A Portrait of Love

Good afternoon,everyone. Happy Sabbath.

We use the word love so often that we can forget to ask what it really means.
But suppose, for one week, God removed the word love from our vocabulary.
We couldn't say, “I love you.”
We couldn't preach about love.
We couldn't sing about love.
We could only demonstrate it.

What would people see?
Patience when we're provoked?
Kindness when there's nothing to gain?
Forgiveness when we've been deeply hurt?
Grace when someone fails?
That's what makes 1 Corinthians 13 so challenging.
Paul wasn't writing to a perfect church. Corinth had spiritual gifts, strong opinions, divisions and wounded relationships. They were discovering that being spiritually gifted doesn't necessarily mean being spiritually mature.

So Paul gives them a portrait—not of spectacular Christianity, but of love in action.
Love is patient.
Love is kind.
Love doesn't boast.
Love isn't rude.
Love doesn't insist on its own way.
Love keeps no record of wrongs.
Paul doesn't tell us what love says.
He tells us what love does.
And perhaps this week, the portrait isn't simply something for us to admire.
Perhaps it is meant to look back at us.

Good morning, everyone.
Paul's words in 1 Corinthians 13 should make every religious person pause.
He says I can speak impressively, understand prophecy, possess knowledge, have extraordinary faith, give generously, and make enormous sacrifices—and yet, without love, I am nothing.
Notice what Paul is doing. He isn't saying spiritual gifts are useless.
He's asking a more searching question:
What is driving them?

So someone can preach, teach, serve, know the Bible, and exercise spiritual gifts—and still not be spiritually mature?

Exactly.
That's one of the hidden jewels in this passage.
Spiritual giftedness is not proof of spiritual maturity.
That's why Paul can say, in effect, that I can be gifted, knowledgeable, generous, and deeply religious—and still be missing the one thing that gives it all meaning: love.
And that should make us uncomfortable.

But if someone is doing good things, isn't that evidence that they love?

Not necessarily.
The same action can come from very different motives. I can give because I love you—or because I want recognition.
I can defend truth because I love Christ—or because I enjoy proving someone wrong.
I can correct someone because I care—or because I enjoy being right.
The action may look religious. But God examines what is underneath it.

Then perhaps that's where church people can deceive themselves.
We attend. We teach. We sing. We give. We defend doctrine. We protect the church's reputation. And because we're doing all these things, we assume we're spiritually healthy.
But 1 Corinthians 13 asks a harder question:
How are people experiencing us?

Exactly.
Jesus warned that because of the increase of wickedness, "the love of most will grow cold."
Notice He didn't say their religion would necessarily disappear. He said their love would grow cold.

It is possible to remain religious while becoming increasingly unloving.
That may be one of the greatest spiritual dangers we face.

But what exactly is this love Paul is talking about?

It isn't merely affection, romance, or being nice.
Paul describes love by what it does.
It is patient, kind, doesn't envy, doesn't boast, isn't arrogant, doesn't dishonor others, isn't self-seeking, isn't easily angered, doesn't keep a record of wrongs, rejoices with truth.
In other words:
Love becomes visible in behavior.

Then love is something we should be growing in?

Yes.
And that's an important part of this lesson. Love isn't a box we check and then move on.
It is a life of growth.
Ask yourself:
Am I more loving today than I was five years ago?
Am I more patient?
More forgiving?
More generous with people who disappoint me?
More willing to listen?
More able to disagree without becoming hostile?
Because if my Christianity has grown stronger but my love has not... something is wrong.

That one bothers me.
Because I can become more knowledgeable without becoming more loving.
I can learn more doctrine.
Understand more prophecy.
Become more involved in church.
And still carry the same impatience, resentment, and pride I had years ago.
Maybe I've become better at being a church member without becoming more like Christ.

That's the mirror Paul holds up. The real test isn't how passionately we talk about love. It's how people experience us.

Imagine that tomorrow every religious title disappeared. No theological accomplishments. All that remained was how we treat people.
Would there be enough evidence of Christ in our lives for someone to recognize Him?
Because Paul doesn't merely say love is important.
He says:
"If I have not love, I am nothing."
That's devastating to religious pride.
That's where I think 1 Corinthians 13 becomes personal.

Perhaps the greatest danger isn't that we don't know what love is. We can know the chapter by heart...and still fail to recognize ourselves in it.

So let's stand before the portrait honestly.
Am I becoming more loving? Or merely more religious?
When people encounter me, do they encounter Christ?
When someone hurts me, what comes out?
When someone disagrees with me, what comes out?
When nobody is watching, what comes out?

And perhaps the hardest question of all:
How much of Christ can actually be seen in me?
Because 1 Corinthians 13 isn't merely a definition of love.
It is a portrait.
And the purpose of a portrait is not simply to admire the person in it.
It is to see ourselves more clearly.
Because the goal isn't simply to know what love looks like. The goal is to become a person through whom love can be seen.

And that is where the real conversation begins.
Am I growing in love?
Is my knowledge producing Christlike character?
And when people encounter me…do they experience something of Jesus?

Yesterday we looked at the portrait of love in 1 Corinthians 13.
Today Paul does something more demanding. He puts love under pressure.
He doesn't tell us what love feels like. He tells us what love does.

Love is patient.
Love is kind.
Love rejoices with truth.
Love bears, believes, hopes and endures.
So let's ask the uncomfortable question:
What does my love do when I have every reason to do otherwise?

Let's say someone keeps irritating you. They disagree with you, make mistakes, and don't change as quickly as you'd like.
What does love do?

It is patient.

But patience has limits.

Of course. Love doesn't mean tolerating abuse or having no boundaries.
But here's the harder question:
How long does my love survive when someone refuses to become what I want them to be?

Paul also says love is kind.

That's easy when people are kind to you.
What happens when someone insults you? Criticizes your church? Leaves and then tells people why?

Exactly.
Love doesn't ask, “How badly can I respond and still call myself a Christian?”
It asks:
“How can I respond and still look like Christ?”

But what if I'm defending the truth?

Then here's the test:
What does the truth make you look like?
Can you disagree without despising?
Can you admit when you're wrong?
Can you rejoice when someone you disagree with turns out to be right?

That's difficult in church. Sometimes admitting you're wrong feels like surrendering.

But Paul says love rejoices with the truth.
Love is more committed to truth than to being right.

What about “love believes all things”? Are we supposed to believe everybody?

No. Love isn't gullibility.
But neither does love make suspicion its default setting.
How quickly we assign motives:
“They did that deliberately.”
“She's trying to undermine me.”
“He's only saying that because…”
Sometimes we know what happened.
But do we really know why it happened?
Love gives people the benefit of the doubt when there is room for it.

So love doesn't ignore wrongdoing?

No.
It simply refuses to convict someone based on a story we invented about them.

Now let's make this personal.
We know our doctrines.
We know the Sabbath.
We know the prophecies.
We know the health message.
We know the language of the remnant.
We serve, teach, preach and evangelize.
But what if we can possess all of that and still fail the test of love?

Are you saying religious knowledge can make us feel spiritually safe?

It can.
We can mistake belonging for becoming.
We can become so comfortable with what we believe that we stop asking what our believing is making us become.
I can defend doctrine and still be unkind.
I can keep the Sabbath and still make somebody's Sabbath miserable.
I can preach about grace and still refuse to give it.
I can call myself part of the remnant and still fail to resemble Jesus.

That's uncomfortable.

First Corinthians 13 is supposed to be.
It's not just a description of love.
It's a mirror.

Then how do we know whether the Spirit is really producing love in us?

Galatians 5 calls love fruit of the Spirit.
So perhaps don't ask only:
“Do I have the Spirit?”

Ask:
What is the Spirit producing in me?
When I'm offended, what comes out?
When I'm challenged, what comes out?
When someone disagrees with me, what comes out?
When someone fails, what comes out?
When someone succeeds ahead of me, what comes out?
When someone I dislike needs my help, what comes out?
Because pressure doesn't create our character.
It reveals it.

So maybe the question isn't whether I know what love is.

Exactly.
The question is whether people can experience it when they encounter me.
Because I can have the truth.
I can have the doctrine.
I can have the Sabbath.
I can have religious experience.
And still miss the one thing Paul says gives everything else meaning.
Love.

The real test of love isn't how beautifully we can describe it.
The real test is what we do when we have every reason to do otherwise.

Daniel was the kind of Christian people trusted.
He was faithful, knowledgeable and always willing to help. He knew his Bible and spoke confidently about Christian love.
If anyone had asked, “Do you love your brothers and sisters?”
Daniel would have answered:
“Of course I do.”

Then Michael joined the church. He was younger, energetic and gifted. People noticed him quickly.
At first, Daniel was happy for him.
Then came the announcement.
“We need someone to lead our new community outreach project.”
Daniel had quietly hoped to be chosen. Instead, the pastor turned to Michael.
“Would you be willing to take it on?”
Michael smiled. “I'd be honored.”
The congregation applauded. Daniel applauded too. He even shook Michael's hand.
“Congratulations. You'll do a great job.”

But as he walked to his car, his smile disappeared.
" Why him?"
He dismissed the thought.
But it returned.

The project succeeded.

One Sabbath, the pastor publicly praised Michael.
Daniel clapped.

Later, someone remarked, “Michael really has a gift for this.”
Daniel smiled. “He does.” Then he added, almost casually: “You know, I actually started something similar years ago.”
Nobody had asked. But Daniel felt better after saying it.
Something was changing inside him.

A few weeks later, Michael disagreed with him during a committee meeting.
“I don't think that's the best approach,” Michael said.
Daniel looked at him.
“Perhaps when you've been doing this as long as I have, you'll understand why it doesn't work that way.”

The room went quiet.

Afterward Michael approached him. “You didn't have to say that.”
“I was simply making a point,” Daniel replied.
But on the way home, Daniel knew he had gone too far.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to apologize. He was becoming convinced that being right gave him the right to make someone else feel small.

After that, everything about Michael seemed to irritate him. His suggestions. His questions. Even his voice.
Daniel began keeping a mental record:
_Remember what he said .
Remember how he embarrassed me.
Remember how everyone applauded him
_ .
He told himself he had forgiven Michael. But the file remained open.

Then came the phone call. Michael had made a serious mistake.
The news was spreading through the church. Daniel listened silently.
When the call ended, he sat alone. And then, to his horror, he realized he was relieved.

A thought surfaced:
Now they'll finally see .

He immediately felt ashamed. But the thought had already exposed something in him.
He didn't merely dislike Michael anymore. Somewhere along the way, he had begun to need Michael to fail.

That night Daniel couldn't sleep. At 2:13 a.m., he got up, went into the living room and opened his Bible.
It fell open to 1 Corinthians 13. His eyes stopped at the first words:
“Love does not envy.”
Daniel froze. He read on.
“Love does not boast.”
He remembered the conversation about his own accomplishments.
“It is not puffed up.”
He remembered the committee meeting.
“It does not behave rudely.”
He remembered Michael's face.

Then
“It does not seek its own.”
His rights. His position. His need to be respected.

And
“It is not provoked.”
How easily Michael had begun getting under his skin. Then came the words that struck deepest:
“It keeps no record of wrongs.”

Daniel lowered the Bible. The file was still there.
Every offense.
Every remembered word.
Every wound.

Finally he read:
“It does not rejoice in wrongdoing.”

Daniel sat in silence. For months he had been examining Michael. Now he realized that God was examining him. And the question that came was not:
“What's wrong with Michael?”

It was: “What's killing my love?”

So Michael wasn't necessarily innocent?

No. But that's not really the point.
Daniel had become so focused on Michael's faults that he stopped noticing what those faults were producing inside him.

And that's what makes it uncomfortable. None of it seemed dangerous at first.

Exactly. That's how love can begin to die. It rarely disappears in one dramatic moment. Sometimes it happens quietly—through comparison, pride, irritation, resentment, wounded ego, the need to be right, and those little records of wrongs we refuse to destroy.

So a person can still think they're loving while something inside them is slowly killing their love?

Yes.
And perhaps that's why Paul gives us more than a beautiful description of love. He gives us a mirror.

The real question isn't simply, “Do I love?”

It's
“What happens inside me when someone else succeeds, disagrees with me, hurts me, receives the recognition I wanted—or falls?”
Those moments reveal us.
They expose what envy is doing.
What pride is doing.
What resentment is doing.
What our need to be right is doing.

And sometimes they reveal that the person we thought was destroying our peace isn't the real problem at all. The real battle is happening inside us.

So before we ask God to give us more love, perhaps we should ask Him to show us what is killing the love we already have.
And when He shows us, may we have the courage to surrender it.
Because love may not need more words from us.
It may need some things inside us to die.

Let's run an experiment.
For the next 60 seconds, imagine you're forbidden to tell anyone you're a Christian.
No Bible quotations.
No church vocabulary.
No defending doctrines.
You still believe it all.
You simply can't say it.

Now, if the only evidence someone had of your faith was the way you treated them...what would they conclude?

That's different from asking whether I know Jesus.

Much different.
You can know a great deal about Jesus and still give people very little reason to want to know Him.

So the question isn't whether I can describe Jesus. It's whether my life resembles the Jesus I describe.

Exactly.
And that's where 1 Corinthians 13 becomes uncomfortable.
We've often read it as beautiful poetry.
Today, let's read it as a mirror.
“Love is patient.^^”
Who is testing my patience?
“Love is kind.”
Who receives the least kindness from me?
“Love does not envy.”
Whose success is difficult for me to celebrate?
“Love is not proud.”
Can I admit that I might be wrong?
“Love hopes.”
Whom have I already decided cannot change?
“Love bears all things.”
Who has become too difficult for my love?
“Love endures.”
What happens to my love when I am hurt?

That's no longer about how Jesus behaved.
That's about how I behave.

Exactly.
A portrait isn't merely meant to be admired. It reveals something.
And here's the uncomfortable question for those of us who believe we have the truth:
What is the truth producing in me?

If knowing more truth makes me more patient, humble, gracious and loving, then truth is doing its work.
But if I become increasingly argumentative, suspicious and contemptuous of those who disagree with me, I need to ask:
Am I becoming more like Jesus—or simply becoming better at being religious?

That's a hard distinction.

It is.
Because religious activity can become impressive while love quietly disappears.
I can know Scripture, prophecy and doctrine—and still fail the person standing in front of me.
The question isn't only what do I believe?

It's
What kind of person are my beliefs making me?

Now put your phone down for a moment.
Look at the dark screen.
What do you see?

My own face.

Exactly.
Not the person you wish you were.
You.
And here's the good news:
God doesn't love an imaginary, improved version of you.
He knows exactly who is looking back from that screen—and He loved that person enough to give His Son.

Corinthians 21 says,
“God made Him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God.”

So I don't have to become lovable before God loves me?

No.
Grace comes before transformation.
I don't practice patience so God will finally love me.
I practice patience because, in Christ, I've encountered a love I could never earn.
I don't forgive so God will accept me.
I forgive because I've begun to understand the forgiveness I've received.
I don't become like Jesus to make myself worthy. I become like Jesus because His love has already found me.

So the portrait isn't merely a standard I'm trying to copy.
It's becoming a picture of what His love is producing in me.

Yes.
Think about Paul.
Ananias knew Paul's history.
Jesus called him a “chosen instrument.” — Acts 9:15
Ananias saw the history.
Jesus saw what grace could make of the man.
Perhaps love does something similar.
It doesn't pretend the past didn't happen.
It refuses to believe the past has the final word.

Can I see beyond what someone has done to what grace might still make of them?

So let's return to our experiment.
We weren't really taking Jesus out.
We were taking away our religious explanations about Jesus.
And when the explanations disappear, something remains:
how we treat people.

So ask yourself:
If I were not allowed to tell anyone that I follow Jesus, would the way I treat people make them curious about the Jesus I claim to follow?
Not perfect.
Not flawless.
But recognizably different.

Perhaps the goal isn't merely that we recognize Jesus in the portrait of love.
Perhaps the deeper miracle is that, through His transforming presence, His character becomes recognizable in us.
And that's the paradox of grace:
I don't become like Jesus so that He will love me.
I become like Jesus because I have discovered that He already does.

Yesterday we asked:
“Am I becoming more like Jesus—or simply becoming better at being religious?”
Today I want to go deeper.
Before we ask what kind of people we are becoming, perhaps we should ask:
What kind of God do we believe we are becoming like?

When you hear the word God, what rises inside you?
Fear? Safety? Distance? Acceptance? Judgment? Love?

That's harder than I expected.

Perhaps because there can be a difference between the God we say we believe in and the God our hearts have actually learned to trust.
Then John gives us this extraordinary statement:
“God is love.” — 1 John 4:8
Not simply, God loves.
God is love.

So love isn't just something God does?

Exactly.
Love tells us something about who God is.
And suddenly Paul's three words become more than three Christian virtues:
Faith. Hope. Love.
Perhaps they describe three dimensions of our relationship with God.
Faith says:
I can trust His character.
Hope says:
I can trust His promises.
Love says:
I can let His character become visible in me.

But why does Paul call love the greatest?

Think about what happens when Christ returns.
Faith, which now trusts what we cannot see, will encounter sight.
Hope, which waits for what God has promised, will encounter fulfillment.

But love?
Love doesn't become unnecessary when the waiting is over.
Because love belongs to the very character of God.
Love isn't merely preparation for eternity.
Love is part of what eternity is about.

Now let's return to 1 Corinthians 13.
We've often read it as instructions about how Christians should behave.
But what if Paul is giving us a glimpse of the character of the God we are being invited to reflect?

Love is patient.
Love is kind.
It isn't proud or self-seeking.
It doesn't keep a record of wrongs.
It bears, hopes and endures.
If God is love, then these aren't merely rules for Christian behavior.
They reveal something about the character of the God we are becoming like.

Let me try an experiment.
For a moment, don't tell me what you believe about God.
Ask yourself:
What would my life look like if what I believe about God were actually true?

If I really believed God was patient, maybe I'd have more patience with people.

If I really believed God forgives, maybe I couldn't keep someone's failures on permanent record.

If I believed God welcomes sinners, perhaps people who are struggling would feel safe around me.

Now we're getting somewhere.
We're no longer asking: “Do I believe God is love?”
We're asking: “If I truly believe that God is love, what should that belief produce in me?”
Because if I say I believe in a God who is love, but become increasingly harsh, proud, suspicious and unforgiving—something is wrong.

If I believe God is patient, but has no patience with weakness...
If I believe God forgives, but keep people's failures on permanent record...
If I believe God welcomes sinners, but certain people never feel welcome around me...
then perhaps I'm not merely failing to love.
I'm giving people a distorted picture of the God I claim to know.

If we want to know what God's love looks like, we don't have to invent it.
Look at Jesus.
He washed feet.
Touched the untouchable.
Welcomed sinners.
Confronted hypocrisy.
Wept with the grieving.
Forgave His enemies.
And went to a cross.
Jesus doesn't merely tell us that God is love.
He shows us what that love looks like.

So perhaps spiritual maturity isn't simply knowing more about God.
It is becoming more like the God Jesus revealed.
And that brings us to the question I want you to carry today:
If God is love, what is my life telling people about the God I believe in?
Not what my doctrines say.
Not what my mouth says.
What does my life say?
Perhaps the invitation of faith, hope and love is this:
Trust His character.
Wait for His promises.
And let His love become visible in you.

There is a comment we hear with increasing frequency:
“There is no love in the church.”
Sometimes the complaint is justified. People have been ignored, judged, excluded, and wounded by those who claimed to represent Christ.

But perhaps there is a more uncomfortable question:
What if we have become so concerned with having the truth that we have forgotten the purpose of truth is to transform us into the likeness of Christ?

We have built an identity around truth. We can become remarkably skilled at identifying error.
But what if we have become less skilled at becoming like Jesus?

We can know the Sabbath and still be harsh. We can understand prophecy and still be proud. We can defend the remnant and still have little compassion for those outside. We can expose Babylon and still create our own little Babylons of exclusion.
We can become so preoccupied with being the people who have the truth that we forget Jesus said the unmistakable evidence of His disciples would be love.

That raises a question:
What if our greatest danger is not losing the truth, but possessing it without being transformed by it?

Knowledge can become a substitute for conversion. Doctrinal precision can give us the comforting feeling that we are spiritually safe. Being able to explain what is wrong with everyone else can distract us from asking what is wrong in ourselves.
We can measure faithfulness by attendance, standards, Sabbath observance, and prophetic understanding—and never ask:
“How are you treating people?”

Paul will not allow us that escape.
In 1 Corinthians 13, he dismantles the spiritual résumé.
I can speak beautifully. I can understand mysteries. I can have faith. I can give generously. I can sacrifice greatly.
And still be nothing without love.

Paul does not say love makes truth unnecessary. He says something far more disturbing:
Truth without love can leave the person who possesses it spiritually empty.
So the question is not merely, “How much truth do I know?”
The deeper question is: “What has the truth I know made me?”
Has it made me gentler? More patient? More forgiving? More gracious toward those who disagree?

More like Jesus?

Or has it simply made me better at proving I am right?

That is where this lesson becomes a mirror.
Paul is not giving us a beautiful description to admire. He is holding up a portrait of Christ—and inviting us to look at ourselves.
The question is not, “Can I explain the portrait?”
It is: “How much does my life resemble the One in the portrait?”

Perhaps we need to be brutally honest.
We have spent years learning how to defend the truth. But have we spent enough time allowing the truth to expose our own pride?
We have learned how to recognize error. But have we learned how to recognize the image of God in the person who is wrong?

Because it is possible to be distinctive without being Christlike; doctrinally correct and spiritually cold.
It is possible to be zealous for the remnant while forgetting the character of the One who calls the remnant.
And perhaps that is one of our great temptations: to make our distinctiveness the evidence of our discipleship.

But our doctrines were never meant to become trophies of superiority.
The Sabbath was meant to lead us into a relationship with God. Prophecy was meant to reveal Christ. The remnant message was meant to call us to faithfulness.
Everything was supposed to lead us toward Jesus.

So if our understanding of these things makes us more arrogant, suspicious, judgmental, or less compassionate, we have managed to hold the signposts while missing the destination.

And this is why “There is no love in the church” cannot remain merely a criticism.
Before I say it, I may need to ask:
“Lord, am I contributing to the very absence of love I am complaining about?”
And perhaps an even harder question:
“Could I be defending the truth in a way that denies the very Christ the truth was meant to reveal?”
Because the discovery that our Christianity has been incomplete is not the end of the story.
It can be the beginning of a new one.

Perhaps the prodigal moment for some of us is not leaving the church. Perhaps it is coming to our senses while still sitting in the pews.
Realizing that we have had the truth—but have not yet allowed the Truth to have us; that we have defended Adventism while sometimes failing to display Christ; that we have been very careful about being right—and not careful enough about being loving.

And perhaps that realization is not condemnation.
It is an invitation home.
Perhaps today I stop asking whether I have the Truth—and ask whether the Truth has me.
And if the answer exposes something painful, perhaps I should surrender it.
Because the goal was never merely to become people who know the truth.
The goal is to become people in whom the Truth has become visible.

And perhaps that is where a new chapter begins:
When what we believe finally becomes the way we love.