The Stonewall Inn and the Sacred Heart

I had been in enough riots to know the fun was over. … The cops were totally humiliated. This never, ever happened. They were angrier than I guess they had ever been, because everybody else had rioted … but the fairies were not supposed to riot … no group had ever forced cops to retreat before. 

—Bob Kohler, eyewitness of the Stonewall Riots 

I therefore take You, O Sacred Heart, to be the only object of my love, the guardian of my life, my assurance of salvation, the remedy of my weakness and inconstancy, the atonement for all the faults of my life, and my sure refuge at the hour of death. 

—St Margaret Mary Alacoque, from the Act of Consecration to the Sacred Heart of Jesus

✠     ✠ ✠

In the wee hours of the morning on 28th June, 1969—eight days after the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was observed that year—New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar. All gay bars were technically underground establishments at the time; laws instituted after Prohibition ended forbade liquor licenses to ‘disorderly houses,’ which was interpreted by the government to include any establishment frequented by gays or prostitutes, among others. The mafia was therefore largely in control of the city’s gay bars [1], and bribed the cops to be able to carry on with business. That night, the NYPD hadn’t gotten their bribe, so they raided the Stonewall and started arresting people. But that night was different. [2] Many of the patrons were drag queens, hustlers, trans women, or homeless young people (the categories overlapped), who weren’t allowed in other covertly gay-friendly establishments or couldn’t afford them; the Stonewall Inn was for many purposes their home. And that night, they fought for it.

Three names stand out from that first night: Stormé DeLarverie, Sylvia Rivera, and Marsha P. Johnson; Rivera and Johnson were trans women [3], DeLarverie a lesbian. As DeLarverie was being loaded into a police van, she cried out to the watching crowd, ‘Why don’t you guys do something?’ and was thrust forcibly into the van. 

It was then the spark caught. As the rumor spread that the raid was in response to a missed bribe, the crowd began throwing pennies at the police. Rivera said, ‘You been treating us like shit all these years? Uh-uh. Now it’s our turn!’ and Johnson (though accounts vary) is reported to have thrown a shot glass and shouted, ‘I got my civil rights!’ The police tried to continue with the arrests, tried to make the crowd disperse, but the riot had taken hold. The police were driven back, and the demonstrations went on for days. The gay rights movement as we know it today had begun.

I grew up in an America after Stonewall, after the AIDS crisis of the eighties, after the early phase and early failures of the ex-gay movement. The queens of Stonewall are the reason I could and can be openly gay at my college, at my jobs, at my parish, with little fear of harassment or expulsion or violence or getting fired. Little rather than none, but little. I owe them for that.

But what has any of this got to do with the Sacred Heart of Jesus?

Well, strictly speaking, every human person has to do with the Sacred Heart of Jesus, because it is the center of all humanity and indeed of all creation. Charles Williams put it thus:

Compassion is the union of man with his fellows, as is the blood. The permitted devotion to the Sacred Heart is the source of both. The physical heart is, in this sense, an ‘index’ to both. The visionary forms of the occult schools are but dreams of the Divine Body. … The temples of the Holy Ghost are constructed all on one plan: and our duties to our material fellows are duties to structures of beatitude. … The Sacred Body is the plan upon which physical human creation was built, for it is the center of physical human creation. The great dreams of the human form containing the whole universe are in this less than the truth. As His, so ours; the body, in this sense of an index, is also a pattern. We carry about with us an operative synthesis of the Virtues … [4]

But although that truth sets the brain aflame with its implications, it doesn’t pertain to homosexuality more than to anything else, still less to gay rights more than to anything else. (At least, not as far as I’ve discerned to date.)

For me personally, I feel like the Sacred Heart and gayness cross paths in two ways. One pertains to the Pulse shooting three years ago. That was the event that, for lack of a better word, radicalized me. It was the first thing that had ever happened that made me fear for my safety as an out gay man—even the brutalization of Matthew Shephard hadn’t done that; and also the first clear realization I had that, while individual Catholics might, the Catholic Church in general did not care about LGBTQ people. Or maybe they did, but their care wasn’t worth having. I had believed sincerely that if, God forbid, something like Pulse happened, they would show that they really did believe in avoiding every sign of unjust discrimination. But the bishops were silent: fifty-odd words of colorless sympathy on Twitter was the best they could do. [5] After that, incidentally, I was kind of forearmed for the McCarrick scandal and everything that’s come after it; my illusions about the bona fides of the clergy were gone. My faith had never depended on those illusions, thank God. But all the same, I had genuinely believed they meant it when they said they loved us. When it turned out they were lying about that, I wasn’t as shocked by their lies about so much else.

But here’s the thing. That is not how Jesus feels about gay people. The night those forty-nine people were shot in Orlando, he was shot forty-nine times. The blood of their deaths and the blood of his sacrifice are both the life of the image of God: for the life of all flesh is the blood thereof. No matter how faithless his Church is, he is not faithless to her nor to humanity. He held those forty-nine people in his arms as they died, and unless they finally refused him, he holds them still. Their wounds are in his Heart as I write these words.

Which brings us to the other intersection between that Heart and homosexuality. Nothing is wasted. No injury, no indignity that was inflicted on Jesus was wasted; every moment of pain was used to restore creation. There’s so much meaningless suffering in the world—the promise of the Sacred Heart is that, in reality, all that suffering appears meaningless but it isn’t. Any belief in a just deity includes the belief that, from the cruelest to the pettiest, every evil will be acknowledged and recompensed in the Last Judgment; devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus is an adamant assertion that all those evils will not only be stopped, they will be transformed into greater goods—not only made powerless, but humiliated in their turn—evil does not, ever, get the last word in any way at all. No concession is made to it when its very existence is made the felix culpa that summons a glorious Savior.

It’s easy to distort this truth into the petty, saccharine maxim that Everything happens for a reason. No. Not everything happens for a reason. At any rate, not in the sense the people saying that think. Not only the pain of suffering, but also the horror of meaninglessness, will be honored by the final consummation; otherwise it couldn’t really be final. But for that exact reason, there must be no rushing to the end, no pretending that we have the final meaning now. That is why, in its ikons, the Sacred Heart still bleeds as well as burning. The grief of the world will end, but it has not yet ended.

Which has what to do with being gay? My traditionalist readers will probably think I’m talking about what a wound being gay is, while some of my progressivist readers may think I’m unconsciously reflecting the unnecessary burden laid on me by the Catholic Church. I take neither of these views, actually; though I’d point out to both that Jesus did not carry his cross in secret, and asking me to conceal either my sexuality or my beliefs is, accordingly, not going to land. In any case, I believe in a standard of chastity that I cannot manage to live up to; and that's uncomfortable to a lot of people. They want something neat, something that makes sense, something that fits their categories, and I don't offer that.

But the mystery of the Sacred Heart leaves me with some (some) assurance that the messy and uncertain life I lead is not a waste. Being gay in a world that’s mostly straight is hard; being gay in the Catholic Church is hard; being Catholic in the queer community is hard. But not fruitless. As bitterly as loneliness and guilt and anger and worry still, often, bite into me, I’m not afraid like I once was that they’re symptoms of a pointless life. Whether suffering comes from the inner struggle for self-discipline, or from homophobic (or, occasionally, Romaphobic) sources without—I might be scared of the pain, because who isn’t, but I’m not scared that it’s all for nothing, because I see that picture of a bleeding Heart above me, and that’s the center of everything. And that blood runs through every heart, in heaven and on earth and under the earth.

Happy fiftieth anniversary.

✠     ✠ ✠

[1] Were you honestly thinking that the law was going to stop any queen from getting her vodka soda on and dancing to ‘Sugar, Sugar’? 

[2] For one thing, it was the night following Judy Garland’s funeral, so raiding a gay bar was not perhaps the most cunning thing the NYPD has ever done.

[3] At the time, the commonest term was transvestite; the term transgender had not yet been coined. Nonetheless, they would most probably fall under the transgender umbrella today, especially as both used female pronouns.

[4] From the Dublin Review of July 1942, republished in the posthumous collection The Image of the City.

[5] My parish did better than average. Our pastor added a petition for the victims to the Bidding Prayers (it was actually the first thing I heard about Pulse), and I had an opportunity to give a couple of lectures on homosexuality and Christianity a few months later. But the Church in general proved too apathetic, or too cowardly, or too hateful, to even say (let alone do) anything of substance.