Love, as Johnny Edwards once put it, “presupposes affection.”
The point is, love is a verb, sure. But it’s an impossible verb. It’s the kind of verb that pulls us out of our Western enlightenment secularistic bubbles into the country of the supernatural. It’s not as easy as mechanical servitude—it’s whole-hearted affection for others, flowing from our whole-hearted affection for God. It’s as difficult as feeding the 5,000 on a loaf of wonderbread, as a camel passing through a needle’s eye (picture it), as the paralyzed getting up to walk.
It’s the kind of command so crazy it should probably induce a hysterical fit of laughter, something like God telling Sarah she would have a baby (or for a modern example, see the jelly-of-the-month club incident in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation). But God didn’t ask us to do something possible. He asked us to do something supernatural.
And the God who said “let there be light” ex nihilo (out of nothing) can certainly do the same in us: “Let there be love.”
