[From Part I Chapter I, "Love's Hidden Life and Its Recognizability by Its Fruits"]
Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briers. ~Luke 6:44 (NIV)
"For every tree is recognized by its OWN fruit. It may well be that there are two fruits which very closely resemble each other; the one is healthful and good-tasting, the other is bitter and poisonous; sometimes, too, the poisonous fruit is good-tasting and the healthful fruit somewhat bitter in taste. In the same way love also is known by its own fruit. If one makes a mistake, it must be either because one does not know the fruit or because one does not know how to discriminate rightly in particular instances. For example, one may make the mistake of calling love that which is really self-love: when one loudly protests that he cannot live without his beloved but will hear nothing about love's task and demand, which is that he deny himself and give up the self-love of erotic love. Or a man may make the mistake of calling by the name of love that which is weak indulgence, the mistake of calling spoiled whimpering, or corrupt attachments, or essential vanity, or selfish associations, or flattery's bribery, or momentary appearances, or temporal relationships by the name of love."[1]
Scripture
says that we know love by its fruits. And yet, as Kierkegaard points out, we
often do not know how to discern the fruits of real love from those of
self-love. Being raised in a culture that glorifies the self above all, we find
the fruit of real, divine love to be bitter, while the poisoned fruit of
self-love tastes sweet. As the Church engages with the world we find that they
simply do not recognize divine love as love. It tastes bitter
because it requires selflessness. It requires us to give up the desires of our
sinful natures, our ambitions, even our lives, for the sake of others.
But
if fallen humanity cannot distinguish good fruit from bad fruit, then how can
we say that love can be known by its fruit? If a person can’t tell the
difference between an apple and an pear, how are they supposed to tell an apple
tree from a pear tree?
Kierkegaard
argues that there is a special trait of true, divine love, who always sets it
apart from its imitators:
"But every tree is known by its own fruit. So also is love known by its own fruit and the love of which Christianity speaks is known by its own fruit--revealing that it has within itself the truth of the eternal. All other love, whether humanly speaking it withers early and is altered or lovingly preserves itself for a round of time--such love is still transient; it merely blossoms. This is precisely its weakness and tragedy, whether it blossoms for an hour or for seventy years--it merely blossoms; but Christian love is eternal. Therefore, no one, if he understands himself, would think of saying of Christian love that it blossoms; no poet, if he understands himself, would think of celebrating it in song. For what the poet shall celebrate must have in it the anguish which is the riddle of his own life: it must blossom and, alas, must perish. But Christian love abides and for that very reason is Christian love. For what perishes blossoms and what blossoms perishes, but what has being cannot be sung about--it must be believed and it must be lived."
Human
love blossoms and perishes. It waxes and wanes. There is perhaps no greater
proof of this than our nation’s divorce rate. Human love is rooted in a
feeling, which, like all feelings, comes and goes with the circumstances. This
is there are so many songs and poems about love: it blossoms, affecting us
profoundly, and then it dies, with often-greater effect. Joy, hope, pain, and
despair are all wrapped into one series of events—perfect fodder for the
song-writer!
Divine
love, on the other hand, is very different. To a poet, divine love is almost
boring because it never changes. It never increases or decreases; it
simply is.
Christian
are meant to be reflectors of Christ’s love. Our love is meant to be
recognizable by its fruit—and not just the presence of love, but the nature of
love as well. The world should be able to tell that our love is of a different
kind because it does not change. That eternal nature should set us apart from
others.
The
question, then, is this: are you reflecting the love of God? Or the love of
humanity? Does your love wax and wane with your mood? Does your love depend on
how lovable the other person is? Or is your love like the love of God, never
changing? Of course, the answer for all of us on this side of glory is
the latter: we each inevitably fail to love perfectly like God. And yet we must
keep trying. If we wish for the world to listen to us when we tell them what
love is and what it looks like, we must give them a reason to believe that we
know what we’re talking about. We must not fail to love. Those we do not like,
those with whom we disagree, those with whom we do not get along: we must love
them all, because at our most unlovable God loved us, and he always will.
Dear
Father,
You
never change and your love never changes. I am such a poor imitator. My love
changes constantly. I have failed to love the unlovable, even though you live
me while I am unlovable. Grant me your Spirit, that he may teach me to love
eternally as you do. Make me to produce the fruits of love that make words
unnecessary, so that your love may be demonstrated through me.
In
the name of Jesus Christ,
Amen.
[1] Søren
Kierkegaard, Works of Love. Harper
Perennial, 2009, p. 25-6.
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