Husbands and Wives Unite: Three Houses by the Spirit’s Light
- dkclements
- Sep 2
- 7 min read
By David K. Clements
I SAT AT MY DESK, waiting. I asked God what to write. Silence. Without His voice, my words would be flat, lifeless. This time, a faint image flickered. Husbands and wives, some bound tightly, others unraveling. I pushed it away. I’d heard too many bitter arguments about men and women, their roles in church, work, the fight for freedom. That topic could split my readers in two.
I respond, “Lord, I’m not called to this debate,” I said. My childhood home was fractured, split like dry wood. Divorce scarred my parents, my siblings. My father, an accountant, uncovered corruption in a defense contractor—fraud, waste, abuse. He spoke out and was buried for it. Blacklisted. His reward? He bagged groceries by day. Processed insurance claims by night. Truth cost him his pride and our family’s stability.
It twisted him. My mother, once a housewife, worked two jobs: one at Kmart, another watering plants at a home improvement store. She tried to lift him, to call out the brilliance she saw. He saw control, built a lie—she only cared for money. A caricature to shield his shame. She was grace, battered by his legalism. He won every argument, distanced himself, and when the youngest turned eighteen, he was gone. I understood him, felt no hate. But my mother’s quiet sadness lingered, vivid and close.
“Not the topic of marriage, Lord. Anything but that.” Silence. Days passed. I offered weak alternative ideas to write about, anxiety creeping in. Finally, exasperated, I said, “A thousand books dissect this—complementarianism, egalitarianism, all of it. Even pure doctrine falters under proud hearts. I’m still fighting to save my own marriage. Give me something else.”
A still voice answered. “David, you’ve written of covenants, war, chess with ancient evils. But you were never alone. Always a woman stood beside you, lifting you to great deeds. Others lack that rock. Doubt pulls them down. There is no Kingdom Age unless husbands and wives learn to unite. Forget the theologians. Let your mother’s sadness guide you.”
So, a topic I dread is today’s subject. The hurdle: I can’t address it without drawing on countless observations from cherished relationships. I asked God for a story to convey His point. This is what I believe He gave me.
Husbands and Wives Unite: Three Houses by the Spirit’s Light
The First House
A white house stood tall on a hill, its paint gleaming, lawn pristine. Inside, the man read the Good Book, voice firm, quoting headship, love, Christ’s sacrifice (Ephesians 5:25). He led with chin high, rules rigid. He craved peace, but pride burned within, a fire he called duty. His wife nodded, her smile thin, hands busy with trivial tasks—home updates, a ladies’ book club. The Word urged submission, gentleness (Ephesians 5:22; 1 Peter 3:4), and she tried, but her heart harbored a shadow. Equality felt like a word, not truth. She often felt small beside him, though Scripture called her a co-heir (1 Peter 3:7). At times, his pride sparked an embarrassing affliction—foot-in-mouth disease, some called it. A flash of absurdity struck her: submitting to a man who sometimes said and did foolish things. She never felt like a cherished bride offering gentle counsel, only someone who “didn’t get it.”
He preached theology at men’s groups, mastering verses over beer and cigars—a tame rebellion to behold. They stayed silent amid the world’s storm: masks on children, forced needles, questioned votes. The air was thick with lies, but he claimed it wasn’t his fight. “Live to fight another day,” they said, nodding to pastors who preached, “In this church, we only share the Gospel.” They cherished the phrase, absolved from action as Rome burned.
She followed his lead, her comfort a cage, her submission a mask. The Spirit whispered wisdom (John 16:13), but she ignored it, fearing her marriage couldn’t withstand a breach in protocol. Instead, she guarded their fragile nest.
Their son watched, absorbing their veneer. He mimicked it: career, marriage, children, order. But no fire for the King. He quoted verses, debated theology on his college campus, yet felt hollow. His mother’s sadness haunted him. Would his future bride face the same somber fate? He dreamed of a woman who could challenge his mind, answer the King’s call for adventure.
The house was quiet, not with peace but weight. The wife’s equality, promised by the Spirit’s seal (Ephesians 1:13), lay buried under her husband’s pride. He thought he led like Christ, but Christ rarely leaned on authority, though He had it. Christ’s leadership shone through tending the hurt, seeking the lost, listening to the condemned, enduring false accusations. He didn’t just preach Good News—His actions were so transformative that evil nailed Him to a cross.
A turning point came. At dinner, another ill-chosen comment from the father offended a guest. The wife tried to defuse it, to no avail. The guests left amid awkward silence. Embarrassed, she confronted him. He countered, “Only a fool takes offense where none was meant.” They argued. He parried, dismantled her objections, and claimed “headship.” The argument ended, and he kept his title of “being right.” Thirty years of marriage, never an apology.
Their son watched, stomach churning. He recalled his father’s Bible study claim that he and his wife were one flesh. How could a man win by defeating half of himself in every argument with his bride?
The son said, “I want something else.”
The Second House
Another house stood on a hill, its windows dark. The woman led, her voice sharp, roles many. She taught, decided, fought—at school boards and environmental gatherings. The world called her strong, equal, but mocked her womanhood. Motherhood was deemed lesser than a boardroom. Men could be women, compete in her races, dominate, and she was expected to cheer. She wasn’t always this way. A father’s drunken curses cut deeper than fists, hardening her heart. Trust was shattered, love a risk, submission a betrayal. She married, vowing to right her father’s sins by mastering her husband.
Her husband sat quiet, his masculinity labeled toxic, his strength softened by voices urging him to feel, not fight. He read of sacrifice but let her lead, thinking it love. She controlled money, plans, words. He nodded, submissive, hoping for peace. But her eyes burned with resentment—she knew his acquiescence stemmed from fear of her silence, not love. Oh, how he dreaded a silent home.
Her gaze often drifted to the bold men she claimed to despise, secretly admiring their strength. But her need to bend them to her idol of justice outweighed desire. The Spirit offered healing (Romans 15:16), but her scars drowned His voice. Like the first house, they dodged the world’s storm, idolizing political harmony over truth.
Their daughter watched, her heart confused, learning neither sacrifice nor strength, only resentment’s echo. The house creaked, love thin, her mother’s equality a battle, not a gift. The Spirit’s counsel (John 14:26) was present, but the wife led alone, unmoored from her husband.
Their relationship felt ugly. It looked ugly.
The daughter said, “I want something else.”
The Third House
Twenty years later, a third house stood by a river, small, its windows bright. It housed a man and woman who, years ago, vowed they wanted something else. Less orderly than the first, toys littered the floor, corners worn. Unlike the second, it was loud—boisterous screams from children building forts from living room furniture. The man spoke less, but his words carried weight.
He cherished the Good Book, its call to sacrifice cutting deep. He loved his bride not with words but actions—working late, listening to her fears, standing by her side. The world raged. Masks, rigged votes, lies about men and women. He entered the fray, unprompted. She expected him to fight for their children’s future. She studied his weaknesses, bolstering his efforts with her gifts. He sought her counsel, trusted it above all. When she battled for sanity at a commission meeting, he didn’t mind an unprepared meal. He smiled, thinking, “God help that commission if they cross her.” She was a Valkyrie.
They tended their world like a garden, warring when needed. His authority was evident, never declared. Walking with the Lord shifted atmospheres. Harmony was fought for. The man, whose father never apologized, made amends to his wife and children when he erred—a sign of love, not weakness.
Her strength, inherited from her mother, was softened by the Spirit. She was his helper, not lesser, her wisdom kind (Proverbs 31:26), her intuition sharp, like the Spirit’s guidance (John 16:13). She submitted, not to chains but to love, her respect a gift, not a demand (Ephesians 5:33). The Spirit made her equal, a co-heir, her dignity rooted in His seal, not the world’s lies that mocked her motherhood.
They didn’t debate theology—complementarian or egalitarian—but lived it, actions louder than words. The Spirit wove them together, a unity of sacrifice and submission (Ephesians 4:3). He led, she counseled, her voice calming his anger, his strength lifting her fears. The world called men toxic, women less, but they stood—a man ready to die, a woman ready to guide, both serving the King.
Their children believed in fairy tales—knights, damsels, Kingdom adventures. They saw love that fought, respect that built, a story bigger than themselves. The house sang, laughter and tears shared, the Spirit a river flowing through.
Churches taught women to see husbands as Christ, head of the house (Ephesians 5:23). But they often forgot the Spirit—Helper, Counselor, indispensable (John 14:16; 16:13). Equal with the Father and Son, the Spirit moves in harmony, not less, His voice soft but sure. So too the woman, her intuition stronger, her counsel vital, guiding where a man’s anger blinds. The man sacrifices, like Christ, his love a shield of strength. When both submit to the Father, they mirror the Trinity—distinct, equal, one.
The first house broke under pride, the second under resentment. Only the third stood, Spirit-led, man and woman united, fighting the world’s lies, living for the King. To enter the Kingdom Age, men must rise, women must counsel, both submissive to God, their actions a song of sacrifice and love.
David K. Clements is a seasoned attorney, former law professor, filmmaker and dedicated advocate for election integrity and constitutional rights. If you think he's on to something, consider being a monthly sponsor of his independent journalism at:
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