In the Meantime

"I'm so bored of little gods while standing on the edge of something large. While standing here so close to You, we could be consumed."
-David Crowder in "How Great" from Illuminate

A couple of years ago, on the Sunday after Christmas where my church celebrates the feast of the holy family, one of our priests gave his sermon on what it means to be in a family. He spoke to different stages of life, including to us single-folk. Being someone called to, as he says, “the single life,” he spoke with grace and refreshing clarity on what it means for us youngins to wade through this stage of meantime.

“Choose the one with whom you are comfortable praying with—the one whom you can share your presence-of-Jesus with.” This seemed like the ready-made, churchidy-church-church answer, and at first listen I was sure it was far too simplistic. What about mental and emotional compatibility? What about each other's vision of the good life? What if he has tattoos?? (My Dad always told me never to bring a guy home with tattoos. That’s pretty much all I got from him on the subject). Surely there must be more. But then again, this particular priest didn’t strike me as the cheap-churchy type.

I was about to sign it off as cliché until I thought about that interesting phrase he used. Presence-of-Jesus? Perhaps this is more than praying together because you met at a Christian college or church group and because you figure you should pray to make your pastor happy. It’s more than bandwagon Christianity.

I left that week after communion with a hunger to define this phrase in my own life. What does it mean to share this? In order to share this with someone, I should probably have it to give. As a Bible and Theology major, I am often startled at how little I know about deep practical spirituality. What does this phrase mean? I kept it in the back of my mind and forgot about it on and off. Now, over a year later, I find myself coming back to that sermon.

I’ve come back to it perhaps in an attempt to spend the rest of my single life doing something other than wishing I was married.

And don’t anyone dare comment about how my time will come and God has a plan and bla bla bla (although these things are true)—this isn’t a sob story for crying out loud. This is a story of putting fears to rest. Contrary to popular belief, singleness is not the leading cause of death in the modern age. Singleness is nothing to be afraid of—even if I’m single for a long time to come, and even if people all around me are getting engaged and married. Oh, and also contrary to popular American belief, sex alone will not sustain a relationship beyond three weeks. Since I want to be married more than three weeks, I have been looking for alternate means of foraging a relationship with someone.

And I think I’ve found it—from a celibate priest no less. Ironic? I don’t think so, since him and I are searching for the very same ultimate thing. We are searching for rest. We are all searching for rest--for a place to lie down after running and running with a constant sense that there is something more, that we are only in the meantime. And, of course, I will still have this restlessness when I am married someday. If I don’t find my resting place, I will run my marriage right into the ground trying to understand why I still feel like I’m in the meantime. I think the singleness of celibacy has given him a fresh perspective on the ultimate goal of all relationships—a perspective I aim to grasp while I still can. Because singleness for me will not last forever, but life is all about how you travel in the meantime. If I don’t learn how to travel well, I’ll never make it to my resting place.

What is my resting place? My presence-of-Jesus, of course. This is the place I go every time I stop to realize that, in the end, my purpose here is to make God smile. This is the place I go when I need to crumple on the floor and admit that I’ve lost at life again. This is the place I go when I realize I couldn't have made it out alive any other way than sheer grace. It’s the place I go when I thank Him for my food.

But presence-of-Jesus is difficult because in it we are vulnerable and naked. God has called into the Earth, “Adam, Eve, where are you?” and we come out from hiding and respond “Here I am, will you make me whole again?” If my future spouse doesn’t disown me when he realizes how often I talk to myself or when he understands my need to sit and dream about things, I think he can handle any other motleyness that I can dish out. But what would it look to mutually come together in spill-your-gut prayer? If he ever talks to me again after he’s seen me have a talk with God—I won’t know what to think. The only thing left is to look up and say “Fine, God, you win. I’ll marry him…”

The point is this: if two people are able to comfortably share this spiritual nakedness with one another, they should have no problem sharing their mentally, emotionally, and physically naked selves with each other. And this physical nakedness acts as a climax of vulnerability—of two people who have decided to make the journey together, of two people who’ve learned how to pray together.

I’ve realized that sometimes you can want something so badly that the only way to get it is to let it go—to let the pieces flutter off into the wind, turn around, and walk away. To take off the glasses of longing mixed with soap scum and lime blocking my view of the sunshine reflecting off the puddles that the sparrows bathe in. Whether in single or married life, I will miss the abundant life my fallen self craves if I’m pursuing anyone other than Christ. If I am busy looking for marriage, I will miss the one I should marry—the one with whom I will pursue Christ and preach His gospel. In order to know which person I can share my presence-of-Jesus with, I should probably know what my presence-of-Jesus is. In the meantime, I’ll start with that.