Stumbling towards Celibacy

A reflection by Lindsey

We’ve been talking a good bit here about how celibacy is a mature adult vocation. One needs to enter into celibacy rather than waiting for it to appear like magic. I’d go so far as to say that it helps when there’s a decided choice — a distinct, discrete moment of decision — to become a celibate. However, this past weekend I realized that particular frame is a bit too easy. It’s too neat, it’s too packaged, and it’s honestly a bit sterile. I’ve found my own celibate vocation by stumbling in the darkness, taking on a metric ton of risks along the way, and hoping that someday soon the broader Christian church would wise up in how it supports lay people discern celibate ways of life.

My journey towards celibacy is strange. I began it in the context of a romantic relationship. Neither one of us had a strong framework for what it meant to be celibate. We spent our time trying to draw good boundaries that were simultaneously appropriate for a dating relationship and effective at helping us avoid encountering undue sexual temptation. As I have reflected upon elsewhere, the practice of drawing boundaries to separate “right” from “wrong” wound up pulling the two of us apart. After that particular relationship ended, I started being more intentional about exploring a celibate vocation.

I’ve always had a bit of monastic envy. I remember being a little kid vaguely enthralled by the nuns who worked at the local Catholic school. Who were these teachers? And how did they managed to be so noticed in the community that people from other schools knew their names? Why did they seem so exotic? After my relationship had ended, I remember feeling the whole gamut of emotions as my spiritual directors encouraged me to start visiting monasteries. Every interaction I’ve had with monastics since has been truly inspiring. There’s something about the simple “monk food” that provides sustenance in a monastery that transcends the basic nutritional offerings of the plate. However, no matter how many communities I visited, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t likely to spend my life living in a monastery.

At one point approximately four years ago, I found myself thinking about vocation alone in my apartment. I was absolutely confident that I wanted to live a celibate way of life, equally convinced that I had no clue what exactly living a celibate life entailed, and reasonably sure my local church family wasn’t going to be a good place to help me learn about growing into a celibate vocation. I did the only thing I knew: I told God about my intentions and sought help from the Holy Spirit.

I received some helpful counsel from one abbess when I inquired about exploring a celibate vocation. She told me something to the effect of, “Whatever you see the nuns doing, do your best to live it out in your immediate context. Put into practice whatever bits of the monastic life as you can.” (I promise, she was much more eloquent than I’m remembering.) I did my best to adopt a pattern of prayer while also trying to connect meaningfully to the people around me. Getting to know monastics showed me that we’re not supposed to live our lives completely detached from other people.

In my stumbling towards celibacy, I refused to prohibit myself from exploring the full array of human relationships. I consider it slightly odd that I’ve been in more romantic/dating relationships after I had told God I wanted help in finding a celibate vocation. Sometimes I think I turned over some strange possibilities. I can think of at least two relationships where I knew that if they went anywhere, then those relationships would be very much directed towards marriage. On one hand, I trusted God to show me whether a marriage relationship would be aligned with my personal vocational pathway. On the other hand, I hoped that God would guide and direct me out of certain relationships I wasn’t supposed to be in at all. I definitely learned a lot about myself, grace, vocation, and other people because I allowed myself to be open to being wrong about my own vocational pathway.

Yet I find myself absolutely grateful I stumbled along towards celibacy. I rejoice that God impressed the need to share life with other people as this need compelled me to consider how I could be in meaningful relationships. I had opportunities to practice (again and again) how a celibate vocation might look and feel if it was not defined legalistically. And, I still find myself hoping and praying that in sharing my story, the Church might see a greater need to help lay celibates find their way.

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Queering Celibacy amid Fixation on Sex

We live in a time and place when people are more comfortable with talking about sex than perhaps ever before. As for our own experiences in talking about sex, we’ve realized that we come from very different backgrounds. Lindsey grew up in a home that fully acknowledged and embraced sex as a gloriously fun activity shared by two adults who loved each other. Sarah could always approach Sarah’s parents for information about sex, but Sarah understood that information would be conveyed more along the lines of biological processes. It was clear that Sarah’s parents viewed sex outside a husband/wife relationship as inappropriate. The cultures around us also gave us messages about how to approach conversations about sex. For Lindsey, that message was, “Ask your parents.” For Sarah, it was, “Polite people don’t talk about sex with anyone other than perhaps their spouses in private, and maybe not even then.” However, with all this talk about sex, both of us have rarely encountered anyone saying anything positive about celibacy apart from some isolated conversations about religious life.

Blogging about our lives together as a celibate couple is interesting. We’ve met several people who wish we would simply disappear from the blogosphere, another group that seems oddly enthralled by our way of life despite themselves, and still another group of people who have appreciated being challenged to question their assumptions about companionship, sexuality, and faith. In the first group, it seems that a number of these individuals feel threatened by the fact that we live celibate lives as LGBT Christians. We want to spend some time in this post unpacking some of the dominant cultural assumptions that can leave people feeling confused, perplexed, or even appalled that another person, particularly an LGBT person, might openly discuss his or her celibacy. We’ve previously discussed some of these misconceptions in our 7 Misconceptions about Celibacy post, but we wanted to spend some time talking about how these they can be problematic when trying to help guide people towards their vocations.

It’s inappropriate to talk about celibacy because it is unnatural or abnormal. Many people who are appalled by our choice to live celibate lives want to know if we think that sex is a natural part of human experience. The reasoning goes something like this: if sex is a natural part of human experience and it feels good, then who in their right mind would pass up an opportunity to enjoy this activity? Whether a person is sexually active also plays a role in how others view him or her socially. People frequently use sexual innuendo to cast judgment on another’s personality: He’s so uptight. He really needs to get laid; or Gosh, she’s just a killjoy. When did she become such a prude? Clearly, she’s not getting any. If you are a reader who has been reading the comments on our blog regularly, then you might have also noticed trends where some commenters try to diagnose why we’re celibate. In the comparatively brief life of this blog so far, we’ve had people suggest the following mechanisms: we’re oppressed by religion, we’ve had bad sexual experiences in the past, we have had no sexual experience so we have no idea what we’re missing, we haven’t yet come to accept our sexual orientations, we are impressively asexual, and many more.

When the “unnatural or abnormal” assumption comes into play when seeking spiritual direction, a person trying to discern whether God might be calling him or her towards celibacy is having to sort through the questions, “Am I freak? Am I only exploring celibacy because I don’t have an appreciable sex drive? Would it make more sense to do the ‘normal’ thing of finding a spouse to whom I’m sexually drawn? How do I know if I’m one of the very few people who actually has the spiritual gift of celibacy?” Equally, this assumption can cause people to limit their discernment to the vocation of marriage. If marriage is the only natural vocation and celibacy is only for the abnormal, then how can a person be afforded any space to discern differently? Who wants to be known by his or her family, friends, and acquaintances as ridiculously stunted and out of touch with natural bodily functions?

Openly discussing celibacy is undesirable because marriage and sex are rites of passage. We’ve encountered people who have suggested that we just haven’t grown up, that we’re late bloomers, or that we haven’t explored our sexual potential. These people allege that in choosing celibacy, we are avoiding growing up and are dangerous because we encourage people to shake off adult forms of responsibility. We do acknowledge that sex has plays a role in many different cultural rites of passages, especially as it relates to various marriage customs around the world. However, we note that scholars and journalists who write on American culture frequently lament the lack of coming-of-age rituals for adults, especially as more and more college graduates find themselves struggling to find work and move back in with their parents. Amid this economic uncertainty, one might argue that marriage, and its requisite parts of entering into a consensual sexual relationship and founding an independent family life, seems to be the last stable form of marking the transition from child to adult.

For people discerning celibacy, especially outside of religious life, the emphasis on sex and marriage as essential rites of passage deprives them of the opportunity to explore celibacy as a meaningful way of life. Celibacy is often seen as a default option for the young, the weird, or the otherwise undesirable. According to most people we know, the only folks above a certain age who aren’t having sex are those who lack the coordination and the resources to ask for sex. When communicating with discerners of celibate vocations, family and friends can start to turn up the pressure with questions like: “Don’t you want to have a family? Aren’t you going to settle down? When are you going to start acting like an adult? Why hasn’t your wanderlust begun to quiet down so you can live a normal life?” And when having a family and children is a part of being a “normal” adult, celibate people can encounter an additional barrage of shaming: “You don’t know what it’s like to be stressed out. You’ve never had to deal with the stress of tending to a sick child before a major deadline at work or having your in-laws in town to critique your housekeeping (feel free to insert family stressors of your choosing).” The assertions assume that since a person has chosen a celibate way of life, that person has gotten off easy in life, and is perhaps lazy with no sense of difficulty in living out a mature adult vocation.

As a result of the “marriage and sex as rites of passage” assumption, many people chose to limit their vocational discernment to marriage alone. If marriage alone can be an identifiable ritual where a person creates a family with a sexual partner of his or her choosing, then why would a person consider forgoing this opportunity in exchange for accusations that he or she has never grown up and is irresponsible?

It’s not okay for an LGBT person to talk about celibacy because mandated celibacy has been and is still used to harm LGBT people. To be honest, we prefer dialoguing with people holding the first two assumptions because we think they might be interested in hearing more about our story if we can get past their initial perception that celibacy is just weird. This last assumption is particularly hurtful because we hear people telling us that we should just shut up about our story altogether. Sometimes people, most  often Christians holding a progressive sexual ethic, assume that because we’re celibate, we have no idea how different Christian attitudes about celibacy have hurt the LGBT community. Quite honestly, we started this blog from a deep and abiding awareness that few Christian churches (much less full on Christian traditions) care to consider how to point all people towards vocations in healthy ways. We are profoundly aware of the harms produced when a church wags a finger and tells an LGBT person “You have to be celibate and there’s nothing else to say about it,” even in instances when that LGBT person has already decided to pursue a celibate vocation. Collectively, the two of us have over a decade of experience walking alongside a plethora of LGBT people trying to find their way through a confusing, shifting landscape of sexuality, gender, and faith. Without LGBT voices talking about celibacy, it is impossible for straight, cisgender voices to capture the full diversity of celibate vocations and of LGBT people.

The “it’s wrong to talk about celibacy because it has been used to hurt others” assumption effectively shoves socks into our mouths. It silences and limits the theological exploration we have done to sort through the noise we have encountered living life were rubber meets the road. We have already eaten enough shoes, so please cut us a break when we share our stories. We are talking about LGBT experiences of celibacy because these experiences are our lived experiences.

This assumption also limits vocational pathways available to LGBT people, viewing celibates as victims of fundamentalist religion who have missed the memo that the “gift” of celibacy should not be celebrated, but kept shut away within one’s private life. Ultimately, it creates a lack of safety for LGBT folks who are interested in exploring celibacy. In our experience, those who hold this assumption have strong initial reactions upon meeting celibate LGBT Christians. The vast majority of time we try to interact with folks of this mindset who are involved in the LGBT Christian discussion, we are met with suspicion and hostility because it is assumed that we have some covert agenda in talking openly about our celibacy. From what we have experienced, it does not matter how or why we came to the decision to pursue this vocation: in the eyes of many, the only possible reasons an LGBT person might speak openly of celibacy are self-loathing and the desire to proselytize for internalized homophobia. Knowing that at least some people are likely to react to discussions of LGBT celibacy in this way, we ask, why would any LGBT person who thinks he or she might have the gift of celibacy want to explore it further?

In order to create spaces that affirm diverse vocational pathways for Christians, people from many Christian traditions would do well to reflect on the unwitting assumption that every Christian is called to marriage. We believe that the Church can do better in affording people called to celibacy an opportunity to commit to a celibate way of life and explore possibilities for such outside of monastic vocations. We also hope that discussing celibacy as a queer calling encourages more thoughtfulness of how to affirm celibate vocations in diverse Christian traditions. It’s important for LGBT people to be able to share their stories of life at the front lines. There are LGBT people who have done impressive theological work to reclaim celibacy as a vocation, even if some began these theoretical explorations by realizing that they didn’t see their vocational desires manifest in how their Christian traditions define marriage.

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Moving Beyond the Celibacy Mandate

Time and time again, we’ve described both marriage and celibacy as mature vocations entered into by adults. We started this blog discussing why celibacy needed to be defined by its positive attributes rather than by an absence of sexual relations. Later we asked many married people to tell us how they define marriage. We’ve encouraged the practice of letting celibate people define celibacy and married people define marriage. But, the challenge is that the Church needs a way to speak to all vocations so that individual Christians can discern their paths illumined by the light of Christ. We want to spend some time in this post discussing how churches can discuss vocations in a way where God, through the Holy Spirit, can draw people towards the fullness of life in Christ.

As a first key observation, both marriage and celibacy communicate the same central truth: the nature of the kingdom of God—it is in our midst and we are active participants. When churches help young people focus their sights on the kingdom of God, churches can help everyone discern his or her vocation. Every Christian shares the same starting line on the way to finding his or her vocation: seeking first the kingdom of God. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells his disciples, “Strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given unto you as well.” Keeping the kingdom of God at the center sets our eyes towards the time where all things are reconciled towards God and challenges each and every one of us to do our part in manifesting God’s kingdom through our lives.

What’s unfortunate is that when it comes to LGBT issues, many Christian traditions teaching a more conservative sexual ethic have seemingly lost the mystery of the kingdom of God, focusing instead on a legalistic, “always do this, but don’t ever do that,” form of sexual morality as a way to strive for righteousness. The emphasis on sexual morality can manifest as the straightforward yet often unhelpful, “Don’t have sex outside of a heterosexual marriage” where this moral prescription represents the sum total of vocational guidance given to young Christians in these traditions. In such an environment, many LGBT people can feel ostracized by a seeming mandate to avoid sexual intimacy lest they lose any hope of inheriting the kingdom of God. Newsflash: by virtue of our baptism, all Christians have a solid inheritance. This does not mean that receiving the sacrament of baptism means a person will, for all of his or her life thereafter, be “good to go.” Rather, the point is our baptism invites us to participate in the kingdom of God. Our churches would do well to affirm (and reaffirm and reaffirm again) the power of the baptismal mystery as a way to unite ourselves fully to Christ, so that all Christians can set themselves to the work of showing the kingdom of God to the world.

In many ways, encouraging young people to pursue the kingdom of God is harder than exhorting young people to save sex for marriage. When young people listen for God’s direction, the Holy Spirit might lead them towards vocations where, gasp, they do not enter into marriages. It’s a lot easier for churches to put teenagers on an assembly line where all go through an identical set of rites of passage that culminate in a big wedding than it is for churches to trust that the Holy Spirit’s voice can still be heard above the clamor of raging hormones. In the midst of all the noise associated with becoming an adult in our society, churches should encourage teenagers to orient their ears to the still small voice where God can begin to show every person his or her unique call to manifest the kingdom.

Churches would do well to showcase regularly a belief that all vocations are needed and important. If a congregation thinks about every eighteen-year-old kid it has sent out into the world, then that congregation will realize all of these kids have individual stories. There will be people from that congregation that have done awesome things to serve the kingdom of God who have never married. Part of the allure of the celibate vocation is that there is an unlimited number of potential life stories that align with celibacy. Faithful Christians who never marry are not freaks; they are people who are able to love and serve the world differently than married people. The stories of celibate people should not be relegated to designated times of Celibate Appreciation (i.e. an annual Vocations Week). And it’s okay to let a congregation know if a really cool and inspiring person in your Christian tradition lived a celibate way of life. Catholic and Orthodox Christians have a calendar chockfull of celibate saints, and you still see people marrying regularly in those traditions.

A huge part of discerning one’s vocation is learning how to look honestly at yourself. Discerning vocation requires investigating your authentic desires and noting where they might be different from those of other people you know. As LGBT Christians ourselves, we regard realizing our statuses as LGBT people as a key part of coming to see who we are as individuals. However, in far too many churches, this uniqueness of person is met with a directive about the uniqueness of vocation. We know countless LGBT people who, in the instant they first disclosed their sexual orientations or gender identities, were told immediately, “You have to be celibate.” or “You cannot have sex.” Spiritual advice for LGBT people tends to come in the form of either you have to or you cannot.

What if all priests, pastors, and ministers started approaching situations that involve discussion of sexuality differently? What if spiritual directors left off the specific directives in favor of viewing LGBT Christians as people trying to discern where God is calling them? When spiritual directors start handing down restrictive directives, these spiritual directors are communicating that either they do not trust God to guide an LGBT person or they do not trust the person to listen to God. As we have said many times, LGBT people are people first and foremost. What would happen if spiritual directors started trusting LGBT people as much as they trust straight, cisgender people?

When a person does decide to start exploring a celibate vocation, we want to see congregations willing to support that individual. A vocation is not a cross to bear. A vocation is a pathway to an abundant life. When a person is sharing, “I don’t know if I can continue or even begin in a celibate vocation,” it’s good to come alongside him or her and say, “I know the issue of vocation can be really tough sometimes. I’m here for you. I’m praying for you. How can I help you see more of the kingdom of God in your circumstances right now?” Seeking God’s kingdom unites all Christians regardless of their vocations and enables us to support one another as brothers and sisters in Christ. By encouraging all people to seek first the kingdom, churches do not need to prescribe celibacy mandates. As Christians look for the kingdom of God, the Holy Spirit will guide and direct those called to celibacy to a number of diverse ways of living celibate vocations.

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Why the Brother-Making Rite Isn’t Right for Us

Adelphopoiesis (from the Greek ἀδελφοποίησις), also known as the brother-making rite, is a ritual with historical roots in the Eastern Christian tradition. Medieval Byzantine manuscripts offer evidence that this ceremony was performed in order to unite two people of the same sex as “brothers” in a way that was formally recognized by the Church. Adelphopoiesis did not garner significant scholarly interest until the 1990s when scholars such as John Boswell (Same-Sex Unions in Pre-Modern Europe) began exploring the idea that this ceremony existed as an early form of blessing for same-sex unions.

Since long before we began this blog, people who have known about our celibacy have been asking us, “If you had the opportunity, would you participate in the brother-making rite or something analogous to it? Would this ceremony be a good way to acknowledge your commitment to each other?” Even though this rite is no longer performed, we get these or related questions at least once a month, so today we’re taking some time to offer a full answer. We do not see the brother-making right as appropriate for our specific circumstances for the following reasons:

We don’t consider each other “siblings.” Though we do acknowledge that all members of the Church are united as brothers and sisters in Christ, we aren’t inclined to think of our relationship as being first and foremost a form of siblinghood. The brother-making rite was used to make the two participants “brothers,” and we are mutually uncomfortable with applying this kind of language to our situation. A large part of understanding our celibate vocation involves seeing it as a mature, adult commitment. Though we don’t know exactly what these terms meant within the context of adelphopoiesis, to us the term “brothers” or “sisters” suggests that two people are under a common authority in the form of an adult parent. This seems inappropriate for our circumstances in that each of us already has a relationship with our own parents who raised us. One might argue that God could be understood as the parental figure in this instance, but it wouldn’t seem fitting for us to participate in a ceremony for the purpose of uniting us as siblings under God as a common parent when we’re already bonded to each other in this way by virtue of our baptisms.

How and in what circumstances this rite has been used historically remains unclear. Adelphopoiesis has not been a regular practice of any Christian tradition for several centuries. Despite Boswell’s argument that the brother-making rite was form of same-sex union similar to marriage, there are a lot of unknowns regarding exactly how it fit into the Church and society in the 9th to 15th centuries. What we do know is that this ceremony involved certain symbols that were also present in Byzantine marriages of the same period and contained references to pairs of saints who shared especially close relationships with one another. We also know that medieval Byzantine marriages involved several stages and the brother-making rite occurred within the context of a single ceremony. However, we don’t have complete answers the following questions: what motivated two people of the same sex to enter into this type of relationship with one another? What was this type of relationship in the first place? What did it look like? How was it understood within Byzantine society? Were there limits on who was or was not permitted to participate in this ceremony? Some sources suggest that the brother-making rite existed to create peace amongst families, and others posit that its purpose was to formalize chaste spiritual brotherhoods for a variety of possible reasons. Regardless, the particulars of its use, purpose, and meaning for the broader Christian community remain ambiguous. As such, we believe it would be intellectually dishonest to suggest adelphopoiesis as a suitable ceremony for honoring our own relationship.

Since Boswell’s work on adelphopoiesis, mentions of this ceremony have become associated with the movement for marriage equality. One need only perform a quick Google search using the search term “brother making rite” to see that discussions of this topic frequently involve the question of whether it was equivalent to marriage. Over the past few years, a number of popular news sources and online LGBT Christian resources have published articles on adelphopoiesis, implying that we can know it was indeed a type of marriage ritual, or we can at least be reasonably certain. Boswell’s work on this topic has been controversial since its publication in 1994, and now his name is associated with almost every mention of the brother-making rite in the modern West. As a result, even mentioning this ritual has become enough to suggest one’s association with the American political left and/or efforts to change the current teachings of some Christian denominations on same-sex marriage. The two of us are firm believers that LGBT couples should be extended the legal protections that enable the partners to be recognized fully as family to one another. However, we have no interest in calling our relationship a marriage, becoming involved with political movements of any kind, or advocating for change in our own Christian tradition’s teachings on marriage and sexuality. Even if adelphopoiesis ceremonies were still being performed today and the other factors we mentioned were not problematic for us, we believe it likely that participating in this ritual would cause more confusion than clarification for others on how we understand our relationship.

Finding ways to honor and celebrate our relationship with friends, family, and community is one of the many challenges we face as a celibate couple within a Christian tradition that teaches a conservative sexual ethic. This specific challenge calls for some creativity along with lots of prayer and support from those who love us. In the future, we would like to take up “ways we celebrate team Lindsey and Sarah” as a topic for exploration here at A Queer Calling. But for now, we hope today’s post has shed a bit more light on why we feel that adelphopoiesis, even if it did still exist, would not be the right choice for us.

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Maturing Towards Celibacy

A reflection by Lindsey

As we’ve shared in many places, we regard both marriage and celibacy as mature vocations. I have made arguments that I think the Church should consider offering pre-celibacy counseling in order to help people discern a sustainable celibate way of life. My own journey into celibacy has been challenging. I’ve mostly found my own way, and I still regard myself as building the plane while I’m flying it.

Maturing towards celibacy has required me to take many deep looks into myself. Moving through many Christian traditions along the way, I’ve been confronted by different questions that demanded answers. I’ve also learned that some traditions asked better questions than others.

How can I align my mind, heart, soul, and body? Along the way, I’ve learned that God in a wondrous act of mercy has given us incredible tools to discern our vocation. My mind, heart, soul, and body seem to have a system of checks and balances that I could employ to test the claims made by various well-meaning Christians. When Christians suggested that my being LGBT could only be the result of demonic possession, I could search my heart and soul to know that I had earnestly committed my life to Christ and his care. As I began to study the meaning of 1 Corinthians 6 in light of Jesus’s teachings in the Sermon on the Mount, my mind told me that even if I were to come to regard myself as a cisgender, heterosexual person, I would still find myself liable for losing the Kingdom of Heaven because of other kinds of sins. My mind saw that it was incredibly difficult for anyone to obliterate all traces of greed, slander, and envy. My journey towards celibacy has involved finding my own story that unites my experience of mind, heart, soul, and body with Christ.

Where do I experience abundant life in the Kingdom of God? This question has been one of the most paradoxical for me. I first started with trying to listen to my Christian tradition tell me where I could most strongly encounter the Kingdom of God: go on missions trips, learn how to pray for other people, commit myself to regular patterns of Scripture study, share my faith with other people, etc. However, despite my best efforts, much of this counsel seemed ill-fitting. As an introverted engineer, I felt like I was constantly being forced to choose between different parts of myself. Journeying towards celibacy challenged me to find abundant life that acknowledged as many aspects of my personality as possible.

How can I find the “Yes” within the celibate vocation? Admittedly, I considered this question hard. Many of the congregations I was involved in saw celibacy as simply abstaining from sex. The people around me also exploring celibate vocations were compelled by an effort to avoid sexual immorality. I had a true watershed moment when a friend provided me with a a chapter of Poverty, Celibacy, and Obedience: A Radical Way of Life. Diarmuid O’Murchu makes a powerful argument that the vow of celibacy must be viewed as a vow for relatedness. O’Murchu’s observation helped me shift my thinking from “avoid sin” to “embrace people.”

How can I find strength to continue when celibacy seems incredibly difficult? I began my journey into my celibate vocation standing alone in my apartment. It seemed fitting that I was alone: I had spent years seeking spiritual direction to discern a celibate vocation, and I didn’t feel like anyone had any valuable counsel for me. As I was reflecting on how many of my friends had already entered their marriages, I decided I could enter into my celibacy. I thought since they had enough life experiences to commit to the marital vocation, I had lived enough life to commit to the celibate vocation. I told God, “I have no idea what I’m doing, but I trust that You’ll help me.” I started talking to other people living celibate vocations, asking them to help me learn to pray. Learning to pray was of first importance to me because I felt like only God cared if I managed to find a life-giving form of celibacy. Later, I asked celibate people what their lives looked like on a daily basis. I found my own pattern to celibacy as I emulated aspects of their lives that seemed to mesh well with my circumstances. It seemed that I derived more strength from my vocation as I found a rhythm for my own celibacy.

Throughout all of my explorations of celibacy, I continue to fall back on the same question, “Do I trust God to guide my way?” I’ve been amazed as I’ve asked questions, given myself permission to make mistakes, and acknowledged that I certainly don’t have the answers even as I know my own vocation is tucked behind the image of God located at the core of my being.

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