An unnatural rule

“We can never know how much of themselves priests must suppress in order to survive in their world”

Speaker’s Corner
Denise Horan

IN recent times there has been a lot of talk about the crisis situation of vocations to the priesthood. No wonder there’s a crisis. Can you imagine working for an institution that expects you to shower those around you with love and patience and kindness and mercy while denying you the right to be happy.
I don’t presume to speak for priests, and I don’t presume to suggest that all of them are miserable. But I don’t understand it; either the acceptance with which they play their priestly roles, or the cruelty of the institution that punishes those who are most loyal to it. Institutions, by their nature, are slow to change, and rightly so. If they changed with whimsical abandon every time it suited, we wouldn’t call them institutions. But the Catholic Church’s refusal to change seems to have more to do with power-wielding over in its own disciples than with concern for the masses to whom they minister.
There are many things that could and should be changed, but the rule to which I specifically refer here is the one that imposes celibacy on priests. Priests have enough to deal with from us, God knows. Most of us speak to them as if we’re writing a letter: formally, reverentially, word-perfectly. We forget somehow that, first and foremost, they are human beings. Their membership of the Catholic Church, though important, is secondary to their status as people.
How cringe-inducing it is to be in the company of a priest and to have someone utter some profanity or make some remotely sexual remark and follow it up with ‘oh, sorry Father’ and a smirk. They’re not aliens who landed from another planet to assume the roles of priests here, nor are they unable to read newspapers, listen to the radio or watch television. So it’s safe to assume that, while they may not be permitted to engage in certain activities, they are as aware of their existence as the rest of us. (And if they are offended by vulgarity that does not distinguish them from most of the rest of us either.)
But back to the issue of celibacy. The qualities we admire most in our priests are kindness, patience, tenderness, supportiveness and ability to reassure. All human qualities. Perhaps some have traces of the divine in them, but in the work they do in their parishes it is their humanity that is to the fore. So why are they denied the right to be fully-rounded human beings? Why must they be celibate?
Would a priest be less compassionate with a sick person or his ability to inspire through his oration be diminished if he were allowed to share his life with a woman? If he were permitted to have a soul mate, a companion in life with whom he could share all his joys and sorrows, would he be less kind to his flock? On the contrary, one would imagine that being permitted to have the same range of human experiences and the same intensity of relationships that the rest of us are open to having would only enhance a priest’s role in his community. If we are fulfilled personally, we are more capable of enriching the lives of others. If some aspect of our development is stunted, then that capability is diminished.
We can never know how much of themselves priests must suppress in order to survive in their restrictive world. Do they develop multiple superficial relationships for fear of the dangers that deep, meaningful ones might bring? If they do fall in love, do they ignore those feelings or store them away somewhere, never to be touched? What is the human cost of such suppression?
Some people may never find true love in life, but to be prohibited by your job from even looking for it – and to be expected to walk away from it if you do find it – is cruel and unnatural. And wholly unnecessary.
The Church would be much stronger – and would have more vocations – if it showed a willingness to change things within it that make no human sense.