Enkindle - Thou shall not drink
Some years ago, a couple approached me with a request. They asked if I would join them in the sacred covenant of marriage, to unite them to one another. I knew them both well, and the honour of being present at the beginning of their journey together was clear to me.
As is customary, we embarked on a series of marriage guidance sessions. During one such meeting, the groom-to-be, whom I shall call Philip, made a firm and resolute declaration that he would not allow alcohol to enter his marriage. His tone carried a weight that went beyond mere preference, so I gently inquired about the reason behind his resolve.
His answer was woven with pain familiar to many. He recounted his childhood, marked by a father who would sometimes stumble home under the influence, angry, unpredictable, and violent. The bruises left on his body were nothing compared to the scars left on his heart. As Philip spoke, I listened intently, maintaining a quiet presence, revealing nothing of my own reflections. Yet somehow, he noticed my stillness and asked, “What are you thinking about, you seem a little, shall I say, unsatisfied with my answer?”
After a brief pause, I replied, “I wonder if shaping your marriage around the shadows of your past is the only way to think about this. Is it possible that there is another way to engage with this part of your story?”
His brow furrowed. “Wait, are you saying that it’s not a good idea to say no to alcohol because of what my father did?”
I met his gaze and said, “No, not exactly. It’s not the decision itself, but the place from which the decision is being made that I am curious about.”
This simple question opened the door to a dialogue that would stretch across three months. Each conversation was another step in his journey of reflection and reconsideration. He wrestled with his memories and his fear of repeating the past, seeking to understand what I was inviting him to see.
Then, one afternoon, as we sat together in the bustling hum of a Hungry Jack’s, with the scent of burgers and fries heavy in the air, he snapped. His frustration poured out, raw and unfiltered. “You’re impossible!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been wrestling with this for months, trying to see what you see, and I’m no closer to understanding now than when we began.”
His exasperation hung between us, heavy with the weight of his struggle. Yet, within that tension was the very space where transformation was waiting to unfold.
Sensing that I was on the verge of losing him amidst his frustration, I leaned in and gently asked, “Philip, was gambling ever an issue in your family?”
He seemed momentarily taken aback before replying, “No, not at all. Actually, my mother managed all of the finances. We were never without money, and there was always food on the table.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Alright then, imagine for a moment that you were to decide against introducing gambling into your marriage. What reasons would you have for that?”
He paused, his gaze turning inward. “Well, I suppose it’s because I’ve seen how gambling can drain a family of its resources. It can leech the life out of a marriage. I think of it as a disease.”
Gently pressing further, I asked, “What other consequences could gambling lead to?”
He sighed; his voice more reflective now. “It can lead to secrecy... maybe even other addictions.”
“That’s right,” I affirmed. “You have considered gambling on its own merits. You have looked beyond personal experiences and examined its very nature, recognising the inherent dangers gambling poses. You made a judgement based on its own character.”
I watched as the realisation began to dawn on him. His eyes grew distant as he journeyed back through the corridors of his memories, re-examining his past with fresh insight. I could almost see the turning of the gears as he began to reconsider his stance on alcohol, not through the lens of his father’s anger, but by contemplating the toxic nature of alcoholism on its own terms.
A slow nod accompanied his words, “I think I understand now. You are suggesting that my decision to ban alcohol from my marriage wasn’t entirely about alcohol itself, but rather about my father’s abuse. I equated drinking with becoming abusive, just as he was.”
“Yes,” I responded softly. “Your experiences led you to view alcoholism solely through the lens of your father’s actions. And while your pain is real and should be honoured, it has unwittingly coloured your perception. You need to consider alcoholism on its own merits, recognise its potential for harm, its capacity to damage relationships, just as you did with your thoughts on gambling. Then, that recognition would come from understanding the nature of alcoholism, not from a place of fear or pain.”
He grew quiet, letting the depth of that truth settle within him. In that sacred silence, I sensed the beginnings of a shift, not just in his perspective, but also in his heart.
“So now,” I continued, “you have the opportunity to consider the potential impact of alcoholism within your marriage, not from a place of fear or past wounds, but from a place of love and respect for your wife. In doing so, you allow yourself to form a perspective rooted in care and responsibility, while also drawing from real-life experiences that shaped your understanding of excessive drinking.”
Reflecting on my journey with Philip, I found myself contemplating how often, as Christians, we often choose to abstain from certain things because they are labelled as wrong or sinful. Yet, Christ invites us into a deeper transformation, one that shifts our focus from rule-keeping to a heart awakening to God’s love. In that awakening, our struggles with right and wrong lose their power, for the Spirit gently leads us to behold God’s goodness for what it truly is, not merely seen as a safeguard against wrongdoing.
As we become enveloped in God’s love, that love permeates our very being, transforming us from within. In this divine infusion, the things we once deemed toxic or sinful lose their hold on us, not because they cease to be harmful, but because love reshapes our desires and intentions.
This does not mean that the struggle vanishes. We will continue to wrestle with our humanity, but the nature of that struggle is changed. It becomes a struggle grounded in love and grace, not fear or guilt. We learn to struggle rightly, guided by the Spirit, who continually draws us deeper into the heart of God.
Think on these things.
Shalom – Shalom
Jim Varsos