Ask anyone — or ask yourself — "Do you love God?" and the answer will come swiftly, almost instinctively: "Yes." Countless songs celebrate this love. Devotion to God has become, in many circles, not only wanting but fashionable; a beautiful sentiment worn close to the heart.
But ask a different question — "Do you keep the commandments of God?" — and something shifts. An uneasiness settles in. A silence. Yet Jesus is unambiguous: if you truly love God, you will keep His commandments.
Perhaps the deeper danger lies not in outright disobedience, but in the illusion of obedience. Many of us — especially those in religious life; can grow comfortable believing we are faithful simply because we follow institutional rules, parish directives, or episcopal guidelines. But this is a quiet escape. To equate the commandments of God with the prescriptions of human authority is to mistake the map for the destination. It echoes the elder son in the Parable of the Prodigal Son, who declared with pride: "Never have I disobeyed your orders" — yet whose heart remained closed, resentful, and loveless.
So then: what is the commandment of Jesus? It is simply this—to love. And yet that simplicity conceals an unfathomable depth. When we try to define love, we quickly find ourselves reaching for cultural shortcuts: a heart symbol, the colour red, the fragrance of roses. These images are not wrong, but they are thin. Love, in its truest form, is not an image. It is a force that reshapes the one who bears it.
Consider what love moves people to do. Some die for love; others find the courage to live because of it. Some labor harder and earn more because of love; others willingly surrender security for the same reason. Some hold on tenaciously; others release with open hands. Love does not point to a single behavior — it points to a transformation. It is what causes ordinary people to do extraordinary things that self-interest alone could never sustain.
Love is an enabling emotion; it draws out of us what would otherwise remain dormant. I recall an old Canara Bank advertisement: an elderly Kannadiga woman, with patience and quiet tenderness, learning Punjabi words to welcome her new daughter-in-law, who is from Panjab. Another version shows a newlywed man learning to cook. The tagline of both was simply: "We all change for the one we love." This is perhaps the most honest and human description of love's power; it does not demand that we remain as we are. It beckons us to become more, it calls for change.
Eros: Love Turned Inward
Eros is the love oriented toward the self. It is what stirs when we say, "I love that song," "I love this meal," or "I love that person — and only that person." It reaches toward what pleases, what satisfies, what fulfills. This love is not inherently wrong — to delight in music, in food, in the beauty of another person is a gift. But eros is contingent: it depends on the quality that attracts. When that quality fades — when the song grows old, when the person changes, when the feeling dissolves — the love built on eros alone tends to dissolve with it. Eros loves what benefits the self.
Philia: Love Turned Toward Each Other
Philia is the love of friendship and fellowship — a love that is we-oriented. It is the foundation of communities bound by shared language, shared heritage, shared belief, or shared mission. It is the warmth of affection, the loyalty of long friendship, the joy of belonging to a group that understands you. Philia gives and receives; it is reciprocal and sustaining. Yet it has its limits: under sufficient pressure, under the weight of betrayal or irreconcilable difference, philia can fracture. It is strong, but not unconditional.
Agape: Love That Transcends the Self
Agape is the highest word for love in the Greek language, and it is the very word Scripture uses to describe God’s love for us. “God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). This love does not wait for merit. It does not require beauty, goodness, or gratitude in the one being loved. Thomas Aquinas captured its essence: agape is “to will the good of another.” It is wholly other-oriented — a love that acts, sacrifices, and endures, not because the other deserves it, but because love itself demands it.
Each form of love has its proper place. Eros, within right boundaries, enriches life — it is good to enjoy music, food, and beauty. Philia, in its season, deepens community — it is good to enjoy friendship, fellowship, and shared purpose. But neither eros nor philia can stand alone as the fulfillment of Jesus’ commandment. Only agape can.
And here is the hope: true love is not static but self-expanding. It may begin with eros — with the discovery of what moves and delights us personally. But if we allow it to grow, it draws us outward to philia — to the bonds of community and belonging. And if we surrender more fully still, it carries us to agape — to the vast, costly, luminous love that pours itself out without condition. To love as Jesus commands is to make this entire journey: from me, to us, to all.
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