According to various counsels (scriptures, notes, suggestions, lessons, hints and advice) from assorted church authorities, I’m supposed to be the head of my house.
The idea is that I’m the patriarch. As long as I exercise my "authority" in righteousness, my family is supposed to honor my presiding rule. In other words, do what I say.
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Note: There’s probably doctrinal basis for this in [pick a religious book], but I’m too lazy to look it up. Also, I don’t care anymore.
That wasn’t always the case. When I got married, I actually believed some of this patriarchal ruler stuff. I was a product of the 1950s and ’60s, so it seemed logical at the time.
I learned my supposed place in the family structure not only from church but also from the examples I saw: Fred Flintstone, Ward Cleaver, Ralph Kramden, Ben Cartwright and whoever played the father on "Lassie."
In every case, the man was in charge. He was the benevolent ruler of his brood, the arbiter of law and the top decision maker. If the wife had any say at all, it was solely in the form of supportive advice.
Problems with this form of family hierarchy began the day I got married. Two minutes into the deal, I was informed that "lord of the castle" meant the same thing to my wife as "the guy who used to live here."
Only once did I ever try to pull religious rank on her. That was in 1977, when by virtue of the power vested in me, I commanded her to pick me up from the emergency room because I went rabbit hunting with Boone instead of going to work.
After three hours, I realized she wasn’t coming and called a cab.
But I was smart enough to recognize a good power arrangement. After that, I took a more moderate approach to being the head of the house. I didn’t issue orders so much as I made stern rulings.
Me: "And that’s my final word on the matter, woman."
Her: "Good, because we’re still not buying a Corvette."
Later, while raising our daughters, my wife was kind enough to allow me the illusion of patriarchal power. If I told our girls they had to wear burlap and aluminum siding to the prom, they wouldn’t argue.
Instead, they would look at their mother and roll their eyes. Then everyone but me would get in the car and go to the mall for five hours. They’d come home with gowns that looked like lingerie.
It never occurred to me that this was dishonoring my role as patriarch — or that I could even do anything about it. But not everyone thinks like that. Lunatics, mostly.
In Canada, some idiot was just convicted of killing his wife and daughters because they dishonored his ultrasevere notion of Islam by wearing Western clothing, dating non-Muslim boys and in general not treating their father like a god.
Maybe if I belonged to a more fundamental faith, my wife and daughters would respect my position as master of the house. They might be afraid not to.
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