‘So, why celibacy?’
This isn’t necessarily one of the first questions you expect to be asked by one of your new housemates shortly after you’ve moved in and part-way through a corporate Netflix binge. Then again, I was only allowed to become the new housemate on strict instruction that I didn’t get engaged within a month of moving in. (It’s been nearly two months, I’ve kept my word). In fact, far from suddenly getting engaged, I informed my new housemates that I was becoming a sort of nun. Somehow, despite that, they still let me move in.
‘So, what is it exactly?’ That’s been the most common question.
The provocative answer: well, I am becoming a sort of nun for a year. The most annoying thing about that is I spent four years of life running open days for a theology department where I categorically denied that the only career opportunity open to theology graduates was being a nun. Side note: let me tell you about all my transferable skills…
I’m embarking on something new born from the wellsprings of the ancient, the Community of St Anselm led by Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby. I’m going to be a non-resident member, which will mean continuing with the day job, getting to know the train from Oxford to Paddington and back incredibly well, and, well, those are the only things I know with certainty. There’s a rule of life to follow and I’ve re-read parts of Cur Deus Homo by the man himself (Anselm, not J-Welbz) in a move that made me nostalgic for THE1060.
I don’t know what this year is going to be like or really what it is going to look like. I know a couple of people who’ve done it in previous years and their faces light up and they gush when asked about it. Right now, I find I am incredibly apprehensive. The desire to go deeper and to be really changed, to encounter God in new and profound ways seemed like an awfully good idea at the time, but now it feels terrifying.
There are two reasons for this:
What if God doesn’t speak to me?
What if He does?
I had a tutor at university who was genuinely such a lovely man but who couldn’t cope with silences. This meant that every time he asked our first year lecture class a question about philosophy of religion, he answered it himself within seven seconds. Once he tried to go longer and I don’t remember a more uncomfortable five-minutes-felt-like-five-hours of my life. I do empathise; the teenagers in my youth group are exceedingly vocal about Grand Theft Auto but are overcome with muteness whenever I utter the words ‘let’s pray, shall we?’ But it’s a similar thing that I often have with God. I can talk about God for a long time. I have three theology degrees which have resulted in roughly 600,000 words written about God. But I can still find myself thinking God is giving me the silent treatment when I’ve only given him about ten seconds in which to speak.
Silence will form a key part of St Anselm life. On my application form, I spoke of how apprehensive I was about this part, how cautious and intimidated I am by silence, the fear that God won’t speak.
But now, it is not so much the silence I simultaneously fear and long for, but the voice that breaks through the silence.
‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’
It’s easy enough to say.
‘See I am about to do something in Israel that will makes the ears of everyone who hears about it tingle.’
And that right there is the hard, terrifying, uncomfortable, direction-changing , life-giving, Spirit-imbibing part.
But, maybe that’s why we do this in community. I can say ‘Lord, I am listening,’ but if my ears start to tingle, well that’s where you don’t want to go it alone, that’s where you need those people who have committed themselves publicly to loving you, and you them.
Here we go. A year in God’s time. God, where you lead me, I will follow. God, where you call me, I will go. Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.
If you need a laugh 10/10 recommend watching a hapless evangelical (me) try and work out how to put on an alb.