Our Blessed Lord was intensely loved, with a concrete sort of love. When St. John told St. Peter that Our Lord was on the shore, Peter simply leapt out of the boat. You don't do that for Omnipotence, the great force that has made the Alps. You might feel inclined to run away from that. A dearly-beloved brother of mine, now gone, went to the Norwegian fjords for a summer holiday. After a time, he felt he could hardly bear them, the mountains were so tremendous. They were nothing like so near and lovable as a little village in England, with its cluster of thatched cottages, with trees against the wall. Those things are very lovable. It is very strange how love is kindled. The highest beings set more store on love than on anything else. It must be one of the greatest trials of sovereigns that they never know exactly when they are loved; so much is official, so much policy. If evil days come upon them, if once being rich they become poor, false friends fade away; and someone who is almost no one, some poor woman from the crowd, will then show her love. Genuine self-sacrificing love is almost overwhelming. No greater compliment can be paid to human nature than to offer that.
Our Lord gives a whole series of parables which, of course, do prove that He is to be loved. But I don't think He is at all concerned to prove that He ought to be loved. He tries to show us that He wants to forgive; He almost suggests that there is nothing to forgive. He wants to describe His attitude towards us. It is a most lovable attitude, bewildering. It almost seems to be setting a premium on sin. We can remember that exquisite story of St. Thomas More. He was so lovable, even when reprimanding his children, that the children used to do naughty things for the joy of being reprimanded.
—Vincent McNabb