Covenantal Love in a Contractual World: The Philosophy of Commitment Beyond Convenience
In an age that exalts autonomy, love has been quietly redefined. It is no longer a covenant but a contract, a mutual exchange of benefits, maintained so long as it satisfies the immediate needs of both parties. Relationships are negotiated, revised, and terminated with the same efficiency that governs commerce. The language of permanence has been replaced by that of compatibility, and the virtue of endurance has been eclipsed by the idol of self-fulfilment. Yet something sacred is lost in this shift. Love, stripped of its covenantal nature, becomes transactional rather than transformative.
As a law student, I often reflect on how the concept of contract law subtly mirrors and distorts the modern understanding of relationships. A contract is an agreement between parties based on consideration, each gives something in exchange for something else. It is precise, practical, and enforceable. But it is also inherently conditional. Once the terms are breached or the benefits exhausted, the contract dissolves. This structure, though vital for civil order, becomes hollow when applied to human connection. Love, when treated as a contract, ceases to sanctify; it merely manages expectations.
Covenantal love, by contrast, is not built on exchange but on devotion. It is not sustained by ongoing negotiation but by promise. In Scripture, a covenant is never a bargain. It is a binding vow of fidelity that endures beyond feeling, beyond fairness, and even beyond reason. The covenant binds not because it is convenient but because it reflects divine constancy. It says, “I remain,” not “I will stay while it suits me.” That single distinction transforms love from a temporary arrangement into a moral and spiritual act.
This distinction became particularly clear to me while studying jurisprudence and philosophy of law. Legal theorists such as Hobbes and Rousseau built their social contracts on the premise of self-preservation, that humans surrender certain freedoms for the sake of collective benefit. It is an agreement born of pragmatism, not principle. By contrast, thinkers like Aquinas and Augustine saw love as the highest form of justice precisely because it transcends transaction. For them, the law may govern behaviour, but only love perfects the will. A society governed solely by contracts produces order, but a society rooted in covenant produces virtue.
The tragedy of our cultural moment is that we have applied the contractual model to the most sacred human bond. Romantic relationships have become performance-based, measured by satisfaction rather than sanctity. We ask, “What do I gain?” rather than “What do I give?” When disappointment arises, we renegotiate, withdraw, or dissolve, as though commitment were contingent upon perpetual emotional profit. Yet the deepest fulfilment of love lies not in mutual convenience but in mutual sanctification, the gradual, often uncomfortable process of becoming more virtuous through constancy.
I have often been told that commitment in one’s twenties is restrictive, that one should “keep options open.” But this notion betrays a fear of limitation rather than an understanding of freedom. Covenant does not imprison; it stabilises. It gives meaning to endurance, purpose to difficulty, and nobility to sacrifice. The freedom it protects is not the freedom to leave but the freedom to grow, within the sacred boundaries of fidelity. In a world of infinite choice, it is commitment that makes depth possible.
Philosophically, covenantal love reflects a metaphysical truth: that permanence refines the human soul. Kierkegaard wrote that to love truly is to make a promise, not merely to another person but to time itself. A promise affirms continuity in a world of change. It asserts that love can survive the fluctuations of emotion and circumstance. In a culture that confuses novelty with vitality, this endurance is radical. To remain faithful is not passive; it is profoundly countercultural.
There is, of course, a tension between idealism and reality. Human love is fragile, and not every covenant is honoured. But even acknowledging this fragility reinforces the point: love’s value lies in its risk. A covenant is sacred precisely because it requires faith. It acknowledges the fallibility of both parties and yet binds them through grace. A contract demands performance; a covenant invites transformation. It is an arena where forgiveness and mercy are not signs of weakness but marks of strength.
In Catholic teaching, marriage is the fullest expression of this covenantal vision, a sacrament that mirrors the eternal fidelity between Christ and His Church. The vows, “for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health,” reject the conditionality that defines contractual logic. They affirm love as vocation, not transaction. Yet this principle extends beyond marriage. Every enduring relationship, friendship, mentorship, family bond, thrives on the same covenantal logic of fidelity through imperfection.
I have witnessed this form of love in quiet examples: parents who care for one another with tenderness through illness, friends who remain constant when circumstances shift, mentors who guide without reward. These relationships endure not because they are easy but because they are principled. They are animated by a deeper understanding of love as duty fulfilled through grace. It is this steadiness, not sentimentality, that gives human connection its moral weight.
The modern tendency to treat relationships as temporary alignments of interest reflects a deeper philosophical error, the elevation of utility over virtue. We have been taught to view love as something to optimise rather than something to honour. Yet the greatest paradox of covenantal love is that by surrendering to commitment, one becomes more free, not less. Freedom without fidelity is chaos; fidelity without freedom is coercion. The covenant reconciles the two by rooting choice in meaning.
I recall a conversation with a lecturer who specialised in legal philosophy. We discussed how modern law struggles to define obligations that are not transactional — such as moral duty or personal loyalty. These cannot be codified because they belong to the realm of virtue, not statute. Love operates within that same realm. It is not enforceable but binding in conscience. The breach of covenant is not merely a personal failure; it is a moral disintegration. When we treat love as conditional, we erode the very fabric of trust that allows human society to flourish.
Theologically, covenantal love is also eschatological, it points beyond this world to the divine. To love faithfully on earth is to participate, however imperfectly, in the eternal constancy of God. It is a practice in divine imitation. In this light, commitment is not merely a moral virtue but a spiritual discipline. It forms the heart through endurance and the mind through loyalty. It refines desire into devotion.
In contrast, contractual love reflects humanity’s fallen tendency toward self-interest. It seeks to control rather than to give, to manage rather than to serve. It withholds in order to preserve security, forgetting that love, by nature, is vulnerable. To love without condition is to accept the risk of suffering, yet it is this very risk that gives love its redemptive power. Without sacrifice, there is only transaction; without grace, only negotiation.
The philosopher Emmanuel Levinas described love as “a responsibility without reciprocity.” He argued that true love is an ethical encounter — a willingness to bear the other’s existence without demanding equivalent return. In that sense, covenantal love is not naive idealism but ethical realism. It recognises that the self becomes more human through responsibility. The modern resistance to commitment, therefore, is not simply romantic disillusionment but moral fatigue. We have grown tired of obligation, and in doing so, we have impoverished meaning.
Yet hope remains in the quiet resurgence of those who still believe in covenantal living. I have met young couples who choose faithfulness over convenience, individuals who honour promises even when unseen, and friends who stay when leaving would be easier. Their constancy feels almost rebellious in a culture addicted to novelty. In them, I see a countercultural elegance, a beauty that comes not from ease but from endurance.
To love covenantally in a contractual world requires courage. It is to commit when others hesitate, to remain when others retreat, to forgive when others abandon. It demands a discipline of will and a generosity of spirit. But it also brings peace. For in constancy, the soul finds rest. It no longer negotiates its worth or measures affection by outcome. It simply remains faithful, and in doing so, it mirrors the divine.
Covenantal love, then, is not an archaic relic of a more religious age. It is a moral necessity in a fragmented world. It reminds us that human dignity is not found in autonomy but in fidelity. It calls us to love not for gain but for growth, not until convenience ends but until grace completes. In its quiet steadfastness, covenantal love restores meaning to a culture that has confused connection with consumption.
And perhaps, in the end, that is the highest calling of love, not to preserve comfort but to perfect the soul. Contracts may bind actions, but only covenants bind hearts. To love beyond convenience is to participate in eternity, even while bound by time.
