I know how this verse lands for some people.
Colossians 3:18—“Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.”
To modern ears, this sounds oppressive—like a relic from a time when women had no voice, no rights, no agency. It’s been used to justify everything from control to outright abuse, and I don’t blame anyone for recoiling at it. If submission means a wife shrinking into silence while her husband lords over her, then it should be rejected.
But what if submission isn’t about losing power, but about wielding it? What if a wife’s submission doesn’t erase her, but actually grants weight to her husband’s leadership? What if it’s her consent that gives authority its legitimacy?
I’ve come to see submission through this lens of mutual empowerment. I’ve seen it in my own marriage and that’s the picture I want to explore.
Colossians 3:12-14— “Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.”
Before Paul says anything about marriage, he tells us to put off the old self—anger, selfishness, pride—and put on the new—love, kindness, humility, meekness and patience.
Then, in verses 3:18-4:1, he applies this transformation to the places where we live it out most tangibly: our homes and workplaces.
Colossians 3:19—“Husbands, love your wives, and do not be harsh with them.”
Paul wasn’t reinforcing patriarchy—he was reframing it. In a world where men ruled without question, he told husbands to love their wives and not be harsh with them. In his letter to Ephesians, Paul takes it even further:
Ephesians 5:25—“Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.”
This isn’t about power—it’s about sacrificial love. A husband isn’t called to dominate, but to die to himself for the good of his wife. And a wife’s submission? It’s not about servitude—it’s about trust. Her trust reflects how the church flourishes under Jesus’ care.
Proverbs 12:4a—“An excellent wife is the crown of her husband,”
A crown isn’t imposed on a king’s head—it’s bestowed. Without it, his authority is empty.
That’s what struck me. My wife is not an accessory to my leadership—she is the very thing that gives weight to my role as a husband. I don’t have authority because I take it. I have it because she entrusts it to me. Without her willing participation, my leadership is hollow.
Her submission isn’t weakness—it’s agency, trusting God to guide us both. It’s an act of power. Her trust isn’t passive—it’s a purposeful choice that empowers me and demands my accountability.
And I’ve felt that weight in ways that have changed me.
A while ago, Amy sat me down and told me she regretted pushing me to get a vasectomy. At the time, she had been firm—she didn’t want more kids, while I had quietly hoped for a bigger family. The conversation barely felt like a conversation at all, and I went along with it, not wanting to push back too hard. But now, she was telling me she was sorry.
Not just for the decision itself, but for the way she had made it—unilaterally, without space for my voice.
She realized that by making the decision on her own, she had also taken something from me. She felt the way she approached the conversation left no room for hearing each other out. Her apology was for the process, not for having strong convictions about family planning.
Her apology wasn’t passive submission—it was active restoration. She wasn’t cowering—she was handing me back the weight of my role, making room for trust, for mutuality, for leadership that wasn’t one-sided.
And I felt it.
I didn’t suddenly become domineering. If anything, I became more careful. More aware of the weight I carry in our marriage. More attuned to how my leadership isn’t about getting my way—it’s about being worthy of the trust she gives me.
I saw this dynamic again when we adopted our cat, Eliot. Amy had acted as the gatekeeper on pets—if she said no, it was a no. But that same conversation, she surprised me. She told me, “You decide. I trust you.”
It wasn’t an abdication—it was an offering. A small moment, sure, but one that showed me a deeper truth: her trust crowns me—not with control, but with purpose, and it is what makes my leadership real.
That trust doesn’t only make me a better husband—it makes us a team, stronger than we’d be alone.
Continue on to Part 2.
Let me know what you think.