Booger McLovin

Anyone who has felt the staggering pain of losing someone they loved must reckon with the nature of that bond. By feeling the weight of such sorrow, you are forced to acknowledge that the love preceding it was a profound reality rather than a convenient fiction designed to keep you tethered to another for the sake of the species. (1 John 4:7)

Philosopher Alvin Plantinga’s Evolutionary Argument Against Naturalism points out that if our cognitive faculties are the product of an evolutionary process tuned solely for survivability, we have no reason to trust that they are tuned for objective truth. Evolution tracks utility rather than reality. Since what is false frequently advances survival, as seen in how effectively a lie can protect one’s status or resources, a purely evolutionary mind cannot be trusted to perceive objective truth. Consequently, the naturalist must face an eerie conclusion: the grief they feel is merely an adaptive byproduct of a biological process. Try telling that to a child when they have lost a loved one (Psa 34:18). Within the framework of the naturalist, the agony of loss is an unintended consequence of a runaway mutation that forces them to experience deep tragedy for no objective reason. (1 Cor 15:26)

Anyone who has watched a war movie or served on the battle lines understands sacrificial love to one’s own imminent detriment. In the military, one finds himself in a company of fellows. You routinely train, eat, and sleep near them, and eventually, you serve on the front lines of war alongside them. (Phil 2:3-4)

Then, one day, you find yourself in a predicament. Your friends, whom you care for deeply, are wounded or pinned down while you are separated. Your mind knows the danger of trying to help, yet you choose to intervene at great personal risk. You do this not because you want to be brave, but because you love. (1 John 3:16)

Evolution through natural selection argues that you should not act this way, yet you do. This type of response should have been eliminated eons ago, and yet, this love persists. It is a profound, irrational reality that defies the cold calculus of survival. While a materialist might categorize such devotion as a rudimentary mistake, their own lived experience, specifically the way they continue to cherish and sacrifice for those they love, betrays a deep-seated conviction that love possesses an inherent, objective value. (John 15:13)

Many people claim uncertainty regarding the existence of God, yet all must eventually reach a conclusion. We lose loved ones, we grieve, and we stand at funerals. But what do we say to a grieving child? Do we tell them that their pain is merely a chemical reaction and that, after death, there is nothing? That feels inherently tragic. (Psa 14:1)

We must eventually face this reality ourselves on our own deathbeds. Do we say, “I love you,” only to believe it ends there in an eternal nap of quiet darkness? Here, we find the divide: Is love an objective reality, or is it a biological accident? If love is objectively real, it must be a transcendental truth. If it is merely an evolutionary trait, it is conditional and hollow.

The simplest way to determine where you stand is to ask yourself: “Do I truly love anyone?” If love is a binding, universal truth, it cannot have originated with us; it must be rooted in the nature of the One who defines existence itself. (1 John 4:19)

Let’s flip the perspective. Instead of reverse-engineering the grounding of love from our own experience, let’s place it in chronological order. For the sake of argument, let’s assume the Christian God is the true eternal grounding of love. How would that look? (John 17:24)

We begin with the Pre-Socratic philosophers. Xenophanes was among the first to recognize that a singular, unchanging deity would be the expected Creator. He rejected the idea that God is merely a projection of human form or behavior; whatever the Creator is, He must transcend human limitation. Parmenides furthered this, arguing that ultimate reality must be eternal, indivisible, and unchanging. His reasoning was blunt: any change implies that something becomes what it was not. But what is ultimate cannot become. It must simply be. (Psa 19:1-3; Romans 1:19-21)

Aristotle later formalized these first principles into a rigorous system. He recognized matter’s “potentiality,” its capacity to change, and concluded that if a Creator exists, He must be “pure actuality” (Psalm 102:25-27). He must be eternally complete, lacking nothing and containing no unrealized capacity. Because the Creator cannot lack anything, He must remain eternally the same (James 1:17). If He changed, He would either move toward perfection, meaning He was not perfect, or away from it, meaning He ceased to be perfect.

The logical trajectory of these arguments points to a single, inescapable reality. The Creator must be eternal, unchanging, immaterial, and fully actualized. He is not bound by time, not subject to becoming, and not composed of material. (Ex 3:14)

Having identified the necessary source of all existence, we must confront a critical question: where does love fit in all of this? Love, as we experience it, is relational. It gives, receives, and delights in another. If the ultimate ground of reality is solitary and unchanging, how can love be fundamental rather than accidental? The dilemma you see is not a weakness; it is the doorway to the answer. (John 17:24)

The non-believer may appeal to abstract objects to explain reality, such as logical laws. But these are descriptive, not causal. They are impersonal and cannot account for realities that are inherently personal, such as love or rational obligation. But even a strictly Unitarian view of God runs into the same wall. Love, by nature, requires a “thou,” a subject and an object. If God were a singular, non-interpersonal monad, then prior to creation there would be no object for that love. This means love would not be eternal; it would begin. If it begins, God changes.

That is not a small shift; it is a change in state. However, a perfect Creator cannot change. As Aristotle reasoned, what is fully actualized cannot move into a new state without implying a prior lack. To gain something is to admit it was once missing. If God needs a creature in order to love, then love is not essential to His nature; it is contingent. Furthermore, God Himself becomes dependent, as He requires something outside of Himself to be what He is. At that point, He is no longer the ultimate ground of reality. He is standing on something else. (Acts 17:24–25)

This leads us to a deeper understanding of 1 John 4:8: “Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love.” This is an ontological statement about His essence. If love is essential to God, it must be eternal. If it is eternal, it cannot depend on creation.

This is what the doctrine of the Trinity reveals. The Christian God is not a solitary monad; He is Triune. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit have existed eternally in a relationship of perfect, self-giving love. Within God Himself, before a single atom existed, love was already full, active, and complete (John 17:24). In the Trinity, we find the only sufficient grounding for love as a transcendental property. Love is not a created trait; it is an eternal reality because God is eternal. It is relational because God is relational within Himself. (Matt 3:16–17)

When we experience love, especially the costly, unconditional love that defies evolutionary logic, we are not experiencing a biological error. We are seeing a reflection. It is a created echo of an uncreated reality, something that points beyond our limited perception and back to its source in the eternal life of God. (Rom 5:8)

In conclusion, if love is objectively real and God is eternally love, the Triune Christian God is the only sufficient candidate to ground this reality. For the contrary cannot sustain what it denies. It asks us to believe that our deepest affections are accidents and that our greatest sacrifices are misfires of biology. But the heart refuses to bow to that story. We love too deeply, too consistently, and at too great a cost to believe it is all for nothing. (Eccl 3:11)