You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling
*Catch this oldie but goodie by the Righteous Brothers circa 1964
You never close your eyes any more
When I kiss your lips
And there's no tenderness like before
In your fingertips
You're trying hard not to show it baby
But baby, baby I know it
You've lost that loving feeling
Oh, that loving feeling
You've lost that loving feeling
Now it's gone, gone, gone
Whoa-oh
The number of songs dealing with the subject of love is staggering. Millions upon millions and that’s just the ones that are recorded. There’s no telling how many “To Darlene’s” lay unpublished around the trailer parks of the world, which were unimaginably the culmination of six or seven failed “To Darlene’s” that the world will never hear—for which we are most grateful.
Recently I heard the ubiquitous classic, “You’ve lost that loving feeling,” which led to a chain of ideas reflected in what follows. But it all began with a question raised by the song: What is that loving feeling? How exactly do we measure or define love?
And while the Righteous Brothers define love as a feeling, in many songs “love” is simply a euphemism for sex (love the one you’re with), and while it could just be my perverted mind, I’m pretty certain that when people are “thinking about their doorbell” and when somebody’s going to “ring it” they have something sexual in mind, but who knows, maybe Meg White is really thinking about a doorbell she recently purchased at Home Depot, and in her next song she’ll be reflecting on the plywood in aisle 9.
But if you simply listen for the word ‘love’ within the music and allow the song to inform the definition you’ll realize that different people mean very different things when they speak about love: feelings, romance, sex, infatuation, marriage, an exclusive partner, a live-in relationship, a deep friendship, an ideal, or even an addiction. And so there is the realization that when we speak of love we are not working from a common definition, not even remotely.
I don’t find this fact bothersome, or at least I wouldn’t if divorce, domestic violence, rape, broken homes, affairs, absent fathers, sexual abuse, child pornography, incest, loneliness, anorexia, and low-self esteem were not at epidemic levels, which in most cases can be traced back to an obvious misunderstanding between two people—at least two—as to what the other meant by “love.” The relativity of the word or our experience or expression of it is brilliantly demonstrated in the fictional masterpiece, Lolita. Through the empathic writing of Nabokov, we are able to experience, and, yes, even normalize, the middle-aged Humbert Humbert’s “love” for a 12 year-old girl.
Having established that the meaning of “love” has the range of Aaron Neville’s voice we can chose one of two options: seek a clearer definition, or become agnostic, opting for a dispassionate relativization of life. I say we strike out in quest of option A and should it prove unfruitful we can always rejoin the group back in option B—I doubt they’ll even notice that we were gone.
But where to go for a definition of “love”? The Oxford dictionary gives us this helpful insight:
(in tennis, squash, and some other sports) a score of zero; nil : love fifteen | he was down two sets to love.
Actually, they define it as “an intense feeling of deep affection,” which is about as helpful as their tennis definition, or Humbert Humbert’s for that matter. We need insight, here, not pabulum: definition, not generalities. When someone says, “I love you,” I want to be there with my lab coat and clipboard, to throw it in a beaker, and slap a tape measure around it.
Well, having been to more weddings than I would like to admit or to have participated in, I am thinking that the Bible must hold some wisdom as to the nature of love, as I cannot begin to guess how many times I have heard the passage recited: “love is patient, love is kind”—and if you’re following along in the King James—“beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.”
In combing through the Gospels, I have come across a rather interesting interaction that, upon reflection, holds forth a remarkably insightful definition as well as tangible criteria by which to define and measure love. But first, let me tell you what the definition, or measurements are, and then I’ll tell you where I found them.
Sacrifice
The first measurement of love, biblically speaking, is sacrifice, or more specifically the willingness to make sacrifices for another. That makes sense. I mean, when I think of how a parent’s love for their child manifests itself in a measurable way it is usually through their sacrifices: financial, time, etc.
Conversely, if I tell you that I love you but am not willing to make the slightest sacrifice for you, then what I have is something less than love: companionship, sexual interest, could be any number of things, but without sacrifice its substance is less than love.
But, and this is really intriguing, the Scriptures actually take sacrifice to a higher level, calling individuals to a life of passion. Unfortunately the word “passion” is as nebulous as the word “love” so let me define it. Passion is not simply the willingness to sacrifice, but a desire to sacrifice: when the experience of love is so intense, it seeks out some vehicle to express, demonstrate, or satiate itself—I love you so much I need to… I don’t know, saw my shins off. There are people, for example, who love sports. They are willing to sacrifice anything for it, but not just willing, they desire to sacrifice, they want it to hurt, they want the bruises and the blood—thank you, sir, may I have another.
Passion transforms a willingness to sacrifice, into a desire to sacrifice: a love that seeks out the privilege and opportunity to satiate itself through the endurance of pain. For one could willingly sacrifice for another but do so begrudgingly…reluctantly…and I’m really sorry if this is beginning to sound like someone you know.
Priority
Second, love can be measured by priority. If I tell you, year after year, that I love you but somehow you never show up in my Palm Pilot, at some point I should be called on the carpet and told that what I have is a “desire to love,” clearly distinguishable from the real thing. At the end of the third Matrix, Mr. Smith says to Neo, “why do you persist, I mean you must know it’s futile.” To which Neo says, “Because I choose to.” And so it is with love: it has a volitional component and is not just an emotional feeling. We make choices to love someone by making choices to give them priority.
It is here, that we should probably consider the emotional pathology of jealousy. People always, and I mean always, speak and think of jealousy in negative terms and yet its experience is reflexive to us: a part of our internal wiring. Strangely, the Scriptures do not portray jealousy as a merely negative trait. In can actually be positive, for God, himself, is a “jealous God.” How can that be? Perhaps a definition of the word will clarify. Jealousy is a rightful desire to exclusivity in a relationship, and the feelings associated with a breech of that exclusivity. Seriously, what’s wrong with that: a rightful desire for exclusivity in a relationship. If “priority” is a measurement of love, then jealousy is the warning alarm, alerting us that it’s been violated—where were you last night?
There’s nothing wrong with people having multiple affections but in certain relationships, is it really unreasonable to have an expectation of priority? And how can I possibly know if I am important to you if I do not see where I stand in your list of priorities.
There are certainly mitigating factors, seasons of life, and extenuating circumstances that form an acceptable excuse for allowing loved ones to slip from their place as our highest priority. A measurement is not a diagnosis. It is used with wisdom along with other measurements to arrive at a diagnosis. But it is a measurement none-the-less.
Continue reading about Love 1.2.
Rick James was formerly employed on Madison Avenue, as an art director at the advertising agency of Young and Rubicam. He has a BFA from Syracuse University and an MDiv. from Trinity seminary. Rick is now publisher of a small Press and lives in West Chester, Pennsylvania with his wife and three teenage children.
Used by the permission of the author.
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