Judith Stegman wants to reclaim the word “virgin” from jokes, satire and stigma.
When people ask whether she’s married, the 49-year-old Haslett resident replies, “Yes, and no.” “I’m not married to a man, but I’m far from being single,” Stegman tells people. “I’m a consecrated virgin in the Catholic Church.” At a time when virginity is getting the Hollywood laugh-track treatment – the movie “The 40 Year-Old Virgin” – Stegman wants to celebrate the V-word for its beauty and integrity.
“An important part of being this,” she says, “is not to be afraid to say it,” but it took even Stegman a while to do so with a serene smile.
“I’m not remaining a virgin because I’m repressing some part of sexuality, or giving everything to my work, or refraining from loving relationships,” says Stegman. “I’m invited to a loving relationship with Christ.”
She is one of about 160 women in the United States who are consecrated virgins. They are members of a little-known ministry that dates to Christianity’s earliest days.
These women pursue a spiritual vocation, but not as members of a convent or religious order. They work as teachers, nurses, lawyers, or, like Stegman, certified public accountants. They support themselves, follow a life of prayer and, in the words of Catholic canon law, are “mystically betrothed to Christ.”
On her left ring finger, Stegman wears a silver band fashioned to resemble an ancient oil lamp. It symbolizes her betrothal to Jesus Christ and evokes the imagery of the gospel parable about 10 virgins, five of whom had lanterns lacking oil. Without it, they were unready for the return of the bridegroom, a symbol for Christ.
Raised in a Catholic family in Cincinnati, Ohio, Stegman, the oldest of six children, says the nuns who taught her inspired her. She dated in high school and college in the 1970s, but did not find it as exciting or fulfilling as her girlfriends did.
She flourished as an accountant, but struggled with how to nurture her religious calling. Then a friend told her about an article about consecrated virgins in a journal. She approached the Diocese of Lansing, Mich., studied with a spiritual director and began praying the Liturgy of the Hours, which all priests and religious sisters say daily.
Even when she was consecrated in a ceremony in 1993, Stegman had trouble embracing the language. The invitations to the rite and breakfast reception didn’t mention the word “virgin.”
Instead, guests were invited to celebrate a “commitment to a life of celibacy in the Catholic Church.” It took years of prayer, meetings with other consecrated virgins and experiencing the respect others showed her before Stegman was more comfortable discussing her calling. Now, she prays formally several times a day at a private chapel in her basement, a room decorated with religious paintings and miniature stained-glass pieces propped up against a window.
By special permission of her bishop, Stegman prays before a tabernacle that contains the Holy Eucharist, the consecrated communion bread that Catholics believe is the body of Christ. The triangular cabinet was built by her father, gilded by a sister and adorned with handmade wooden religious symbols by a friend who is a Catholic deacon.
“It’s a distinct privilege to have it in my home,” Stegman says.
“I want Christ in my home. For a consecrated virgin, it’s like having her spouse at home.”
