Collect

Collect for the Fourth Sunday after Trinity

O God, the protector of all that trust in thee, without whom nothing is strong, nothing is holy: increase and multiply upon us thy mercy; that, thou being our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things temporal, that we finally lose not the things eternal; grant this, O heavenly Father, for the sake of Jesus Christ thy Son our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, ever one God, world without end. Amen.
Showing posts with label Eve Tushnet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eve Tushnet. Show all posts

Sunday, June 9, 2019

Revoice 2019: A Brief Retrospective

And O! such joy I saw my Lady wear
When to that shining heav’n she entered in,
The planet’s self grew brighter yet with her;
And if the star laughed and was changed, what then
Was I, whom am but flesh, and ticklish
To touch of change, and all the moods of men?
As in a fish-pond still and clear, the fish
Draw to some dropped-in morsel as it goes,
Hoping it may provide a dainty dish,
So I saw splendors draw to us in droves,
Full many a thousand, and from each was heard:
‘Lo, here is one that shall increase our loves!’

—Dante Alighieri, Paradiso


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I was at Revoice 2019 [1] from Wednesday till this morning. My mom came this year, and she really enjoyed it. Saturday was technically the last day, but since our flight didn’t leave till Sunday and a lot of people hang around anyway, I stayed and observed Pentecost in St Louis, in the beautiful basilica cathedral.


It always feels huge, being at gay Christian events. There’s a weight that comes off you when you’re among people you don’t have to defend yourself to. A weight you forget you’re even carrying most of the time, and you wonder sometimes why you feel hunched and aching; and then you get to a place like Revoice, and suddenly you can stand up straight again.

Just like last year, the workshops were great: even better, a lot of the ones that I loved last year were given again this year so I know other people got to profit from them, and a lot of the ones I missed last year due to scheduling conflicts were also given again this year and I got to go to them this time. I probably enjoyed Eve Tushnet’s workshop on healthy celibacy the most, closely seconded by Ty Wyss’s on intimacy as an antidote to sexual shame; I also went to the lovely and talented Grant Hartley’s talk on redemptive aspects of queer culture, and Raw Low’s on how to protect your witness from being coöpted by heteronormative Christians. I’m looking forward to them all being posted on YouTube so I can rewatch them.

Both Ty and Eve touched, perhaps accidentally, on some things that I really profited from last year, at the workshop on recovering from spiritual abuse given by David Gill and Sara Collins—for instance, Eve’s incredibly succinct and clear summary of spiritual abuse: ‘People can try to make you obey in ways that are about them and not about Christ.’


But the thing I’ve been especially ruminating on, since I heard it, was something from Ty’s talk. The ways he spoke about experiencing and understand shame lay partly on a gradient: shame tends to tell us that we are either Not Enough, or else Too Much (or sometimes both). He gave the example from his own life of his coming out: that same week, his parents went to church and got saved; which, yay, but it also sent the message: You’re so Too Much that we had to call on the God of the universe to be able to deal with our own son. But shame is far more diverse than that of course, and he laid out a sort of sample phrase for understanding how it operates in our own lives (using Too Much and Not Enough as prompts more than as rigid categories): ‘Shame tells me that I am _____.’

I thought about it for a minute, trying a phrase or two that were true enough but didn’t really resonate emotionally. Then it came to me: Shame tells me that I am on probation. Screw up too much, and you’re done.

Especially when I believed in sola fide, I was abjectly terrified that I wasn’t good enough for God. My experience of sola fide was toxic because the way the doctrine was articulated to me was that, while you’re saved by faith alone, genuine faith produces good works—which trapped me in the inescapable prison of wondering whether my works were good enough to prove my faith was genuine. I gaslit myself for a decade, doubting every thought, word, and deed as perhaps being (how could I ever tell?) the secretly rotten fruit of hypocrisy.

Catholicism, which offered me a means of placing even the most mixed motives under the influence of grace, saved my faith and probably my life; yet Catholic culture too provides lots of space for scrupulosity, self-righteousness, and fear, and a greater multitude of methods by which to seem to oneself to be earning celestial approval. The mechanics of Catholicism, just as such, aren’t enough. Without the matured and patient wisdom of many guides, living and dead, I would probably have wound up merely in a larger prison—one defined by the concrete acts of confession and penance, instead of the bottomless chasm of whether I were sincere, but a prison all the same. And I’m neither surprised nor angry nor scornful that others, finding themselves in such a prison, have chosen to break out of it. Who wouldn’t? If God sounds like a jailer, why would you want to go to heaven?


Thus far, most of my attempts at reconciling my sexuality with my faith have had a strong element of shame in them. Not, for a long time now, shame about the bare facts of who I am and what kinds of relationships and sex I long for. But shame of a different and more calculating kind, a shame rooted in that idea of being on probation with God. The God that shame depicts for us doesn’t love us; he wants something from us—a performance. Which, given a moment’s thought, is ridiculous. As if he needed anything! Or as if a parent would evaluate their child’s drawings and decide whether to keep the child based (however gently and reasonably) on an increase of skill!

I haven’t altogether worked out where to go from here. But simply to name the problem seems like progress.



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1 For those who don’t know, Revoice is a nationwide conference founded for Side B Christians (queer-identifying Christians who subscribe to a traditional sexual ethic), to provide support and fellowship and increase visibility. It first met last year.

Friday, February 23, 2018

"Christ's Body, Christ's Wounds"

Now every time that I look at myself 
“I thought I told you, this world is not for you”
The room is on fire as she’s fixing her hair
“You sound so angry, just calm down, you found me”
I said please don’t slow me down if I’m going too fast
—Julian Casablancas
, “Reptilia,” Room on Fire

Fathers, provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged.
—St Paul the Apostle
, Letter to the Colossians
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About a year and a half ago, Fr Mike Schmitz, who’s pretty much a bundle of boyish energy in a Roman collar, gave a talk at Steubenville about same-sex attraction. I’m going to critique it in certain ways, but I want first to say that it is head and shoulders above the majority of orthodox Catholic sources I’ve ever encountered on the subject. For instance, he opens by boldly rejecting the idea that Catholics should tolerate gay people, because tolerance is something you do at others, and gay people belong in the Church just like straight people; he says repeatedly that “It’s not about Them, it’s about Us.” He (occasionally) uses the word gay, without going into hysterics about possible cultural implications. He even goes as far as to distinguish within same-sex relationships between the illicit sexual element, if there is one, and the love that is not only permissible but beautiful, without immediately emptying it by wittering about scandal.

One of the shortcomings of the talk—if a natural one, as he’s primarily a Catholic explaining Catholic doctrine to Catholics, rather than a Catholic defending Catholic doctrine to non-Catholics—is that, though drawing an important connection between the nature of a thing, its purpose, and how it is used, Fr Schmitz fails to give a satisfying template for how to determine the natures and purposes of things and for determining which uses are legitimate. [1] He addresses the fear of loneliness with his characteristic goofiness, which unfortunately suggests an absence of empathy rather than its presence: his style here clashes with his substance. More seriously, Fr Schmitz also presents a much sunnier picture of the Church than most people actually experience; he fails to address the fact that pious Catholics and clergy (which is what most people mean by the Church, consciously or not) hurt an awful lot of people by their sins, by bad advice, even by well-meaning deeds and words insensitively offered. A little ironically, the only kind of homophobia he speaks about is internalized homophobia.


These are symptomatic of a broader and more serious flaw, typical of devout young Catholics: naïvety. [2] A natural fault, an excusable one, but one that’s still capable of doing immense damage when people are naïve and don’t realize it. (Incidentally, the only people I can think of who are naturally naïve and do realize it are children, which may give a new layer of meaning to the command to enter the Kingdom of Heaven as little children.) It nearly killed me and my ex-boyfriend. There may be a way to get past being naïve without having your heart broken and bleeding; but I don’t know what it is. The only thing I know is that naïvety has to be broken, in each person.

I recently had a poem published in a collection assembled by Eve Tushnet, titled Christ’s Body, Christ’s Wounds: Staying Catholic When You’ve Been Hurt in the Church. This collection is precisely about the destruction of naïvety, via the nastier side of actual Catholic practice that Fr Schmitz fails to speak to: refused vocations, contempt for disabilities, molestation, homophobia, heresy, backbiting, financial corruption, cold-shouldering large families. All things that Catholic doctrine rightly disclaims, and that Catholic people most certainly do anyway—even if they call it “concerns about your Marian devotion” or “such a small percentage of the congregation,” “a matter we’re pursuing with the utmost attention” or “I don’t think you’re considering the possible scandal of your behavior,” “an outdated approach to penance” or “sharing an urgent prayer request,” “We prefer not to discuss why Father So-and-so was removed” or “It just isn’t respectful to the liturgy when they make so much noise.” Pretending that this stuff doesn’t happen is coöperating in spiritual abuse.


And no, that doesn’t mean that you have to believe every accusation and complaint, in advance of all evidence; but it does mean that you can’t reflexively dismiss such things without investigating them. Certainly not if you work in a pastoral capacity. It is a shepherd’s job to protect the sheep from wolves, and when the lambs start bleating for help, the shepherd’s instinct should not be to tell them to shut up. Nor should it be to assume that he already knows what they need. It should be to go find out.

I can’t really speak to the experiences of others (hence the importance of a book like Christ’s Body, Christ’s Wounds with its variety of testimony), but the Church’s pastoral failure in this regard is blatant in the case of the LGBT community. The scandalously milk-and-water profession of sympathy from our national bishops’ conference after the Pulse massacre, which happened just two months before Fr Schmitz gave this talk (and which he also failed to mention), is just one example of the mass refusal of Catholic clergy to deal seriously with homophobic behavior, whether among her members or in the world at large. Rehearsals of her teaching that gay people should be treated with “respect, compassion, and sensitivity” are appropriate, but without effective action they ring completely hollow. Even if the argument that they don’t want to give scandal by seeming to approve of homosexuality weren’t despicable—which it is—it would still be flat-out wrong, because if you embrace Catholic teaching then you need to embrace respect and sensitivity towards LGBT people just as much as we need to embrace chastity; and if you’re worried about credibility, proving by your actions that you care about gay people is a lot more convincing than vociferously avoiding any appearance of sympathy.

I know I write about this topic a lot. Some of my readers are probably bored of hearing about it. I’m not totally thrilled myself. But I write about it because we, the gay community, don’t get days off. We don’t get to not think about it. And while I’m still a Catholic because I’m stubborn as a mule, I know Catholics who’ve abandoned churchgoing, or even their faith as such, because they couldn’t face going back to a mother that keeps hitting them and then lying about it.

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[1] This doesn’t necessarily mean he’s wrong, nor that such a template couldn’t be constructed; it just means that his analysis isn’t complete for every purpose.
[2] I specifically say naïvety and not innocence—a lovely word which we have spoilt. Innocence means, primarily, an absence (or more positive refusal) of corruption. Naïvety, on the other hand, connotes an immature simplicity of mind, a failure to draw fine distinctions between and within good and evil, or to recognize the importance of doing so. Either can exist without the other, though cynical people (who are usually naïve, however negative) habitually identify them.

Friday, December 30, 2016

2016 Review: Words Filmed, Written, and Sung

And Dimble, who had been sitting with his face drawn, and rather white, between the white faces of the two women, and his eyes on the table, raised his head, and great syllables of words that sounded like castles came out of his mouth. … The voice did not sound like Dimble’s own: it was as if the words spoke themselves through him from some strong place at a distance—or as if they were not words at all but present operations of God, the planets, and the Pendragon.

C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

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I generally do an art-scene review as my final post of the year—so, without further ado, here are ten twenty-first century artists that I’m pretty psyched about.

10. Max Landis. I ran across Me Him Her on Netflix months ago. It’s the first film Landis has directed, and it’s wonderfully insane. The film opens with Brendan, a semi-famous actor, realizing that he’s gay and asking a friend from college to come help him process and start coming out to people; around the same time, a pair of girlfriends break up (because one of them is an unfaithful, manipulative egomaniac). The characters cross paths in the labyrinth of crazy that is downtown LA; hijinks, as the custom is, ensue. The cinematography has a delightful layer of surrealism, the acting is excellent, and Haley Joel Osment has a cameo playing a crazy-cat-lady version of himself. The film has its flaws, but it’s entertaining and clever enough to make me excited about what Landis does in the future.

9. Michael Barryte. One of my time-wasting habits is watching YouTube channels devoted to making fun of movies, which I view as a kind of pop-lit-crit; Cinema Sins, Honest Trailers, and How It Should Have Ended are perennial favorites. Somehow or other I wound up watching Belated Media’s reimagining of the Star Wars prequels, and I was floored. Barryte’s version of all three films did more than the obvious patching—get rid of Jar-Jar, settle on a protagonist, don’t kill Darth Maul yet. He recasts the whole prequel trilogy in light of what made the original trilogy work, and turns the plot and character echoes between the trilogies into actually interesting comparisons and contrasts, instead of mere rehashes. I wish he’d write films! But honestly, his imaginary versions of the prequels are so good, they’re fun to watch.


8. Kurt Sutter. Sutter created the show Sons of Anarchy, whose premise could be inadequately summarized as ‘Hamlet, but with bikers.’ The actors’ talent certainly helped make the show what it is (it features Charlie Hunnam, Katey Sagal, and Ron Perlman, among others). But Sutter’s artistic power is incredible, and he accomplishes an arresting union of a Hell’s Angels expy with classical literary and religious themes. It may be the best television I’ve ever seen.

7. Eve Tushnet. I already knew Eve from her blog, her book Gay and Catholic, and a few charming café meetings; this Christmas I got a copy of her debut novel, Amends. Within the first ten pages I was hooked. Appropriate, I suppose, given that the premise of the book is a reality show about alcoholics in rehab. Her drawing of characters and her stylistic flourish are supported by her satirical but never merely cynical wit. I really hope she keeps writing fiction. (Please keep writing fiction, Eve.)

6. Lauren Faust. Although I’m woefully behind on My Little Pony1, I am a brony. The animation is very taking—though the music is excessively over-sugared for my taste—and the characters display surprising depth and subtlety. The spin-off films Equestria Girls and Rainbow Rocks are pretty good too: they’ve got character arcs and logical plots and everything (the latter even has a clever decoy protagonist thing going on). But one of the things I like most about Faust’s work is that she, like Pendleton Ward of Adventure Time, understands the artistic power of innocence. Innocence, not naïveté: a deeply grounded wholesomeness that refuses and opposes evil without losing its own tenderness, good cheer, and simplicity in the process. Gritty goodness certainly has its place, and it’s what I’m most apt to write, but clean goodness reminds us of why we love the good in the first place.


5. Karyn Kusama. I must admit I was a little torn over Kusama, not because I don’t enjoy her work, but because I wasn’t sure whether to give her this place or assign it to writers Phil Hay and Matt Manfredi. The film that garnered this spot is The Invitation, a psychological horror-thriller that came out last year, and on consideration it’s the directing that makes the movie so chillingly convincing, so Kusama it is. The Invitation horrified me more than any film except The Babadook, and it does so with a surprisingly simple, traditional premise: the weird dinner party that turns creepily bad. Kusama’s directing takes the conventional trope and makes it work, without falling back on stupid jump scares or stereotypical characters, and the symbolism of the film is articulated without being rubbed into your eyes. Outstanding stuff.

4. Dan Harmon. Harmon is a co-creator of Community and of Rick and Morty, the third season of which is supposed to come out in 2017, and I’m about ready to physically explode from anticipation. Rick and Morty has made me laugh, and brought me to the edge of tears, such as I hadn’t thought a cartoon for grown-ups would ever do: The Simpsons opened the door to the idea of a genuinely moving animated series, but the emotional depth of Rick and Morty—even in the midst of its crudest, most irreverent jokes—is a whole new level of craftsmanship.


3. Kit Williamson. I discovered Williamson by accident, rather like Landis, by idly looking through Netflix and trying things not-quite-at-random. Williamson created Eastsiders, which is like if Queer as Folk were stunning instead of merely pretty good. The characters are flawlessly drawn and outstandingly acted, the directing is perfect, the dialogue is sharp and quick without being merely flashy, it’s all great! Go watch it, like, now.

2. Jennifer Kent. Jennifer Kent is the director of The Babadook (another directorial debut), which may well be among the best horror films of all time. The movie centers on a single mother, whose husband died the day their son was born, and a mysterious children’s book about a strange monster that seems to begin haunting her and her son. Kent knows her background material—the film is full of allusions and homages to older horror works—but she created a story all her own, and, best of all, handled the nightmare children’s-book aspect of the story exactly right: never showing too much, never archly winking at the audience, and never just recycling prior parts of the film. The pacing is as exact as a ballet leap, and the mother’s alarming arc is conveyed magnificently.

1. Yoann Lemoine. I have no memory of how I came across Woodkid, of which Lemoine is the vocalist. I guess it was probably an iTunes or YouTube suggestion. Anyhow, I took a listen to a track, and Lemoine’s voice, and the orchestral magnificence of the ensemble, enchanted me. The recent trend of popular music being articulated in classical ways (Postmodern Jukebox and The Irrepressibles spring to mind) is rather a favorite of mine, but Woodkid is head and shoulders above the rest of the subgenre. The subtle warmth of his voice, and the precision of the compositions, whether with classical or modern instruments—I can’t do it justice. Just listen.


And last but not least, a very happy New Year to my readers around the world! This year I’ve tried for Russian, French, Ukrainian, German, Polish, Malay, Chinese (but not in the traditional script, because I cannot search through that many unfamiliar symbols and hope to recognize the right one), Spanish, and Maltese. Apologies and/or laugh as much as you like if I butcher the local tongue, but in case I manage not to:

Happy New Year
С Новым Годом
Bonne Année
Щасливого Нового Року
Frohes Neues Jahr
Szczęśliwego Nowego Roku
Selamat Tahun Baru
Xīnnián Kuàilè
Feliz Año Nuevo
Is-Sena It-Tajba

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1The Friendship Is Magic version, not the old ‘80s one. I haven’t seen that one but it looks insufferable.

Friday, April 8, 2016

Gay and Catholic, Part III: Androphilia

Trying to appreciate a thing is a good way of finding out that thing’s best qualities, and men are things, especially to a hustler. Many men are heroic in their refusal to be pathetic, and hustlers are sometimes the only people to get a glimpse of a man in his loneliness, or in the weakness of his desire. And it is sometimes only by seeing this contrast—of a man on his knees who is normally a pillar of strength—that we can see the heroic aspect.
—Rick Whitaker, Assuming the Position


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Since I just wrote about the clobber passages, I’m supposed to write about Theology of the Body next. And I do plan to do that, but not just yet. First I want to explain what being gay means to me, because I was gay before I was Catholic; I brought my gayness to Catholicism, and in some ways I feel more like a gay man trying to make sense of religion than a Catholic trying to make sense of homosexuality.1




I have frequently been asked, not to say challenged, by Christian friends2 as to why I use the word gay instead of saying something like I struggle with same-sex attraction. There are a multitude of answers, one of the strongest (in my opinion) being that the word gay, unlike nearly all its proposed alternatives, is mercifully short. However, in reading Eve Tushnet’s Gay and Catholic, which I just started (finally!), I stumbled on an articulation of another reason, which I’ve long felt but couldn’t express very well. Describing her conversion, she writes:


I tried to get my friends to explain the Church’s teaching on homosexuality. They had never raised the issue with me before, which showed great intuitive insight on their part.  I think if they’d assumed that they were ‘supposed to’ witness to me by talking about God’s plan for my sex life, I would have been put off by the arrogance of their assumptions: assumptions that they knew better than me which questions were important to my spiritual life and assumptions that they as well-meaning straight people understood homosexuality better than I did. … People sometimes refer to me as ‘struggling with same-sex attraction.’ That language ignores the fact that I don’t particularly struggle with my orientation. … For many people, this language separates out a part of themselves and animates it, making it into a kind of living enemy, which plays into a lot of self-hatred and makes them feel internally divided rather than united in love of Christ.3


That spoke to me really strongly. I’ve always been put off by the language of struggle, and on reading this, I was finally able to articulate succinctly one of the major reasons why: it suggests that there is nothing to my sexuality except sexual attraction. And that just isn’t true.


The Catechism itself goes—well, not out of its way, but to some lengths, to recognize that there is more to sexuality in general than just attraction: it spends twenty paragraphs4 going over the deeper meaning of sexuality as a dimension of the mystery of the body, a medium of relationship, and a major field of integration and self-mastery. That’s a hell of a lot more than what makes your dick go up.

And what I feel toward men in general—to say nothing of what I’ve felt toward certain men in particular—is not reducible to being turned on, even when that’s part of it. There are times when the beauty of a particular male body literally takes my breath away. I’m not just sexually interested in men: I like them, I admire them, I’m aggravated by them, I’m fascinated by them.




When I crave a partner, it isn’t as simple and crass as wanting someone to fuck, though no, I’m not above wanting that. It’s wanting someone to fuss over you when you’re sick, someone to bicker with about whether to get a dog, someone to try a new restaurant with, someone whose taste in music is clearly wrong but whose errors you generously tolerate. Most of us want that, and I think I can safely say that most of us want that person to be of one particular sex. Because the, I don’t know, energy that each sex brings to those daily things really is different.5 I don’t just want a miscellaneous live-in friend, I want a husband. Whether that desire can be fulfilled, and if not, what it means, are distinct questions; but that’s the point of departure for any accurate discussion of those questions.


That’s why phrases like struggling with same-sex attraction are rather repellent to me; it does precisely what Eve describes, making me feel divided and alienated. I think it’s demeaning to insist on talking about homosexuality as a struggle when, for some of us, it’s also something that’s led us to see enchanting beauty and to feel profound love that we might never otherwise have encountered. The men I’ve loved6 have been occasions for delight in and veneration of beauty in creation, and for coming to a much deeper understanding of disinterested self-gift than I had before.


Not everyone has such a positive experience of being gay, and for them, saying I struggle with SSA might make a great deal of sense. What I’m contending is that this cannot be reduced to a formula. Which parts of the experience of homosexuality matter, and in what ways, are going to be slightly different for every person.




And the brute fact is, I don’t really struggle with the attraction anyway. I mean, here it is. What I struggle with is acting on it, or, to be blunter (i.e. more honest), watching porn, jacking off, and hooking up. I dislike the polite-drawing-room tone of struggling with same-sex attraction nearly as much as I object to it reducing the whole erotic dimension of my personality to those behaviors. Life is not like that, and while there is a place for drawing a discreet veil over things—especially to safeguard the dignity and privacy of others—it should never be allowed to obscure the essential reality of something that needs to be talked about.


For me, being gay isn’t primarily about sex. It’s about relationship, and orientation wields influence over our relationships whether we follow it, fight it, or sublimate it. I think relationship is one of the key aspects of reality; it’s written into it right from the source, the Trinity; and I think that something that profoundly affects how we relate to people can be rightly treated as one of the things that makes us who we are. And for me, being attracted to men affects how I relate to people enormously, in negative and positive and indifferent ways. It’s why I don’t have a wife or kids, even though I was not only raised to expect them, but would daydream about them as a child; it’s why I try very hard to listen to and grieve with other people’s experiences of barbaric treatment by Christians, instead of dismissing them as exaggerated or exceptional; it’s why I watched Freier Fall.7 This is the thing I’m bringing to my Catholic faith and life, and it’s a complicated thing. It can’t be shut away from the rest of me as just something I struggle with.


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1Of course, both are true. But trying to outline the exact nuances of each would be like fitting wheels to a tomato: time-consuming and completely unnecessary.
2Among others.
3Pp. 40-41, 67, with minor adaptations.
5I’m not trying to explain exactly what that difference is here—that’s beyond my competence. Still less am I trying to say that there is no variation between people of the same sex, which is a gender theory for lunatics: two given people of opposite sexes may be far more alike than two people of the same sex. I’m only saying that sexual orientation is an orientation to something that really exists—gender—and that isn’t as simple as what shape your pectorals and genitalia have.
6Usually these loves have been unrequited, but, though that has meant they taught me different things from my requited love, I find that they haven’t taught me any less for the difference.
7Excellent film (directed by Stephan Lacant, 2013); warning: butt stuff.

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Gay and Catholic, Part II: The Clobber Passages

‘Oh, if only we knew!’ said Jill.
‘I think we do know,’ said Puddleglum.
‘Do you mean you think everything will come right if we do untie him?’ asked Scrubb.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Puddleglum. ‘You see, Aslan didn’t tell Pole what would happen. He only told her what to do.’
—C. S. Lewis, The Silver Chair


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My own reasons for being Side B rather than Side A have very little to do with the ‘clobber passages’: i.e., those verses of Scripture cited as grounds for considering homosexuality wrong. However, they certainly must be dealt with, honestly and frankly, so I’ll try and knock them out in one go here. The texts in question are: Genesis 19.1-11, the story of Sodom; Leviticus 18.22 and 20.13, Mosaic laws against homosexuality; Romans 1.24-27, part of a Pauline speech about the corruption of the Gentiles who refuse to acknowledge God; and I Corinthians 6.9-11 and I Timothy 1.8-11, passing references on St Paul’s part.


First, the story of Sodom. As we all know, two angels came to visit Lot and his family, before Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed for their wickedness, as was the style of the time. And when these two angels had been received by Lot as his guests, the men of the city came to Lot’s front door demanding to use his guests’ back doors.



Which, gotta say, rude. You could've at least bought them a drink, men of Sodom.

Melinda Selmys pointed out in her first book that the atmosphere of the scene isn’t at all like an orgy, as some commentators and preachers imply, but rather like that of a lynch mob. The xenophobic and aggressive humiliation of the strangers by rape, rather than any satisfaction of lust, seems to be the intent; and this seems to be borne out by the rest of Scripture, which never cites homosexuality as the characteristic sin of Sodom and Gomorrah, but does consistently speak of their arrogance, their cruelty to the poor, and their lazy indifference. But even if this weren’t the motive, the fact remains, we’re talking about gang rape. Gang rape is wrong anyway, regardless of the genders of the participants. So Genesis 19 is not a good text to appeal to in defense of a traditional perspective; indeed, given the sins of Sodom that Ezekiel writes about, it sounds more like a warning to America as a whole than to American gays in particular.


Secondly, the Levitical laws. These are the famous ones about Thou shalt not lie with mankind and Their blood shall be on their own heads and Margaret Cho used to be a lot funnier. Now, one alternate interpretation is that these laws actually concern the practice of male prostitution, especially in Canaanite paganism. It’s an appealing theory in some ways—though it has to be said that the death penalty for male prostitutes still comes off as a little harsh. The problem with it is that Hebrew has a word for male prostitute, קָדֵשׁ (qadesh), and doesn’t use it here; it uses the generic term זָכָר (zakar), which just means ‘male.’ And the simplest explanation, as so often, is that the text just means what it says.


The other alternate views of these verses tend to run into similar problems. Some presume that it’s about male rape—without any textual support. Some make it a ritual prohibition, along the lines of abstaining from pork or not wearing clothing with mixed fibers; the catch being, isn’t that a pretty colossal burden to lay arbitrarily on gay people just for the sake of marking out how weird the Jews were supposed to be for God?


A much more economical explanation would be that God is cruel or imaginary. This would then make these passages only examples of human passions, and in that way, a very ordinary thing, though not less hateful for that. But of course, I’m explaining why I am Side B, and one of the defining characteristics of Side B is Christianity. If I took either of those views, I wouldn’t bother with religion, and there’d be nothing to explain.1




Passing to the New Testament, we come to Romans 1.24-27. Because this passage is so often quoted, disputed, dissected, redacted, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as a fire-lighter, I shall quote it in full2:


Therefore God gave them up in the lusts of their hearts to impurity, to the dishonoring of their bodies among themselves, because they exchanged the truth about God for a lie and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed for ever! Amen. For this reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions. For their women exchanged natural relations for those that are contrary to nature; and the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with passion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in themselves the due penalty for their error. (English Standard Version)


It’s not a pretty picture, and I don’t like it any more than the next guy; indeed, a great deal less, since the next guy is, statistically, probably a breeder. But let’s look intelligently at the arguments that have been made over it.


Some have argued that these clearly aren’t loving relationships, and therefore would come under condemnation in any case. The problem here is twofold: first, the text doesn’t say anything about these people not being in love; and second, Scripture never implies, even a little bit, that falling in love with somebody makes it okay to pork them. The only thing the Bible connects sexuality to is that much more demanding, because more concrete, state called marriage.


Others have taken the view that what St Paul is condemning here is wanton homosexual experimentation by heterosexually oriented people—taking words like exchanged and gave up to mean that these people were departing from an established personal heterosexuality, which they ought not to violate, whereas someone with a homosexual predisposition is not exchanging anything, and therefore isn’t under discussion. Even if this didn’t erase bisexuals from the conversation, I’d find it hard to view it as anything other than a load of dingo’s kidneys. Categories of sexual orientation (however useful they are) didn’t exist in St Paul’s time, and the idea that we are responsible to maintain our predispositions is not a recognizable theme in Scripture; if anything, the general theme is one of change, especially that kind of change called repentance. There is nothing else in Romans, in the Pauline corpus, in the whole Bible, to add weight to this view.


Another suggestion is that this has reference to idolatrous rites common in Rome at the time which involved homosexuality (hence the extensive links, both in the verses themselves and in the wider context, to forsaking the truth about God, worshiping created things, and so on). This isn’t impossible: it could even be read as an attack on the priesthood of Cybele in Rome, who were widely considered effeminate, and many of whom were castrates.


You can totally see it in whatever the fuck this thing is.

There are two problems with this interpretation: first, it doesn’t give a good explanation of the inclusion of women in verse 26 (which may be the only Biblical allusion to lesbianism3); and second, Paul is framing this behavior as a consequence of idolatry, not a form of it. If it were an attack on pagan priests as such, we might have expected the more traditional, and more Pauline, charge of sacrificing to demons. As he goes on through a whole dirty-laundry list of sins in the following verses, sins that we know only too well are not the special preserve of pagans or of their priests, I think the traditional reading of Romans 1 is the most persuasive.


He makes two more allusions to the subject, in I Corinthians and I Timothy, both containing the vexed word ἀρσενοκοίτης (arsenokoitês). Broken into its constituent parts, the word literally means ‘male bed’; its recent history is vexed because, since it isn’t a standard Greek word,4 its meaning is hotly disputed. Translations from ‘homosexual’ to ‘male prostitute’ to ‘pedophile’ have been put forward.


And here again, I find the traditional interpretation the most convincing. For ἀρσενοκοίτης parallels the Septuagint, the then-current Greek translation of the Old Testament, word-for-word in its rendering of Leviticus 18.22 and 20.13. Just as the Hebrew uses the generic term זָכָר , the translators of the Septuagint used the generic word ἄρσεν ‘male,’ paired it with a very normal verb meaning ‘to sleep with,’ and St Paul—perhaps coining a word that, by its awkwardness, drew attention to its source in the Greek text of Leviticus, so that he would not be misunderstood—put the two together. I don’t think we can make a good case that Paul meant anything other than what Leviticus meant; and I don’t think Leviticus is unclear.



If only our brother Paul would write some things that are hard to understand, maybe he wouldn't bum me out so bad.


A few vitally important notes remain:


1. Though I do think the teaching of Scripture on this subject clear, I don’t find it emphatic. Five or six verses out of thirty-five and a half thousand-odd, does not make for what we could call a book to which homosexuality is of central importance. This doesn’t entitle us to disregard Scripture, but it does put things in perspective—for instance, it serves as a quiet rebuke to many Christian homophobes, who will fulminate against gay sex as a specially corrupt, peculiarly damnable sin; while casually gossiping about the faults of others, ignoring the needs of the homeless and underprivileged, living lifestyles of incredible wastefulness, and imagining all the vices other people indulge in private in order to feel superior.5


2. This does not settle any political question. That Biblical revelation is true is one thesis; that Biblical revelation should be imposed by force at a state level—something that our Lord specifically declined to do at His arrest, trial, and murder—is another idea entirely. No amount of referring to Scripture does, or could, establish whether things like gay marriage ought to be legal.


3. This is not an answer to the question, ‘How do I live my life as a gay Catholic?’ As Eve Tushnet memorably put it, nobody has a vocation of ‘No.’ Not only is not-having-sex not adequate as one’s purpose in life, it isn’t even adequate as one’s purpose in celibacy; nor are these commandments a theology of sexuality. They are no more than they claim to be: individual instances of what God tells us. The why, the deeper reality of sexuality and of the body, is where we have to go to understand this (or try to). I can’t live on a law. I need something deeper, something I can stretch out in. And the clobber passages ain’t it.




✠     ✠     ✠


1I will go into more detail about why I do bother with religion in a later post in the series. But to do it now would seriously derail the post.
2Well, ‘in full.’ This is, after all, four verses out of a sixteen-chapter letter.
3A different interpretation, which I do think persuasive, would make the behavior of the women in verse 26 a reference not to lesbianism, but to contraception. (Contrary to popular belief, contraceptives have a very long history, from abortifacient herbs and fruits to diaphragms made of lemon halves or dried crocodile dung, because the world was awful.) The references to nature, φύσις (phusis) in Greek, may be a sort of etymological pun; for the noun comes from the verb φύω (phuô), meaning ‘to grow.’ Insofar as contraception is anti-growth, as it were, it may be this that the Apostle has in mind.
It is also possible—and, since this was indulged in as one form of contraception in the ancient world, this overlaps with the previous interpretation—that the activity in question (shared by ‘the men likewise’) is, well, butt stuff.
4It may seem bizarre to say that this isn’t a standard Greek word when it’s made of Greek parts. However, it doesn’t appear in other contemporary literature, and has the feel of a word that a non-native speaker has stuck together, the way a non-native speaker of English today might refer to a restaurant as a foodhouse: it’d be comprehensible, but it’d stick out to a native speaker as a weird thing to say.
5Some of them probably go as far as to write whole blog posts about others’ vices. Thank God I am not like that!