In Marilynne Robinson's novel Gilead, an older father, John Ames, writes a letter to his son, fearing he will pass away before his child is old enough to hear everything he wishes to share. He reflects on his own experiences of loss, having lost his wife and first child during childbirth. In contrast, his friend Boughton has eight children. Ames remarks, “I used to dread walking into his house, because it made mine seem so empty” (Robinson 2004).
In the church, singleness is often treated as a temporary waiting room for marriage, but Scripture teaches that whether married or single, the chief end of our lives is not family fulfillment but conformity to Christ: “And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him” (1 Cor. 3:17). In this pursuit, even loneliness itself becomes one of the Lord’s instruments of sanctification.
Marriage Is Not the Cure to Being Alone
Loneliness. It’s a sobering term, often avoided in our modern world. Studies and literature suggest that despite our overwhelming online connections, we are more disconnected than ever. In many church circles, the implicit solution to this can be clear: marry, have children, and live happily ever after. As a young single female in the church, this has been my experience. While these are beautiful pursuits and things worthy of prayer, is this truly the chief end of our lives?
But I have found that the “sweet balm” of Christian fellowship comes when older saints—men and women in every stage of life—invite me into their homes and into their ordinary rhythms. Scripture calls the church a household (Eph. 2:19), a body (1 Cor. 12), a family bound not by blood but by Christ. I have tasted that reality most clearly when families have claimed me as their own. There is something of heaven in it.
On Sunday mornings, I sit beside a family who prays over communion together, and they fold me into that prayer as if I belong there—because in Christ, I do. On Sunday evenings, I close my eyes as we sing the final verse to the closing hymn and I remember: this is a foretaste, a small rehearsal of Revelation 7—every tribe, every story, every sorrow gathered before the throne.
Marriage Is Not the Purpose of Suffering and Sanctification
After a long season of suffering, a mentor of mine kindly remarked, “I think this darkness will prepare you to be a wife and mom.” Although it felt tender in the moment, later I questioned, “Is that what this suffering is all for?” What if I never get married or have children? Will I look back and think it was all for nothing? Surely not. Our trials should mold us into Christ’s likeness; that is the ultimate goal. It is essential to revisit the catechisms we adhere to. Regardless of our relationship status—married, single, divorced, or widowed—what is the chief end of man?
Every person is carrying something. It may not be loneliness. It may be grief, regret, infertility, illness, financial strain. The fall marks us all differently. But for a brief hour when we are all gathered in worship, all of it grows lighter—not because it vanishes, but because Christ’s glory looms larger.
There are sufferings in both loneliness and a house brimming with family and guests. Looking back at Gilead, Ames reflects on his friend's seemingly blessed family life, observing, “But good fortune is not only good fortune, and over the years, things happened in that family that caused some terrible regret. Still, for years it all seemed to me to be blindingly beautiful” (Robinson 2004).
In today’s secular world, marriage is often undervalued by the culture. It is natural for the church to stand firm against this decay and declare what the Lord has said about the goodness of marriage. However, if we swing the pendulum too far, thinking marriage is the answer to loneliness or the end-goal of our suffering or the answer to society’s ills, we risk compromising the essence of the Christian life: to glorify God and enjoy him forever.
The Horizon of Heaven
We all have loneliness, we all have moments when the world feels too big or we feel invisible in a crowd. But God’s word is the same for all of us. Our loneliness can only be filled by Christ, and we all can cry out with the psalmist, “Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.” (Ps. 73:25). In the church, we are all walking toward a wedding day as our ultimate hope (Rev. 21:9); we are walking toward glory. And in that glory, every loneliness will be swallowed up in perfect communion with the One who has promised, “I am with you always” (Matt. 28:20).
The church has not always known how to love its singles well. But Hebrews 10 tells us to “stir one another up to love and good works.” That stirring happens around dinner tables and in pews, in shared prayers and shared silence. And though the loneliness may not disappear when the saints open their tables and their lives to each other, it is gentled.
And for a moment, we see the horizon of heaven.
Loneliness, though painful, is not meaningless. It exposes what we are tempted to seek in human approval or romantic fulfillment and gently redirects us to our true portion. Whether our homes are full or quiet, whether our tables seat one or many, the Lord is shaping us into the image of his Son (Rom. 8:29). Our hope is Christ. And in him, we are neither behind nor lacking. We are beloved, being formed, and being led—hand in hand—all the way home.
