DJSethNichols
Bluelighter
Celibate Passion
Essay By Kathleen Norris
Celibacy is a field day for ideologues. The feminist theologian Uta Ranke-Heinemann has said that "celibate hatred of sex is hatred of women," and we need only look at newspaper headlines to see how destructive celibacy, practiced under a cloud of self-loathing and denial of the realities of human sexuality, can be. This is unfortunate, because celibacy practiced rightly is not at all a hatred of sex; in fact, it has the potential to address the sexual idolatry of our culture in a most helpful way.
But what about celibacy that works, practiced by people who are fully aware of themselves as sexual beings, but who express their sexuality in a celibate way? Are they perverse, their lives necessarily stunted? Cultural prejudice would say yes, but I have my doubts. I've seen too many wise old monks and nuns whose lengthy formation in celibate practice has allowed them to incarnate hospitality in the deepest sense. In them, the constraints of celibacy have somehow been transformed into an openness that attracts people of all ages, all social classes. They exude a sense of freedom. They also genderbend, at least in my dreams. Sister Jeremy will appear a messenger, a man on horseback, Father Robert as a wise old woman tending a fire.
The younger celibates of my acquaintance are more edgy. Still contending mightily with what one friend calls "the raging orchestra of my hormones," they are more obviously struggling to contain their desires for intimacy, for physical touch, within the bounds of celibacy. Often they find their loneliness intensified by the incomprehension of others. In a culture that denies the value of their striving, they are made to feel like fools, or worse.
Americans are remarkably tone-deaf when it comes to the expression of sexuality. The sexual formation that many of us receive is like the refrain of an old Fugs song: "Why do ya like boobs a lot--ya gotta like boobs a lot." The jiggle of tits and ass, penis and pectorals, assault us everywhere--billboards, magazines, television, movies. Orgasm becomes just another goal; we undress for success. It's no wonder that in all this powerful noise, the quiet tones of celibacy are lost; that we have such trouble comprehending what it could mean to dedicate one's sexual energies in such a way that genital activity and procreation are precluded. But celibate people have taught me that celibacy, practiced rightly, does indeed have something valuable to say to the rest of us. Specifically, they have helped me better appreciate what it means to be married and at the same time allowed me to explore and savor, outside of marriage, passionate friendships with men and women.
Monastic people are celibate for a very practical reason; the kind of community life to which they aspire can't be sustained if people are pairing off. Even in churches in which the clergy are often married--Episcopal and Russian Orthodox, for example--their monks and nuns are celibate. And while novices may be carried along for a time on the swells of communal spirit, when that blissful period inevitably comes to an end, the loneliness is profound. One gregarious monk in his early thirties told me that just as he thought he'd settled into the monastery, he woke up in a panic one morning, wondering if he'd wake up lonely every morning for the rest of his life.
Another monk I know regards celibacy as an expression of the essential human loneliness, a perspective that helps him as a hospital chaplain, when he is called upon to minister to the dying. I knew him when he was still resisting his celibate call--it usually came out as anger directed toward his abbot and community, more rarely as misogyny--and I was fascinated to observe the process by which he came to accept the sacrifices that a celibate, monastic life require. He's easier to be with now; he's a better friend.
This is not irony so much as grace, that in learning to be faithful to his vow of celibacy, the monk developed his talent for relationship. Celibacy is not a matter of the will disdaining and conquering the flesh, but a discipline requiring what many people think of as undesirable, if not impossible--a conscious form of sublimation. Like many people who came into adulthood during the sexually permissive 1960s, I've tended to equate sublimation with repression. But my celibate friends have made me see the light; accepting sublimation as a normal part of adulthood makes me more realistic about human sexual capacities and expression. It helps me to respect the bonds and boundaries of marriage.
Any marriage has times of separation, ill health, or just plain crankiness, in which sexual intercourse is ill-advised. And it is precisely the skills of celibate friendship--fostering intimacy through letters, conversation, performing mundane tasks together (thus rendering them pleasurable), savoring the holy simplicity of a shared meal, or a walk together at dusk--that help a marriage survive the rough spots. When you can't make love physically, you figure out other ways to do it.
One reason I enjoy celibates is that they tend to value friendship very highly. And my friendships with celibate men, both gay and straight, give me some hope that men and women don't live in alternate universes. In 1990s America, this sometimes feels like a countercultural perspective. Male celibacy, in particular, can become radically countercultural if it is perceived as a rejection of the consumerist model of sexuality. Ideally, in giving up the sexual pursuit of women (whether as demons or as idealized vessels of purity), the male celibate learns to relate to them as human beings. That many fail to do so, that the power structures of the Catholic church all but dictate failure in this regard, comes as no surprise.
What is a surprise is what happens when it works. A woman pulling herself together after being raped feels safe around men for the first time in months; the monastery guest quarters is a place where the violence of rape is unthinkable. An obese and homely college student is astonished to find herself popular with monks her own age, being listened to with as much interest and respect as her conventionally pretty roommate. An elderly woman revels in being treasured, not despised, for the wrinkles on her wise old face. On my fortieth birthday, as I happily blew out four candles on a cupcake ("one for each decade," a monk in his twenties cheerfully proclaimed), I realized that I could enjoy growing old with these guys. They were helping me to blow away my fears of middle age.
The attractiveness of the celibate is that he or she makes us feel appreciated, enlarged, no matter who we are. With someone who is practicing celibacy well, we may sense that we're being listened to in a refreshingly deep way. This is the purpose of celibacy, not to attain some impossibly cerebral goal mistakenly conceived as "holiness," but to make oneself available to others, body and soul. Celibacy, simply put, is a form of ministry--not an achievement one can put on a resume, but a subtle form of service to to others. In theological terms, one dedicates one's sexuality to God through Jesus Christ, a concept and a terminology I find extremely hard to grasp. All I can do is to catch a glimpse of people who are doing it, incarnating celibacy in a mysterious, pleasing, gracious way.
When I first met a man I'll call Tom, I wrote in my notebook, "such tenderness in a man . . . and a surprising, gentle, kindly grasp of who I am." (Poets aren't used to being listened to, let alone understood, by theologians.) As our friendship deepened, I found that even brief, casual conversations with him would often inspire me to dive into old, half-finished poems in an attempt to bring them to fruition.
I realized, of course, that I had found a remarkable friend, a Muse. I was also aware that Tom and I were fast approaching the rocky shoals of infatuation, a man and a woman, both decidedly heterosexual, responding to each other in unmistakably sexual ways. We laughed a lot; we had playful conversations as well as serious ones; we took considerable delight in each other. The danger was real, but not insurmountable; I sensed that if our infatuation were to develop into love, that is, to ground itself in grace rather than utility, our respect for each other's commitments--his to celibacy, mine to monogamy--would make the boundaries of behavior very clear. We had few regrets, and yet for both of us there was an underlying sadness, the pain of something incomplete. Suddenly the difference between celibate friendship and celibate passion was clear to me; at times the pain was excruciating.
Tom and I each faced a crisis that spring--his mother died, I suffered a disastrous betrayal--and it was the intensity of these unexpected, unwelcome experiences that helped me to understand that in the realm of the sacred, what seems incomplete or unattainable may be abundance, after all. Human relationships are by their nature incomplete--after twenty-one years, my husband remains a mystery to me, and I to him, and that is as it should be. Only hope allows us to know and enjoy the depth of our intimacy.
Appreciating Tom's presence in my life as a miraculous, unmerited gift, helped me to place our relationship in its proper, religious context, and also to understand why whenever I sought him out to pray with me, I'd leave feeling so much better than when I came. This was celibacy at its best, a man's sexual energies so devoted to the care of others that a few words could lift me out of despair and give me the strength to reclaim my life. Abundance indeed. Celibate love was at the heart of it, although I canÕt fully comprehend the mystery of why this should be so. Celibate passion-elusive, tensile, holy.
Anyone have any thoughts on celibacy?
Views?
Know some celibates personally....examined behavior?
[ 12 September 2002: Message edited by: DJSethNichols ]
Essay By Kathleen Norris
Celibacy is a field day for ideologues. The feminist theologian Uta Ranke-Heinemann has said that "celibate hatred of sex is hatred of women," and we need only look at newspaper headlines to see how destructive celibacy, practiced under a cloud of self-loathing and denial of the realities of human sexuality, can be. This is unfortunate, because celibacy practiced rightly is not at all a hatred of sex; in fact, it has the potential to address the sexual idolatry of our culture in a most helpful way.
But what about celibacy that works, practiced by people who are fully aware of themselves as sexual beings, but who express their sexuality in a celibate way? Are they perverse, their lives necessarily stunted? Cultural prejudice would say yes, but I have my doubts. I've seen too many wise old monks and nuns whose lengthy formation in celibate practice has allowed them to incarnate hospitality in the deepest sense. In them, the constraints of celibacy have somehow been transformed into an openness that attracts people of all ages, all social classes. They exude a sense of freedom. They also genderbend, at least in my dreams. Sister Jeremy will appear a messenger, a man on horseback, Father Robert as a wise old woman tending a fire.
The younger celibates of my acquaintance are more edgy. Still contending mightily with what one friend calls "the raging orchestra of my hormones," they are more obviously struggling to contain their desires for intimacy, for physical touch, within the bounds of celibacy. Often they find their loneliness intensified by the incomprehension of others. In a culture that denies the value of their striving, they are made to feel like fools, or worse.
Americans are remarkably tone-deaf when it comes to the expression of sexuality. The sexual formation that many of us receive is like the refrain of an old Fugs song: "Why do ya like boobs a lot--ya gotta like boobs a lot." The jiggle of tits and ass, penis and pectorals, assault us everywhere--billboards, magazines, television, movies. Orgasm becomes just another goal; we undress for success. It's no wonder that in all this powerful noise, the quiet tones of celibacy are lost; that we have such trouble comprehending what it could mean to dedicate one's sexual energies in such a way that genital activity and procreation are precluded. But celibate people have taught me that celibacy, practiced rightly, does indeed have something valuable to say to the rest of us. Specifically, they have helped me better appreciate what it means to be married and at the same time allowed me to explore and savor, outside of marriage, passionate friendships with men and women.
Monastic people are celibate for a very practical reason; the kind of community life to which they aspire can't be sustained if people are pairing off. Even in churches in which the clergy are often married--Episcopal and Russian Orthodox, for example--their monks and nuns are celibate. And while novices may be carried along for a time on the swells of communal spirit, when that blissful period inevitably comes to an end, the loneliness is profound. One gregarious monk in his early thirties told me that just as he thought he'd settled into the monastery, he woke up in a panic one morning, wondering if he'd wake up lonely every morning for the rest of his life.
Another monk I know regards celibacy as an expression of the essential human loneliness, a perspective that helps him as a hospital chaplain, when he is called upon to minister to the dying. I knew him when he was still resisting his celibate call--it usually came out as anger directed toward his abbot and community, more rarely as misogyny--and I was fascinated to observe the process by which he came to accept the sacrifices that a celibate, monastic life require. He's easier to be with now; he's a better friend.
This is not irony so much as grace, that in learning to be faithful to his vow of celibacy, the monk developed his talent for relationship. Celibacy is not a matter of the will disdaining and conquering the flesh, but a discipline requiring what many people think of as undesirable, if not impossible--a conscious form of sublimation. Like many people who came into adulthood during the sexually permissive 1960s, I've tended to equate sublimation with repression. But my celibate friends have made me see the light; accepting sublimation as a normal part of adulthood makes me more realistic about human sexual capacities and expression. It helps me to respect the bonds and boundaries of marriage.
Any marriage has times of separation, ill health, or just plain crankiness, in which sexual intercourse is ill-advised. And it is precisely the skills of celibate friendship--fostering intimacy through letters, conversation, performing mundane tasks together (thus rendering them pleasurable), savoring the holy simplicity of a shared meal, or a walk together at dusk--that help a marriage survive the rough spots. When you can't make love physically, you figure out other ways to do it.
One reason I enjoy celibates is that they tend to value friendship very highly. And my friendships with celibate men, both gay and straight, give me some hope that men and women don't live in alternate universes. In 1990s America, this sometimes feels like a countercultural perspective. Male celibacy, in particular, can become radically countercultural if it is perceived as a rejection of the consumerist model of sexuality. Ideally, in giving up the sexual pursuit of women (whether as demons or as idealized vessels of purity), the male celibate learns to relate to them as human beings. That many fail to do so, that the power structures of the Catholic church all but dictate failure in this regard, comes as no surprise.
What is a surprise is what happens when it works. A woman pulling herself together after being raped feels safe around men for the first time in months; the monastery guest quarters is a place where the violence of rape is unthinkable. An obese and homely college student is astonished to find herself popular with monks her own age, being listened to with as much interest and respect as her conventionally pretty roommate. An elderly woman revels in being treasured, not despised, for the wrinkles on her wise old face. On my fortieth birthday, as I happily blew out four candles on a cupcake ("one for each decade," a monk in his twenties cheerfully proclaimed), I realized that I could enjoy growing old with these guys. They were helping me to blow away my fears of middle age.
The attractiveness of the celibate is that he or she makes us feel appreciated, enlarged, no matter who we are. With someone who is practicing celibacy well, we may sense that we're being listened to in a refreshingly deep way. This is the purpose of celibacy, not to attain some impossibly cerebral goal mistakenly conceived as "holiness," but to make oneself available to others, body and soul. Celibacy, simply put, is a form of ministry--not an achievement one can put on a resume, but a subtle form of service to to others. In theological terms, one dedicates one's sexuality to God through Jesus Christ, a concept and a terminology I find extremely hard to grasp. All I can do is to catch a glimpse of people who are doing it, incarnating celibacy in a mysterious, pleasing, gracious way.
When I first met a man I'll call Tom, I wrote in my notebook, "such tenderness in a man . . . and a surprising, gentle, kindly grasp of who I am." (Poets aren't used to being listened to, let alone understood, by theologians.) As our friendship deepened, I found that even brief, casual conversations with him would often inspire me to dive into old, half-finished poems in an attempt to bring them to fruition.
I realized, of course, that I had found a remarkable friend, a Muse. I was also aware that Tom and I were fast approaching the rocky shoals of infatuation, a man and a woman, both decidedly heterosexual, responding to each other in unmistakably sexual ways. We laughed a lot; we had playful conversations as well as serious ones; we took considerable delight in each other. The danger was real, but not insurmountable; I sensed that if our infatuation were to develop into love, that is, to ground itself in grace rather than utility, our respect for each other's commitments--his to celibacy, mine to monogamy--would make the boundaries of behavior very clear. We had few regrets, and yet for both of us there was an underlying sadness, the pain of something incomplete. Suddenly the difference between celibate friendship and celibate passion was clear to me; at times the pain was excruciating.
Tom and I each faced a crisis that spring--his mother died, I suffered a disastrous betrayal--and it was the intensity of these unexpected, unwelcome experiences that helped me to understand that in the realm of the sacred, what seems incomplete or unattainable may be abundance, after all. Human relationships are by their nature incomplete--after twenty-one years, my husband remains a mystery to me, and I to him, and that is as it should be. Only hope allows us to know and enjoy the depth of our intimacy.
Appreciating Tom's presence in my life as a miraculous, unmerited gift, helped me to place our relationship in its proper, religious context, and also to understand why whenever I sought him out to pray with me, I'd leave feeling so much better than when I came. This was celibacy at its best, a man's sexual energies so devoted to the care of others that a few words could lift me out of despair and give me the strength to reclaim my life. Abundance indeed. Celibate love was at the heart of it, although I canÕt fully comprehend the mystery of why this should be so. Celibate passion-elusive, tensile, holy.
Anyone have any thoughts on celibacy?
Views?
Know some celibates personally....examined behavior?
[ 12 September 2002: Message edited by: DJSethNichols ]
