Queering the Christian Table Part 14: The Crushing Weight of Wielding Shame—A Gay Poet Responds to The Gospel Coalition

To start reading at the beginning of the series, click here.

[If you are short on time, I recommend just scrolling down to the poetry]

When Rachel Held Evans’ latest blog post showed up in my news feed, I figured something was astir. Reading her response to Pastor Thabiti Anyabwile’s post on The Gospel Coalition website, I was grateful for her responses and I was compelled to read Anyabwile’s original article.

I do not know Anyabwile (or Held Evans). I know nothing more of him than he might know of me by reading my words on this page. So what I am about to write is simply a reflection of what I observe as a broader theme within the Evangelical church that is expressed so pointedly in his post.

I won’t rehash the many other critiques of his post that Evans addresses and links to from her post. I simply want to spend a few moments with Anyabwile’s attempt at “obscene descriptions” of gay and lesbian sex. The following is the excerpt from the post that is meant to induce moral outrage:

We are talking about one man inserting the male organ used to create life into the part of another man used to excrete waste. We are talking about one man taking the penis of another man into his mouth, or engaging in penis-to-penis grinding.

We are talking about a woman using her mouth to stimilute the nipples, vulva, clitoris or vagina of another woman, or using her hand or other “toys” to simulate sexual intercourse.

We are talking about anilingus and other things I still cannot name or describe.

That sense of moral outrage you’re now likely feeling–either at the descriptions above or at me for writing them–that gut-wrenching, jaw-clenching, hand-over-your-mouth, “I feel dirty” moral outrage is the gag reflex. It’s what you quietly felt when you read “two men deep kissing” in the second paragraph. Your moral sensibilities have been provoked–and rightly so. That reflex triggered by an accurate description of homosexual behavior will be the beginning of the recovery of moral sense and sensibility when it comes to the so-called “gay marriage” debate.

Now, I just want to spend a moment telling you about my actual reactions to the above passage. Truthfully, I did, indeed, have my hand over my mouth. I nearly had to pick myself up off the floor I was shaking so hard with laughter.

Once I had recovered from my fit of giggles, I sighed a few times and began to feel deep compassion and sadness for the author and the Evangelical community out of which he offers this opinion. And isn’t laughter one of the more ready indicators of the presence of shame?

——

The crushing weight of wielding so much shame is a terrible burden to bear. It is the blade with no handle that destroys the hand that uses it against another.

——

I actually think that Anyabwile is right on this one point: it is high time that the Evangelical church spoke explicitly about sex and its role in Christian formation. I also appreciate his attempt to directly address the issue without resorting to euphemisms about the shapes of plugs and sockets. Coming from the Evangelical community, this took great courage on his part.

But the mechanistic descriptions of sex acts, and body parts disconnected from the emotional spiritual—even just full-bodied—realities of human sexuality reveals so much more about the Evangelical understanding of sex than it does about what actually happens when two men or two women engage in any form of sexual activity. That explicitly describing sex between any two consenting adults is intended to trigger my gag reflex, tells me so very much about the level of shame surrounding Evangelical understandings of sexuality.

If we are supposed to see the acts themselves as shameful (oral sex, anal sex, using sex toys), my guess is that there’s an enormous number of red-faced, straight, married, Evangelical couples who are squirming, because they’re (“not supposed to be”) doing many of the things that actually give them a lot of shared pleasure and intimacy. I’m also guessing there is a large number in the same demographic who are really frustrated because they feel constricted for not being able to fully explore their own bodies together.

——

But my hunch is that it’s not really about the sex. It’s about the gender.

——

This is less about the explicit details of what body parts are inserted where and how people are pleasuring each other. Instead, it is about the disruption of cultural norms that are anchored in a neo-platonic understanding of the forms—a worldview that’s been used to shame women (and men) for that heinous shortcoming of not being man (enough).

It’s less the sex and more the disruption of the gender hierarchy that is so gag-reflex-inducing. That’s precisely why Anyabwile feels upset by “two men deep kissing.” The gender hierarchy itself is built on shame—shaming both women and men about their bodies—objectifying and victimizing women and cutting men of from the vulnerability of their desire and need for relationship and replacing it with the (fear-of-rejection fueled) urge to power-over the person they desire sexually.

This is why Anyabwile’s description of gay and lesbian sex is not poetic or even clinical; this is why he doesn’t even imagine addressing transgender or intersex sexuality. A vivid description of two people of the same gender intimately expressing love with their bodies is just as damaging to the gender hierarchy as the boring ol’ argument about the over a thousand rights (privileges) associated with civil marriage being denied to these same couples.

An aesthetic, reverent, explicit description of LGBTIQ sex lives serves as a poignant reminder of the possibility for equality, mutuality, vulnerability, and holy growth of desire between any two consenting lovers. It has the potential to call out the vulnerability of all men and agency of all women in a way that leads to greater love and better sex for all couples (and just by the numbers, this will mostly help out the straight folks).

The thing that’s gag-inducing about Anyabwile’s description is that it is dehumanizing—it seeks to shame from a place of deep-seated shame, and thus it only succeeds in revealing the harmful system out of which it emerges.

——

For another way of engaging sexuality in a way that embraces humanity and Christ, I’d invite you to check out the blog http://trybestpractices.wordpress.com/. This blogger I do know, and I find the work he’s doing to be refreshingly Christian and humane.

——

For my own theological response, I’ve decided to post three poems.

Insofar as they are mine, they are poems about gay love and desire. Insofar as they are human, they are about lovers, bodies, intimacy, and mutuality.

This is my invitation to those who feel the crushing weight of wielding so much shame: join again in the goodness of the life you have been given.

——

The Forest Need Not Justify Its Existence

We lay here for once as if

our bodies matter

as much as clods of soil;

knots of bone and muscle curl, exhausted,

upon one another, waiting,

in asynchronous gasps,

to lapse into one amending heave.

Stillness grows us older, you

and me observing stealth of hair

moss across the backs and bends

of all our twisted limbs,

rooted through finitude

of kisses sweet and wild.

Here old stories thaw, plots

unraveling through gracious gaps

opened by the fibrous weave,

me, you, me—relaxing us into

the solidity of who we are becoming.

“Have you forgotten the myth of unbelonging?”

I question the heart between these ribs.

The answer (yours or mine?), a sure reply,

wealth of warmth flowing, skin on skin;

salted mouth plying under arm, over rib;

tongue slips quick through wet lips, twists

round areola as if to say

what leg splayed ’cross hip

and genitals, pressed

into generous thigh, have been

pulsing all along:

“With you,

I am always home because

our battles

are for our thriving and

our economy is song

and its rhythm is determined on

these instruments of peace

with which we practice

holding on.”

——

Back

“Churn butter backwards—into cream, into

thick clots scooped in glops back

into milk, warm and grassy on the tongue

or back

to udder, to cow, to

actual grass gradually sloshed back through

four stomachs and slime, past

cow lips into blades

of green to two parts sun and one

part soil—how far back could you

trace the journey of soil?

To rock, to crash of spatial bodies? Stars?

exploded elements in space?”

You

interrupt your scrape, scraping

of knife across toast and ask:

“Where is this going?”

“In! Into our mouths, our

bodies; butter and bread, the wheat,

the salt, the minerals—all

disassembled in our bowels, carried in

our blood, become

our source of cell and synapse.”

(I do know that this is not

what you were asking)

“How far? Can you trace the need

back into desire, to

throat-ached trembling? Back from

breakfast table to bed, piled legs like

eggs on a plate, scrambled in sheets and

pillows?

Back to your back, covered

in constellation of freckles and covered

in my kisses and arms

wrapped round your sides, my hands

pressed against your chest. My calf

nuzzles round your thigh and I

melt

like butter in your starlight.”

“How far back?”

your eyes

look up cross toast at me

and say:

“I can never take you back—

only forward.”

——

You know it was your turn to do the dishes.

I come home, hoping for nothing more than a bite to eat,

a quick kiss, but nothing more—I

do not have the time

for something more (even though I’d like it).

No, this is the one night,

set aside out of seven,

when I sit down,

break bread,

and prey upon the pages

like a ravenous pagan

frenetically parsing nouns into verbs,

words like: pretzel.

You know,

how you pretzel me into the

salt warm scent of your arms,

whiskering into my neck the things

you say you’d like to do to me

if only we had the time.

But I

do not have the time.

The watch my parents gave me stopped

working, or maybe I stopped

winding it, when they

stopped calling me when I stopped

pretending I could pretzel myself

into their approval.

And now I am walking through our front door,

and you know

it was your turn

to do the dishes.

I know that five out of seven nights you scrape

down sides of bowls and break eggs and

roast vegetable kindness that my body

takes in, as greedily and gratefully as I take in

you. You know

it was your turn to do the dishes and

all I wanted to do

was come in, eat a pretzel and write

all the wrongs of my day

into some semblance of poetry.

and even though, you know I’ll love you

if the plates stack high and mold grows

on scooped out rinds of winter squash

beside the full compost;

I will still put out

the trash on Wednesdays even if

we sleep on opposite sides of the bed.

And you will still put out

when I forget to do the laundry.

You know that this

was the one night I had

before the deadline and

you met me at the door with that shirtless grin, as if

there were ever any contest between you

and fifty pages of revision.

You know.

Yours is not the sideways glance

of a lover more interested in getting off than

getting old, and boring, and grey. No,

you look at me with laughing eyes that play

across my brow and

pretzel into my fiercest longings,

knotting me into the softest dough. And I

would drop my clothes, my

prose, my terse idealism

to wrap myself inside

the softness of your mouth, your

gentle-welcome whispered kisses

traveling down my tired body. And you know

it was your turn to do the dishes

and

you did them

anyway.

2 thoughts on “Queering the Christian Table Part 14: The Crushing Weight of Wielding Shame—A Gay Poet Responds to The Gospel Coalition

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s