The House I Never Entered

When I was twelve, living in Jakarta, Indonesia, there was a house I wanted to get into.

It was called the Agape House.

This was the late seventies, and the “love and peace” movement had found its way into our international community. Some teenagers had organized a place to gather, with what I remember as funding and support from the U.S. Embassy. They did activities and volunteer projects, but mostly they seemed to have created something young people would hope to find: a place to belong.

I was too young to join them. Apparently, though, I was old enough to have opinions about them.

Long hair. Bell-bottoms. Rock and roll. You know the types....

Or at least I thought I did.

Then I became curious about the name.

What on earth was “Agape”?

Somewhere in my asking around, I learned that there were different words for love. One was eros, which turned out to be slightly more intriguing to this twelve-year-old, to be honest. But I digress....

Agape was described to me as a generous, self-giving love. A deep concern for the well-being of another. The kind of love God has for us, and the kind we might learn to offer each other.  I am sure much of that went over my head. But enough stayed with me to make me look again.

These teenagers had chosen that as the name of their house?

The more I understood about these long-haired hippie types, the more quickly the stereotypes faded. I began to wonder what mattered to them. What they hoped to create. Who they hoped would come.

They became clearer to me, even as my certainty about them became a little less clear.

How much had I assumed from so little?

I never did set foot inside the Agape House. I cannot tell you how closely the experience matched the name. But I remember wanting to be part of a group that would choose it.

Maybe I was curious about more than a word.

I have thought about love often since then. Where it comes from. Why we need it so much. Why something we desire so deeply can also be so difficult to give.

We can learn a great deal about attachment, human development, and our need for community. I find those explanations interesting. I also find myself wondering about what we recognize in certain moments of love.

Why does being truly cared for sometimes feel like remembering something?

I don’t quite know how to explain that. But as a believer, I sense something of God in those experiences. A familiarity. A feeling that this is how we were meant to treat each other, even when we so often struggle to do it.

Recently, after receiving a considerable amount of love from family and particular friends, I found myself thinking again about that little house in Jakarta.

And its name.

Agape.

When I first learned about agape, I understood it as love without self-interest. Giving without any thought of receiving.

It seemed like a worthy thing to reach for. It still does.

But I wonder if I made it a little too tidy.

Does the happiness I receive from loving someone make that love less sincere? Does my need for their friendship somehow diminish what I offer them?

I hope not.

Perhaps what I need to examine is the expectation I sometimes attach to the gift.

Can I care for someone without quietly keeping an account? Can I allow them to receive my love differently than I imagined they would?

I suspect I have occasionally called something unconditional before discovering a few conditions tucked away inside it. That is an uncomfortable thing to notice about yourself.  Probably a useful one, too.

Paul’s words about charity have always given me pause:

“And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.”

—1 Corinthians 13:3

I can give that much and still miss something essential?

It makes me wonder about the heart behind my helpfulness. The need to be appreciated. To be useful. Perhaps even to be right about what someone else needs.  I recognize some of those things in myself.

Then Paul describes charity as patient and kind. Without envy or boasting. Not puffed up.

I find it interesting that after describing such extraordinary acts of sacrifice, he brings us to qualities we have opportunities to practice almost every day.

Patience. Kindness.

Listening long enough to understand. Making room for someone whose experience differs from mine. Letting another person be the center of the conversation.

I wonder how often the love someone needs from me is quieter than the love I had planned to give.

What has stayed with me about the love I have recently received is the feeling of belonging.

Of having a place in someone’s life.

There is a particular comfort in being understood. And perhaps an equally important comfort in being with someone who doesn’t understand everything, but wants to keep trying.

I think about how much of ourselves we sometimes hold back until we are sure we will be welcome.

The uncertainty. The unfinished thoughts. The parts of our lives we have not figured out how to explain.

What allows us to finally bring those things through the door?

I am beginning to appreciate the people who make that possible. Their patience with what they cannot fix. Their willingness to stay interested. The ways they remind us, sometimes without saying very much, that we still belong.

I believe I have felt something of the love of Jesus Christ through them. And it makes me wonder what it feels like to come through my door.

Wouldn’t it be something if there were Agape Houses all over the place?  In our neighborhoods. In our homes. In the friendships we make room for and the people we are still learning to understand.

I think those teenagers would be surprised to know that a boy who never joined their club would still be thinking about its name all these years later.

I am a little surprised myself.

Back then, I stood outside imagining what it might feel like to belong.

Recently, someone opened a door for me.

And I found myself remembering a house I had never entered.