes against that, asserting that we should actually have boldness on the day of judgment. The key is that we abide in God, and that comes through love for one another.
Robert Yarbrough explains it thus:
“Love is important here . . . for the sake of identity: since love is so inextricably bound up in the nature and work of God as revealed in his Son, those claiming to follow the Son must be inextricably involved in love. John’s burden in the epistle . . . is that God is light, but that light in its ineffable glory is invisible, and the essential form it assumes in the created world is love. God’s light takes visible shape when God’s people reflect his love.” (Yarbrough, 231)
So key is that communal αγάπη that the passage both begins and ends with it, from loving one another in the first verse to loving our siblings in the last.
So what does αγάπη look like in the context of a world plagued by climate catastrophe? An initial step would be to *see* our “brothers and sisters in need,” as 1 John 3 describes them. Many of those who are experiencing the effects of the climate catastrophe most acutely are those who have been marginalized, and their suffering is exacerbated by further disasters, forced migration, and food insecurity. The situation will worsen as fossil fuel companies continue their practices, as long as those in power don’t change policy, and as long as people like us stay largely on the sidelines.
How might we step onto the playing field? In reflecting on today’s passage, Professor Raj Nadella suggests the following: “Christian discipleship is not about status in the community but about actions that promote God’s justice and positively impact those most oppressed. Christianity is not justified by self-identification, going to church, or doctrinal expertise, but is manifest in carrying out the works of love and justice. Commitment to justice is never abstract. We should recognize it, in concrete terms, by its fruits.” (Nadella, 49)
How are those fruits manifested? On an individual level, we can consume less meat, especially beef. Where possible, we can maximize our use of mass transit, drive a car that plugs in, and fly only when necessary. We can avoid single-use plastics, replace our lawn care implements with electric options, and favor native plants.
These are all choices we can make that are in the best interest of humanity. That said, they don’t directly challenge the forces responsible for the climate catastrophe. If we truly want to decrease the suffering of the marginalized and future generations, more aggressive action is necessary.
My friend Michael offers an example of what this can look like. Last year, Michael took part in an action with an ecology justice group outside a $1000-a-plate political fundraiser. The politician holding the event regularly receives gifts from fossil fuel companies, and Michael and his colleagues chose to disrupt the event in order to draw attention to the corruption taking place. Michael himself blocked one of the entrances to the event, and when faced with the choice of vacating his spot or being arrested, he chose to be arrested.
More recently, Michael faced another choice. The court date for his arrest was finally approaching, and he had the option of pleading to a lesser charge. It probably won’t surprise you to learn that Michael instead chose to have his day in court, despite little chance of being found innocent. His hope was to further raise the urgency of the climate catastrophe.
Why do I use Michael as an example of αγάπη? Michael has nothing to gain personally from taking these actions. He is retired, and has no source of income tied to sustainable solutions.
Sadly, the opposite of love is well-funded. Fossil fuel companies turn huge profits, and receive tax subsidies to boot. Politicians who promote climate inaction receive money from those same companies. It will truly take a power as great as God’s love to overcome such worldly influence.
So those of us with the means — and I recognize that not everyone is in such a position — have a choice to make when it comes to the climate catastrophe. Will we follow the example of our table-flipping savior, who stood up to the powers and principalities of his day, or will we remain polite, averting our gaze as the suffering of the marginalized increases?
Peter Jones writes that “the Jesus of the cross sends a loving signal to a secular world.” (Jones, 199) Will we respond? If we abide in God, and with the power of the Holy Spirit, there’s nothing our agapic community can’t accomplish.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
Works Referenced
Bennett, Thomas Andrew. 1–3 John (The Two Horizons New Testament Commentary). Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2021.
Jones, Peter Rhea. 1, 2, & 3 John (Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary). Macon, Georgia: Smyth & Helwys Publishing, Inc., 2009.
Kruse, Colin G. The Letters of John. Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2000.
Nadella, Raj. “What Stories Define the Church.” Sojourners Vol. 53, №3 (April 2024): 48–49.
Yarbrough, Robert W. 1–3 John (Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament). Grand Rapids, Michigan: Baker Academic, 2008.
