The Christian tradition of submission

 From time to time the question of submission (or headship) in the context of Christian marriage comes to the fore again.

We're in a season of question and re-appraisal, amid all the political turbulence and cultural upheavals. People who hadn't given much thought to Christian observance are finding their way into it, some returning to childhood faith left behind and others discovering it for the first time. 

Those who are most uneasy about directions of cultural change are exploring Catholicism and Orthodoxy, attracted by the faithfulness to Christian tradition in those denominations — seeing in them something less politically driven and less subject to the zeitgeist than is the Church of England.

If they were familiar with the biblical texts, which likely they aren't, I think these seekers might find resonance in the words of Romans 12.2 (KJV): And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.

And maybe also the words of Jesus (Matt.7.24-27 RSV): “Every one then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house upon the rock; and the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. And every one who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house upon the sand; and the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell; and great was the fall of it.”

There's a hunger for something that abides, a sense that we are in a time of sifting, subject to winds of cultural change. The winds are blowing and beating against the house, and we hear all around the creak and crash of what is breaking and falling.

Struggling with what feminism has led to and become, adrift on a stormy sea of social transition, seekers encountering the Catholic and Orthodox traditions with their male priesthood and (in some cases) veiled women are wondering aloud on social media what this might mean for their personal relationships and the relative cultural position of men and of women. How to be a strong woman, while yet adhering to feminine norms in the Christian tradition, is not clear to them.

Questions about this are sprouting online, especially with reference to marriage — what does submission in marriage mean or look like? The answer is almost always that it means the husband has the final say when it comes to making decisions. 

Though that is the most usual interpretation, I personally don't think it accurately represents the New Testament teaching on this topic. My reading is that leadership as Jesus talks about it and demonstrates is means showing the way, being the one who goes first, creating the template everyone else can trust. It's not 'do as I say', it's 'do as I do.'

I don't often quote at length from something I've written, but I did go into this subject in some depth in my novel The Breath of Peace. Because these questions are being raised again, and in case it may therefore be useful, here follows a sizeable chunk of The Breath of Peace in which Abbot John addresses the issue directly. He's talking to his sister Madeleine about her relationship with her husband William.

*       *       *

 ‘But look, William aside, there are some constant features of living together in peace that I am thinking must be true for a man and wife as well as for a monastic community. Here in the abbey we are only human too, and all human beings argue. We – in community – have two big safeguards against the contention and bickering that afflict every group of people who try to live together. One is silence and the other is obedience.

‘Our blessed father Benedict laid down that we enter silence after Compline and don’t come out of it again until the morrow Mass is said. People take that sometimes for a purely religious discipline to encourage private prayer and reflection, and it does hone our spiritual practice, of course. But I think primarily it was put in place as a practical measure to safeguard community, because the two main danger times for antagonism are when we get too tired to be bothered with patience, and when we’ve just got up in the morning and haven’t had breakfast yet. Benedict did away at one stroke with those daily pitfalls by instituting silence from before we were too tired to be rational until after we’d properly woken up and had something to eat. In a family household I guess it can’t work in the same way, but you can follow the same principle: when you’re tired or hungry – don’t be drawn. Keep it sweet, keep it simple, keep it short.

‘Silence supports community peace on the one hand, and obedience supports it on the other. What obedience boils down to under this roof is that I’m the abbot so the brothers have to do what I say. But because they have to do what I say, I have to be very, very careful what I ask them to do. They are in my hands. If I become capricious and demanding and fall in love with my own power, the community will rot from the core. Our vowed obedience puts a responsibility on me as well as them. The brothers depend on me to be humble and gentle and understanding because my word is their law; and I depend on them to be loving and patient and forgiving because I often get it wrong. I can be hasty and scornful, I can be impatient and obtuse – and they just have to bear it respectfully, because I’m the abbot. But it’s an obedience of love, so they don’t just take it with their teeth gritted; they accept it with humility and compassion. They know I’m doing my best. They know when I come out the other side of my bad mood I’ll be ashamed of myself. They have to trust me, and I have to trust them, and that’s what the obedience means – it’s putting ourselves into each other’s hands, deliberately making ourselves vulnerable, making our daily life into a gift to one another. It takes a whole community for a man to be an abbot. 

‘Let me pause there. Is that making any sense to you so far? Shall I go on? Don’t worry, I’m coming to you and William in just a moment.’

He waited for her affirmation. She said nothing for a little while, then: ‘That’s what William does,’ she said very quietly. ‘What you said – deliberately making himself vulnerable. And times beyond counting he’s told me that he’s sorry for his shortcomings. I apologise too, but usually after him, and not as often.’

John visibly relaxed on hearing this. If she would receive what he had to say, and not resist it as a lecture or even as impertinence, he thought he had something to offer. He waited. She lifted her gaze from the flames to read his silence, and realised he was still courteously waiting for her permission to continue. ‘Go on, then!’ she exclaimed. He smiled.

‘Well, that was the easy bit – where I’m on my own territory. Now this is where I go off the map into Terra Ignota, so of your charity I beg you to be patient with me. I can’t look to my own experience, for I know nothing of marriage, so I’m going to look to the Scriptures, which I know I can trust.

‘I’m thinking about the fifth chapter of the epistle to the Ephesians. The bridge from our life here in community to your life at home with William is in the verse that tells us to humbly give way to one another – submit to one another – in the fear of Christ. Subiecti invicem in timore Christi. Sister, I’m sure you must realise that doesn’t mean anything like “knuckle under because you’re frightened of Christ”. It means that because we aspire to holiness and want to make our whole lives into a reverential space, cultivate a reverential mind, practising recollection, we maintain an attitude of humility. Are you with me?’

Madeleine understood him perfectly, but she wondered where in the passing of time the teasing urchin she had played with by the streams and on the moors had grown up into this. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Go on.’

He looked at her, his lips parted in uncertainty.

‘I’m listening, Adam,’ she reassured him. ‘You don’t need to keep checking.’ [Adam was his birth name, before he was a monk. Ed.]

He nodded, with a smile at the unintentional asperity. ‘All right. Then this is where the apostle comes to teach about husbands and wives. He takes as the model for marriage the relationship between our Lord and the church – because we think of the church as the Bride of Christ. Gazing on that relationship, he sees that our Lord has suffered and died for the church, stopped at nothing in the self-giving of his love. And he sees that the church is the community of people who call him Lord, who give their lives in his service. So the model is of a relationship in which neither party has held back anything; each has surrendered all they have to the other. Each gives their whole life in order that they might be made one. This is a picture of absolute trust and vulnerability: Christ pinned helpless to the cross in love of his Bride, and the church kneeling in submission to his lordship. Do marriage like that, the apostle says. Wives, love your husbands like the church loves Christ, offering your very lives in submission to your menfolk. Husbands, love your wives like Christ loves the church, holding back nothing, suffering everything, laying down all you have because you love her so much.

‘Now then, this is a beautiful picture, we can all see that. As a picture it works wonderfully. Where it all comes unstuck is when real people really try to do it. Then, without fail, the same old problem crops up: who’s going first? Human beings are scared of being trampled. When it comes to actual flesh-and-blood mortal beings, not one of us wants to put up our hand to take the risk of doing our part of the bargain until we’ve satisfied ourselves that the other half is on the table first. So we never begin. Do you see?

‘Actually… in your marriage to William – dear sister, don’t be hurt or take offence, bear with me – I can see him struggling to do his part, but I can’t see you doing yours as well as you might. He’s a proud man, and used not only to absolute governance but also to admirable competence. To set that aside and let himself look foolish and inept will be completely crucifying to a man like William de Bulmer; but he thinks you’re worth it.

‘What he needs from you is what the brothers here in their charity and humility give me: obedience. Not to him, I mean, but to Christ; just as in their vow of obedience to the abbot, the way the brothers here are taking is not obedience to me, John Hazell, but to Christ. Sister, William needs you to trust him enough to submit to him, even when he isn’t doing all that well. Even – indeed especially – when he’s said or done something stupid, he needs you to submit to him for the sake of divine order, out of reverence for Christ.’

John looked anxiously at his sister. He could not imagine this going down well. Madeleine could not have been described as meek in any imaginable circumstance.

‘So… what does that mean in practical terms, in daily life?’ She frowned. Her tone of voice expressed the suspicious end of caution. ‘It hasn’t got to be all “Yes, William” and “No, William”, “Of course, William”, and waiting on him hand and foot, has it? Give me a few instances.’

John thought about that.

‘Well…’ he said slowly, ‘let’s say you were out at the market all day and when you got home it turned out he forgot to shut the hens in and as a result a fox had caused mayhem and you’d lost half the flock. Might that happen?’

Astonished, his sister searched his face. ‘Has he spoken to you about that?’

John grinned. ‘Oh. I see. It did happen. No, he never told me so. Still, it makes a good example then! Well, “in the flesh” as the apostle would say, if a man did such a thing his wife would go beserk and think she had every good reason to do so. She’d call him every name she could think of and pour indignation on his head until boiling pitch began to look like a merciful alternative. She’d scold him until he felt completely humiliated, and he’d go to bed scowled at and unkissed and lie awake in the moonlight trying in vain to think of some way of making amends.

‘But the apostle is saying that’s not how we do it under Christ. That’s because Christ really sees us, with the insight of love. Christ is quick to compassion, and knows full well the man is more ashamed of himself than he can bear already. In marriage as the apostle imagines it, the wife offers not a word or look of reproach. She accepts that accidents happen. Her love is magnanimous and generous. She hooks up the dead birds quietly, out of sight. As she spins at the fireside that night, maybe she seems a wee bit quieter than usual – that would be because through gritted teeth she is silently praying: “O Fountain of Wisdom, thou hast saddled me with this dolt, this nincompoop, this addle-brain: right then, give me the grace not to kill him!” But she takes it to God and she leaves it with God. She offers her husband no reproach, because she is submitted to him.

‘But then let’s suppose this is all too much for the wife. She comes home, she finds the hens dead and dying, and she lets rip like thunder and lightning. What’s her husband to do? Well, “in the flesh” as St Paul has it, he might go on the defensive. Where was she all day anyway? What did she mean by coming home so late? Aren’t they her dratted poultry in the first place? How much is it going to cost to replace them? This will be the last time she goes to market if that’s where it’s all going to end up. He might even hit her, if her scolding winds him up past what he can bear.

‘But the Scripture teaching says no, don’t do it like that. Submit to one another. Love her like Christ loves the church. If she wants to hammer nails in, lie there and take it. If she’s minded to jam a cap of thorns on your head, bite your lip and wipe the blood out of your eyes. Keep your eyes fixed on one thing and one thing only: letting nothing – but nothing – sour the sweetness of love. Let it hurt you, let it shame you, let it lacerate you; but don’t let it stop you loving her.

‘Have I exhausted your patience? Have I said enough for now?’

Madeleine was sitting very still, her face brooding. ‘Go on,’ she answered him.

‘Well, then: this thing has to be mutual, it has to be reciprocal to work properly, to get the result it’s meant to achieve. If in our community here the brothers are humble and submissive and the abbot is arrogant and self-serving and demanding, it all starts to unravel. If the abbot is gentle and humble but the monks are proud and lazy and insubordinate, the whole thing collapses in an instant. Same in a marriage. If the woman serves her husband humbly and he thinks “Oh, good!” and sits back self-satisfied, “Wife, get me this, get me that!” then it isn’t what the apostle envisaged. If the man is forbearing and gentle and the woman takes it as her opportunity to get away with being a nag and a shrew, then it’s just hell on earth. It takes two.

‘How do you keep your hens from roaming too far afield and roosting in the trees, Madeleine?’

‘What?’ Surprised by the sudden question, she turned her face to him. ‘You know what I do. I clip their wings.’

‘Oh. And how do you do that?’

‘What are you talking about? You know perfectly well how to clip a hen’s wings.’

‘Pretend I don’t. What do I have to do?’ 

‘You just trim the tips of the flight feathers on one wing. It unbalances them, so they can’t fly.’

‘Exactly so. That’s why the apostle urges that in marriage a man and a woman be not unequally yoked, but be both submitted to Christ; because it takes two to make this work. Unbalanced, it can’t take off, it can’t fly. One of you can start the ball rolling maybe, but in the end the thing takes two. The man must be as humble and vulnerable as Christ stripped naked with his arms opened wide on the cross. The woman must be as gentle and submissive as the faithful people of God kneeling in simple humility before their Lord. Madeleine, am I describing your marriage?’

No sound followed this question but the settling of slow-burning logs on the hearth as the smoke drifted peacefully up the chimney above their red glow.

‘What do you think?’ she asked at last, her voice low.

‘I think it’s a hard lesson to learn and it asks a lot of anyone. I think even when we’ve practised for years it takes more than most of us have, to get it right. Again and again in community here, I have to ask my brothers’ forgiveness when I forget myself and say something cutting or contemptuous or intolerant. And I imagine it must be exactly the same in a marriage. Except, in the night, where we have our holy silence to help us, you married folk are also blessed with an extra way to put things right.’

She said nothing. Then she moved uneasily, her face contorted in puzzlement. ‘This sounds all very attractive, but… well, in real life I can’t always be stopping to think about William. There’s work to be done, and only the two of us to get through it all. That’s mainly where we fall out – there’s so much to do, and I get exasperated with him when he forgets things and he’s clumsy and slow. It’s all very well for you, there’s a veritable army of men here to work together; at home it’s only me and William.’

John nodded. ‘I know what you mean. Not all our men are equally skilled of course – if you’d ever stood and watched Brother Thomas trying to work alongside Brother Germanus you might think twice about saying it’s all very well for us; but I do know what you mean.

‘I understand that the work has to be accomplished – the beasts fed and the place maintained and the crops sown – of course it does, but… shaping a life as God meant it to be involves paying attention to the way we do things. The thing is, the journey determines the destination, if you see what I mean. The way we take is what settles the place we will arrive at. If you spend the next ten years bickering with your man and belittling him, you will be sowing the seeds for a harvest of misery in your old age. He won’t leave you. William would never leave you, of that I am sure. He’s no slouch – he has the most phenomenal application and tenacity. But you could lose him in other ways. He could become very bitter and withdrawn, and he is capable of great coldness. He was a ruthless man once. 

‘I think, if you are willing to let things go sometimes, not have to have everything done right, that will help. So what if the fox steals a hen or two? Is that more serious than letting the devil steal your marriage? Do you really want William dancing like a puppet while you pull the strings, afraid to offend you, frightened of what you’ll say if he makes a mistake?’

He observed her quietly. ‘Is that… am I being too harsh?’ he asked her gently.

She shook her head. ‘I think you’ve put your finger on it,’ she replied, her voice dull and defeated. ‘I’m not a very good wife at all.’

John’s hand moved in a gesture of protest. ‘You’re the right wife for William. It’s hard, in middle life, to make adjustments, is the only thing. It’s the same here when older men who have been widowed feel a vocation to monastic life. But never mind that. Could you do it, do you think? Might you be able to make the choice to be kind a higher priority than being right? Could you keep your mind’s eye on the way you’ve chosen and trust it will arrive at somewhere worthwhile?’

‘Yes, but – the “way” you’re talking about is only my demeanour towards my husband, which is only one part of my life. That way might arrive at a beautiful marriage, but a sloppy homestead!’

‘Yes,’ said John. ‘So what? Anyway, it won’t, it couldn’t. I haven’t known William de Bulmer long, but long enough to be astonished at the power of his focus on housekeeping accounts. I promise you, if he let a chicken die unbudgeted, there is no one on God’s earth who would feel it more keenly than him. With or without constant scolding he’ll make a fine householder in the end. He’s as sharp as a honed blade and diligent with it. I think you have to trust him.’

He watched her as she weighed these words carefully, frowning in concentration.

‘Has that… is that any help at all?’ he asked her.