This isn’t my attempt at a profound explanation of how I was right all along. In a lot of ways I was very wrong. When I started this discussion, I may have had a slight desire to be recognized for my profundity and deepness of theological grasp. I understood then what I was doing. I could say that I “discovered” my motivations were askew, but that would be a lie since I knew from the beginning. There’s a fine line between recognizing and admitting, and it makes all the difference.

It’s been a while, and I haven’t really contributed much to the whole discussion anyway. But during the time I’ve been not posting, I’ve had lots of time to think about leadership and the husband’s role in marriage. I’ve been through a gauntlet in my mind, experiencing things I was only hypothesizing about. And after failures and pain, I’m sticking with my answer. Honestly, it’s probably not fair to say that there’s any one thing that is the most vital in a marriage. As Galadriel tells the Fellowship, “Your quest stands on the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and you will fall, to the ruin of us all.” I believe this is true in marriage, to a degree. There are many, many vital components that marriage depends upon. Remaining above reproach is one. Having a clear vision of the goal is another. Consistency, trustworthiness, humility. These are all vital. So why sacrifice? Why single it out so?

For a couple of reasons. First of all, because the text almost screams it. Ephesians. Enough said. That’s where I started, with theoretical knowledge. But recent events have left me knowing the significance of sacrifice in a much deeper way. No, nothing “big” has happened. Just a man looking into himself, one might say. I started out as a child playing with precious jewels. He knows them only as pretty, like common tin foil. But as he grows, he begins to gain a fuller understanding of the beauty of the thing. It’s not just that it’s shiny, but that all the facets fit together perfectly and create subtle plays of pure and perfect light.

People aren’t perfect. Everyone knows it. Everyone says it. Everyone still expects everyone else to be perfect. We’re Christians, so we know better. And we still expect other people to be perfect. We’re so unforgiving. We’re so defensive. We’re so self-loving. How many songs have you heard with a lyric to the effect of, “No one understands me”? We’re all so upset that no one has taken the time to “understand us” (whatever that means) that we never take the time to love people and help them. We further the cycle out of injured pride. But I digress.

Because people aren’t perfect, we have a hard time loving them. Because loving them means doing things for them. It means taking time out of our scheduled fun to do something for them. It means standing there, absorbing an argument, and not responding in anger. It means never giving up. It means saying you’re sorry when you know they won’t. It means never expecting to be vindicated in their eyes. It means being wronged and still doing the dishes. It means never acting out of revenge. It means giving up fun activities to prove you’re not addicted to them, even if you’re not. It means being willing to give up any joy, bear any abuse, and outperform anyone else in good deeds of love. It means sacrifice.

Behind sacrifice, behind humility, behind vision, behind consistency, integrity and everything else there is love. And it does not originate with us. When you try to use your own corrupted love to achieve a task of divine proportions such as marriage, you’ll fail miserably. The reason it’s hard to love people who aren’t perfect is because it’s not really love. What you’re really doing is seeking your own. You only serve so that person will think better of you or give you some reward. You only give in so they won’t be mad, not because you think they’re right. You become bitter. You begin to become unhappy, and to take pleasure in unhappiness. You fester your real and imagined hurts into a swelling ball that absorbs you. When you started out, you both had faults, you just wished the other would apologize as well as you did. Then, as time progressed, you saw less and less of it being your fault until you start creating your own pain just so you blame someone else. It consumes you and you love it. And hate it. You hate yourself and your mate for all the pain you created but you wouldn’t let go no matter how perfect the other became. And there’s no imagined psychological condition you can blame. It isn’t because your parents didn’t show love right. It isn’t because you didn’t have friends as a child. It’s because your corrupted love only allows you to love one thing. Yourself. And that imperfectly.

But if we truly are children of God, loving because we were first loved, we can avoid such pitfalls. We can escape the horror of self-love. We can find true happiness in marriage through hardship and pain. We can apologize in sincerity, without expectation of the same. We can perform the most menial, undignified tasks that bring no joy except to know the other didn’t have to do it. We can find happiness in toil. We can find the truth in harsh words and thank the giver for them. We can react in kindness to unjust words. We can love. Truly love. Love that allows true self-sacrifice. It allowed Paul to say that he wanted to be accursed so that his countrymen could be in paradise. Paul’s countrymen stoned him. They rejected the Good News he loved so dearly and they beat him for speaking it. They hated Paul. And he loved them. He would give his life and eternal joy to see them have something they rejected in hardness of heart. He would rather them have joy then him.

Paul received his example from Christ. Christ who died for those who spit at Him. For those who saw His open arms and chose decay and rottenness instead. For those who rejected His beauty. Owing so much, having been given so much, should we not do the same? How can we not?