For a thou­sand years a ques­tion has occu­pied me: whose love is great­er, the fath­er's or the son's? I turned it from the right, looked at it from the left, examined it from the front and from behind, but found no sat­is­fy­ing answer. I asked old and young, fath­er and son, woman and maid­en, clev­er and dull, sage and sim­pleton, I asked every­one and I asked myself. One said: the one; anoth­er said: the other; a third: neither; a fourth: both. They also said: the ques­tion is wrong, and they said: God only knows. Then I asked God.

The child can­not not love. Beside his fath­er, the son can­not not love; he has as yet no altern­at­ive. As a tiny new­comer, man is still close to his soul, and the lan­guage of the soul is love, its nature ador­a­tion, its call­ing hap­pi­ness.

The fath­er would by now be able not to love, but from his son he may not with­hold his love. If he does, he sins against the laws of the uni­verse. In his son the fath­er lives on, and every­one loves him­self. If the fath­er notices him­self in his son, he may wrestle with him for a while yet, but in the end he will make his peace. It is with him­self that he must make peace. He can­not be a lion who tears his cub apart; let him rather be an eagle who takes his tum­bling young upon his shoulders.

Few people live in the child's small world, so all his love is turned towards a hand­ful of people, and he has no other means but his love. Then, in time, the gland of affec­tion with­ers, the child grows up and learns to hate as well. Even as he grows, the thymus in his chest with­ers, and some­thing turns to stone in man's heart. In adult­hood man's world is lar­ger and more pop­u­lous, and his emo­tion­al rep­er­toire more nuanced, but where a mature per­son­al­ity is con­cerned, his capa­city for love will, let us hope, grow too, unless he lives in total emo­tion­al defi­cit.

Love has one pecu­li­ar trait: the less­er guides the great­er. This is made pos­sible by a cer­tain inclin­a­tion that goes by the name of love. When the little boy takes hold of his fath­er's fin­ger and pulls him along, his fath­er goes with him. The fath­er is of course stronger, and beside him the little boy's strength is as noth­ing, yet his fath­er is over­come by the strength of ten­der­ness. There is ten­der­ness and love where the less­er guides the great­er.

Sur­render to the teach­er-mas­ter is so intense that it binds the guru com­pletely, and the mas­ter becomes the ser­vant of his ser­vant on account of that ser­vant's ten­der­ness. Can it be repaid, when the dis­ciple is will­ing to sac­ri­fice even his life for his mas­ter? The mas­ter's heart is by its very nature drawn to his dis­ciple. How won­der­ful is the power of ten­der­ness and love! … This is not phys­ic­al force but the work­ing of the subtlest power. (Swami B. R. Srid­har: Fol­low the Angels)

Who­ever walks the spir­itu­al path is advised first to become a schol­ar, and then to become a child! Philo­sophy is the sci­ence of won­der. Then one must use reas­on to ana­lyse the prob­lems of exist­ence, and at last cast the whole heap of prob­lems aside and, with the inno­cence of chil­dren, prac­tise the supreme mys­tery – divine, spir­itu­al love. For true wis­dom is noth­ing other than the prac­tic­al skill of lov­ing. That is why Jesus says: Suf­fer the little chil­dren to come unto me… And even the son of God may at times need the inno­cent love of little chil­dren, so that he may ful­fil his own fili­al call­ing to prac­tise love… For the son has no choice; he can­not not love. And yet the fath­er's love is farther-reach­ing, more respons­ible, more caring.

Bene­fact­ors gen­er­ally bear a warm­er dis­pos­i­tion towards their protégés than the lat­ter bear towards their bene­fact­ors. (Aris­totle: Nicomachean Eth­ics 1167.b)