The love of Jesus is as reliable as earth's gravity

Church sign boards, sometimes elegantly referred to as marquees, sometimes elicit a chuckle from me, occasionally a snort of derision, and infrequently -- a moment of reflection.

The other day, I passed the church in which I was baptized and confirmed. It's a mission congregation now, meaning the people can no longer afford to support a pastor's compensation without denominational help. Behind the building, which members lovingly caretake, is a cemetery. The remains of several of my ancestors are there.

When I go home to western Pennsylvania, as happened last week for a family emergency, I never fail to visit the headstones and talk to my deceased relatives -- my paternal grandmother in particular. I catch Grandma up on our lives in Southeast Missouri and tell her I miss her. That's irrational, you say. Yes, I suppose it is. But since I believe in transcendence and the eternal life of the soul, it makes perfect sense to me.

Back to the sign board of the church of my youth. It currently reads: "Jesus knows me, this I love," an obvious revision of the famous hymn lyric. "To know" something is to take us into murky waters. We enter a dark sea known by a fancy philosophical/theological word: epistemology. As I reflect on how much I know, it seems clear that I know very little -- but am "persuaded" of many things. Trusting that the reader may well be confused at this juncture, an illustration or two is warranted.

I know that if I drop a pen from any height, it will fall. Not only should it happen, it will happen. No other outcome is possible -- save for unexpected intervention (e.g., I grab it as it descends) or the establishment of a weightless environment. Gravity will ensure the pen's inevitable descent given everyday conditions. Another example: I know that the sun in Southeast Missouri will come up in the morning and will set in the evening. Not only should it happen, it will happen. No other outcome is possible -- since the earth continues its 24-hour rotation around its own axis without fail. We can safely say we "know" these things.

However, I can only say I am "persuaded" of the love of my spouse. That love has been continual and faithful for the 35 years we've been together and I've come to depend on it. Yet there is always a chance that my wife's attitude toward me could change. She could fall out of love with me. Is it likely? No. That's not the question. The question is -- Is it possible? Reluctantly, I must say yes. Admitting another outcome, while extremely unlikely, is nonetheless theoretically possible. As long as there is a sliver of a chance, my wife's love must be something of which I may be highly persuaded -- but not something I know.

How remarkable it is, then, that Christians all over the globe sing the great hymn, the lyrics of which bespeak unshakable certitude: "Jesus loves me, this I know." In singing these words, to the degree we cogitate over their meaning, we assert that God's hesed (steadfast love) is as reliable as gravity and as dependable as the daily sunrise and sunset.

Imagine how it would sound if we admitted the possibility of another outcome of God's love for us. If we left the door open, even a crack, in integrity we'd have to amend the song: "Jesus loves me, of this I am persuaded."

No, I'm not going there. The lyrics stay as is.

Dr. Jeff Long teaches religious studies at Southeast Missouri State University and is executive director of the Chateau Girardeau Foundation.