I’m not sure if I really have a coherent followup to my previous post of gay Catholic angst and weird body horror (only at Res Studiorum et Ludorum!), but it did kinda leave things hanging. So here are just some disorganized thoughts that have flickered through my mind recently.
A lot of my progress here recently, if it can be called that, is just an increased acceptance of a lack of resolution. Barring some radical change in my personality or some new action of grace, there’s going to be a part of me that chafes against the Church’s teaching on homosexuality. And, without a pretty big overhaul of my religious beliefs, I’m probably not going to find shacking up with a lover to be a viable option.
This awkward position is tolerable right now because I feel that in the past week or so I’ve repaired my relationship with God. In the sense that it actually feels like a relationship again, rather than an abstract philosophy that I try to apply to my life. Receiving the Eucharist feels like the profound moment of intimacy with Christ that it should be. That makes a difference. Love is real.
Getting to that point again hurt, like resetting a dislocated arm. Even when I wrote my previous post, I wasn’t entirely aware of just how many negative emotions I had stuffed into the box I was opening. And I had to suddenly deal with them all, both for my own health and my faith. I hope that the lesson I take home from this is to not be so stupidly stoic in dealing with my own feelings.
When I was a relatively new Catholic, I did toy with the idea that I had a real vocational call to celibacy. But this implies a certain giftedness in chastity which the ensuing years have done a good job of convincing me that I don’t have.
Still, inasmuch as this appears to be my life, I believe there’s probably some good here that could not be obtained otherwise. There are all sorts of inchoate thoughts fluttering around my head on this point that I don’t think I can quite articulate yet. I’d like to think that being weak and vulnerable in this way is heart-softening, at least if I let it be.
It’s probably not a coincidence that all this blew up just around the same time that my calling as an artist has started to come together. Because my desire to draw and to tell stories did, for some months, did provide a sense of purpose and fulfillment that dwarfed what I felt I was getting from my religion. I recognized that, and it really disturbed me.
So that’s, uh, no longer quite the issue it once was.