ABSTRACT: Most English Bibles translate diathēkē as “covenant” throughout Hebrews — except in Hebrews 9:16–17, where they read “will.” Though good reasons lie behind the use of “will,” better evidence weighs in favor of “covenant.” Not only does the near and wider context of Hebrews make “will” unlikely, but the particular wording of the passage, along with the covenantal background it alludes to, suggests the author refers here, as elsewhere, to covenants and covenant-makers rather than wills and testators. Further, the word “will” obscures a crucial connection only hinted at elsewhere in Hebrews: when sinful humans make a covenant with God, a sacrifice must die in their place. For sinners, life with God requires death.

For our ongoing series of feature articles for pastors and Christian leaders, we asked Jared Compton, assistant professor of New Testament and biblical theology, to argue for the best translation, and theology, of Hebrews 9:16–17.

Poor translators! It’s not an easy job. There’s a story about one unfortunate translation — now known as the “Wicked Bible” — where the translators accidentally left out the word “not” in the seventh commandment. If you remember that commandment, the “not” is kind of a big deal. Of course, not every translation “decision” is as important, much less consequential. But every decision matters, which is why I want to argue that we should change two words in most of our English translations of the Bible to best reflect what God says to us.

Most English translations translate the Greek word diathēkē in Hebrews 9:16–17 as “will,” even though they translate this same word as “covenant” everywhere else in Hebrews.1 The ESV is representative:

For where a will [diathēkē] is involved, the death of the one who made it must be established. For a will [diathēkē] takes effect only at death, since it is not in force as long as the one who made it is alive.

In what follows, I will argue that we should change “will” in both cases to “covenant.” I’ll begin by first explaining why so many translations prefer “will.” As we’ll see, there are good reasons behind this decision. But I’ll then argue that “covenant” is the better option, especially because it preserves a connection between sin and death that Hebrews doesn’t make anywhere else.

Why Our Bibles Say ‘Will’

I’ll begin with the case for keeping “will” in our Bibles. As I said, there are good reasons behind this translation decision. Here we’ll consider four.

First, diathēkē referred to a will in the first-century Greco-Roman world. The word was used to describe how a testator — a will-maker — committed to having his property distributed upon his death. It could refer to other binding commitments, which is why the Greek Old Testament (third century BC) used diathēkē to describe the binding commitments God made with Abraham and Moses and David. But such alternative uses were quite rare in comparison.2 What’s more, while the author of Hebrews keeps a firm eye on his audience’s Bible (the Greek Old Testament), he is also attuned to their everyday lives (see 3:4; 5:1–4; 6:16; 9:27). Thus, the case goes, an appeal to his readers’ everyday experience of diathēkē-making (i.e., will-making) wouldn’t be out of character.

Second, Jesus could be the diathēkē-maker in Hebrews 9:16–17. He could be “the one,” Hebrews says, “who made it” and, therefore, whose “death . . . must be established” (verse 16). If these verses are about a will, then Jesus would have to be the diathēkē-maker. Who else could be the (necessarily dying) testator? Since the previous five verses focus on Jesus and his death (verses 11–15), it’s not a stretch to think verses 16–17 have the same focus, with their threefold mention of a diathēkē-maker who must die. And when we zoom out to the larger argument (8:1–10:18), we see that Hebrews has already called Jesus a “priest” (8:1–2) and a “mediator” (8:6; 9:15). It would be easy, therefore, to imagine Hebrews adding one more title to that list — “testator.”

Third, what Hebrews describes in Hebrews 9:16–17 initially may sound like a will. After connecting Jesus to a diathēkē (“He is the mediator of a new diathēkē”) and an “inheritance” (verse 15), Hebrews says, “Where a [diathēkē] is involved, the death of the one who made it must be established” (verse 16). Hebrews goes on to say the same thing two more times: “A [diathēkē] takes effect only at death” and “is not in force as long as the [diathēkē-maker] is alive” (verse 17). What Hebrews describes, to say it again, sounds like a will: a testator’s inheritance is distributed when he dies. If Hebrews is not describing a will and is instead describing a covenant, then this focus on the maker’s death would seem out of place. Moses and Israel were in covenant relationship with God and (apparently) lived to tell about it (see Exodus 24). If they had to die first, then that part seems to have been left out of the story.

Fourth, there is a good reason for briefly introducing the idea of a will in Hebrews 9:16–17. By talking about Jesus as a testator, this gives Hebrews one more way to explain the necessity of his death, which is the author’s larger point (see, e.g., “it was necessary,” verse 23). Granted, he makes the point with a parenthetical pun, since diathēkē means “covenant” everywhere else. But it’s a move that serves his purpose and was right at hand. The idea of diathēkē-as-will was simply too obvious and too useful to overlook.

“‘Diathēkē’ refers to a covenant everywhere else in Hebrews — a total of fifteen times.”

These four arguments explain why so many of our translations say “will” instead of “covenant” in Hebrews 9:16–17. In these verses, translators assume that Hebrews briefly departs from his normal pattern of speech and appeals to the commonplace experience of his readers in a two-verse wordplay on diathēkē. Jesus had to die so that we might receive the inheritance he so graciously willed to us.3

Case for ‘Covenant’

While good reasons exist for keeping “will” in our English Bibles, there are even better reasons for replacing it with “covenant.” Here I’ll give the four best, moving as Hebrews does from the lesser to the greater. Further, when giving my third reason, I’ll also interact with two versions of an increasingly popular argument used in support of “covenant.” I am not convinced either is right, but both are worth considering.

1. Diathēkē Elsewhere in Hebrews

First, diathēkē refers to a covenant everywhere else in Hebrews — a total of fifteen times (7:22; 8:6, 8, 9 [2x], 10; 9:4 [2x], 15 [2x], 20; 10:16, 29; 12:24; and 13:20). Hebrews, in fact, refers to a covenant just before (9:15 [2x]) and just after (9:20) Hebrews 9:16–17. What’s more, when Hebrews 9:18 begins, “Not even the first . . . was inaugurated without blood,” most translations supply “covenant” there too, since Hebrews goes on to describe the first covenant’s inauguration in Exodus 24 (see Hebrews 9:18–22). Of course, this doesn’t mean that diathēkē must be translated “covenant” in Hebrews 9:16–17; otherwise, how could an author ever make a wordplay? Still, the evidence gives “covenant” a kind of inertia. Or, to put it another way, it predisposes us to consider diathēkē-as-covenant innocent until proven guilty.

2. Sinful Humans as Diathēkē-Makers

Second, sinful humans are the diathēkē-makers, the ones entering into covenant with God, in Hebrews 9:16–17. Jesus is present, but he is not the focus. Sinners are. Already in the previous paragraph (verses 11–14), Hebrews introduces us to people who need to be “purif[ied]” and “rede[emed]” by sacrificial “blood” (verses 12, 14). Then, just before verses 16–17, Hebrews talks about the same people, this time of their need to be “redeem[ed] . . . from . . . transgressions” by sacrificial “death” (verse 15). Without “blood” (verses 11–14) or “death” (verse 15), sinners can’t receive the benefits of a covenant relationship with God (verse 15a, “so that”). They can’t enter his presence (compare 9:1–10 with 9:24 and 10:19–21; see also 2:5–9, 10). Then, just after verses 16–17, Hebrews says that covenants are not “inaugurated without blood” (verse 18), once again linking “blood” (or “death,” verse 15) with sin — “without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins” (verse 22).

When Hebrews talks about “death” in verses 16–17 and links that death with a diathēkē-maker, we’re prepared to see a reference to the sacrificial debt sinful humans owe because of their sin. Jesus is present, only not as the covenant-maker but as the sacrificial death that gives sinners access to God.

3. Covenantal Background

Third, what Hebrews describes in Hebrews 9:16–17 fits a covenant even better than it does a will. It’s true, on a first reading, the connection between death and diathēkē-making may seem straightforward: the diathēkē-maker himself must die. This, of course, fits a testator’s case easily since he actually dies. A covenant-maker, on the other hand, dies only vicariously — through a sacrificial substitute. The description of the diathēkē-maker’s death, however, isn’t as straightforward as it may first appear. Hebrews doesn’t say that the diathēkē-maker must die but, rather, that his death “must be established” (verse 16), which translates a verb (pherō) elsewhere translated “endure” (so 12:20; see also “go on,” 6:1; “bear,” 13:13; compare “uphold” [or “bears up” YLT], 1:3). Neither inside nor outside of Hebrews does the word ever mean “establish.” Even if “endure” (or “endured”) is the better translation, it’s still an odd way to describe someone’s death, whether covenant-maker or testator.

This “odd” word’s close-cousin (ana+pherō), however, is used in Exodus 24 to describe the sacrifices Israel “brought” (anapherō) at Sinai. Hebrews recalls this scene in 9:18–22, even quoting directly from it (verse 20, citing Exodus 24:8). The same close-cousin word is used at the end of Hebrews 9, in this case referring to the sins Jesus bore for his people: “So Christ, having been offered once to bear [anapherō] the sins of many . . .” (verse 28). Here once more, Hebrews uses language from the Old Testament, this time from Isaiah 53:12, where the Servant vicariously suffers for his people (see also pherō in Isaiah 53:4 LXX).

Hebrews also doesn’t say that a diathēkē “takes effect only at death” (verse 17a). Rather, he says, “upon dead bodies” (epi nekrois). Again, it’s an odd way to describe someone’s death. This peculiar language, however, also recalls the Sinai story, this time the bodies — the calves — Israel sacrificed (Hebrews 9:18; see Exodus 24:5). It’s a moment in Israel’s story later described in the Psalms in language almost identical to Hebrews: “Bring my faithful people to me — those who made a covenant [diathēkē] with me by giving sacrifices [epi thysiais]” (Psalm 50:5 NLT; compare Brenton LXX). A diathēkē upon bodies — it’s an unusual way to talk about death, but it certainly fits a covenant better than a will.

The same can be said for other details in Hebrews 9:16–17. For example, Hebrews says a diathēkē “takes effect” (bebaios, verse 17a) and is “in force” (ischyō, verse 17b) only upon its maker’s death. In the first century, these were true not at death but at the moment a will was drawn up and notarized. If we insist that both refer instead to the execution of a will, then we still run into trouble. For starters, neither word means “execution.”4 And Hebrews goes on to claim that a diathēkē is “never [mēpote] in force [i.e., executed] as long as the one who made it is alive” (verse 17b; on “never,” see NIV, NASB, CSB). Such a sweeping claim would be out of step with first-century will-making, which allowed for the execution of a will before the testator’s death.5

SELF-MALEDICTORY RITUAL

Some think the details of Hebrews 9:16–17 fit a covenant better than a will for another reason. These insist that Hebrews describes a well-known covenant-making ritual known as a drohritus. In the ritual, covenant-makers swore an oath, calling down curses upon themselves were they to violate the terms of the covenant (see, e.g., Ezekiel 17:13–19, esp. verses 15–16). The oath would then be followed (in some cases) by a sacrifice symbolizing the penalty if the oath should be broken. Thus, the parties said, in effect, “What we are doing to this animal, may God do to us if we violate our covenant commitments” (see Jeremiah 34:18–20). The ritual’s focus on future, potential sins (i.e., covenant-breaking), however, is out of step with Hebrews. In Hebrews, it is actual sins that must be forgiven by sacrifice if sinners are to enter into covenant with God (9:22; also verse 15).

Still others insist that Hebrews 9:16–17 describes the self-maledictory ritual from the perspective of covenant-breaking, not covenant-making. These argue that a covenant-maker must die “since [a broken covenant] is not in force as long as the one who made it [and has now broken it] is alive (verse 17b; compare Ezekiel 17:15). This view rightly maintains the connection between death and actual sin but wrongly characterizes the sin as covenant-breaking. Those needing and receiving forgiveness in Hebrews aren’t first-covenant breakers but faithful believers who sinned under the first covenant (9:15) and whose subsequent sacrifices pointed to but simply could not provide the forgiveness they needed (see, esp., 9:8–10 and 10:1–4; see also 11:39–40). There were first-covenant breakers (10:28). But in their case, the problem went beyond the limits of the Levitical priesthood and included hearts hardened by disobedience and unbelief (3:7–4:13; see also 8:8–9; compare with the faithful in 11:1–40). Again, this latter group is present in Hebrews but not in Hebrews 9:16–17 (see “called,” verse 15; also “our,” verse 14).

“Hebrews 9:16–17 uniquely explains what Levitical sacrifices pointed to and what Jesus’s death finally provides.”

We might also wonder why, if Hebrews 9:16–17 have a broken first covenant in view, Hebrews 9:18 then says, “Therefore not even the first covenant was inaugurated without blood.” Hebrews 9:18 makes it sound like verses 16–17 have another covenant and covenant inauguration (not maintenance) in view. If, however, we grant that the transition from Hebrews 9:16–17 to 9:18 is from the first covenant’s breaking (verses 16–17) to its beginning (verse 18), we are still surprised by “not even” (oude). We would expect “not” (ou): “The first covenant is enforced by sacrifice, since it was not inaugurated without blood.” That is to say, “Of course the first covenant is enforced by a death penalty, since it did not begin without sacrificially symbolizing such a punishment.” Again, I can see how “not” fits that reading; however, I do not see how “not even” can.

Further, Hebrews says the (inauguratory) blood of Hebrews 9:18 was necessary for “forgiveness of sins” (verse 22). That is different from saying it prefigured the forgiveness future sins would require. Plus, a focus on future sins downplays the immediate and continued, if still insufficient, cleansing first-covenant members needed if they were to live in covenant with God. It downplays, in other words, the connection Hebrews everywhere makes between sacrifice and atonement (see, for example, 5:1–3; 7:27; 8:3–5; 9:1–10, 11–14, 18–22, 23, 25; 10:1–4, 11). Finally, on either drohritus reading, the need for “better sacrifices” in Hebrews 9:23 is hard to explain. In the ritual, the quality of the sacrifice isn’t relevant — beyond, of course, being blemish-free. What mattered was the symbolism: “As to this animal, so to me.” Even allowing for a substitute penalty-taker, the substitute’s quality matters only if it is somehow less than the guilty party (e.g., an animal). To require something more than or superior to the covenant-breaker wouldn’t fit the ritual.

4. Life Through Substitutionary Death

Fourth, Hebrews uses diathēkē-as-covenant in Hebrews 9:16–17 to make a theological connection only hinted at in other places. Life with God (i.e., the goal of covenant-making) is here explicitly linked with the sinful covenant-maker’s necessary death. The idea is implied elsewhere in the purification, redemption, and forgiveness available in sacrificial blood (see verses 15 and 18–22; compare Hebrews 2:9). Animals — to put it plainly — weren’t killed for their own sins! But Hebrews only here explains that the sacrifice’s death takes the place of the sacrificer’s (necessary) death. Thus, after saying that “transgressions” require “death” if sinners want to experience a relationship with God (Hebrews 9:15), Hebrews explains,

For where a covenant promising life to sinful human beings is involved, sin’s debt — the death of the human covenant partner — must be borne. For a covenant like this takes effect only upon dead bodies, since a covenant promising life to sinful human beings is not in force as long as the sinful human partner lives and sin’s debt remains unpaid. (verses 16–17, ESV altered + my own additions)

“Take away ‘covenant,’ and we lose a crucial step in the author’s larger argument.”

Hebrews 9:16–17, in other words, uniquely explains what Levitical sacrifices pointed to and what Jesus’s death finally provides: death-escaping life with God for sinners. What’s only hinted at elsewhere finally rises above the surface here.6

Recovering ‘Covenant’

Translating the Bible is tough business — and not just for those poor souls in the pre-digital age! Those who give their lives to this task deserve our gratitude and our support and, on occasion, our thoughtful feedback. Such is the case in Hebrews 9:16–17. As we’ve seen, the reasons for translating diathēkē as “covenant” are superior to those for translating it as “will.” On top of this, the decision made in most of our English translations comes with a hidden cost. After all, take away “covenant,” and we lose a crucial step in the author’s larger argument. For the moment, this step has been lost in translation. And I think it’s time we ask to have it back.

You never imagined that it could come to this.

You have been married for years to your dear wife. You have been your beloved’s, and your beloved has been yours. Three sons and a daughter she bore you, four children that now watch you with a look you can’t describe. What an answer to prayer she has been. Your tears hold memories of life before the whispers came. Why is this happening?

You found out from your daughter. In disbelief you went to her with questions. The voice sounded the same, her hair framed her beauty as it always had, the dimple in her cheek and the birthmark on her neck remained where you left them. Yet someone else speaks as her mouth moves, telling foreign words of strange beliefs. The wife of your youth, your lovely doe, has become sick. An illness preys upon her soul. How did this happen? You resolve to reason with her quietly, surely she will snap out of it.

Time heats gentle persuasion into desperate pleading. She no longer follows Yahweh. She implores you and the kids to join her. There are gods elsewhere.

Days pass while leaving you in a nightmare from which you cannot wake. Her idolatry deepens. You would have preferred a grizzly death than see this day. You would have bid the stars crush you or the sea to swallow you before you witnessed her bowing to another than Yahweh. She is you, you are her, one flesh. Your rib has pursued death. And what is worse — you’re tempted to think — you know the Scriptures. You could turn a blind eye, but not a blind mind.

If your brother, the son of your mother, or your son or your daughter or the wife you embrace or your friend who is as your own soul entices you secretly, saying, “Let us go and serve other gods,” which neither you nor your fathers have known, some of the gods of the peoples who are around you. . . you shall not yield to him or listen to him, nor shall your eye pity him, nor shall you spare him, nor shall you conceal him. (Deuteronomy 13:6–8)

You shall not yield to her, listen to her, pity her, spare her . . . or conceal her. What then was the hardest thing you have ever done, you did: You brought your daughter and both told the elders her secret. The elders inquired and searched and asked diligently to be certain (Deuteronomy 13:14); she did not hide, did not yield. And again, you know the next lines,

But you shall kill [her]. Your hand shall be first against [her] to put [her] to death, and afterward the hand of all the people. You shall stone [her] to death with stones, because [she] sought to draw you away from the Yahweh your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. And all Israel shall hear and fear and never again do any such wickedness as this among you.

Never have you faced such a temptation to cast off Yahweh’s rule. You would give yourself to spare her. How can you sit by and watch her die, let alone be involved in her death, and even throw the first stone? Never has disobedience felt more right. Abraham brought Isaac up the mountain, and came down with him. This day would not end like that.

The community stands watching, waiting. “Your hand shall be first against her to put her to death, and afterward the hand of all the people.”

Cruelty, this is cruelty, the thought hisses into your mind. Before you can think it, she shouts, “The gods of the nations wouldn’t require you to stone your own wife!” Your eye, seeing through a flood, beholds the blurry shape of your dearest embrace, the mother of your children. And through the stillness your ear hears the word of your God, “Your eye shall not pity her, nor shall you spare her.” Your eye or your ear? Your wife or your God?

Could You Cast the Stone?

The scene is horrible even to imagine. It takes an emotional toll to consider. The rock in your hand, a mother, a daughter, a father, a husband, a best friend before you, the community surrounding you, and your God above. Moses knew this while writing,

If your brother, the son of your mother,or your son or your daughteror the wife you embrace (literally, “wife of your bosom”)or your friend who is as your own soul, entices you. . . .

Natural affection screams against the proceedings. This is not a faceless idolater but your beloved. The scene cuts the soul of all who see it; all who hear of it. It tests: to see whether we truly love Yahweh supremely or not (Deuteronomy 13:3). And it teaches. Teaches the fear of God and the proper appraisal of turning from the true God to other loves.

Have you, standing beside the solemn community, learned its lesson?

But God Isn’t Like That — Right?

The New Covenant is different from the Old. We do not execute false teachers or their apostates, do not “purge the evil from [our] midst” (Deuteronomy 13:5) by throwing stones. The closest thing we do — something just as serious — is church discipline and excommunication. When Paul tells the church at Corinth to “Purge the evil person from among you” (1 Corinthians 5:13), he means, “not to associate with anyone who bears the name of brother if he is guilty of sexual immorality or greed, or is an idolater, reviler, drunkard, or swindler — not even to eat with such a one” (1 Corinthians 5:11).

Yet, the difference between covenants is not the kind that some people want to make. Some imagine that the God of the Old Testament — the God who here would have idolaters and false prophets stoned — is somehow a bloodthirsty and brutal deity, while his divine Son, on the other hand, comes as the more moral, civil, and compassionate of the Godhead. They mention this Old Testament God with red face and ready-made apology. Reading this, they wonder, Why even reflect on such a text? This is not helping the gospel go forth.

“God values perfectly what we value imperfectly. He loves undyingly what we sputter to love and fail.”

Such reluctancies — in them and in ourselves — remind us of great news: God is not like you, not like me. He is more just, more holy, and more compassionate than we imagine, all at once. He is more appropriately tuned to reality than we. He values perfectly what we value imperfectly. He loves undyingly what we sputter to love and fail. He holds allegiances in perfect grasp, knows the weight of the crown upon his head, and legislates with mathematical perfection, despite our faltering algebra. That situation is horrible because sin is horrible, not God.

More Loving than God

Such texts help me (as I hope they help you) recalibrate my thinking and my feeling. They act as smelling salts to my sensibilities, confronting the weaknesses of my personality, community, and age. When I am tempted to imagine myself with a stone in hand, I feel my heart grow faint and shake its head. And when this occurs, when I let the text work on me, I begin to pray, “I believe, help my unbelief.” And I ask, Where are my loves crooked?

With my family, perhaps. I am not to lessen my love for family, but rather love God supremely, with my whole being. Christ reiterates that he will suffer no rivals (should we stand at the crossroad),

Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. (Matthew 10:37)

Or, perhaps, with my God’s glory. In my imagining, I am more devastated by the consequence of sin than the affront of sin; more offended by the wages of sin than by the sin itself. I need to overhear how God teaches angels to feel about exchanging him for anything else:

Be appalled, O heavens, at this;be shocked, be utterly desolate,declares the Lord,for my people have committed two evils:they have forsaken me,the fountain of living waters,and hewed out cisterns for themselves,broken cisterns that can hold no water. (Jeremiah 2:12–13)

Or, perhaps, with my community. God shows mercy to the community through this hard lesson: “And all Israel shall hear and fear and never again do any such wickedness as this among you.” Others’ family members would fall if I lacked nerve to obey.

My “compassion” would value the creature over the Creator, high-handed rebellion over God’s glory, my wife’s unbelieving life over the faithful she would infect with her whispers of unbelief.

Let Goods and Kindred Go

Today, we are a people quick to trust our feelings, our judgments, our sense of things, with God somewhere comfortably in the background. Difficult texts like this remind us of the towering worth of God and the high allegiance of our calling. And such texts can test us, “to know whether you love Yahweh your God with all your heart and with all your soul” (Deuteronomy 13:3).

“We must decide now, as best we can and with God helping us, to never choose kin over King.”

One of Satan’s most successful snares is to infect faith through our closest relationships. Where God means for them to give life, he means death. We feel for those caught in the crossfire of a beloved’s war with God. But neither can we ignore the rotten fruit: pastors who change their minds on homosexuality because a son comes out; a Christian mother who capitulates on abortion because her daughter secretly procured one; a wife who concedes to universalism because her husband left the faith. Satan has robbed many through this backdoor.

A text like Deuteronomy 13 bids us decide now, as best we can and with God helping us, to never choose kin over King, should that dark day ever come. Though my heart be wrung watching him or her run after other gods, I will not. Although their sin twists my soul in knots I can’t untie, though the loss of that relationship pierces to the deepest part of me, and all the while the world’s gods taunt me that Christ is too narrow, too particular, that it’s not worth it — Lord, keep me yours.

Jesus is worthy to be our great love, and no less — a love we bend or break for none. Let God be true, though every loved one is false. Resolve now to sing to the end with Psalm 73:25–26,

Whom have I in heaven but you?And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.My flesh and my heart may fail,but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Before romance became an ally for me, it was a terrorist, because it had become a god.

It was a subtle god, of course. But subtle gods — money, sports, career success, relationships — often wield more functional authority than the gods of organized religion. You may find more devotion in sports arenas, movie theaters, board meetings, and social media threads than in many pews. And the worshipers of those gods gather seven days a week. Through my teens and twenties, I read my Bible regularly and rarely missed church, but if you watched really closely, you might have assumed that marriage, not God, was the only pleasure great enough to fill my restless soul.

I dated too young, and too often, and took those relationships too far, emotionally and physically. Through those failures, I discovered just how desperately I needed forgiveness and redemption. And I learned that dating (and marriage, and sex, and family) would never satisfy all I desired. Because romance had become a god, I betrayed God — the one true and living God — to serve my golden calf. Relationship after relationship, I was burning down the gold he had given me to fashion something that might more immediately meet my longings.

By God’s grace, like Saul along the road to Damascus, romance was dramatically converted in my story from murderous terrorist to servant of Christ. So if you, like me, have bowed at the altars of romantic affection and intimacy, I hope to open your eyes to a greater Love (and a greater, more fulfilling vision for earthly love). I hope you’ll begin to see how romantic love is simultaneously at the core of what’s right and beautiful about this world (hence why dating and marriage can be so thrilling and satisfying), and yet also at the core of what can be so wrong (why the two can be so destructive and devastating).

Your Good Desires for Love

My desire for romantic love, even as a naive, impulsive teenager, wasn’t totally dysfunctional. I was experiencing something that God had created in me. After all, he himself says, “He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the Lord” (Proverbs 18:22). That means he who wants a wife wants a good thing, and wants favor from God.

“Healthy and happy marriages find their health and happiness in that future marriage.”

We see the goodness of romance in the very first paragraphs of Scripture. Notice how the first six days of God’s masterpiece come to a climax: “Then God said, ‘Let us make man in our image, after our likeness . . .’” (Genesis 1:26). He’s lit the stage, hung the moon, carved the seashores, formed the mountains, planted the flowers, unleashed the birds, and uncaged the bears. Now he’ll put something of himself on that wild and wondrous stage — he’ll pick up handfuls of dust and mold the kind of creature his Son will one day be.

So God created man in his own image,in the image of God he created him . . .

But that’s not all he said. And that he says more gets to why I innately had such high, even unrealistic expectations of romance.

So God created man in his own image,in the image of God he created him;male and female he created them. (Genesis 1:26–27)

Not just male, but male and female. And a few verses later, they were no longer separately male and female, but one flesh. When God sculpted his image into creation, he didn’t just make a man — he made a man and a woman, together. He made a marriage. Marital love, at its best, tells the story the universe was made to tell, about the love within God himself (Father, Son, and Spirit), and the love of that Son for his bride, the church.

Our desires for romantic love (again, at their best, when they’re burning as God himself kindled them to burn) draw us into the love that formed the earth and every other planet, the Milky Way and every other galaxy. Marriage is a wondrous gift, given by a generous Father, to help lead his sons and daughters to their greatest possible joy.

Your Bad Desires for Love

It didn’t take long, though, for that one-flesh sculpture to crumble. The honeymoon was devastatingly short (at least in the story we’ve been given). Almost as soon as we find the two together, naked and blissfully unashamed, Satan slithers between them and turns them against each other.

When we read Genesis 1–2, we can hardly imagine what a relationship like that might be like, a love without fear or suspicion, without secrets or grudges, without sin or pain. Neither ever needing to say sorry. Then the serpent raided their home, overturned the marriage bed, and started a fire in the living room. It’s stunning, isn’t it, just how quickly sin turns this love story into a horror film.

Now, for the first time, they’re hiding (Genesis 3:8). They’re suddenly afraid of the God who had been their safety (verse 10). Within a few sentences, the husband’s pointing fingers (verse 12). They’re having their first fight as a couple (verse 15), the wife wrestling her groom for the steering wheel. They meet pain (verse 16), which shows up at their front door and never leaves. And their work grows hard, and not just hard, but frustrating and ineffective (verses 17–18). Worst of all, they’re evicted from Paradise, leaving them wandering without God (verses 23–24). His presence had been their address, their foundation, their first and only home. And when it comes time to have children, they give birth to anger, rivalry, and death (Genesis 4:1–8).

As soon as God was uprooted from the center of their union, and they from the safety of his garden, romance was no longer spiritually safe. Their nakedness was now a vulnerability. And two thousand years later, it’s really not any safer or easier out on the dating scene. Adam and Eve’s fall is a warning that, for as beautiful, even divine, as romance can be, it can also be dangerous, even deadly.

Rehearsing for the Real Thing

I wasn’t completely wrong about romance, even as a teenager. I was wrong because I expected from romance what I would find only in God, and then demanded that the true God deliver my god (and that he overnight it). And then I was surprised when I didn’t get what I wanted and ended up lonelier and more miserable than before.

Make no mistake, romance captures worship. Idolatry like mine explains why sexual sin runs rampant. It’s why the demonic empires of pornography make billions of dollars every year. It’s why we see so much divorce. It explains a lot of depression and suicide. Our desires for love, however, in their deepest, purest, most intense expressions, are desires for a Marriage beyond marriage. You won’t be freed from all the frustration, confusion, and heartbreak of romance worship until you see this.

One day, heaven will come to earth, Christ will return on the clouds, and we’ll have a wedding:

Let us rejoice and exult     and give him the glory,for the marriage of the Lamb has come,     and his Bride has made herself ready;it was granted her to clothe herself     with fine linen, bright and pure. (Revelation 19:7–8)

Then Jesus will sing the Groom’s anthem over us: “This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh” (Genesis 2:23). He came to pursue her, he died to redeem her, he rose to secure her, and he’s coming to bring her home. How will we remember these brief years of unwanted loneliness, or persistent conflict, even of paralyzing betrayal when we see the blazing fire in his eyes, when we hear the warm rumble in his voice, when we feel the passionate strength of his embrace?

Healthy and happy marriages find their health and happiness in that future marriage. They’re content because their contentment doesn’t rest finally in each other. They receive these years of matrimony, even decades together, as a blessed rehearsal for the real thing.

Romance of Orthodoxy

In this case, however, we don’t have to wait for the wedding to enjoy the pleasures of the romance. Through faith, Christ is already yours. Even though you are not yet the glorified you that you one day will be, you already have “every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places” in him (Ephesians 1:3). G.K. Chesterton famously writes,

This is the thrilling romance of Orthodoxy. People have fallen into a foolish habit of speaking of orthodoxy as something heavy, humdrum, and safe. There never was anything so perilous or so exciting as orthodoxy. (Orthodoxy, 143)

The apostle Paul, an unmarried man himself, had tasted that sweeter, fuller romance: “I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord” (Philippians 3:8). And if he had married, he still would have said the same. He knew no wife could have possibly made him happier than Jesus could (and so he actually may have made a good husband).

Your desires for love are, at root, good. They’re innate, inescapable desires for Christ. And yet sin distorts our desires for love and leads them astray (sometimes far astray). That means romance can be a friend or a god, an ally or an enemy. So don’t run from your holy desires, and don’t idolize them. Make your earthly loves (or potential earthly loves) serve your first and greater love for God.