Love never ends. I Cor. 13:8

     A couple of years ago, Sean Carroll wrote The Particle at the End of the Universe: how the hunt for the Higgs Boson leads us to the edge of a new world (New York: Dutton, 2012). It’s all about the research and experiments that moved a theory to a proven reality. The Higgs Field is what allows matter to come into existence on the sub-atomic level. Without it, no matter comes into existence. It cannot be seen or felt, it’s sub-atomically tiny and universally pervasive, and reading about its discovery and proof is mind-bending – even with Carroll’s excellent use of language and illustrations. The Higgs Boson is also called the God Particle – a nickname that has caused much controversy and not a few accusations of hubris.

Even though it’s not an easy read, I recommend Carroll’s book – Not only to learn about one of the greatest discoveries of all time, but because it’s really about love. Metaphorically speaking, at least.

Paul didn’t say that love never ends in its current form; he wasn’t writing about the world as we usually understand it, limiting and limited. Paul was writing a sub-atomic and pervasive truth, beyond the usual perception. Love allows us to come into existence, a field that brings us into matter. From the most minuscule particle to the ever expanding cosmos, nothing matters without love. Love flows through us just as we came into being through it. Nothing can destroy it, nothing can kill it because it is what ushers in life itself. Love just is.

Sometimes, when I’m very still, I feel the truth of this love, the very fabric of reality. Resurrection makes sense then – Jesus being the man of Nazareth and the Cosmic Christ, beloved son of God. And death? Perhaps it’s another passing through the field of love that brings us into resurrected reality. Love that never ends, entwined in our DNA, bringing us before the everlasting throne of God. Alive in us now and always. Amen.

Love does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.

I Corinthians 13:6, NRSV

In February 1994, I was waiting to hear if I’d made it into a PhD program. When a letter of acceptance came, it was a relief as much as it was a pleasure. I wasn’t too upset when the rejection letter from another program arrived. Disappointed, but not particularly angry with the school that turned me down. I didn’t give it much thought until I ran into another applicant. After six rejection letters, he had just opened his first acceptance letter.

“When I publish my first book, when I get my first job, when I’m famous, I’m going to write every school that didn’t take me and make them sorry for being so stupid.” The odd thing? He had a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face, looking for all the world like revenge for his rejection was worth celebrating just as much as his acceptance.

I understand the perverse pleasure of justified anger and righteous indignation, the lure of an undeserved slight that makes vengeful thoughts not only acceptable but perhaps even commendable. Especially if the slight was intentional. Rejection letters may not be my reason for spiteful thoughts, but I’ve had them, too. An opportunity to say “I told you so” or “You’ll be sorry,” the chance to spit poison and feel virtuous doing so sets fire to the heart and blood like nothing else.

But that’s the problem: returning pain for pain, insult for insult, harm for harm. Burning down the house because someone scorched a hole in the tablecloth, all the while rejoicing in destroying self and other in a glorious conflagration. In the end, it all ends in bitter ashes and choking smoke. Because rejoicing in wrongdoing – mine or someone else’s – doesn’t sustain the spirit: it kills it. Only acting in love for self and other can do that. A true reason to rejoice!

“I wasn’t planning on going that far.”

I’d asked a friend of mine to alter our plans, moving our morning coffee from the Starbuck’s in Newtown to my home in New Hope – a four mile, twelve minute difference. My husband needed our car and I was at home, so it was a change of venue or a cancellation. She changed her plans from coffee with me to Starbuck’s time alone.

When the expected fell through, she chose the option most like her original plan. Coffee at Starbuck’s: same time, place, menu, mileage. Coffee at my home: extra time, different place, limited menu, extra miles.

I had another way of looking at it. Coffee at my home: same friend, same conversation. Coffee at Starbucks: no friend, no conversation.

We went on to have many cups of coffee and many conversations in the following years – in Newtown, New Hope, Princeton, Atlanta, and Toronto. She cared enough for me to stay in touch, and I cared enough to do the same. I can’t speak for her, but for me it was well worth the time and distance.

Love does not insist on its own way.

I Cor. 13:5 NRSV

For more information on this series, see Quieting Life Noise under “About.”