That comparison is less far-fetched than it might sound. Like the orphan in the workhouse, the hapless singleton pouring her time into ministry has plenty in the way of structure, but no gratification that can be said to belong to her exclusively. Your average parish or ministry may not go so far as Teresa of Avila's order in banning "particular friendships," but the very setup discourages the formation of any unencumbered dyad, whether romantic or not. Everything has a way, sooner or later, of becoming somebody else's business. No, to devote one's empty hours to good works is to report to a kind of second office and swim cautiously through a sea of frienemies. For many, this seems the coldest, emptiest kind of existence.
If that were really the only option, then the world's consolations—the love affair, the hookup, the drinking binge—would start to make a kind of sense. For all the spiritual damage they inflict, these can, at least, make those who indulge feel something approaching happiness on something like their own terms. Self-indulgence, in short, can feel like the last hedge against self-annihilation.
I speak here with the authority of experience. When I entered the Church as an aging single, I was positively primed to annihilate myself. By the world's standards, I'd been a failure—here was my chance to internalize a new set of values, form a completely different set of goals, and become, at last, a worthwhile person. To my great disgust, all the tastes and predilections that had defined me in the world, followed me into the Church. I had never been the sort of person who could submit to the discipline of an ecclesial movement or enjoy changing bedpans in a hospice; that remained true. There were times I longed for someone to hammer me into a mold more suitable for the life of service that seemed my last chance at the good Christian life.
I was spared a hammering, thank God, but various would-be mentors did nudge me in directions they thought fitting, but which would have proven catastrophic. If they'd had the force or charisma of, say, a Don Escriva, who knows what would have happened? I might have squelched my doubts, gone along with their program for a few years, cracked up, and written a tell-all book. What saved me was, of all things, my selfishness, and a certain bloodymindedness that forced me to follow its prompts at all costs.
In Catholic circles, nothing has a blacker name than selfishness—except maybe the Episcopal Church and Bill Maher. Accepting my gut refusal to be what I thought I was supposed to be came at a terrible cost. But if A.W. Richard Sipe had been sitting on my shoulder at the time, he might have reminded me that vocational discernment always involves a certain amount of concern for the ego: "Everyone," he writes:
. . . is motivated to a degree by self-preservation. Some people see a safer, surer way of life as a single and celibate person. This vocation is where they feel sure of themselves . . . Persons with a vocation to marriage can have the same fears as others, but they don't feel safe, sure or in control as a single or sexually abstinent person.
Applied in a slightly different context, this bit of uncommon sense suggests that singles—whatever their reason for being single—should feel entitled to choose their apostolate with their own comfort in mind. After all, Catholics who marry tend to select their mates on the basis of looks, personality, education, and earning potential, just like non-Catholics. Only a very rare Georgetown Law grad would take up with a machete-scarred campesina in the name of social justice. And if he did, his parents would probably disown him.
Perhaps I'm worried about nothing. The Church may well have too much on its plate to press singletons into work gangs. But still, I beg any bishops who might be reading this: please, leave bad enough alone. For those of you who vote Republican, I will invoke the sage of Death Valley. Remember the dread Reagan professed to feel at hearing anyone say, "I'm from the government, and I'm here to help"? Change "government" to "Church," and you'll know how this spoilt householder feels.
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