The most powerful word in the New Testament is AGAPE...the Greek word for love. It is sacrificial seeking to serve. The word "agape" is rarely found in ancient Greek literature. It on appears in Homer ten times. Three times it appears in Euripides. But it appears 320 times in the New Testament.
Agape is sacrificial. It says, I love you when you are not very lovable. Agape is the cross, extending its arms to embrace all humanity. Agape loves when it is not always convenient and when it is not reciprocated. It extends to both the deserving and the undeserving.
One of the great examples of this type of agape love is taken from my favorite author, Nikos Kazantzakis, who in his memoir, wrote an account of an incident in his life which I think truly defines Christ-like sacrificial love. I pray it touches you as it has touched me.
From his book...A Report To Greco:
"I knew that no matter what door you knock on in a Cretan village, it will be opened for you. A meal will be served in your honor and you will sleep between the best sheets in the house. In Crete the stranger is still the unknown god. Before him all doors and all hearts are opened.
Night had already begun to descend as I entered the village. The doors were all shut; in the courtyard the dogs caught the intruder's scent and began to bark. Where should I go, at which door should I knock? At the priest's home, where all strangers find refuge. The priests in our village are uncultivated, their education meager; they are incapable of any theoretical discussion of Christian doctrine. But Christ lives in their hearts, and sometimes they see Him with their eyes, if not by the pillow of a wartime casualty, then sitting beneath a flowering almond tree in springtime.
A door opened. A little old woman came out with a lamp in her hand to see who the stranger was who had entered the village at such an hour. I stopped. "Long may you live, madam," I said, sweetening my voice so that she would not be frightened. "I am a stranger and have nowhere to sleep. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the priest's house?"
"Gladly. I'll hold the lamp so you won't stumble. God-his holy name be blessed- gave soil to some, stones to others. Our lot was the stones. Watch your step and follow me.
She led the way with the lamp. We turned a corner and arrived at a vaulted doorway. A lantern was hanging outside.
"This is the priest's house," said the old woman.
Lifting the lamp, she threw the light on my face and sighed. She was going to say something but changed her mind.
"Thank you, my fine woman," I said. "Sorry to bother you. Good night."
She kept looking at me, not going away.
If you wouldn't mind a poor house, you could come and lodge with me."
But I had already knocked on the priest's door. I heard heavy steps in the yard.
The door opened. Standing in front of me was an old man with a snow-white beard and long hair flowing down over his shoulders. Without asking me who I was or what I wanted, he extended his hand.
"Welcome. Are you a stranger? Come in."
I heard voices as I entered. Doors opened and closed, and several women slipped down hastily into the adjoining room and vanished. The priest had me sit down on the couch.
"My wife, the papadhiá, is a little disposed; you'll have to excuse her. But I myself will cook for you, lay the table for your supper, and prepared a bed so that you can sleep."
His voice was heavy and afflicted. I looked at him. He was extremely pale, and his eyes were swollen and inflamed, as though from weeping. But no thought of a misfortune occurred to me. I ate, slept, and in the morning the priest came and brought me a tray of bread, cheese, and milk. I held out my hand, thanked him, and said goodbye.
"God bless you, my son," he said. "Christ be with you."
I left. At the edge of the village an old man appeared. Placing his hand over his breast, he greeted me.
"Where did you spend the night, son?' he asked.
"At the priest's house."
The old man sighed. "Ah, the poor fellow. And you didn't catch wind of anything?"
"What was there to catch wind of?"
"His son died yesterday morning. His only son. Didn't you hear the women lamenting?"
"I heard nothing. Nothing."
"They had him in the inner room. They must have muffled their laments to keep you from hearing and being disturbed...
Pleasant journey!"
"My eyes filled with tears.
"What are you crying for!" exclaimed the old man in astonishment. "Oh, I see: you're young, you haven't gotten used to death yet. Pleasant journey!"