The Cost of Love

There is a pain so sharp, so quietly devastating, that few dare to speak of it aloud—the pain of offering your heart to someone, only to be met with indifference or something less than the love you’ve given. This is the hidden anguish behind Paul’s words to the Corinthians: “I will most gladly spend and be utterly spent for your souls. If I love you more, am I to be loved less?” (2 Cor 12:15).

Paul’s relationship with the Corinthians was complicated. He had founded their community, nurtured their faith, and poured out his life for their salvation. Yet he found himself questioned, criticized, even unloved by those for whom he had done the most. His response is not anger or self-pity, but something far more raw and human: the quiet confession of a heart that has loved deeply and been hurt.

This is the language of love—not romantic fantasy, but the hard, cruciform love that risks everything and demands nothing. Paul uses the image of a parent, not seeking repayment but giving freely, simply because love gives. “Children ought not to save up for their parents, but parents for their children.” Like a father staying up late to make ends meet, like a mother whose body breaks with each act of care, Paul gives not because it’s deserved, but because love compels him.

And yet—“the more abundantly I love you, the less I am loved.” Few lines in Scripture feel as exposed, as personal. This is not just Paul the apostle speaking; this is Paul the man, bruised by rejection. His words resonate with anyone who has ever loved a child, a friend, a spouse, a community—and felt that love return to them thin, cold, or not at all.

It’s a reminder that love is not always symmetrical. We do not control how others respond to our giving, our vulnerability. To love someone is to open yourself to the possibility of being misunderstood, unappreciated, or forgotten. And the more deeply we love, the more open we are to being hurt.

Yet Paul’s response is not withdrawal—it is deeper generosity. He says, “I will most gladly spend and be utterly spent.” There is a grace here that goes beyond human strength. Paul doesn’t just accept the pain of unreturned love—he chooses to keep loving anyway. He offers his soul with joy, not because he is blind to the pain, but because he is animated by a deeper truth: that real love is not a transaction, but a gift.

This is the love of Christ. The One who came to His own, and His own did not receive Him (John 1:11). The One who gave Himself up for His Bride while she was still unfaithful (Eph 5:25; Rom 5:8). The Father who gave His only Son, knowing that the world would crucify Him. Divine love is not compelled by the response of the beloved, but by the infinite generosity of the Lover.

To love like this—to keep pouring yourself out when the well seems to run dry, when your love is met with suspicion or silence—is not weakness. It is the image of God Himself, carved into the heart of the one who dares to love fully.

And yet, it hurts. Paul’s words give us permission to say so. The pain of unreturned love is real, even for saints. But in that pain is a mysterious grace, a fellowship with Christ, who knows the agony of love unreciprocated—and loves still.

So we are left with a choice: to close in, to guard ourselves against the hurt of loving again—or to love more deeply, more freely, and more generously, knowing that love itself is never wasted. In the kingdom of God, no love is ever lost. Every drop poured out is caught by the One who sees in secret, and who Himself was spent for our souls.