A Portrait Of Love (Further Thought)

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.