Marriage is distinctly and repeatedly excluded from heaven. Is

Hear now the words of Samuel Butler, a satirist whose pen was sharper than the sword, who looked upon sacred traditions with questioning eyes and wrote with wit that unsettled the comfortable. He declared: “Marriage is distinctly and repeatedly excluded from heaven. Is this because it is thought likely to mar the general felicity?” At first his words appear light, even playful, yet within them lies a deep provocation. He dares to ask: if marriage is so holy upon the earth, why is it absent from the descriptions of paradise? Is it possible that the struggles, quarrels, and compromises of marriage are seen as too earthly, too imperfect, to dwell in the eternal joy of heaven?

The meaning of this saying is twofold. On one hand, Butler speaks with humor, poking at the solemnity with which society exalts marriage as an eternal bond. He reminds us that even scripture declares, “In the resurrection, they neither marry nor are given in marriage,” suggesting that marriage belongs to the realm of earth and time, not eternity. On the other hand, his question cuts deeper: perhaps marriage, for all its beauty, is also a source of trial, a crucible where joy and sorrow, unity and discord, forever battle. Could it be that heaven, in its perfect bliss, must stand apart from such struggles?

The origin of this thought lies not in Butler’s mind alone but in the long traditions of theology. From the early days of Christianity, it was taught that the bonds of marriage are dissolved in death, for in heaven the soul is united not to spouse, but to God. This teaching was often unsettling to those who saw their love as eternal, yet it carried a truth: human unions, though noble, are bound by imperfection, and eternity is reserved for that which is pure and incorruptible. Butler, with the sharpness of irony, takes this teaching and presses upon it, suggesting that perhaps heaven excludes marriage not only because it transcends earthly bonds, but because it would threaten the harmony of paradise itself.

Consider the tale of Henry VIII, whose marriages became infamous for discord, betrayal, and blood. Here we see the extreme of Butler’s jest made flesh: marriage not as bliss, but as turmoil that reshaped a kingdom. Had Henry’s unions been carried into eternity, what chaos might they have sown? In such stories, one can glimpse Butler’s question: is marriage, with its entanglements of love, jealousy, duty, and power, too volatile to belong in the perfection of heaven?

Yet let us not despair or mock too deeply. For though marriage may be absent from heaven, it is still a sacred fire upon earth. It is the forge where souls are tested, refined, and strengthened. In its struggles, one learns patience; in its joys, one tastes a glimpse of divine love. Butler’s jest may suggest that marriage mars felicity, but in truth, it prepares souls for heaven precisely through its challenges. By learning to love another imperfectly, we grow nearer to the perfect love of God.

The lesson, therefore, is this: do not mistake Butler’s satire as a condemnation of marriage, but as a reminder to see it for what it is—an earthly journey, holy but imperfect, a school for the soul, not a final destination. Heaven needs no marriage, for there every soul is already united in perfect love and joy. But on earth, marriage remains one of the most profound paths by which we learn sacrifice, forgiveness, and endurance.

So live wisely, O children of tomorrow. Do not idolize marriage as if it were eternal, nor dismiss it as if it were folly. See it as a covenant that refines you, even as it tests you. And when you ponder Butler’s jest, remember that the absence of marriage in heaven is not proof of its weakness, but of its purpose: it belongs to the realm of striving, not to the realm of perfection. Embrace it fully while on earth, and let it teach you the virtues that will one day prepare you for the unbroken felicity of eternity.