The Will-They/Won’t-They Church

In the 80s, it was popular for TV shows to build plots around romantic tension between two of the more popular characters. The trick, however, was to write their relationships so viewers constantly asked, “Will they, or won’t they?” Among the couples were Sam & Diane (Cheers), Tony & Angela (Who’s the Boss?), and Maddie & David (Moonlighting). The trope was about “destiny”—there was a sense that the two belonged together in a way that transcended their particular and many flaws.

In TV Land, when the couples finally got together, the show often “jumped the shark” (Google that if you don’t know what it means) because the reality of the relationship proved less exciting than the tension of uncertainty. Savvy viewers soon picked up on the formula that “getting them together” would so alter the fabric of their relationship that the “magic” could no longer be woven in. Writers concluded that because commitment changed the story, it must be avoided. Intimacy and commitment, you see, were somehow antithetical to upward Nielsen ratings.

In 1989, another couple popped onto the scene, Jerry & Elaine (Seinfeld). These characters followed a different path. Their backstory included a period when they dated seriously. But by the time the series began, their relationship had become platonic. Unlike the 80s couples who regretted getting together—resulting in breakups and resentment—Jerry & Elaine were quite content with their arrangement, building on their shared history with remarkable maturity—especially for characters otherwise defined by immaturity.

For nearly a decade, they avoided the messiness of the “Will They/Won’t They” trap entirely. The show did briefly flirt with the two navigating a “Friends with Benefits” arrangement, but the show’s producers later admitted they did so only because they thought the series would be canceled and they wanted a fitting wrap-up. Upon learning the show had been spared, the subsequent episodes picked up as though that episode had all been in the viewer’s imagination. The series went right back to its pledge of “No Hugging, No Learning.” For its part, the show proved that a “stable” relationship wasn’t automatically a “death sentence.”

Both models were deeply flawed, however. The 80s couples belonged together in theory but were never allowed to in reality; fidelity took a backseat to the fetishization of anticipation. As a result, the stories (and lives) of the characters were sterile, unfruitful, and immature.

Over on Seinfeld, while they exposed the lie that every relationship is destined, they mocked sentimentality and romance as illusions. What did they replace them with? Nihilism. They portrayed commitment as optional and arbitrary. Ultimately, the romance evaporated because it was inconsequential—it was never permitted to mean anything. Eventually, the audience stopped longing.

On the one hand, relationships avoided commitment because it was too dangerous. “Nobody make any sudden moves! We don’t want to scare anyone off!”

On the other hand, relationships were avoided because they weren’t worth the effort. It was the “variety is the spice of life” approach that led you to abandon mint chocolate chip simply because Baskin-Robbins was equally committed to all “31-derful flavors.” Availability was equated with equality, and refusal to commit was dressed up as “preserving the sanctity of ‘specialness’.” After all, if every relationship were special, then none of them would be.

Unironically, Jerry & Elaine end the series by sharing a jail cell. Two people incapable of interdependence and intimacy find themselves imprisoned together.

These weren’t simply storytelling devices—they were pre-YouTube instructional videos on how to think about relationships. They were quietly shaping our expectations and fears, as well as our sense of what levels of commitment were virtuous and necessary.

In a way—an important one—the Church absorbed both errors at once. Though they were opposite, both led to the same emptiness. The Church began to see insistence on fidelity and commitment as a threat to the system’s stability. Further, it unintentionally reassured people that disengagement was harmless. Thus, commitment became either too dangerous or too meaningless.

But the most important relationships are the ones that require commitment—the only condition under which certain kinds of relationships can even survive.

In Ephesians 5:32, Paul refers to the marriage metaphor as a “great mystery.” I certainly don’t profess to understand it fully. But what I can glean is that earthly marriages are a parable of the divine plan, meaning human marriage is a copy of Christ’s eternal relationship with His Bride—not the original.

Paul quotes Genesis 2:24, “…a man shall leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife…” He tells us that this was the original meaning of Christ and the Church. This, then, would make Christ’s crucifixion His wedding day, where He “gave himself” for the Church to sanctify her, and unilaterally established an eternal covenant of sacrificial love.

Does any of this sound casual? Does it sound optional? Is it centered around convenience?

The relationship between Christ and His Bride is vertical, simply meaning that Jesus is not present in bodily form. Meanwhile, the Church (Bride) is a corporation of Christ-followers who are connected, if you will, horizontally. And our relationship with one another is dependent on mutually committed covenants. Both sides have to agree to do the work. Both sides have to make the other a priority. Neither can reach their full potential without the other.

But doing so is, indeed, dangerous. It has to be. Otherwise, it won’t produce any meaning. And don’t we all have enough meaningless relationships in our lives?

We’ve spent decades being influenced by characters engaged in endless chases or in casual detachment, wondering why it didn’t feel like a covenant. That’s because it wasn’t. If the Church is going to move beyond a social club with a more palatable flavor of nihilism, it must stop fearing the cost of commitment and begin recognizing it as the key to true spiritual freedom. Some kinds of grace, perhaps the only ones that matter, can be felt only when we’ve lost the option to leave—once we’ve burned the ships.

Can we afford to keep playing the lead character in a story that never really goes anywhere, or will we embrace the messy, dangerous, and meaningful work of belonging to one another?

The credits are starting to roll. Let’s hope it’s not a rerun.

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This post was previously published on SUBSTACK.COM.

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