Here, then, we have three words which are three syllables, and they are greater words than all the piled words of the most elaborate dictionary ever constructed. These are the words out of which all the other words come. No man invented these
328 GOD
words. They have become so familiar now that we do not know their meaning; but if we could throw ourselves back mentally and spiritually to the right standpoint, we should know that it did not lie within the compass of human genius to invent any of these words. We take the words for granted ; we speak the word "God" as if we knew all about it, and the great verb "is," as if it were one of a dozen verbs of equal merit ; and " love," which the boldest lexicographer has never successfully defined, we roll glibly off our tongue. We have all things in three syllables. Here is the Bible reduced to the smallest possible verbal scale, and yet losing nothing of the stellar glory and the infinite compass of the evolution of the Divine idea.
^ If I were asked what has most contributed to human progress and human happiness, even as philosophers measure those terms ; what it is, more than any other element of know- ledge, that has set free the intellect; more than any other principle of conduct, has instructed the conscience; more than any other object of desire, has elevated the affections ; I should say unhesitatingly that it is the unveiling of the face of our Father which is in heaven ; the revelation, all the more pregnant and influencing from the way in which it was made, that " God is love." ^
^ Bengel says : " This brief sentence gave John, even during the mere time he took to write it, more delight than the whole world can impart." And, indeed, one can well believe it ; for, you must remember, John really and deeply cared about God ; and if we really care about God and men, this text, if we believe it, will assuage our sorrow, lighten our hearts, and brighten our lives.
You are in perfect health, for instance, and you don't think about health. You cannot go into ecstasies over such a common- place thing as health. But some day you go into a hospital — you see long ward after ward filled with sick folk — with pale cheeks, lustreless eyes, sad, anxious faces, young and old, men and women. The light is dim, and as you pass you see they are carrying one poor patient out of the common ward, and you know they are carrying him where he may die alone, without disturbing the others; and then, when you go out into the open air, and the light and shine of the sun, and feel the spring of health in your limbs, the simple thought that you are well thrills you ! Health is no longer commonplace, and you thank God that you are not like other men, who are sick, and weak, and dying.
' J. Fraser, University Sermons, 288.
I JOHN IV. 8 329
" God is love," I say.
*' Of course ! " you say. " How commonplace your sermon is ! What a hackneyed text you have taken ! "
But look here — look into all old creeds, where God is said to be Cruelty, and Lust, and Caprice. Look into Catholicism, where God is a Burning Anger, kept from destroying the world only by a continual sacrifice. Look into modern philosophy, where God is Force without heart, and Law without pity. Look at your own lives, at the records on the pages of memory, and think of the still fuller entries on the book of judgment. Think of your sins, yea even of your virtues, and as you reflect how bad your worst deeds were, and how poor your best, are you not glad for your own sakes that God is love ? ^
^ When Mr. Moody built his tabernacle in Chicago, he was 80 anxious that every one that came there should learn one truth, namely, that " God is love," and so fearful that some day some preacher might stand in the pulpit and forget to tell the people that God is love, that he had these three words put into gas jets over the pulpit. So every night when the gas was lighted, there it blazed away over the preacher's head, " God is love." Whether the preacher told it to the people or not, they could see it for themselves in letters of fire.
One night the tabernacle was lighted but the people had not yet gathered for the evening service. A poor drunkard coming up the street saw the door a little ajar and saw the light, and then stumbled up the steps hoping to find warmth and cheer within. As he pushed the door a little wider, his attention was directed to the sentence in the letters of fire above the pulpit, " God is love." He turned away, pulled the door to, went down the steps and went up the street muttering, " It is not so. That is not true. God is not love. If God were love. He would love me, and God does not love a miserable wretch like me. It is not true." But all the time, the words were burning down into his soul, " God is love. God is love."