. . . and Have Not Love

London, Twentieth Sunday after Trinity, October 14, 1934

In the autumn of 1934, Bonhoeffer preached a sermon series on 1 Corinthians 13. In this sermon, the first in the series, he gives three reasons for preaching on the apostle Paul’s famous “love chapter.” With the second reason, he was thinking of those in Germany who were struggling for a church that truly confessed Christ. He mentions the temptation for them to forget that they must also live the meaning of the statements they made in words.

This sermon is just one example of the high standard for the Christian life that Bonhoeffer consistently upheld, for himself first, and for those whose education in the faith was entrusted to him. He encountered some resistance to such a demanding concept of Christianity, both from people in his London congregations and later from seminary students who were soon to be pastors. But many kept throughout their lives the memory of the example he set and the vision of a God who really expects more from us than moral conduct, good deeds, and pious words, but who also forgives us when we fall short.

First Corinthians 13:1–3 is quoted here from the Revised Standard Version (1946), which preserves the older reading of verse 3 in the Luther Bible, which Bonhoeffer used: “and if I deliver my body to be burned.” Here, Paul is evoking a religious custom in the ancient world of giving one’s body as a burnt-offering of ultimate devotion.

1 Corinthians 13:1–3 rsv: If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.

The reasons that have moved me to preach this series of sermons on the thirteenth chapter of the first letter to the Corinthians are these: First, this chapter is one that we need in our congregation, just as it was needed by the church in Corinth. What does it mean, after all, to be a Christian church-community, if in all the fine things that happen here, one thing is not completely clear, indeed self-evident—that the members of a church-community are to love one another? What image is the congregation offering, to itself and to the world, if not even this first obligation is being taken seriously? If there was one human thing about the first Christians that pagans found convincing, it was quite simply that they could physically see with their own eyes that two neighbors, or a master and his slave, or estranged brothers or sisters suddenly were no longer against each other but rather with and for each other. So it really made a difference, outwardly and visibly, that they had become Christians. But do we think this means that, since we are already Christians, nothing more needs to change? Wouldn’t it be better to say that if we too were to become Christians, many things in our own lives would suddenly change? Would not these words of judgment also apply to a congregation . . . and if everything happened just so in our congregation, if we all came to church and did all sorts of good deeds—“but had not love, we would be nothing”?

The second reason I had for choosing this text is the particular situation of our German churches. Whether or not we want to see it, whether or not we think it is right, the churches are caught up in a struggle for their faith such as we have not seen for hundreds of years. This is a struggle—whether or not we agree—over our confession of Jesus Christ alone as Lord and Redeemer of this world. But anyone who inwardly and outwardly joins in this struggle for this confession knows that such a struggle for faith carries a great temptation with it—the temptation of being too sure of oneself, of self-righteousness and dogmatism, which also means the temptation to be unloving towards one’s opponent. And yet this opponent can never truly be overcome if not through love, since no opponent is ever overcome, except by love. Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing [Luke 23:34]—how many people have truly been overcome by these words of Jesus! Even of the most passionate battle for the faith it could well be said: “. . . but had it not love, it would be nothing.”

This brings us to the third reason: the Protestant church has been able to proclaim, with unparalleled confidence, the victory and the power of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ alone and thus has caused the world to hear again the message of the Bible in its purity. But who still hears this word of faith the way it is meant to be heard?—that what it really means is that God is to be loved above all? To love God does not just mean that when things are going badly for us, we say: God will help us again! That truly amounts to a feeble and puny faith. To love God means to rejoice in God, to think and pray gladly to God, to love being alone in God’s presence, to wait impatiently for God, for every word and every request; it means not causing God sorrow but rejoicing simply that there is God, that we can know and have and speak with and live with God. To love God—and for love of God, to love our neighbors as well—in our disillusioned Protestant church, do we still understand this? Can we hear it without saying that it is simply pietism—and what if it were? Is not this the declaration upon which we stand as the Protestant church, which preaches “by faith alone”: “. . . but had it not love, it would be nothing”?

In everything I am now going to say, let us keep one thing in mind: that we are not going to look at other people but rather look within ourselves and ask whether we have love. Who knows—maybe that neighbor of ours who seems such a lone wolf, so odd, self-centered, not friendly at all, might turn out to be full of longing to love greatly—only it takes a long, long time for the ice to break and set his or her heart free. And who knows whether all our efforts to be friendly, and what we say to others about this person, only do all the more to prevent the true breakthrough to great love for God and for others. So let us look only at ourselves and hear what is said as being meant just for us.

In the first place it is very simple, what is being said here—that a human life is only meaningful and worthwhile to the extent that it has love in it, and that a life is nothing, is meaningless and worthless, when it is without love. A life is worth as much as the love in it. Everything else is nothing at all, a matter of indifference, unimportant. All the good and bad, big and little things are unimportant. Only one thing is asked of us—whether or not we have love.

We have all had the experience of standing at the grave of someone about whom we could think of absolutely nothing to say, where we simply felt terribly depressed: how unspeakably poor this person’s life was, how meaningless, how much time and effort was lost here. For this person had no one to love and was not loved by anyone. We watch dully, without pain or tears, as this life is finally laid to rest, as it may perhaps have longed to be. This was a skinflint, a jealous, tyrannical person who only knew and wanted and looked out for himself, who hated other people and thought they got in the way of the happiness that she never actually found. This was someone who remained alone and lonely—one cannot but wonder if he or she must remain alone for all eternity. These are the graves that perhaps distress us the most, for they preach to us in the most simple and vivid way the meaning of the words “. . . but have not love, I am nothing.”

And then there are the graves where a mother, a faithful father, a happy child passes before our eyes, and standing all around are those who have known this person’s love. There are an enormous number of them, including many whom the others do not know, but they themselves know why they are there. And our voices are lifted up and will not be silent, in praise of the love that was glorified in this human life.

These are very simple experiences in life, from which we begin to have an idea why Paul sings the praises of love so exclusively. Any life without love is really nothing, not worth living, but where love is, the meaning of life is fulfilled. Compared with love, the rest really does not matter: good luck or bad luck, poverty or riches, honor or shame, being at home or far away, life or death—what meaning do they have for people who dwell in love? They do not know, it makes no difference to them; all they know is that good luck or bad, poverty or wealth, honor or shame, home and foreign lands, life and death are all given so that they can love all the more strongly, purely, and fully. Love is the one thing that is beyond all differences, comes before all differences, and remains within all differences. Love is strong as death [Song of Sol. 8:6]. Love makes everything else petty; whatever seems great is really pitiful and crumbles to nothing, a picture of misery. What is the value of a life of pleasure, honor, fame, and brilliance compared to a life lived in love? But we must not stop even there, for this question is amazingly powerful and insists on continuing: what is, furthermore, the value of a pious and moral life, a disciplined life of sacrifice and self-denial, if it is not a life lived in love?

As we read this text, images arise before us of people who are so serious and able, so dedicated and zealous in their life of faith that humankind can be proud, we can be proud of them, and we imagine that the Creator too must be proud. We look up to these people in awe and admiration; we bow completely before them and would never venture a word of criticism of them, since they seem beyond our common humanity, alone in their exalted greatness. And then comes the terrible spectacle in which these mighty ones, whose seriousness and devoutness we can never match, are seized and brought down by one little word—“and had not love.” They who seemed everything to us are made as nothing before God, whose light of truth streams over them and from whom they cannot hide the truth that, despite all their exalted power, the hearts within them were stony and cold.

“And if I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels . . .” About what? About that which is sacred to me in life, and important and serious.—To whom? Indeed, to those to whom I want to make these things real, those whom I want to win over to this sacred cause. Let us suppose, then, that we can do this, speak of the greatest and holiest things in such a way that we forget everything else and are carried away by enthusiasm. Suppose, too, that we have a unique gift for expressing our feelings in words, feelings that others can only carry silently inside them. Suppose we speak thus with one another in complete honesty and devotion. Yet still—“If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, and do not have love, I am nothing, a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.”

That devastates and paralyzes us like a bolt of lightning. That is the possibility we hadn’t foreseen, that even our holiest words could become unholy, godless, and mean, if there is no heart in them, if they are without love. So it is possible for that which is given to us human beings in order that we may create the most intimate communion among ourselves, the power of the Word, to become unholy if the love is torn out of it and it becomes self-serving and self-absorbed. A noisy gong, a clanging cymbal—a hollow roar, empty chatter, without heart or soul—that is what can become of our words. That is what they do become, for the other person—even our most sacred, solemn, truthful assertions, even our declarations of love, if they are not spoken in love. So this is the first thing: the one who speaks solemn, pious words, if he or she does not pass the test of love, turns out to be a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal, a nothing; while the one who is perhaps slow of tongue, with stuttering speech, like Moses [Exod. 4:10], or whose mouth may be closed and dumb, can be saved by his or her love. The word without love—that is the first point.

But deeper than the word lies insight, knowledge of the mysteries of this world and the one beyond, devoted and prayerful thinking on God, contemplation of things past and present, and illumination of things to come. Are these not also forms of the devout life, awe-inspiring for us? How much sacrifice and self-denial are demanded of us to arrive at truth and insight—“and if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge. . . .” When we hear these words, are we not seized by a great longing—if I only had these, then my thirst would be satisfied; if I knew why I must go this way and why another must go that way, if I could discover, here and now, the hidden ways of God—wouldn’t that be blessedness? Then it says again, “but have not love, I am nothing.” Insight, knowledge, truth without love is nothing—it is not even truth, for truth is God, and God is love. So truth without love is a lie; it is nothing. “Speaking the truth in love,” says Paul in another letter [Eph. 4:15]. Truth just for oneself, truth spoken in enmity and hate is not truth but a lie, for truth brings us into God’s presence, and God is love. Truth is either the clarity of love, or it is nothing.

But we have left out a little phrase in between, one that opens up a terrible riddle to us: “and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains . . . but have not love, I am nothing.” “If I have all faith . . .” What does that mean, what chord does that strike within us? All faith, all confidence, certitude that I am with God and God is with me in all the sorrows and anxieties of my life—all faith, so that I no longer have to be afraid of what tomorrow may bring—is this not what we pray for every day? That would be enough for us, that we could hold onto until the end of our lives. And yet here it comes again, but have not love, I am nothing. What a baffling thing—imagine a person who had all faith and still did not love, did not love God and his or her brother or sister! What a dark abyss we are looking into now—a faith that is self-glorifying and self-centered in its very foundations, in which I am only looking out for myself; a godless faith—believing, not for the sake of God, but for my own sake. God, keep us from such an abyss, such superstition, which fools us into thinking that we are with you—when we are really far away from you, God. Who will help us escape such danger?

Now there is no holding back—it keeps getting worse, to our despair. Not only is there faith without God and without love, but also good deeds that look like works of love but have nothing to do with love. If I give everything I have to the poor—if I deny myself and make sacrifices as only love can do and still “have not love” but rather make the sacrifices out of a heart full of vanity and selfishness, thinking that such sacrifices would fool God and my neighbor about what kind of heart I have—I gain nothing.

So what can the devout person give, in the end, beyond his or her naked life itself as a sacrifice for God and for Christ, as a martyr? If I give my body to be burned, if I give proof of how seriously devout I am and seal it with my death, if I become a martyr for God’s cause—God, what grace it would be to die for you!—but have not love, I truly gain nothing. If I appear to love God to the extent of sacrificing my life, but still do not really love God, but only myself and my dream of martyrdom and the fame it will bring. . . . The judgment applies even to the martyr—the lack of love plunges him or her into nothingness.

Who can understand this? We might indeed say, who doesn’t understand it? Which of us does not see that, in all these instances, we are the ones who talk big and have knowledge and faith and do good deeds and sacrifice ourselves only for our own sake, without love, without God? Which of us does not see that God must condemn such doings—because God is love and wants only our whole, undivided love—and nothing more?

What then is love, this love of God and the other person? It is not words, or knowledge or faith, not deeds of love or the sacrifice of our lives, in the way we think of it. Do we have love? Has judgment already been passed on us too? Let us call upon love, that it may come from God’s very self and snatch us from the pit of destruction. O God of all love, come into our confused hearts and save us, because you love us, through love. Amen.