There exists in the heart of the Torah a command so absolute, so all-consuming, so magnificently unreasonable that it might have been written by God. “You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might” (Deut 6:5). The words arrive not as suggestion but as summons, not as invitation but as imperative. They do not request a portion of our affection, a respectable slice of our devotion, or even the lion’s share of our loyalty. They demand everything. All. The Hebrew word כֹּל (kol) appears three times in rapid succession like hammer blows, each stroke driving the demand deeper: heart, soul, strength—every faculty, every capacity, every ounce of being must bend toward God in perfect love.

When our Lord reiterates this command in Mark 12:30, he does not soften it for a gentler age. He intensifies it. “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.” Four faculties now, each with its own πᾶς (pas)—”all.” The multiplication of terms does not dilute the demand. It amplifies it like a symphony building toward crescendo. The commandment admits no compartments, no reserved territories, no quiet corners of the soul where other loves might hide unmolested. God claims the whole man or he claims nothing at all.

This is not, let us be clear, a suggestion toward moral improvement. It is not the cheerful advice of a life coach helping us maximize our spiritual potential. It is not even the stern counsel of a demanding but reasonable master who expects his servants to do their best. It is an absolute command demanding total devotion. And what makes this command either gloriously liberating or terrifyingly oppressive depends entirely on what comes next.

For this very absoluteness confronts humanity with its deepest dilemma. The question shifts from whether we should love God with our whole being—a question answered by the command itself—to whether we can. And here the biblical record and the bruised human condition alike declare an uncomfortable truth that every honest soul has suspected: we cannot. Not on our own. Not in our own strength. Not with hearts as divided and distractible as ours have proven to be since Eden.

But—and here enters the great reversal, the unexpected turn, the shock at the center of the gospel that makes Christianity something other than moralism—the only perfect lover of God is God himself, incarnate in Jesus Christ. What we cannot do, he has done. What we cannot give, he has given. What we cannot be, he has been. The impossible command finds its fulfillment not in our striving but in his achievement. And stranger still, more wonderful than we dared imagine, this perfect love is not merely an example to admire from a safe distance like tourists gawking at a monument. It becomes ours. It is credited to our account, worked within our affections, and will one day be perfected in our experience through union with him.

This essay explores the theological logic that flows from this impossible command: the universal human inability to obey it apart from grace, Christ’s perfect fulfillment of the law in our place, the believer’s mysterious participation in that love through the Spirit, and the eschatological completion still awaited when we shall see him face to face and be made fully like him. We begin where Scripture begins—not with our love for God but with our incapacity for it, not with human achievement but with human failure, not with what we bring to God but with what we cannot bring, so that when grace arrives it will appear for what it truly is: not merely helpful but utterly necessary, not merely beneficial but our only hope.

1. Human Inability Apart from Grace

The Universal Witness of Scripture

From Genesis to Revelation, Scripture testifies to the disordered loves of the human heart. The diagnosis is not occasional failure but systemic corruption. Even the saints—those whose devotion shines brightest—stumble. David’s psalms pulse with passion for God. He pants after God like a deer after water (Ps 42:1). He declares, “Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you” (Ps 73:25). The Hebrew לְבַדְּךָ (levaddeka) means “you alone.” David claims singular devotion. Yet his moral collapse in adultery and murder (2 Sam 11) unmasks the divided heart. The man who wrote “Create in me a clean heart, O God” (Ps 51:10) needed that prayer precisely because his heart had proven unclean. The verb בְּרָא (bara) is the same word used for God’s creation ex nihilo in Genesis 1:1. David does not ask for moral renovation but new creation. His heart needs not repair but replacement.

Peter’s bold loyalty turned to fearful denial within hours (Mark 14:66–72). Jesus had warned him: “You will all fall away, for it is written, ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered'” (Mark 14:27). Peter protested: “Even though they all fall away, I will not” (Mark 14:29). The emphatic ἐγώ (ego) sets Peter apart from the others. He will stand when they fall. Jesus replied, “Truly, I tell you, this very night, before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times” (Mark 14:30). Peter “said emphatically” (ἐκπερισσῶς, ekperissōs)—the adverb means “exceedingly, beyond measure”—”If I must die with you, I will not deny you” (Mark 14:31).

Yet before morning came, Peter had denied Jesus three times with increasing vehemence. The third denial includes the detail that he “began to invoke a curse on himself and to swear” (ἤρξατο ἀναθεματίζειν καὶ ὀμνύειν, ērxato anathematizein kai omnyein), literally calling down curses on himself if he was lying (Mark 14:71). The man who swore he would die with Jesus now swears he never knew him. The same mouth that confessed “You are the Christ” (Mark 8:29) now denies any connection to Christ. This is not mere weakness. This is the frightening instability of the human heart under pressure. Paul, having seen the risen Christ, having been caught up to the third heaven (2 Cor 12:2), still confesses his own moral dissonance: “I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing” (Rom 7:19). The structure is chiastic, the repetition rhythmic. The good I θέλω (thelō)—”will, desire”—I do not πράσσω (prassō)—”practice, accomplish.” The evil I do not θέλω I πράσσω. The will and the deed split apart. The intention and the action divorce. Paul concludes, “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (Rom 7:24). The adjective ταλαίπωρος (talaipōros) means “miserable, distressed, afflicted.” This is not false humility. This is honest assessment.

The Diagnosis: The Deceitful Heart

Jeremiah diagnoses the root cause: “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?” (Jer 17:9). The Hebrew עָקֹב (aqov) means “crooked, twisted, deceitful.” It shares a root with Jacob’s name, the heel-grabber, the supplanter. The heart naturally deceives. It lies to us about our own motives. It hides our true loves behind acceptable facades. It convinces us we love God when we merely love the benefits of loving God.

The phrase מִכֹּל (mikol)—”above all, more than all”—places the heart’s deceit at the apex of unreliability. Nothing is more treacherous. And it is אָנֻשׁ (anush)—”incurable, desperately sick.” The word appears elsewhere to describe fatal illness (2 Chr 21:18; Jer 15:18). The heart’s condition is not merely serious. It is terminal. The rhetorical question מִי יֵדָעֶנּוּ (mi yedaennu)—”who can understand it?”—expects the answer “no one.” We cannot even diagnose our own condition accurately. Calvin wrote, “The human heart is a factory of idols” (Institutes 1.11.8). We manufacture objects of devotion with industrial efficiency. We carve gods from our desires and call it worship. We fashion golden calves from our fears and call it prudence. We erect altars to our ambitions and call it service.

The command to love God fully thus functions not as a compliment to human potential but as a mirror exposing our inability. The law’s perfection unmasks our imperfection. Its purpose, as Paul writes, is to “increase the trespass” (Rom 5:20). The Greek verb πλεονάσῃ (pleonasē) means “to cause to abound, to multiply.” The law does not create sin but reveals its abundance. Like a medical test that shows the full extent of the disease, the law exposes what was always there.

The Function of the Law

Paul explains in Galatians 3:24 that “the law was our guardian until Christ came, in order that we might be justified by faith.” The word παιδαγωγός (paidagōgos) referred to a household slave who supervised children, taking them to school and keeping them out of trouble. The law served this custodial function. It did not make people righteous. It revealed their unrighteousness and led them to the one who could. The Westminster Confession puts it clearly: The law “convinceth them of their inability to keep it, and of the sinful pollution of their nature, hearts, and lives” (WCF 19.6). Even our purest affections carry admixtures of pride, anxiety, and self-interest. The businessman who prays for success: does he love God or profit? The mother who prays for her children: does she love God or her offspring? The pastor who preaches faithfully: does he love God or applause?

We cannot answer with certainty because we cannot see our own hearts clearly. The mixture is too thorough. The contamination too complete. Augustine confessed in his Confessions that even his religious devotion as a young man was shot through with “the desire to be loved and to love” human approval rather than God (2.2). He could not disentangle his motives even in retrospect. This is why the command to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength is simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. Beautiful because it describes the proper order of creation—creatures loving their Creator without reservation. Terrifying because it exposes how far we have fallen from that order. We are like a broken mirror trying to reflect the sun. The image is there, distorted and fragmentary, but not the thing itself.

2. Jesus’ Perfect Love Fulfills the Law

The Seamless Obedience

Into this moral failure steps the one human who did love God with total, undivided devotion. Jesus’ life was a seamless harmony of obedience and affection. His declaration—”I always do what pleases him” (John 8:29)—is not moral bravado but ontological truth. The adverb πάντοτε (pantote)—”always, at all times”—admits no exceptions. The present tense ποιῶ (poiō)—”I do”—indicates continuous action. The participle ἀρεστά (aresta)—”pleasing things”—defines every action by its orientation toward the Father’s will.

This is not the claim of a moral teacher pointing toward an ideal. This is the testimony of the Son describing his actual life. When tempted in the wilderness, Jesus responded to each temptation not with negotiation but with Scripture: “It is written” (Matt 4:4, 7, 10). The perfect passive γέγραπται (gegraptai) indicates completed action with ongoing authority. God has spoken, and his word stands. Jesus’ obedience rested not on his own strength but on the Father’s word. In Gethsemane, when every instinct of human self-preservation recoiled from the cross, Jesus prayed, “Not what I will, but what you will” (Mark 14:36). The contrast is stark: ἀλλὰ οὐ τί ἐγὼ θέλω ἀλλὰ τί σύ (alla ou ti egō thelō alla ti sy). Not my will but yours. The human will bows to the divine will. Yet this is not the coerced submission of a slave but the willing surrender of a Son. The address Ἀββᾶ ὁ πατήρ (Abba ho patēr)—”Abba, Father”—combines the Aramaic intimate term for father with the Greek formal term. Intimacy and reverence merge. Love and obedience unite.

Hebrews describes this prayer more fully: “In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to him who was able to save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverence” (Heb 5:7). The phrase μετὰ κραυγῆς ἰσχυρᾶς καὶ δακρύων (meta kraugēs ischyras kai dakryōn)—”with strong crying and tears”—reveals the intensity of the struggle. This was not playacting. This was real human agony. Yet even in agony, εὐλάβεια (eulabeia)—”reverent submission, godly fear”—governed his response. He asked to be saved from death. He was heard. But the answer was not escape from death but resurrection through it.

The Johannine Testimony

John’s Gospel emphasizes repeatedly the unity of will between Father and Son. “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to accomplish his work” (John 4:34). The verb τελειώσω (teleiōsō) means “to complete, finish, perfect.” Jesus’ sustenance comes from completing the Father’s purpose. This is not duty but delight, not obligation but obsession in the best sense. His will and the Father’s will coincide perfectly.

“I seek not my own will but the will of him who sent me” (John 5:30). The present tense ζητῶ (zētō)—”I seek”—indicates continuous orientation. Jesus does not occasionally consult the Father’s will. He continuously pursues it. His entire existence orients around this single purpose.”I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will but the will of him who sent me” (John 6:38). The perfect participle καταβέβηκα (katabebēka) indicates completed action with ongoing results. The incarnation itself serves this purpose. The Son descended to accomplish the Father’s will.

Even on the cross, where love was tested to its outer limit, his dying words were filial trust: “Into your hands I commit my spirit” (Luke 23:46). The verb παρατίθεμαι (paratithemai) means “to entrust, deposit.” Jesus deposits his spirit into the Father’s hands as one deposits a treasure into safe keeping. This echoes Psalm 31:5, David’s prayer: “Into your hand I commit my spirit.” But Jesus’ commitment is absolute where David’s was aspirational. Jesus trusts the Father even in death, even in apparent abandonment, even when the darkness covers the land and silence falls from heaven.

The Substitutionary Achievement

This perfect obedience is not a distant moral example to admire from afar. It is a substitutionary achievement to receive by faith. In Paul’s theology, Christ’s righteousness is not only exemplary but imputational: “By the one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous” (Rom 5:19). The noun ὑπακοή (hypakoē)—”obedience”—describes Jesus’ entire life, climaxing at the cross. The verb κατασταθήσονται (katastathēsontai)—”will be constituted, appointed”—indicates legal standing. The many are declared righteous on the basis of the one’s obedience. The structure parallels Adam: “As by one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners, so by one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous” (Rom 5:19). Adam’s sin was imputed to his descendants. Christ’s righteousness is imputed to his people. The transfer is legal, but the effects are real. We stand before God clothed in a righteousness not our own.

Paul makes the same point in 2 Corinthians 5:21: “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” The one who τὸν μὴ γνόντα ἁμαρτίαν (ton mē gnonta hamartian)—”knew no sin”—becomes ἁμαρτίαν ἐποίησεν (hamartian epoiēsen)—”he made sin.” Not a sinner, but sin itself. He takes our position so we can take his. We become δικαιοσύνη θεοῦ (dikaiosynē theou)—”righteousness of God.” Not merely righteous before God, but God’s own righteousness embodied. The Son’s perfect love is reckoned as ours. Just as Adam’s disobedience corrupted humanity, Christ’s fidelity restores it. The command to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength finds its fulfillment not in our striving but in his achievement. He loved the Father perfectly on our behalf. His love counts as ours.

3. We Love Through Him, Not Instead of Him

The Union That Transforms

The imputation of righteousness does not cancel the pursuit of love. It transforms its source. Believers do not love God in competition with Christ but in participation with him. This is the mystery of union with Christ, the doctrine that Calvin called “the principal article of the Christian religion” (Institutes 3.11.10). Paul describes this union in vivid terms: “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Gal 2:20). The perfect passive συνεσταύρωμαι (synestaurōmai)—”I have been crucified together”—indicates completed action with ongoing results. Paul died with Christ. But the death produces not annihilation but transformation. The strong adversative δέ (de) introduces the contrast: “yet I live” (ζῶ, zō). Present tense. Continuous action. Paul lives, but with a crucial qualification: “no longer I, but Christ.”

This is not mystical absorption where the self disappears. Paul still says “I live in the flesh.” He maintains personal identity. But the animating principle changes. The life is ἐν πίστει τῇ τοῦ υἱοῦ τοῦ θεοῦ (en pistei tē tou hyiou tou theou)—”by faith in the Son of God.” The genitive could be objective (faith directed toward the Son) or subjective (the Son’s own faithfulness). Probably both. We trust the one who proved trustworthy. We rely on the one who was reliable.

The Spirit’s Work

The Holy Spirit makes this union effective. Paul writes, “God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Rom 5:5). The perfect passive ἐκκέχυται (ekkechytai)—”has been poured out”—indicates completed action with ongoing results. The verb suggests abundance, overflow. This is not a trickle but a flood. The divine ἀγάπη (agapē) enters human καρδίας (kardias)—”hearts.” The very organ of affection receives new content.

John explains this more directly: “We love because he first loved us” (1 John 4:19). The pronoun ἡμεῖς (hēmeis)—”we”—is emphatic. We who could not love, we who loved wrongly, we who loved other things more than God—we now love. The present tense ἀγαπῶμεν (agapōmen) indicates continuous action. And the reason? ὅτι αὐτὸς πρῶτος ἠγάπησεν ἡμᾶς (hoti autos prōtos ēgapēsen hēmas)—”because he first loved us.” The aorist ἠγάπησεν points to the definite act of love in Christ’s death. The adverb πρῶτος (prōtos)—”first”—establishes priority. His love precedes and produces ours. This is no mere example that we imitate. This is transforming power that we receive. The love we feel toward God is itself a gift from God. Augustine prayed, “Give what you command, and command what you will” (Confessions 10.29). If God commands us to love him, he must also give us the capacity to obey. Otherwise the command would be cruel mockery.

Gift and Growth

Thus, Christian love is both gift and growth. Grace does not excuse spiritual passivity. It empowers transformation. Paul prays “that your love may abound more and more, with knowledge and all discernment” (Phil 1:9). The verb περισσεύῃ (perisseuē) means “to overflow, exceed, abound.” The comparative μᾶλλον καὶ μᾶλλον (mallon kai mallon)—”more and more”—suggests continuous increase. Love is not static. It grows. This assumes both divine enablement and human engagement. The imperative “pursue love” (διώκετε τὴν ἀγάπην, diōkete tēn agapēn) in 1 Corinthians 14:1 uses a verb that means “to chase, hunt, pursue eagerly.” This is active, intentional effort. Yet this imperative rests upon the indicative “Christ loved us” (ἠγάπησεν ἡμᾶς, ēgapēsen hēmas) in Ephesians 5:2. Our love responds to his. Our obedience is no longer a self-generated effort toward acceptance but a Spirit-fueled response to adoption.

Paul’s own testimony models this paradox: “I worked harder than any of them, though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me” (1 Cor 15:10). Paul worked (ἐκοπίασα, ekopiasa—”I labored to the point of exhaustion”). More than all the others (περισσότερον πάντων, perissoteron pantōn). But the work was not his own. It was ἡ χάρις τοῦ θεοῦ ἡ σὺν ἐμοί (hē charis tou theou hē syn emoi)—”the grace of God with me.” The grace worked. Paul cooperated. The two cannot be separated.

4. Already and Not Yet: The Eschatology of Love

Positional and Progressive

In Christ, believers stand before God as those who have already loved perfectly—because Christ’s love is counted as theirs. This is positional righteousness, forensic justification, the declaration that we are righteous in God’s sight. When God looks at believers, he sees them clothed in Christ’s perfect obedience. The Father’s verdict over the Son—”This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased” (Matt 3:17)—becomes the Father’s verdict over all who are in the Son. Yet existentially, we remain pilgrims whose affections are still divided, whose worship is still distracted. We love God, but not as we ought. We pursue holiness, but imperfectly. We resist sin, but not always successfully. The tension between justification (already) and sanctification (not yet) defines Christian life.

Paul captures this tension: “Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own” (Phil 3:12). The aorist ἔλαβον (elabon)—”I obtained”—is negated. Paul has not arrived. The perfect passive τετελείωμαι (teteleiōmai)—”I have been perfected”—is also negated. He remains incomplete. But the strong adversative δέ introduces active pursuit: διώκω (diōkō)—”I pursue, chase.” The present tense indicates continuous action. The reason for this pursuit? Christ already made Paul his own (κατελήμφθην, katelēmphthēn—aorist passive, “I was seized, apprehended”). Christ’s grip on Paul is secure. Paul’s grip on Christ’s purposes is still being strengthened. The justification is complete. The sanctification is progressive.

The Trajectory of Transformation

John captures the trajectory of this transformation: “Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is” (1 John 3:2). The present νῦν (nyn)—”now”—establishes current reality. ἐσμέν (esmen)—”we are.” Present tense. Believers are already God’s children. But the future remains veiled: οὔπω ἐφανερώθη (oupō ephanerōthē)—”has not yet been revealed.”

The certainty lies in the transformation promised at Christ’s appearing: ὅμοιοι αὐτῷ ἐσόμεθα (homoioi autō esometha)—”we shall be like him.” The adjective ὅμοιος (homoios) means “similar, like, resembling.” Not identical, for the Creator-creature distinction remains. But truly like him. The reason? ὀψόμεθα αὐτὸν καθώς ἐστιν (opsometha auton kathōs estin)—”we shall see him as he is.” The vision produces the transformation. Seeing Christ in his unveiled glory will finally purge every remaining corruption from our affections. The consummation of redemption will bring not only moral purity but affective perfection—the heart wholly fixed on God without rival desire. Jonathan Edwards described this in The End for Which God Created the World: “The perfectly holy and gracious soul is like a garden planted by the river, always green, without any withering, well watered, and full of everything that is delightful” (Works 1:102). The divided heart will become whole. The distracted mind will become focused. The wavering will shall become fixed.

Until that day, we live in hopeful paradox: loving imperfectly but truly, striving by grace rather than self-reliance. We are like children learning to walk. We stumble, we fall, but we get up and try again because our Father’s arms are there to catch us. And with each attempt, our steps become surer, our balance better, our coordination improved. We are being transformed “from one degree of glory to another” (2 Cor 3:18). The phrase ἀπὸ δόξης εἰς δόξαν (apo doxēs eis doxan)—”from glory to glory”—suggests progressive intensification. Not from disgrace to glory, but from one level of glory to another. The transformation is real but incremental. The present passive μεταμορφούμεθα (metamorphoumetha)—”we are being transformed”—indicates ongoing divine action. We do not transform ourselves. We are transformed by beholding “the glory of the Lord” (τὴν δόξαν κυρίου, tēn doxan kyriou).

Conclusion

The command to love God with all one’s heart, soul, mind, and strength exposes the futility of human self-sufficiency and magnifies the sufficiency of divine grace. No human apart from Christ fulfills it. Every human in Christ participates in its fulfillment. The gospel thus turns an impossible law into a living relationship: Christ’s perfect love credited to us, and his Spirit’s love working through us. This is the great paradox of Christianity. The religion that makes the highest demand also provides the complete supply. The faith that requires total devotion also creates that devotion. The command that exposes our inability also connects us to the one whose ability is infinite.

The believer’s task, then, is not to manufacture absolute devotion but to abide in the one who has already given it. Jesus said, “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me” (John 15:4). The present imperatives μείνατε ἐν ἐμοί, κἀγὼ ἐν ὑμῖν (meinate en emoi, kagō en hymin) command continuous action. Keep abiding. Remain connected. Stay attached to the vine. The fruit comes not from the branch’s effort but from the vine’s life flowing through it. We love because he loved us first. We obey because he obeyed perfectly. We give ourselves to God because he gave himself for us. To love God with all one’s might is to recognize that the might itself comes from him.

And here is the final twist, the last paradox that makes Christianity not merely difficult but delightfully mad. We are commanded to do the impossible. We are required to achieve the unattainable. Yet when we confess our inability and cast ourselves on Christ’s sufficiency, we discover that the impossible has been accomplished and the unattainable has been secured. Our failure drives us to his success. Our weakness rests in his strength. Our divided hearts find wholeness in his perfect love. So the Christian life is both rest and pursuit, both peace and striving, both arrival and journey. We rest in Christ’s finished work. We pursue the holiness he commands. We have peace with God through justification. We strive against sin through sanctification. We have arrived at acceptance. We journey toward perfection.

And we do all this not with gritted teeth and white knuckles, not with grim determination and self-generated resolve, but with joy. With gratitude. With the glad knowledge that the one who began a good work in us will bring it to completion (Phil 1:6). With the confident hope that the love which captured us will perfect us. With the settled assurance that we shall love God perfectly one day because we are united to the one who loves him perfectly now. The greatest commandment remains impossible for humans. It has been accomplished by the God-man. And it becomes ours through union with him. This is not merely good news. This is the best news imaginable. The mad, impossible, glorious demand of Deuteronomy 6:5 finds its fulfillment not in our striving but in his achievement, not in our devotion but in his, credited to us and worked within us by the Spirit who makes all things new.