I was standing in the middle of the living room, and I was speaking quickly and furiously. My hands were waving about and my eyes were bright with indignation. “Who does he think he is?” I asked this rhetorical question of my husband. “I mean, he is doing damage, real damage. I listened to several of his sermons today, and I cannot believe what he is spewing.” I went on and on and on. I do not jest; I went on ranting about Mark Driscoll, for forty-five minutes straight, all while standing in my living room.
My husband stared at me. When I finally took a breath, I studied him, searching his body language for a response to my diatribe. He was quiet. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Doesn’t this make you mad?” I pleaded.
“No, not really,” He shrugged. “What he has to say about marriage doesn’t matter to me. I mean, I can see you’re really worked up over it, and I love you for that. But, I just don’t get mad about this kind of stuff.”
My hand gestures commenced once again, and more than anything I wanted him to fuel my fire. He didn’t.
I have had many theological quarrels in my head with Mark Driscoll. I have been irritated for days by John Piper. I have been mad at the entire entity that is the Gospel Coalition. I have wanted to wipe the pride from Doug Wilson’s bearded face. Basically, I have had a vendetta against these men and their agenda for Christendom.
Now, I could explain all my grievances, in depth, but that would take up a significant word count and would best be conveyed through multiple posts. Maybe I’ll do that someday, but for now, if I could say one thing to all of these men, today, it would be this: Stop Preaching.
I’m kidding; that’s not what I would say (although I would like that!).
No, really, what I would say is this, “Please stop treating the Bible as a marriage manual. It doesn’t hold all the answers.”
I’m finally weary of the gender role debate. I’m full from the servings of what a “godly husband” or “godly wife” should look like. I’ll never regurgitate the teachings of Driscoll, Piper, Wilson or their comrades, as they relate to marriage. I’ve spent a lot of time and a lot of energy fighting the positions they take, and I’m sure if you sat down with me and wanted to talk in detail, then I would show you more of my antagonistic side. Ultimately though, here’s the crux.
I wear my husband’s pants, and he wears mine.
There is no headship. There isn’t a distinction of equal value, yet different required roles . The burden of the state of our family isn’t placed on any one person’s shoulders.
We cycle responsibility. We cycle strength. We cycle weakness. We cycle through it all.
That’s how it works, for us.
I may not be as cool, collected and nonchalant as my husband is when it comes to Mark Driscoll. I still feel an obligation to speak out against some of the harmful things he says, and maybe that’s wrong. Or maybe it’s right. Maybe it doesn’t really matter at all. Do you know what does matter? What does matter is that I find security, I find love, and I find Christ in the way my marriage works. I’m happy to share pants for the rest of my life.