God Is Love

I quickly went to the library and checked out a book of Herbert’s poems. I sat down to read the poem, and I too was so moved that I could hardly speak for a few moments. The more I read and thought about it, the more I realized just how profound it is.

Love (III)

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

If I lack’d any thing.

“A guest,” I answer’d, “worthy to be here”;

Love said, “You shall be he.”

“I, the unkind, ungrateful? ah my dear,

I cannot look on thee.”

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

“Who made the eyes but I?”

“Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them; let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.”

“And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?”

“My dear, then I will serve.”

“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.”

So I did sit and eat.

FINIS

Glory to God on high, and on earth peace,

Good will towards men.

Since the poem is quite old and the language is difficult, I would like to explain what the poem means (at least to me) in an attempt to offer some insights into it.

Love bade me welcome. Right away Herbert tells us about the nature of God. The poet agrees with John—God is love (1 John 4:8). Throughout the poem you could substitute the word love with the word God. The poet is saying, “God bade me welcome.” God invites us in.

Yet my soul drew back. But what is the soul’s response? When God draws near—really near—it is natural and even right for us to draw back. God is, after all, holy and righteous.

Guilty of dust and sin. Herbert tells us why we draw back; he never says we are anything other than guilty. You and I all know in our heart of hearts that we have failed, that we have fallen short of God countless times, and we draw back because we are guilty.

But quick-ey’d Love. Herbert describes God’s sight as “quick-eyed Love.” Isn’t that beautiful? God sees us fully and completely. He watches us, yes, but with eyes of love and compassion.

Observing me grow slack / From my first entrance in. Growing slack, in Herbert’s day, meant hesitation. Do you see the movement? God invites us in, but we draw back. God knows why—we feel guilty. So what does God do?

Drew nearer to me. God comes closer. He sees us falter and steps toward us. Even as we faint and fall away, God draws closer to us.

Sweetly questioning. God sweetly questions us. Here begins a kind of gentle argument. God draws near and asks us a question. With my earning-favor narrative well in place, I am sure God will ask, “Why have you sinned so much?” But it is not so.

If I lack’d any thing. God’s first question is not, “What do you have to say for yourself, you rotten sinner?” but rather, “What do you lack? Do you need something?”

“A guest,” I answer’d, “worthy to be here.” We lack a sense of being worthy. Most of us feel unworthy before God. The speaker is telling the truth.

Love said, “You shall be he.” Love responds to our doubts about our worthiness by saying, “You are worthy. You are because I say you are. You are because of my love for you.” Augustine once wrote, “By loving us, God makes us lovable.” Our worthiness will never be merited, achieved or earned. It is given to us as a gift, and a gift can only be received.

“I, the unkind, ungrateful? ah my dear, / I cannot look on thee.” But we have a hard time receiving gifts. After all, the whole world runs on merit, on earning what we get. So we respond, “Who . . . me? I, the ungrateful, the unkind? Do you really know how bad I am, God? I cannot even look at you!”

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, / “Who made the eyes but I?” This is a shocking image. Can you imagine God smiling—about anything? About you? Many people I know cannot imagine that God is proud of them, that God even likes them. And look at God’s marvelous response: “Who made your eyes—wasn’t it me?” We say, “God, I am unworthy to look at you,” and God replies, “Can’t you understand that those eyes, the ones you can’t lift up to me—I made them!”

“Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them.” “Yes,” we answer. We cannot argue with God on this one. “But [there is always a ‘but’] I have marr’d them.” Hebert is saying, “Yes, you made my eyes, God, but I have not used them rightly. I have looked on things I should not have; I have marred them by my own actions.”

“Let my shame / Go where it doth deserve.” Once again, the poor soul argues, “God, do you know who you are talking to? I am a mess. You gave me my eyes—my everything—and I have ruined them. So, please, let my shame go where it deserves.” It is here in the poem that the soul cries out not for mercy but for justice: “I am not worthy—give me not what I want but what I deserve.”

“And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?” When we reach this important place, God steps in and says, “I will not disagree. You have failed. And you deserve to be punished for it. But—pay attention to this—do you not know who bore the blame?” God is saying, “Jesus bore the blame. My Son took your shame, and you bear it no more.”

We need to stop here for a moment. Sometimes people talk about God’s love as being this cosmic good feeling toward all people with no regard for justice, as though sin were no big deal. This is why many do not think of themselves as sinners. But notice: if you are not a sinner, then why do you feel so bad? And if you pretend you are a sinner, then you will have to pretend you are forgiven. God says, “Your sin is real. The penalty is death. But my Son, Jesus, took the blame. He nailed your sins to his cross. He is ‘the judge judged in our place.’8 ”

“My dear, then I will serve.” Quite often the message of grace makes us feel guilty, instead of making us feel joyful and free. And there are many preachers who preach with that effect in mind: “Don’t you know, young man, that Jesus died for you—don’t you feel guilty about that?” And the intended response is, “Yes, yes I do. I’m sorry, Lord. I promise to do better. I’ll try harder to do better—I promise! I’ll even die on a mission field for you. Just give me a command, and I’ll do it. I owe you, God.”

“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.” In response God says, “Sit down. Rest here. Feast with me. Be with me. Enjoy my presence, and let me serve you first. I don’t need you to serve me. I don’t need you for anything. I made you because I love you, and what I really want is to be with you. My deepest desire is not that you go off to try to serve me, but that you would let me love you.”

What do you think God wants most from you?

So I did sit and eat. This is what God wants most of all. He wants to serve us, to see us feast and rejoice in his goodness. One day we will serve others, but only as a response to God’s love, not motivated by guilt.

George Herbert was a brilliant politician who left it all to be the pastor of a small church. He wrote many poems, but never intended for them to be read, much less published. On his deathbed he told a close friend that he had a number of poems he had written, and said, “Please read them, and if you think they might be useful, do with them what you will.”

His poems were published posthumously. I was stunned by his modest words: “If you think they might be useful.” I thank God that his friend had the wisdom to see that they would indeed be useful. I know Simone Weil felt the same way I do.

This chapter opened with the story of a young woman who became pregnant out of wedlock and was shunned by her pastor when she wanted to help the young women in the youth group. The pastor also refused to baptize her baby. She ended up in another church, and her child was baptized not long after. She worked with young people, finished her education and eventually went into mission work. Today she and her daughter live and work as missionaries in Africa.