And Thereto I Plight Thee My Troth
These words have concluded the marriage vows in the Book of Common Prayer since its inception in 1549. They are, in fact, older than the prayer book. The Latin marriage liturgy in the Sarum Rite had the couple exchange their vows in the vernacular, using these same words (or, to be more precise, their Middle English equivalents): and thereto y plith the my trwethe. And they are powerful: to say them under the right circumstances is to be changed, to enter a new state. Their antiquity and potency give us good cause to attend to them carefully. In what follows, I offer a series of reflections on the meaning of these words and on what they reveal about the nature of marriage vows.
I
Let’s begin by asking what the words plight and troth mean.
In the marriage vows, plight is a transitive verb, with the basic meaning of “to pledge or promise.” The verbal form of plight seems to be derived from the noun form. As a noun, in modern English plight carries its original meaning of “a dangerous, difficult, or otherwise unfortunate situation.” According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the original usage of plight as a verb in Old English had a similar meaning: “to endanger or compromise (life, honor, etc.).”
But this sense is now obsolete. From the 13th century, the verb plight came to mean “to put (something) under risk of forfeiture; to give in pledge; to pledge or engage (one’s troth, faith, oath, promise, etc.).” To plight in this sense still includes an element of danger, insofar as when you pledge something to another, you stake that thing on your fulfillment of your pledge. To not fulfill your pledge is to incur the loss of the thing pledged.
We see something of this in the following sentence, from the 17th century: “He plighted his faith to keep this promise.” Here, the thing plighted (pledged, promised) is the person’s faith, his fidelity or faithfulness. Those plighting their faith, their fidelity, risk the loss of that faith, that is, risk becoming unfaithful, risk showing themselves the sort of person who cannot be trusted. The element of risk remains.
From the beginning of the 14th century, the use of the verb plight became closely attached to marriage. I do not know when the vernacular marriage vows entered the Use of Sarum, but surely there must be a connection. At any rate, the use of the phrase in the Book of Common Prayer has made this the chief surviving sense of plight, coupled together with troth.
The word troth is a doublet of truth. Both come from the same Old English word (trēowþ) and their meanings intersect. However, troth tends to be used in a more subjective sense, and truth in a more objective sense. As linguist Helen Bromhead puts it, “the difference between troth and truth is that troth refers to a personal act of constancy (common glosses include ‘loyalty,’ ‘fidelity’), whereas truth is general and abstract (something true).”[1] Thus, the OED defines troth as follows: “The quality of being true to a person, principle, cause, etc.; the disposition to speak or act truly or without deceit; faithfulness, honesty, integrity, virtue.” A good example of this sense comes from a 16th-century text, in which we read of “the Lord Hastinges, whose troth towarde the king no man doubted.” To say that no one doubted the Lord Hastings’ troth toward the king is to say that his sincere allegiance was unquestioned; he was not the sort of person who could be untrue to his king; he was constant, faithful, true. It was a testament to his character.
Thus, in the marriage vows, the troth each gives to the other is that person’s constancy, fidelity, steadfastness. This is underlined by the possessive my: my troth is what is plighted, pledged, promised. That is, the man and the woman are each saying to the other, “I promise, with all that I am, to be true to you; I stake my honor, my integrity—my troth—on keeping these vows.”
II
And thereto I plight thee my troth. The thereto to which one plights troth is the astonishingly radical promise made in marriage: “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” How can such a radical promise be made? What can I give to prove my intentions? What can I produce to validate my vow? All that I have, these words suggest, is my troth. It is my only guarantor: my truthfulness, my integrity, my word. What else do I have to offer?
Conversely, how can I possibly entrust myself so unreservedly to another human being—so other than myself, so necessarily unknowable? Again, all that I can hope to be given as assurance is her troth.
All we can do is to trust each other, to trust that each of us will prove true, to take each other at our word.
It is for good reason, then, that the Church prays fervently for the newly married couple, that they be given the grace to fulfill the vows they have made. In the words of the traditional marriage liturgy, “that they, living faithfully together, may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made.” They need—absolutely—the help of God to keep troth one with the other. They will prove true insofar as they live faithfully together. The proof of the pudding is in the eating. “But God gives more grace” (James 4:6).
There is a prayer of Vincent McNabb (1868–1943), a Dominican priest, that is apt: “Bend my stubborn heart, my Master, make my lips truthful. May my prayer be a prayer of truth as well as a prayer of petition.” Father McNabb is speaking with reference to the Lord’s Prayer. But his prayer would apply equally well to marriage. I plight my troth that I will have and hold my spouse, whatever happens, until we are parted in death—and pray that my lips might be made truthful, that I myself will prove true.
I have been a priest for more than a decade now—long enough to have seen the grievous pain caused when a spouse does not prove true. Or, worst of all, when one discovers that the other never has been true. Recently I sat with a young woman (not a member of my parish) who has discovered that her husband entered their marriage having deliberately concealed a grave sin from her. He was living a lie. For years. He was not a truthful person. He had no troth to plight. And I cannot even begin to express the depth of her pain. She took him at his word—and her trust has been shattered.
Such stories have led me, in premarital counseling, to urge couples to bring no secrets to the altar, to be truthful with one another. I warn them of the great plight they risk otherwise. I warn them that mutual trust must be the foundation of their marriage. And to pray more fervently for them—and for myself—that the God of truth would enable us to be true, would make our lips truthful.
Reflecting on what it means to plight one’s troth to another has led me, in the end, to a deeper appreciation of the radical act of trust that lies at the heart of marriage, to see more clearly what a sacred gift that trust is, with what care it must be treasured. It is a gift given always in the sight of the One “from whom no secrets are hid.” It is a gift enabled by the God of truth, who is indeed “Faithful and True” (Rev. 19:11), whose troth toward us is sure, who alone makes us truthful.
[1] Helen Bromhead, The Reign of Truth and Faith: Epistemic Expressions in 16th and 17th Century English (Topics in English Linguistics; New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 2009) pp. 122–23.
The Rev. Christopher Yoder is rector of All Souls’ Episcopal Church, Oklahoma City. Raised in western Pennsylvania, he studied at Wheaton College and Duke Divinity School.
