Is celibacy the new ex-gay? or: how I learned to stop worrying and love the clickbait

The Catholic Church’s explicit teachings on homosexuality are actually rather slim – meriting only three paragraphs in the Catechism. (2357-2359) And, naturally, those paragraphs have been picked apart to death by just about everyone who has an interest in this stuff and a blog.

But trying to apply them to my own life has been something of a complicated affair. When I first made the decision to live a chaste life – understanding that that decision meant in my case that I would have to be celibate, I drifted towards an approach which was problematic to say the least: if I was going to be celibate, I would just ignore my desires and sexuality. Sweep them under the rug entirely. I would live as if I was literally a eunuch.

While this sort of white-knuckle approach did accomplish in the short term the goal of continence, there was a problem in that this was actually a kind of repression – an attempt to avoid the messy work of actually integrating my sexuality into my rational self. I was setting myself up for falling hard, and for becoming a sort of living caricature of a celibate man.

So I changed my tack on that – something which coincides with my increased willingness to talk about these things on here, not only because of who might be listening in, but also because my thoughts on something often need to be written down before they can coalesce or develop.

And my attitude towards the identity game has shifted around a bit. After my conversion, I wasn’t quite sure what to call myself, as I had clearly made a break with the gay community, but also didn’t see myself as one of those ex-gays.  This is a problem that seems to be particularly acute for Christians on my boat as, lacking much of a vocabulary ourselves, we tend to just pillage one side or the other for words to use, resulting in the inevitable misunderstandings. I banged pretty hard on the “only use SSA” drum (something which is well-documented here), but I came to view that approach as a bit pointlessly pedantic. I don’t really have anything against the term – it’s just that I don’t think what is at stake is worth policing people over how they articulate themselves. These days I just use whatever turn of phrase will cause the least offense/confusion to whoever I’m talking to.

All this is a way of saying that these past years haven’t been static for me, and that they have taken place in strange territory which, although certainly not new, has never been mapped out much in public before now. I find it difficult to fit it easily into a lot of the narratives floating around.

Which is tricky, because we like easy formulae. When I was a university freshman, I was actually interviewed by a local gay newspaper about coming out. When I read the article, I remember being irked about how the interviewer tried to read between the lines of what I said – “he paused, recalling previous incidents of bullying/homophobia”. It went something like that. There is something of a formula for the “coming out story”, and what happened here was an attempt to fit my life into its contours, even though it didn’t fit. And there’s a similar formula for the “conversion story”. Both tend to have an easy template: paint the previous life as black as possible, and make the new one as rosy as you can – or, if continuing difficulties must be admitted, they must quickly be deflated. “But I’m fighting the good fight.” But, dammit, peoples’ lives tend to be more complex than that. Mine is, at least.

I think I’ve mentioned a couple of times on this blog about the increasing visibility of Side-B Christians/Celibate Gay Christians/Same-Sex-Attracted Christians who practice chastity/chaste friends of Dorothy/orthodox Christians who are fabulous/I can spend all day doing this and you can’t stop me. Irene Monroe, in a HuffPo article, recently claimed that celibacy is the new ex-gay. The gist of it is that, with the recent implosion of the ex-gay world, the line of acceptability in the conservative Christian world has been redrawn from “become straight” to “be celibate”. This completely ignores the fact that people like me have been doing our thing long before Exodus closed up shop, but whatever.

I have noticed that, in conversation with a lot of non-Catholics, mentioning that you are celibate is a bit like casually mentioning that you have a cocaine habit. “Gee that doesn’t seem healthy or natural and you’re gonna explode or something”. And sometimes the sex abuse scandal is roped in, which carries the uncomfortable implication that men who don’t get laid inevitably degenerate into predators. Monroe’s own article seems to balk at the idea of celibacy.

I am led to conclude that most people outside of Catholicism/Orthodoxy don’t get celibacy, and have likely never talked to an actual celibate about what it is like. Admittedly it is not an easily identifiable characteristic. Perhaps someone should make a Celibate Pride Flag (what colours would a Celibate Pride Flag be?). Of similar but more visible circumstance is married couples who don’t contracept. I read a lot of storries of mothers with 4+ children being “tsk tsk tsked” by peers and passerbys. It’s seen as weird, creepy, unhealthy, un-american, etc.

So it is worth attempting to articulate what celibacy is like, at least as I am currently living it out. And it needs to be understood in terms of God, because celibacy is all about God (as is marriage). Many of the critiques and misunderstandings come from a secular perspective – or from a Christian perspective where marriage has been changed from a vocation to a default state that everyone should have.

Indeed if you do not believe in God – if you think that the bread and the wine at Mass remain bread and wine, then celibacy can seem like a rough deal, one which can perhaps be stoically endured perhaps, but not joyfully embraced. I see myself as reappropriating my desires for intimacy and union, not towards women, but towards God. The negative of abstinence serves to make possible a kind of relationship with God that would not be possible. It’s not a better relationship than a married person might have – just a particular one which fits my own life and which I think God wants me to have.

I do not always understand it. I do not always like it. I am not always faithful to it. But every sort of adventure must have its mysteries, trials and pitfalls, and I do think my spiritual life is something of an adventure. And this is also a love story. It’s not the love story I would have wanted for myself a decade ago, but it is the one that I want to define my life now, the one where I find joy and peace.

Take God out of the picture and all this falls apart. So naturally a lot of secular people are going to misread what is going on.

This doesn’t mean that I am attempting to live out a relationship with God as though I were a disembodied soul with no sexuality. That would put me back in the situation described earlier. But how relating to God and others as a man works out is another post in its own right.

So, to get back to the title of this post: no, I don’t find celibacy to be the new ex-gay. It’s a unique beast in its own right.

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Theologians and their composers

When I was a teenager I would often go on extended walks with a piece of classical music playing on my walkman (remember those?). That doesn’t happen much these days – there are a lot more distractions inhibiting me from, say, getting lost for hours inside a Wagner opera while making myself an easy target for a mugging.

Recently Pascal-Emmanuel Gobry uncorked an old debate by claiming the superiority of Beethoven to Mozart, and lamenting that while a lot of modern theologians appreciate the latter, the same is not true for the former. This reminded me that I had not listened to an entire Beethoven piece in quite some time. So I uploaded his String Quartet Op.131 in C sharp minor onto my ipod and went for an evening stroll.

The quartet is one of Beethoven’s last works.  The usual four movement template is eschewed in favor of seven movements that meld into each other, with sonata form featured in only the last movement. The heart of the piece is the fourth movement – a long, mellow theme-and-variations where Beethoven shows just how plastic form can be in his hands. It’s a very difficult, abstract piece that, aside from the intensity of the first and last movements, suggests little of the stereotypical image of Beethoven the Romantic.

Beethoven’s music stands more on its sheer inventiveness and expressivity than on gracefulness and form. And that is what Gobry hangs his case for Ludwig’s superiority on:

No, Mozart is not the greatest. Mozart is not the greatest, because for all his attempts to move beyond, all his pathos, he remains the classical composer par excellence. Mozart is the Parthenon. Mozart represents art understood as submission to, and fulfillment of, form.

No. This is not the full truth of art. The full truth of art must have as its primary impulse the expression of human subjectivity (an expression of subjectivity which only through its embrace of itself can then point to universality), even as it incorporates, uses, and in its fullness, transcends, aesthetic rules. And here we are talking about Beethoven. Mozart expressed the fullness of humanity within the classical rules. Beethoven expressed the fullness of humanity by transcending (through incorporating) the classical rules.

I am, I admit, more fond of Mozart than Beethoven, but that is largely for a reason which is secondary to this debate: Mozart was an opera composer. Sure, Beethoven had Fidelio, but he wasn’t committed to wedding music and the stage in the way Mozart was. Opera, oratorios, ballet – these things are near and dear to me.

Or maybe it isn’t secondary. I tend to prefer the idea of the artist as a maker of sublime things to that of the artist as self-expressive. Objectivity over subjectivity etc., and an emphasis on order and harmony – emotions may be high in an opera or ballet production, but there is always something apollonian in the careful co-ordination, perfection of technique and attention to detail required here. People are absorbed into their roles – it is almost liturgical.

I wonder whether the possible theological ‘discounting’ of Beethoven is a side effect of how Beethoven is one of the first artists where great art becomes linked with revolutionary ideas, and the art itself takes on a sort of salvific character – I’m looking at the 9th in particular. It isn’t music that is about to get down on its knees. Then again, Mozart’s Die Zauberflote is pretty heavy on the masonic imagery, so maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree.

One question: how much does the music (or art more generally) that a theologian appreciates inform us about their theology?

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The Tombs of Atuan

(Yes, I know I am really behind on my Shadow of the Torturer series, but I want to write about this while it is still fresh in my mind)

I’ve mainly known Ursula K. Le Guin more for her science fiction than fantasy, but this year I’ve been filling in the gap by reading her celebrated Earthsea cycle. I’m in the middle of The Farthest Shore at the moment. One thing I am grateful for about her style is that, unlike most fantasy author’s, Le Guin is not given over to prolixity – these stories are short and to the point.

The second book, The Tombs of Atuan struck me as being a surprisingly subtle examination of religion, politics and power, or at least more subtle than it initially appears. It tells the story of Tenar, who assumes the role of Arha, a high priestess of gods called the Nameless Ones. But what seems to be a position of immense power is actually a sort of spiritual and physical enslavement; Tenar is kept in a cloistered existence more or less against her will, serving powers which do not seem particularly loving.

It is possible to see this as an indictment of the cruelties of religion as such, but note a particular speech given by Ged Sparrowhawk, Earthsea’s hero par excellence:

“Did you truly think them [the Nameless Ones] dead? You know better in your heart. They do not die. They are dark and undying, and they hate the light: the brief, bright light of our mortality. They are immortal, but they are not gods. They never were. They are not worth the worship of any human soul.”

She listened, he eyes heavy, her gaze fixed on the flickering lantern.

“What have they ever given you, Tenar?”

“Nothing,” she whispered.

“They have nothing to give. They have no power of making. All their power is to darken and destroy. They cannot leave this place; they are this place; and it should be left to them. They should not be denied or forgotten, but neither should they be worshiped. The Earth is beautiful, and bright, and kindly, but that is not all. The Earth is also terrible, and dark, and cruel. The rabbit shrieks dying in the green meadows. The mountains clench their great hands full of hidden fire. There are sharks in the sea, and there is cruelty in men’s eyes. And where men worship these things and abase themselves before them, there evil breeds; there places are made in the world where darkness gathers, places given over wholly to the Ones whom we call Nameless, the ancient and holy Powers of the Earth before the Light, the powers of the dark, of ruin, of madness…

In addition to giving  the Earthsea mythos a bit of a Lovecraftian spin, this is an indictment of the pagan mindset: to take one aspect of creation and elevate it to the level of a god will result in evil and perversion, because there is always a dark, cruel side, to that one thing, and because to elevate a finite thing from its proper place in existence creates a distortion – other things, perhaps essential things, become sacrificed on the altar of your god when they conflict with it. Of course, I think Le Guin would agree with Schopenhauer that all worship is a form of idolatry, and there we part ways in thought.

The closest thing the novel has to a human antagonist – Kossil, High Priestess of the Godking – represents political power, in particular a Hobbesian form of it:

“Long ago,” he said, “you know, little one, before our four lands joined together into an empire, before there was a Godking over us all, there were a lot of lesser kings, princes, chiefs. They were always quarreling with each other. And they’d come here to settle their quarrels. That was how it was, they’d come from our land Atuan, and from Karego-At, and Atnini, and even from the Hur-at-Hur, all the chiefs and princes with their servants and their armies. And they’d ask you what to do. And you’d go before the Empty Throne, and give them the counsel of the Nameless Ones. Well, that was long ago. After a while the Priest-Kings came to rule all of Karego-At, and soon they were ruling Atuan; and now for four or five lifetimes of men the God-kings have ruled all the four lands together, and made them an empire. And so things are changed. The Godking can put down the unruly chiefs, and settle all the quarrels himself. And being a god, you see, he doesn’t have to consult the Nameless Ones very often.”

It is implied here that the emergence of the God-King empire is one of sheer might imposing its will on what would otherwise be a state of war, similar to Hobbes’ self-declared Sovereign. The deification of this sort of rule is a logical consequence of the fact that its authority derives only from its own brute force. And Kossil herself represents the human cost of a cynical mindset that views relations with others entirely in terms of power.

Ged Sparrowhawk is able to save Tenar, not through forcibly removing her from the situation, but by placing himself at her mercy. His helplessness forces her to confront both her ability to make free ethical decisions, and to love. Only with this realization is Tenar given the tools to achieve her own freedom.

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The Assumption of Mary


For a Thomist like myself, to be an intellectual being and to be a spiritual being are two sides of the same coin. And it is our peering into the timeless, shadowy world of universals that gives us our first inklings of something eternal and immaterial. But while our rational capabilities may lead us to believe that there is a supernatural order behind our natural one, it does not illuminate the way much further. God, especially, remains a mystery. To quote Aquinas, we do not know what God is.

One of the reasons why, I think, I am rather fond of the Feast of the Assumption of Mary is that it is one of those moments that suggests that this eternal otherworld which we call heaven is something far, far removed from the sort of inert Platonic realm of forms which it can sometimes be pictured as.

The doctrine, and feast, is about how, at the end of Our Lady’s earthly life, she was taken up, both body and soul into heaven, like Elijah and Enoch in the Old Testament (and like her Son, obviously). Although it was only solemnly defined as dogma some sixty-four years ago by Pope Pius XII, the belief and the celebration of it go way back.

So the Virgin Mary is not just ‘alive’ in the sense of the persistence of her soul, but  physically alive in a glorified manner that is freed from the pesky constraints of space and time. More real than we are.

This world, with all its wonders, contains even more wonderful things behind the veil, and there are always those uncanny moments in our lives where something seems to shine through the fabric.

But, for all its momentousness, it is also a rather quiet, personal, event, happening at the end of a normal human lifespan long after the most dramatic stuff had happened. It was the end of what must have been a period of longing, the Holy Family reunited in heaven. We rejoice for her sake, but also because it offers a suggestion of our own personal reunion that we hope for. Revelations says that God will “wipe away every tear”. Perhaps someone could find the image to be too sentimental, but in a life as bitter as this one can be, I find the sentiment to be rather poignant.

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I will never be this hardcore

This week is shaping up to be a busy one, so in lieu of actual content, here’s a video that has shown up in my Facebook feed, consisting of some fellow beating The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time in just over 18 minutes. Back when I was a kid and Ocarina of Time was pretty new, I had a lot of fun reading about all the glitches people were discovering and exploiting as a part of my continuing minor fascination with video game mechanics. Years later, it turns out that some people have gone very deep – perhaps too deep – down the rabbit hole. You could probably get a PhD or two using the time and effort required to figure all this out:



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7 quick takes (1/8/14)

See? I can do this too

See? I can do this too



Evidently somepony has compiled a medley of all 44 songs used in all 4 seasons of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I can’t tell you how much this music has become absorbed into my DNA.


In addition to going through Gene Wolfe’s Shadow of the Torturer, I’ve also re-read his early novel, Peace. Although Shadow was my first, I think that Peace is my favourite work of his. It appears to be the reflections of an old man on his life in a small midwestern american town, but there are strange things going on:

Dr. Black sits at a heavy mahogany table. To his left, against the wall, is a big rolltop desk. As I enter, he stands, says hello, musses my hair (which angers me), and lifts me to the top of a leather-covered examination able at one side of the room.

“Open your mouth, son.”

“Doctor, I have had a stroke.”

He laughs, shaking his big belly, and smooths his vest afterward. There is a gleaming brass spittoon in one corner, and he expectorates into it, still smiling.

“Doctor, I am quite serious. Please, can I talk to you for a moment?”

“If it doesn’t hurt your sore throat.”

“My throat isn’t sore. Doctor, have you studied metaphysics?”

“It isn’t my field,” Dr. Black says, “I know more about physic.” But his eyes have opened a little wider – he did not think a boy of four would know the word.

“Matter and energy cannot be destroyed, Doctor. Only transformed into one another. Thus whatever exists can be transformed but not destroyed; but existence is not limited to bits of metal and rays of light – vistas and personalities and even memories all exist. I am an elderly man now, Doctor, and there is no one to advise me. I have cast myself back because I need you. I have had a stroke.”


The method of loci backfires on Joey Prever:

It’s a good day, but it’s not a day for finishing posts. A month ago, my therapist cocked her head to the side and asked me in all honesty, “What do you mean by ‘same-sex attraction’?” and I found out that the answer wasn’t simple. I’ve been working on a doozy of a writeup ever since. I hope I finish it some day.

Ever hear of the Method Of Loci? It’s a method of mnemonics where you build an imaginary castle (or house, or shack, or whatever) in your head and associate various concepts with various objects and locations inside that castle, in order to remember them better. It works great and is lots of fun, but in an effort to organize my thoughts for this article, I accidentally built a mental replica of my room and populated it with the proposed contents of the piece.

So in my mental room, my therapist is sitting at my desk and gazing quizzically at an issue of Maxim. In front of her on the table, there’s a copy of First Things with a desk pendulum swinging on top of it. Next to the desk, Alan Medinger’s Growth Into Manhood has been pulled out of the bookcase and is on the floor, leaning against a bottle of hand lotion. There’s other stuff in there, too, but there is a limit to my candor. It’s like my own private version of The Cell.


Speaking of memory, have you ever become self-aware of the act of introspection, to the point where the capability to do so felt kind of weird?


I have been reading Gerard Manley Hopkins for the first time. The Jesuit priest and poet is growing on me, although his aesthetic philosophy of ‘inscaping’ still eludes me. The Penguin volume I had also contains a substantial amount of his prose writing. I found this in one of the journal entries:

One day in the Long Retreat (which ended on Xmas Day) they were reading in the refectory Sister Emmerich’s account of the Agony in the Garden and I suddenly began to cry and sob and could not stop. I put it down for this reason, that if I had been asked a minute beforehand I should have said that nothing of the sort was going to happen and even when it did I stood in a manner wondering at myself not seeing in my reason the traces of an adequate cause for such strong emotion – the traces of it I say because of course the cause in itself is adequate for the sorrow of a lifetime. I remember much the same thing on Maundy Thursday when the presanctified Host was carried to the sacristy. But neither the wight nor the stress of sorrow, that is to say of the thing which should cause sorrow, by themselves move us or bring the tears as a sharp knife does not cut for breing pressed as long as it is pressed without any shaking of the hand but there is always one touch, something striking sideways and unlooked for, which in both cases undoes resistance and pierces, and this may be so delicate that the pathos seems to have gone directly to the body and cleared the understanding in its passage. On the other hand the pathetic touch by itself, as in dramatic pathos, will only draw slight tears if its matter is not important or not of import to us, the strong emotion coming from a force which was gathered before it was discharged: in this way a knife may pierce the flesh which it had happened only to graze and only grazing will go no deeper.


I have been trying to get back into the habit of keeping a journal, which I fell out of towards the end of my undergraduate career. Pouring through old journals is always an interesting and somewhat unnerving endeavor. It is almost as if I didn’t write some of these things. But then it is also amusing to find myself kvetching:

December 15/10. 12.48 am. In any case, I am quite dissatisfied with the low-rent paganism I find around me.
But I shouldn’t get too caught up until the exam is over.


Sorry, out of ideas.

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Reading The Shadow of the Torturer – Chapter VI: The Traitress

SYNOPSIS: Severian delivers books to the Chatelaine Thecla, currently being held by the Torturers. Thecla is the sister of Thea (who has absconded with Vodalus) and is being used as a bargaining chip by the Autarch. Severian instantly becomes infatuated with Thecla, and Thecla, desiring some company, requests that he keep her company.

ANALYSIS: Thus begins the first of Severian’s rather troubled relationships with women.

Perhaps it was her great violet eyes, with their lids shaded with blue, and the black hair that, forming a V far down her forehead, suggested the hood of a cloak. Whatever the reason, I loved her at once – loved her, at least, insofar as a stupid boy can love. But being only a stupid boy, I did not know it.

Her white hand, cold, slightly damp, and impossibly narrow, touched mine as she took the tray from me.

Again, the Exultants are hinted to have a somewhat alien appearance. Although we briefly saw Thea in the first chapter, and Valeria as a girl in another, Thecla is the first major woman to show up in a book which so far has focused on an all-male guild.

What makes Thecla take particular note of Severian is that he, unlike the journeymen, does not wear a mask. The mask for the torturers seems to be less about concealing identity than it is about projecting an image of themselves as fearsome executors of justice – the persona of the torturer overtaking the individual man. It is a sort of hiding in terms of withdrawal from normal human society. A masked man is unreadable and remains closed to others. Severian’s unmasked state makes him susceptible to being drawn into a human relationship with Thecla.

Most of them [the exultant families] have nobody at court – can’t afford it, or are afraid of it. Those are the small ones. The greater families must: the Autarch wants a concubine he can lay hands on if they start misbehaving. Now the Autarch can’t play quadrille with five hundred women. There are maybe twenty. The rest talk to each other, and dance, and don’t see him closer than a chain off once a month.”

The rebellion of Vodalus has already suggested that the relationship between the ruler of this world and the aristocracy is not always a happy one. This sort of hostage situation confirms it, and also acts as a hint regarding the incognito appearance of the Autarch in this book.

I have come to understand that the Increate, in choosing for me a career in our guild, was acting for my benefit. Doubtless I had acquired merit in a previous life, as I hope to have in this one

Gurloes makes what I think is the first real reference to the theological beliefs that people in this world have, which at times seem Judeo-Christian, at others more like Hinduism.

Gurloes was one of the most complex men I have known, because he was a complex man trying to be simple. Not a simple, but a complex man’s idea of simplicity. Just as a courtier forms himself into something brilliant and involved, midway between a dancing master and a diplomacist, with a touch of assassin if needed, so Master Gurloes had shaped himself to be the dull creature a pursuivant or bailiff expected to see when he summoned the head of our guild, and that is the only thing a real torturer cannot be. The strain showed; though every part of Gurloes was as it should have been none of the parts fit…sometimes he went to the top of our tower, above the guns, and waited there talking to himself, peering through glass said to be harder than flint for the first beams. He was the only one in our guild – Master Palaemon not excepted – who was afraid of the energies there and the unseen mouths that spoke sometimes to human beings and sometimes to other mouths in other towers and keeps.

I find this description of Master Gurloes to be somewhat poignant, perhaps because when I was younger I tried very hard to escape from myself and become the image of what I at least thought was ‘normal’ and what people would want me to be, because it seemed the only way to get away from being alienated from others. But, of course, what I learned was that this is actually a surefire way to just feel even more alienated. I remember attending many parties, and, in spite of all the ‘fun’ I had, feeling all the more lonely after leaving it.

Some of the technology of the spaceship appears to be functional. I assume that the “unseen mouths” are just the voices of the ship’s computers.

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Desire, sex, vocation

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for You
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, ‘and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town to’another due,
Labour to’admit You, but O, to no end.
Reason, Your viceroy in me, should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly;I love You, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto Your enemy;
Divorce me, ‘untie or break that knot again,
Take me to You, imprison me, for I,
Except You’enthral me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except You ravish me.

I’ve always had a fondness for John Donne, the ardent lover turned Anglican minister. And this, his Holy Sonnet 10 (XIV) is one of his more famous ones – and also one of the more weird. Or at least it seems weird on the outside. Donne’s positioning of himself as a bride waiting to be rescued by his one true love from a marriage to, um, Satan, draws upon a tradition that goes straight back to the Old Testament of God being a divine bridegroom seeking to marry humanity. Or, to put it in another way, human marriages are actually just a metaphor for this divine marriage (just as the relationship between parent and child is actually just a metaphor for the relationship of the Father and the Son)

Sex as metaphor doesn’t fully exhaust the Judeo-Christian understanding of sexuality, but in an odd way it does a good job of impressing on me why there are rules, man. I am just enough of pretentious aesthete to be less inclined towards doing something if I fear that it would be aesthetically incorrect. I think, in spite of all my philosophy-majoring, I still look at reality primarily in terms of storytelling and art as opposed to a priori and a posteriori.

All this is something of a preamble to saying that, while I affirm the Catholic teaching on homosexuality, how, exactly, I apply it to my understanding of my life has been a work in progress. I’ve only been doing this for about three years. So while I don’t mind thinking out loud like this, I’m loathe to present myself as an exemplar who has all the answers.

I’m particularly not satisfied with how my most recent post on this went, so I’m going to revisit that topic: if diddling other men is not a part of God’s plan for sex, then the desire to do so isn’t either. The question then is what we do with that – particularly with regard to people like me, for whom it is a desire deeply entrenched in our psyches.

As I have said before, I have no faith in the claims of orientation therapy. It seems that, to the extent it effects a change in people, it tends to be in areas other than same-sex desires as such – things like continence and so forth. Otherwise, I view it as a bit like gambling – a waste of time and money for a lot of people, and actually harmful for some. Some people do experience more fluidity in their sexual desires than others; it’s the idea that you can brute force this that I find unconvincing.

There may be, I suppose, some time in the future where we will have the tech and know-how to make the human psyche more plastic than it is now. And that as a result orientation change becomes more of a real thing. That seems to open an ethical can of worms in its own right: making personality malleable opens up the possibility of both cosmeticizing personality traits, and of putting it to the use of more creepily orwellian purposes. There seems to be an intrinsic violence in the idea that makes me wonder whether it would ever be prudent to put it into practice. But anyway, we don’t currently live in that world, so it is a moot point for the time being.

In short, I view the ex-gay approach as one that runs a high risk of despair, despair despair. And I also view the liberal approach of baptizing gay marriage as also involving despair, in that it involves active rebellion against the Church. And there is also the fact that I feel fairly comfortable in my own skin. Finding myself attracted to another guy isn’t something that grosses me out on some meta level, etc.

There is a good recent post at the blog, A Queer Calling, which touches on my complaint regarding the tendency to glue vocation and choice together:

This isn’t exactly the same as our reader’s question, but we believe it is related: an argument we hear from some Christians with a liberal sexual ethic goes something like, “No LGBT person can choose celibacy freely unless his/her Christian tradition also affirms gay marriage. If the celibate LGBT person belongs to a non-affirming tradition, a sense of calling doesn’t matter. If all vocation options aren’t open, the choice to pursue celibacy — the only option — is meaningless.” We do believe that people should be able to discover their vocations rather than experience vocation as a mandate. However, we are also aware that this belief is influenced by our modern context. Anyone who has basic familiarity with Church history should know that for the first several centuries of Christianity, most people had very little personal choice in the matter of whether they would marry or live as celibates. To say that celibacy doesn’t matter if it’s the only choice available is to declare that thousands of people’s life experiences were meaningless. To those making this argument we ask: are you willing to suggest that there was no meaning to the celibate life of Hildegard of Bingen because her parents — not she herself — decided that she would become a nun? Are you willing to assert that because Hildegard didn’t choose her own way of life, she never experienced a sense of call to monasticism?

This is spot on. The fact that my celibacy started out as a sort of “shotgun celibacy” doesn’t preclude the possibility of it turning out to be a genuine call, just as the fact that someone may be in an arranged marriage doesn’t mean that there is no possibility of genuine love and commitment developing. If I were to wake up 100% straight tomorrow, I have serious doubts that I’d throw myself onto the dating scene (what the hell even is the ‘dating scene).

As I have said elsewhere, I believe God has permitted same-sex attraction to happen in my life for various salutary purposes, and I am beginning to wonder whether one of those purposes is to get me to take a celibate vocation seriously. Or maybe I would have anyway, if it is my true calling. I dunno. The point is that I view my celibacy less in terms of avoiding vice and more as actually getting towards where I am understanding it much more positively.*

To explain a little bit: although my outward stoicism doesn’t really convey this, I have tended to have something of an erotic/romantic character. I don’t mean that in the sense of being very sexual, but rather that I am driven by feelings of passionate devotion, a strong aesthetic sensitivity, etc. (which is perhaps one of the reasons behind my dubious career choices). That this never  expressed itself in the form of romance with another person, in spite of my wanting it very badly to, was something I previously interpreted as a sign of emotional stuntedness on my part. But that it has translated itself quite well into religion does make me wonder whether there has been no romance simply because romance was just not part of the plan for my life.

Really, the times where I have been miserable and resentful over being single have been times where I did not have my shit together. A relationship would have been more of a band-aid than a vocation. There will always be loneliness, but I also have (I hope) been growing up and recognizing that loneliness is just part of the human condition, and that there is no real panacea for it on this side of the veil.

Having said all this, I recognize that a lot of people are just not in my position. Indeed, one thing that I do find disturbing is contemplating just how much hurt a lot of the people close to me would have to go through if they converted. And I don’t mean just with regard to gay stuff. The only person near and dear to my heart who reverted was someone who didn’t have much to loose anyway. I don’t blame people for not finding the Church to be a particularly appealing place to live in. There are times when I doubt and wonder whether it all makes sense.

But, well, this is my life; take it for what it is.

*I suppose the implicit question here is whether I am discerning a vocation to the priesthood or religious life. The short answer is no. I consider myself to be too much of a ‘young’ Catholic to want to seriously consider those as possibilities


Posted in Catholicism, Uncategorized, What Is This Beast Called Man | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Church of Niceness

Speaking from a liberal Christian perspective, Giles Fraser has some words that are pretty spot on:

The takeaway message is this: no one needs churches to be nice or tasteful. If churches have a future, it’s in addressing our existential darkness: sin and death. Progressive politics is important, but it doesn’t do any deep religious work. And liberals in the church will have to rediscover this after we have won our culture wars. What other religion has such a dark image at its centre? And yet my own brand of liberal Christianity too often seeks salvation through a few gentle verses of All Things Bright and Beautiful or lots of self-important dressing up and wandering around in fancy churches. Devoted atheists are never going to be persuaded by a theology of the cross. But no one whatsoever is going to be persuaded by a theology of nice.

It is, I suppose, something of a cliche to say that liberal Christianity is just progressivist niceness wearing Christian garb (a cliche that I am less inclined to uncritically repeat these days). But it has been my experience as a Catholic that the cult of Nice has also set up shop in the more theologically conservative churches. I don’t mean that in a doctrinal sense, but rather in terms of what the average parishioner is fed. From the taste in music to the homilies, everything seems calculated to make you feel comfy, like spiritual muzak to make you feel at ease as you drift towards your inevitable demise.

I mentioned in my recent post about how there is often this desire to avoid the tragic. And one of the problems with this in religion is that it produces something which, while nice, feels very disconnected from the actual reality that people live in, which is often not nice. The human condition is filled with things that cannot be solved with a cloying, sentimental answer, and if that is all a church can offer someone, than it is no wonder if they leave. It is the sort of bourgeoisie Sunday Christianity that Kierkegaard sneered at.

A lot of people find the emphasis on death and suffering that crops up a lot in Catholic theology and imagery to be off-putting and ghoulish. But I find it to be paradoxically reassuring, because I want my religion to take suffering seriously.

[h/t: Eve Tushnet]

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Sacramental error


While your heart is in the right place, Sailor Mercury, a girl of your learning should know that a valid baptism requires someone else to do the dousing.

Posted in Catholicism, Our Allies in Nippon | Tagged , , | 3 Comments