Brides and Kings: A Parable About Submission
1Peter 3:7 Likewise
husbands, live with your wives in an understanding way . . .
The day she married the king, he carried her easily over the
threshold; like she was nothing. He was strong, decisive, commanding and made
her feel dainty and protected. Then the palace doors closed, the light dimmed, altering
both of their appearances. Dainty distorted into feeble; strong, decisive,
protective into intimidating, selfish, and oppressive. She washed his pants,
dried his pants, and put his pants away, but he never let her forget who wore
them. Her gown had once allowed her room to move forward, but now it clung to
her legs and held her still. She, who had been captivated, was now a frightened
captive. She looked out the windows and wondered where she’d left herself. The
wide lawn, the fields and forests that surrounded his palace offered no
freedom, but only confirmed her isolation. If his pants weren’t cared for to
his specifications, punishment came without mercy - - sometimes with angry
words, sometimes with violence, and sometimes with silence; the silence being
the worst because with it he erased her. Her groom took things from her: peace,
joy, hope, and the knowledge of who she was. He gave her things as well: a knot
in her stomach, a fear of what might come next, a sense of dread, and loneliness.
She felt helpless.
1Peter 3:7 Likewise
husbands live with your wives in an understanding way, showing honor to the
woman as the weaker vessel . . .
The day she married the king, he stopped just outside the
door and set her on her tiny feet. He didn’t bother carrying her over the
threshold. She paused, unsure of what she should do when he closed the door in
front of her. Finally, reaching for the knob she entered on her own. Sighing, she
picked the pants off the floor and somehow knew that she was in for a lifetime
of repeating this exact motion. And she was right. Day after day, the pants lay
untended and empty. Day after day she washed them, dried them, put them away
only to find them strewn again on the floor. The day came when she didn’t know what
to do. She thought she had to put them on so she did - - just for a bit - -
that was her intention anyway. But he seized the opportunity. He seemed to like
them on her frame. She noticed that sometimes they felt coarse and understood
why he didn’t want to wear them. She’d tried softening them, making them more malleable,
but the cloth they were cut from just wasn’t meant to yield. They were work
pants. So she put them on and worked. He slipped into the shadows, stared at
the screens, and seemed content. Each day the pants grew heavier, encumbering
her every step and holding her still. She looked out the windows and imagined
what it would be like to run the fields, and wander the forest where she could
finally get out of his pants once and for all; where she could move forward in
freedom and no one would expect so much from her. Her groom took things from
her: peace, joy, hope, and the knowledge of who she was. He gave her things as
well: a sense of despair, a difficult yoke, a heavy burden, and loneliness. She
felt helpless.
1Peter 3:7 Likewise
husbands live with your wives in an understanding way, showing honor to the
woman as the weaker vessel, since they are heirs with you of the grace of life
. . .
The very day the King won her heart, He carried her over the
threshold and once inside, He never required she stand alone on her own tiny
feet. The palace He built for her was clear and bright, every corner illuminated.
It was a spacious place where her gown didn’t bind, stifle, or confine. She
could move, but found, oddly, she didn’t want to be anywhere else. When she
washed, dried, and put away His pants, He said, “Well done good and faithful
wife,” and smiled, sending the heavenly bodies into hiding because they could
not compare to the beam from His visage. She understood that those pants would
never fit her - - or anyone else - - but it didn’t matter because she didn’t
need to wear them. Her King lavished her with fine clothes of the purest cloth
that warmed her in the cold and cooled her in the heat. He covered her in a way
that everyone who saw her knew beyond doubt that she was treasured. He left the
doors wide open so she could run the fields, and wander the forests as she
pleased. He knew she’d always return home because He loved how happy her
freedom made her. Her King took some things from her: shame, fear, mortality.
He didn’t just give her things, He poured into her: life, peace, joy, patience,
kindness, gentleness, self-control, goodness, faithfulness, and love. He filled her with a sense of trust
because she knew He would never harm her, never raise a hand against her, but
only and always had her best in mind. He filled her with courage because she knew
He would never step back, hold up his hands in any sort of surrender, and leave
her to face things alone. He gave her Himself, and in doing so, gave her the
clearest knowledge of who she was - - His.
Some may try and
convince you that submission is the same as oppression and if you choose the
wrong king - - it often is. But it’s not meant to be. Submitting to the right
husband, like submitting to Christ, should be an ‘ahhhhh’ moment - - a long
drink of icy water when you’re hot, exhausted, and thirsty; your head hitting
the pillow after a day of hard labor; the good kind of soreness you feel after
a long hike in the fresh air. Submission is meant to make us free - - free from
burdens that we aren’t built to carry alone, free from self-absorption that
binds us, stifles our growth, and holds us still. It’s meant to free us from loneliness, to lift
our cares so far from our solitary shoulders that we are able to think and breathe
and learn who we are. Submission to a true, pure love is the greatest release
we will ever know.
