Absence, presence, and holy detachment
A brief Lenten word on singleness
There is this impression of singleness1 that lingers in the modern, western, Christian air I often breathe: an assumption that conflates voicing the ache for partnership with ingratitude for the freedoms singles often enjoy, and equates acknowledging loneliness with an open invitation for a romantic remedy. It is not always obvious to me where these assumptions come from, whether from well-meaning-but-ignorant people from a different life stage looking in, or from Victorian era thoughts seeping into the present, of from fearful singles working so hard not to project their pain through a facade of contentment. Regardless, the cultural taboo about acknowledging the difficulties of this burden (especially in a secular culture that values sex and a church culture that values marriage and family) can easily increase the loneliness and pressure of singleness.
Singleness is both complicated and common, and few people know how to address it constructively and honestly. Not even singles know what to do with ourselves, how to be honest without sounding desperate. We don’t want pity, but personhood. We don’t want to be seen as a problem to be fixed, and yet we want the unique hurdles and heartaches of long-term celibacy to be acknowledged. We don’t want to be defined solely by what we lack, and yet we need space to name the absences that loom large.
In my twenties, singleness was a great adventure. I wanted to experience the world independently, rise to the occasion, and make a life for myself. I developed a plethora of beautiful, deep friendships with men and women alike, but there were few opportunities for dating. Dating for the sake of dating held no appeal to me, and I wasn’t interested in wasting energy in relationships that held no potential. I bypassed those distractions (mostly), throwing myself into work, friendships, ministry, education, health, etc. Discontentment was not the primary tone of those single years, but discovery, camaraderie, and delight.
Singleness is still an adventure now, but as I approach my mid-thirties, it holds both a grittier and a softer quality than before. It is simultaneously more painful and more precious now, an altogether different experience than the singleness of my twenties (and I can only imagine how it could shift in future decades). Maybe it’s because of the moves and losses I’ve had over the past few years, all experienced in varying degrees of aloneness that ranged widely in both pain and intensity. Maybe it’s because in spite of the unattainable cultural standards of beauty that insist upon perpetual youth, I am simply growing older and my body is different than it was ten years ago. Maybe it’s because most of my friends are in the process of starting families, buying homes, “settling down.” I don’t consciously envy them the headaches, griefs, and responsibilities that accompany such big shifts, yet I can’t help but recognize that I’m actively releasing the presumptions I’ve had in place for my own life around this age.
My brother told me he looked up one of the homes where we grew up on Zillow, saying that the house is now worth more than he could ever afford even though he earns more than dad did when our parents bought that house on a single income nearly thirty years ago. Things are different now, and what is possible for anyone—single or married—is simply not what many of us were expecting. I read research that shows a cultural divergence between men and women in my generation (and younger), a growing tribalism between the sexes that makes the possibility of finding someone likeminded less and less probable. Per the Surgeon General, loneliness is an epidemic in the United States, and I nod along with the findings. In a hypersexualized and impersonal age, nonsexual intimate friendships are rarer than ever. Life is different in 2024, not just economically, but relationally.
The images of my future that have long infiltrated my imagination are shifting. Such honesty hurts, but it feels right. Like a snake shedding its skin, I am making space for new dreams to take root. As I shiver in the naked possibility, the questions roll in. If I live on only my own income, will I ever be able to buy a house near people I love? If I never find a partner, will I ever be able to pursue writing or my other interests like I always hoped I could? If I must work full-time, will I be able keep my health issues at bay?
Nothing has been taken from me, and yet something is not there. How do you name a grief that is primarily an absence? Uncurious responses to the ache of singleness shut down the dialogue, compounding the isolation. “You know, Paul said singleness is better,” blows the hot wind of shame into the inevitable longings for companionship and intimacy. Predictions of a partner making their “inevitable” debut seem well-meaning but careless. No single person can build their life around something that is so uncertain, lest they endure years of chronic disappointment from focusing solely on what they lack. Such trite spiritual language shrinks the space for real intimacy, for the knowing and being known that goes beyond legally binding documents and into the territory of friendship.
Within many churches I observe a tendency to split into categories: young professionals, young marrieds, families, empty nesters, and grandparents all branch off to speak to someone in their same age or life stage. I fully endorse the camaraderie that comes with shared life experiences, but as a newcomer walking in alone, it is easy to feel lost in the crowd. I wonder about the other people who don’t fit into such conventional categories: the “older” singles and single parents, those who are widowed or divorced, the sick, the infertile, the poor. Doesn’t life with Christ make space for the people who don’t totally fit? Can’t intimacy look different than the range of sexual unions that both the world and the church are so preoccupied with in vastly different ways?
In my early twenties a family in my church welcomed me as one of their own. My friend Anna invited me to sit in her kitchen regularly, claiming she “got more done” when someone else was around. On my days off I often folded her laundry, drank her coffee, watched the baby while she took a nap, and walked with her to pick the big kids from school. It wasn’t fancy: just the mundane and intimate bits of life. I was in and out of their home multiple times a week for nearly two years, and not because they felt bad for me or because I was their babysitter. It was a beautiful symbiotic relationship that I still think about. She got another pair of responsible hands, I got to spend time with a family, and despite our differences in age and life stage we became good friends. Whenever I’m in Chicago I sit at their kitchen table like nothing has changed.
The people that regularly check on me now are many years older than I am. Each week after church, our eclectic group—spanning five decades—goes out to coffee. It’s not mentorship or ministry: it’s friendship. We read books, tell stories, talk about work, family, hobbies, and life with Christ. Though I’m single, I’m not half of a person with these friends. There’s mutual curiosity and care that is truly precious. Singleness may be hard, but friendships that press the walls of loneliness far to the side are simply and mysteriously good.
The words of Jesus ring in my ears: “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”2 I take comfort in Jesus’s honest acknowledgment that bearing a cross is just part and parcel with following him. Of all people, he knew the grueling reality of it. And he extends the invitation anyway. Take up your cross, look death in the face, shoulder the thing that can kill you: resurrection is just on the other side. For singles, the cross we take up is one of holy detachment, and yet really, that’s the cross for everyone. Whether single or married, whether childless or suffocating under little bodies, whether content or in anguish or apathy, Christ invites us to deny ourselves, put the idols away, take up our cross, and follow him. The invitation to holy detachment is a dunk in frigid water— it hurts, it takes our breath away, and yet we emerge tingling, flushed, alive, refreshed, and maybe even craving more.
The cross of holy detachment is an invitation to remember that “you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”3 It is an opportunity to follow Mary into the discomfort and expectancy of acceptance: “Let it be to me according to your word.”4 There is something grounded about this openhanded expectancy, something rooted in a reality that is deeper than what is visible. Holy detachment makes room for the possibility of peace and contentment in the present, and gives hope for the future.
There is an aloneness to singleness that aches deeply sometimes, but there is also this mysterious companionship with Christ that brings me so much delight. If marriage rates are going down, and the pool of eligible young men continues to dwindle, then the hope of marriage may not get me anywhere except sucked into cynicism and discontent. But truly, I’m finding that hope in Christ can get me into a deep sea of his love, and companionship with his people gives me such buoyancy along the way, often when (and where) I least expect it.
If you’re in a different life stage, I encourage you to look for the singles and others in your life who may feel alone. Make space to listen to the aches and absences that may not be personal to you. Be curious, and choose to be a friend outside of the lines that are most natural for you. Who knows how you may be refreshed, encouraged, and delighted.
And by “singleness” I mean unmarried, unpartnered, and pursuing sexual abstinence
Matthew 15:24 ESV
Genesis 3:19b ESV
Luke 1:38 ESV
You so perfectly capture nameless feelings and turn them into sentences that immediately ring true!
Oh goodness, every line of this is perfect. So many important tangents worth their own conversations.
I cried reading this, for all kinds of complicated reasons. But really, I just appreciate how you're able to convey these things.