Love That Was Never Meant to Be Simple
Every December, we talk about love as if it’s something simple and obvious—something warm, instinctive, and easy to recognize. We hear it in songs, see it in decorations, and assume we all mean the same thing when we use the word. But Scripture never treats love as a single idea. In fact, one of the reasons love sits at the center of the biblical story is because the Bible speaks about it in so many different ways. Across the Old and New Testaments, there are numerous words used to describe love—each one capturing a different facet of how God relates to His people and how we are called to relate to one another. And for everyone’s sake, we’re not going to walk through all of them today. But the sheer number of words tells us something important: love matters deeply to God, and it’s far more demanding than we often admit.
History gives us glimpses of that kind of love as well. Queen Elizabeth—later known as the Queen Mother—never wanted the throne. She was content being married to the second son, happy to play a supportive role within the royal family, far from the pressures of kingship. But in 1936, everything changed. Edward VIII abdicated the throne, and her husband, Albert, was thrust into a role he neither desired nor felt prepared to carry. He was anxious, reluctant, and keenly aware of his limitations. In the midst of a constitutional crisis—and with the looming threat of war—it was Elizabeth’s quiet steadiness, along with the firm guidance of Queen Mary, that surrounded him. Between them, George VI was not pushed forward or left to carry the burden alone. He was supported, strengthened, and sustained through a calling he never sought.
That kind of love doesn’t draw attention to itself. It doesn’t seek power or recognition. It doesn’t promise ease. It stays. It bears weight it never wanted, not out of ambition, but out of faithfulness. And that kind of love helps us understand Advent. Because the love God shows us at Christmas is not sentimental or abstract. It enters a fragile world in humility. It does not remove the weight of human brokenness—it steps underneath it. Scripture gives names to that kind of love: love that remains committed, love that gives itself freely, love that endures under pressure. And as we prepare our hearts for Christmas, those are the expressions of love we’re going to focus on—because they show us not only how God loves us, but how He calls us to love one another when it’s hard.
Love That Stays — ḥesed (חֶסֶד), Steadfast Love
One of the most important things Scripture teaches us about love is that it does not disappear when things become difficult. The Bible has a word for that kind of love—ḥesed. It’s often translated as “steadfast love” or “lovingkindness,” but those translations barely scratch the surface. Ḥesed is covenant love. It is love that binds itself to another person and refuses to let go, even when the relationship becomes strained, disappointing, or costly. It is not love that reacts to circumstances; it is love that commits to a relationship and remains there.
Here’s the key thing to understand: ḥesed is not emotional attachment. It is commitment. It is love that stays. It is love that says, “I am here,” even when the situation no longer feels rewarding or affirming. Ḥesed is not driven by chemistry or convenience. It is driven by faithfulness.
When God describes Himself in Exodus 34, this is the word He chooses. Standing before Moses, the Lord declares, “The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love”—abounding in ḥesed. That matters, because God speaks these words not when Israel is faithful, but after they have broken covenant—after the golden calf, after betrayal, after spiritual failure. God does not soften the moment or excuse their sin. But He also does not distance Himself. He does not redefine Himself in response to their failure. He doubles down on who He has always been.
That’s the first short but powerful truth of Advent love: God does not withdraw when His people fail—He reveals Himself. He names His character precisely when the relationship is most fragile. He reminds Israel, and He reminds us, that His love is not reactive. It is rooted.
Scripture tells the story of ḥesed again and again, often through relationships where walking away would have made perfect sense. Ruth clings to Naomi not because the future looks promising, but because love binds her to another person’s pain. “Where you go, I will go,” she says—not knowing how they will survive, where they will live, or how they will be provided for. That’s not optimism. That’s not romance. That’s covenant loyalty. That’s ḥesed choosing presence over certainty.
And this is where Advent begins to press on us. Because love that stays is rarely dramatic. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t draw applause. It is quiet. It is repetitive. It is showing up again when nothing has changed. It is choosing presence over escape, commitment over convenience.
Love isn’t proven by how loudly it speaks, but by how long it remains.
Psalm 136 drives this point home in a way that almost feels excessive. Every line of that psalm ends with the same refrain: “For His steadfast love endures forever.” Over and over again, the psalmist ties God’s actions—creation, deliverance, provision—not to Israel’s obedience, but to God’s ḥesed. His love endures. His love stays. His love does not run out of patience halfway through the story. The repetition itself is the message. God’s love does not wear thin with time or disappointment.
That’s not just theology. That’s reassurance.
Because most of us don’t struggle to believe God loves us when life is going well. We struggle when life gets messy—when relationships are strained, when prayers feel unanswered, when faith feels thin, when we start wondering if we’ve finally crossed some invisible line. And Advent reminds us that God’s love does not hinge on our performance. It hinges on His character.
God’s love is not fragile. It does not break under the weight of human failure.
It is not something we have to constantly prop up with good behavior. It is something God sustains by His own faithfulness.
This is why Christmas matters so much. God does not look at a broken world and say, “Come back when you’ve figured this out.” He comes anyway. The incarnation is not God changing His mind about us—it is God being faithful to who He has always been. Love that stays does not shout from heaven. It shows up in flesh. It takes up space among us.
And that kind of love is not meant to remain abstract. Scripture is very clear: the love God shows us is the love He calls us to practice. Not perfectly. But faithfully.
That means loving people who are inconvenient.
Loving relationships that feel strained.
Loving communities that disappoint us.
It means resisting the urge to walk away the moment love becomes uncomfortable, awkward, or unreciprocated.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth we don’t like to admit: Walking away is often easier than staying—but it’s rarely more Christlike.
I do want to be clear though, staying does not mean enabling harm. It does not mean ignoring boundaries. But it does mean that love refuses to treat people as disposable. It means choosing patience when withdrawal would be simpler. It means remembering that God’s love toward us has always been rooted in grace, not ease.
Advent love begins here—with ḥesed. Love that remains. Love that doesn’t flinch when the story gets complicated. Love that doesn’t ask, “Do they deserve this?” but instead asks, “Who has God called me to be?”
Because before love ever gives, before love ever endures, love stays.
And that’s where Christmas begins.
Love That Gives — agapē (ἀγάπη), Sacrificial Love
If ḥesed teaches us that love stays, agapē teaches us what that love is willing to give up. Agapē is the word the New Testament uses most often to describe God’s love—not because it is the warmest kind of love, but because it is the costliest. Agapē is not defined by affection or chemistry or even loyalty. It is defined by self-giving. It is love that chooses the good of another, even when there is no guarantee of return, recognition, or reward.
Agapē is love that acts. It moves outward instead of inward. It loosens its grip instead of tightening it. It is love that does not ask, “What will this cost me?” before it asks, “What does the other need?”
John 3:16 is familiar enough that most can recite it without thinking: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son.” But the weight of that verse isn’t found in the word loved alone—it’s found in the word gave. God’s love is revealed not in sentiment, but in surrender. He gives what is most precious. He releases what cannot be replaced.
That’s agapē. Love that moves outward. Love that releases control. Love that gives something costly away.
Here’s the thought about love that reframes Christmas: Biblical love is not measured by how deeply you feel—it’s measured by what you’re willing to give.
And the timing of that gift matters. Romans 5:8 tells us that God demonstrates this love “while we were still sinners.” Not after repentance. Not after reform. Not after gratitude. God does not wait for the world to become lovable before He loves it. He loves first. He gives first. He moves first. Love does not wait for conditions to improve—it creates the conditions for redemption.
That’s why the incarnation is such a scandal when you slow down long enough to really see it. God doesn’t enter the world at a position of strength. He enters it in vulnerability. He does not arrive with leverage or immunity. He arrives dependent, fragile, and exposed. The manger is not a symbol of sweetness—it is a declaration of surrender. It is God placing Himself into human hands, knowing exactly how unreliable those hands can be.
Love gives itself without guarantees.
Love that waits for safety before it gives isn’t agapē—it’s self-protection.
Scripture is honest about that distinction. Self-protection may feel wise. It may even feel prudent. But it is not the same thing as love.
Philippians 2 describes this kind of love with unsettling clarity. Christ Jesus, though He was in the form of God, did not cling to equality with God, but emptied Himself. That word “emptied” carries the idea of pouring oneself out completely. Love, in the biblical sense, is not something Christ safeguards—it is something He relinquishes. He does not cling. He releases.
Advent invites us to sit with that reality before we rush to Easter. Christmas is not the beginning of a rescue mission—it is the beginning of a long obedience of self-giving love. The cross does not appear suddenly or accidentally. It grows naturally out of the manger. The same love that enters the world in humility will eventually walk the road of suffering.
First John makes the implication unavoidable. “This is how God showed His love among us,” the author writes: “He sent His one and only Son into the world.” God’s love is visible because it is given. And then comes the turn—“Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another.” Scripture never allows us to admire agapē from a distance. It calls us to embody it.
And this is where love starts to feel costly in our own lives.
Agapē looks like giving time when you are already stretched thin.
- It looks like generosity when you would rather play it safe.
- It looks like compassion when someone hasn’t earned it.
- It looks like choosing people over convenience, mercy over efficiency.
And if we’re honest, this is usually the point where we start negotiating. We’re fine with love that stays—as long as it doesn’t ask too much of us. We admire sacrificial love in theory, but we hesitate when it reaches into our calendars, our budgets, or our emotional reserves. But agapē pushes past that line. It asks not, “How much can I afford to give?” but “What does love require of me right now?”
The problem isn’t that we don’t understand sacrificial love—it’s that we do.
Advent doesn’t shame us for that tension. It doesn’t scold us into generosity. It simply places Jesus before us again and says, “This is what love looks like.” Not theoretical. Not symbolic. But lived out, step by step, choice by choice, gift by gift.
Because the love that entered the world at Christmas
- It did not protect itself.
- It did not hold back.
- It did not wait.
It gave itself and that same love now asks something of us.
Love That Endures — makrothymia (μακροθυμία), Long-Suffering Love
If ḥesed teaches us that love stays, and agapē shows us what love is willing to give, then makrothymia reveals how love survives over time. Makrothymia is often translated as patience or long-suffering, but the word itself is more vivid than that. It literally means “long-tempered.” It describes the ability to absorb pressure without exploding, to remain steady when circumstances would justify quitting. It is the opposite of being quick to anger, quick to despair, or quick to walk away.
Makrothymia is love with endurance. Love that has learned how to breathe under strain.
This is the kind of love Paul describes in 1 Corinthians 13 when he writes, “Love is patient… love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” That passage is often read at weddings, but it was never meant to describe romance in ideal conditions. It was written to a fractured church struggling with conflict, pride, disappointment, and unresolved tension. In other words, it describes love under strain. Love that is still present after the excitement has faded and the work has become slow and difficult.
Biblical love isn’t proven in moments of harmony, but in seasons of endurance.
Makrothymia shows up again and again in the way Scripture talks about God Himself. Second Peter tells us that the Lord is “patient with you, not wanting any to perish, but all to come to repentance.” God’s patience is not passivity. It is restrained power. It is love choosing to wait rather than abandon, to endure rather than give up, to remain engaged when walking away would be easier.
God’s patience is active. It is intentional. It is purposeful.
And Advent gives us a front-row seat to that patience. God does not rush redemption. He does not force outcomes. He does not shortcut the process. He enters history slowly, quietly, and humbly. The long wait of Israel—the centuries of longing, silence, unanswered questions, and deferred hope—are not signs of God’s absence. They are evidence of His endurance. God is not in a hurry, because love is doing its work.
Waiting is not wasted time when love is at work.
Hebrews tells us to fix our eyes on Jesus, “who for the joy set before Him endured the cross.” That word endured carries the same root idea as makrothymia. Jesus does not bypass suffering—He carries it. He does not shorten the road—He walks it faithfully. He does not choose the fastest solution—He chooses the truest path. Love does not look for the quickest exit. Love looks for the path that remains faithful all the way through.
And this is where discipleship becomes very real. Because love that endures is the hardest love to live out. It’s one thing to stay when a relationship is new. It’s another thing to give when generosity feels meaningful. But it’s something else entirely to keep loving when nothing seems to change—when prayers feel repetitive, when progress feels invisible, when weariness sets in.
Makrothymia looks like continuing to forgive when the apology feels incomplete.
- It looks like staying gentle when frustration would be justified.
- It looks like praying when answers are slow.
- It looks like showing up again when you are tired of showing up.
- It is love that doesn’t quit simply because it’s weary.
Most of us don’t stop loving because we don’t care—we stop because we’re exhausted.
Scripture does not ignore that exhaustion. Colossians reminds us to clothe ourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience—bearing with one another and forgiving each other as the Lord has forgiven us. In other words, endurance is not something we manufacture through willpower. It is something we receive from God and then practice daily, often quietly, often imperfectly.
Like the rest of Advent, love is not a sprint. It is a slow, faithful walk. It is love that trusts God is still working even when progress feels invisible. It is love that keeps choosing faithfulness over frustration, obedience over escape, hope over resignation.
And this brings us full circle. Because the love that came into the world at Christmas did not stop at the manger. It stayed. It gave. And it endured—all the way to the cross.
The love that saves the world is the love that refuses to quit.
And that is the love God offers us this Advent. Not a love that promises ease, but a love that promises presence. Not a love that removes hardship, but a love that walks with us through it.
That is the love we celebrate at Christmas.
And that is the love we are called to live.
The Love That Carries Us Home
When we step back and look at the story we’ve traced today, one thing becomes clear: biblical love is never passive. It is not a feeling we stumble into or a sentiment we enjoy from a distance. It is something that shows up, gives itself away, and keeps going when the road is longer than expected.
That’s why the image of Queen Elizabeth still matters. She never sought the throne. She was content to live a quieter life, supporting the second son, far from the center of power. And yet, when history shifted and the burden was placed on her husband’s shoulders, she did not step aside. Alongside Queen Mary, she stood firm—offering strength, steadiness, and presence through a constitutional crisis and into the uncertainty of war. She didn’t remove the weight. She helped carry it.
- That is love that stays.
- That is love that gives.
- That is love that endures.
And that is exactly the love we see revealed at Christmas.
In Advent, we remember that God did not love us from a distance. He stayed. He entered our world when it was broken and weary, not when it was ready. That is ḥesed—steadfast love that refuses to walk away. God bound Himself to humanity and kept His promise, even when it cost Him dearly.
And God did not simply stay. He gave. He gave His Son, not after the world proved itself worthy, but while it was still lost. That is agapē—self-giving love that does not wait for guarantees. The manger reminds us that love is not measured by intention, but by sacrifice.
And God did not stop there. He endured. Through rejection, suffering, and the cross itself, Jesus remained faithful to the end. That is makrothymia—love that bears pressure without quitting, love that keeps going when hope feels thin.
Advent love is not easy love. But it is real love.
And the invitation of this season is not just to admire that love—but to receive it, and then to live it out. To stay present in relationships that are strained. To give generously when it would be easier to protect ourselves. To endure patiently when the road of faith feels long.
Because the love that came down at Christmas did not change the world through force or fear. It changed the world through faithfulness.
So as we move closer to Christmas, may we open our hearts again to that kind of love—the love that stays, the love that gives, the love that endures. And may God shape us into people who reflect that love in a world that desperately needs it.
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