Love… bears all things, believes all things,
hopes all things, endures all things.
How long must I put
up with you?
Jesus’ actions
answered His own question…
Until the rooster
sings and the sweat stings and the mallet rings and a hillside of demons smirk
at a dying God.
How long? Long
enough for every sin to so soak my sinless soul
that heaven will turn in
horror
until my swollen lips pronounce the final transaction: “It is finished.”
How long?
Until it kills me.
* * *
My parents were not
too big on restaurants. Partly because
of the selection in our small town. Dairy Queen offered the gourmet selection,
and everything went downhill from there. The main reason, though, was
practicality. Why eat out when you can stay home? Restaurant trips were a
Sunday-only, once-or-twice-a-month event. Funny, now that I am a parent, the
philosophy is just the opposite. Why stay home when you can go out? (We tell
our daughters it’s time to eat, and they head for the garage.)
But when I was
growing up, we typically ate at home. And every time we ate at home, my mom
gave my brother and me the same instructions: “Put a little bit of everything
on your plate.”
We never had to be
told to clean the plate. Eating volume was not a challenge. Variety was. Don’t
get me wrong, Mom was a good cook. But boiled okra? Asparagus? More like
“croak-ra” and “gasp-aragus.” Were they really intended for human consumption?
According to Mom,
they were, and — according to Mom — they had to be eaten. “Eat some of
everything.” That was the rule in our house.
But that was not the
rule at the cafeteria. On special occasions we made the forty-five-minute drive
to the greatest culinary innovation since the gas stove: the cafeteria line.
Ah, what a fine moment indeed to take a tray and gaze down the midway at the
endless options. A veritable cornucopia of fine cuisine. Down the row you walk,
intoxicated by the selection and liberated by the freedom. Yes to the fried
fish; no to the fried tomatoes. Yes to the pecan pie; no, no, a thousand times
no to the “croak-ra” and “gasp-aragus.” Cafeteria lines are great.
Wouldn’t it be nice
if love were like a cafeteria line? What if you could look at the person with
whom you live and select what you want and pass on what you don’t? What if
parents could do this with kids? “I’ll take a plate of good grades and cute
smiles, and I’m passing on the teenage identity crisis and tuition bills.”
What if kids could
do the same with parents? “Please give me a helping of allowances and free
lodging but no rules or curfews, thank you.”
And spouse with
spouse? “H’m, how about a bowl of good health and good moods. But job
transfers, in-laws, and laundry are not on my diet.”
Wouldn’t it be great
if love were like a cafeteria line? It would be easier. It would be neater. It
would be painless and peaceful. But you know what? It wouldn’t be love.
Love doesn’t accept
just a few things. Love is willing to accept all things.
The apostle is
looking for a ribbon to wrap around one of the sweetest paragraphs in
Scripture. I envision the leathery-faced saint pausing in his dictation. “Let
me think for a moment.” Checking off his fingers, he reviews his list. “Let’s
see, patience, kindness, envy, arrogance. We’ve mentioned rudeness,
selfishness, and anger, forgiveness, evil, and truth. Have I covered all
things? Ah, that’s it — all things. Here, write this down. Love bears all things,
believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
Paul was never more
the wordsmith than when he crafted this sentence. Listen to its rhythm as
originally written: panta stegei, panta pisteuei, panta elpigei, panta
upomenei. (Now when people ask you what you are doing, you can say, “I’m
reading some Greek.” Say it humbly, however, for love does not boast.) Did you
notice the fourfold appearance of panta?
Expansions of panta
appear in your English dictionary. Pantheism is the belief that God
is in all things. A pantry is a cupboard where one can, hopefully, store
all things. A panacea is a cure for all things. And a panoply is
an array of all things. Panta means “all things.”
God’s view of love
is like my mom’s view of food. When we love someone, we take the entire
package. No picking and choosing. No large helpings of the good and passing on
the bad. Love is a package deal.
Excerpted with permission from A Love Worth Giving by
Max Lucado, copyright Max Lucado.
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