Faith Is Not a Grab Bag

Faith Is Not a Grab Bag

I don’t know if I will ever truly be in a relationship again.

No one can guarantee that. Not me. Not anyone.

I’m not swearing off love. I’m not declaring myself incapable of falling in love again—though if I’m honest, that feels almost impossible some days. But impossibility and principle are not the same thing. One is emotional. The other is chosen.

What I can say with certainty is this: one of the greatest obstacles in my dating life is my stance on marriage.

I do not believe in remarriage.

That sentence alone narrows the field dramatically.

I’ve gone on dates. I’ve had honest conversations. A few men have initially said they were “fine” with that. They respected it. They understood it. They said it wouldn’t be an issue.

But eventually, reality settles in.

Even if we are nowhere near that stage—even if we’re just getting to know each other—the long-term implication becomes clear: a future with me almost guarantees a future without marriage.

And many of them realize that they want that someday.

I respect that.

It isn’t their fault that I hold the convictions I do. It isn’t their fault that I am divorced. It isn’t their fault that my beliefs about covenant, civil law, spiritual union, and sacred vow are inseparable.

But I cannot change what I believe just because it complicates my life.

Marriage, in my understanding, is both civil and spiritual. It is not two separate institutions loosely connected. It is one reality expressed in two dimensions. The civil matters. The spiritual matters. In my faith, they are intertwined. What is bound legally is bound spiritually. What is vowed spiritually is accountable legally.

To treat one as disposable and the other as sacred is incoherent to me.

And because of that, I cannot approach remarriage as though it were simply a second attempt at romance. For me, it carries moral, spiritual, and philosophical consequences that I cannot ignore without violating my own conscience.

I have spent a great deal of time sitting with this question:

What would it mean to stand in front of another person and take vows again?

Even if they were “just” civil vows.

The reality is this: I have already made those vows once.

They were not casual. They were not conditional. We did not write loophole clauses into them. We had long, serious discussions before we ever stood there. We chose eternal. We chose “no out.” We chose until death. We chose beyond death.

Because I believe marriage is sacred.

Not symbolically sacred. Not sentimentally sacred. Actually sacred.

Sacred to society. Sacred to community. Sacred to the formation of a healthy human being. Sacred before the Divine.

And if something is sacred, it must be approached with the same reverence that our words claim it deserves.

So I have asked myself, honestly: what would it mean to speak vows again?

Maybe the words would be slightly different. But the intent would be the same. “Till death do us part.” Or “for eternity.” The language shifts, but the gravity does not.

Except it does.

Because I have already said those words once.

How could they ever carry the same weight again?

How can I stand before the true and ever living Gods—or before the state—and declare permanence a second time, when the first declaration of permanence did not remain permanent?

If I say the vows again, do they supersede the first vows? Do they cancel them? Do they outrank them in Heavens or Hades? On what authority?

And how do I say them knowing—statistically, realistically—that divorce is possible? Knowing that the person across from me could one day decide, “I’m done,” and simply leave?

What, then, is the vow worth?

What is the point of invoking eternity if exit remains an available option?

In good conscience, I cannot stand there and repeat words of irrevocable permanence while knowing I am speaking them a second time under the shadow of the first.

It would feel dishonest.

Not to the other person. Not even primarily to society.

But to myself! To the Gods! 

Certain things cannot be reused without losing their gravity. When something meant to be once-for-all becomes repeatable, it risks becoming cheaper. Less absolute. Less sacred.

And if I cannot speak vows with the same conviction, the same awe, the same irreversible intent I had the first time, then I cannot speak them at all.

This is not bitterness.

This is consistency.

Faith is not a grab bag.

Principles are not a grab bag.

Virtue ethics are not a grab bag.

You do not reach in and discard what costs you something while keeping what comforts you.

If I set aside what I believe about covenant simply because it complicates my romantic future, then what I have is not faith—it is convenience with pageantry.

Convictions that disappear when inconvenient were never convictions.

They were accessories and not pillars of character.

This does not mean I cannot love again. It does not mean I cannot build companionship, partnership, intimacy, or deep connection. But it does mean that anyone who walks into my life deserves the truth.

I will not remarry.

Not because I am hardened. Not because I am incapable of love. Not because I enjoy being alone.

But because I cannot, in integrity, pretend that vows repeated carry the same sacred finality as vows spoken once with the belief they would never be broken.

If that narrows the field, so be it.

I would rather live with coherence than comfort.

Love, if it ever finds me again, will have to meet me where my principles, convictions and faith stand. 

I will not move them.