After I wrote my post yesterday on bisexuality, Neil (the pastor whose parishioner had spawned the initial query) responded in a note to me. In the post, I made clear my view that bisexuality could be a stable, healthy, lifetime identity for adult men and women. I also made the case that it need be no impediment to a monogamous relationship with either an other-sex or same-sex partner; what mattered was the degree to which the bisexual person was willing to focus his or her sexual energy in one particular direction.
I’ve got a long reply here. Because of the subject matter, it’s all below the fold. And as the kids say these days, it “may weird you out”, so use your discretion.
Neil writes:
I don’t think you’ve gotten to the heart of the conundrum, because it’s one thing to tell a
straight person to direct all one’s sexual energies to one’s spouse,
but when some of those energies just don’t flow that way because they
flow not to others of the spouse’s sex but one’s own sex, I don’t know
what to say. It doesn’t seem to me like something one can force in a
spousal direction!
If life is intended to be lived as thanksgiving to God for all the
gifts one has received, and if being bisexual can rightly be regarded
as a gift (can it?), then how does one live that out if one has also
been called to marriage? I tend to think that masturbation can be
integrated into a healthy and ethical Christian spirituality if it is
seen as offering one’s erotic desires to God in thanksgiving for the
gift of sexuality, a way of being intimate with Jesus.
Is it perverse to think that perhaps the solution is to encourage the
bisexual man to think of himself as married to Jesus and married to
his wife?
I’m willing to accept the point about masturbation. Indeed, I think that the broader solution does indeed lie in what Pastor Neil hints at: a commitment to cease compartmentalizing. Far too often in Christian culture, the erotic and the sacred are kept in separate spaces in the consciousness. Despite the fact that even atheists call on God quite sincerely as they orgasm (is there any more common cry for English-speaking folk as they climax?), we’re unwilling to do the work of really integrating our sexuality with our faith. For too many Christians, integrating sexuality and faith means compiling a list of don’ts which they imagine will demonstrate their fidelity to Jesus: don’t masturbate, don’t have sex outside of heterosexual marriage, don’t talk openly and honestly about sexual feelings. But faith is more about what we do do then what we don’t. Our faith must permeate the sex we have as well as the sex we don’t, or our faith is stuck in a compartment and useless to us.
Neil’s last question is a very provocative one. It’s a good one to ask. As anyone who has been to an American evangelical prayer service in the last twenty years knows, modern praise and worship music is filled with songs about a romance with Jesus. One of the most important and influential Christian rock bands of the past decade, Jars of Clay, had a hit with a song I adored: Love Song for a Savior. An excerpt:
He’s more than the laughter or the stars in the heavens
As close a heartbeat or a song on our lips
Someday we’ll trust Him and learn how to see Him
Someday He’ll call us and we will come running
and fall in His arms and the tears will fall down and we’ll pray,
“I want to fall in love with You”
It’s easy to mock the idea of “Jesus as Lover” as a marketing tool aimed at young Christians struggling to remain loyal to hastily-made purity vows. But it’s an old idea, older even than its most famous practitioner, St. Teresa of Avila. Teresa wrote of her ecstatic relationship with Christ:
It is a caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and God, that I pray God of His goodness to make him experience it who may think that I am lying.
The idea of Jesus as lover has, perhaps, a more obvious appeal to heterosexual young women, particularly the hormonal and the chaste. Indeed, some more old-fashioned types worry that all of this “mushy” stuff about falling in love with Jesus drives young men away from the church, though I’ve yet to see a shred of evidence that contemporary Christian music’s emphasis on romantic spirituality is a catalyst for declining male attendance at worship. But the idea’s appeal is not limited to women alone. When I first came back to Christ in 1998, I took a vow of temporary celibacy. (I blogged about it here.) During those months where I took a “break”, I worked harder than I ever had before on my relationship with God. And following the suggestion of a woman I knew in my 12-step program who attended the same church I did, I began to pray each night for Jesus to come and “hold me like a lover.”
It was a strange prayer for me to pray. I’ve done a lot of men’s work, and I’ve hugged a lot of guys in my day. I’m clear that my energy is primarily heterosexual; it has been for as long as I remember. But praying this prayer made sense. And at night, often when I was at my exhausted loneliest, falling asleep alone, I would pray: “Jesus, come and hold me now. Let me nestle into you. Pull me against you. I don’t want to be separate from you anymore.” And I would imagine my flesh against his, my heart beating against his heartbeat. It was extraordinarily comforting — and it was charged with a kind of safe sexuality that I had never known in my life, not in my carnal reality or in my active fantasy life.
Sometime into this whole period of celibacy, I remember having a dream where I was caressing Jesus’s broken, post-crucifixion body. I’m not accustomed to homoerotic dreams, but this one was vivid — I could feel the life in Him still, the warmth of His body, I could feel His muscles and His bones and His sweat and His blood. And then, in my dream, Jesus woke up and started touching me. Not genitally (there were no genitals in this dream), but caressing me, the sweat and the heat and the blood still coming off of him. And I started to cry in my dream, crying from relief, and woke up in bed crying. I also woke up aroused. It was a mixture of relief and sexual excitement and almost mystical ecstasy unlike anything I’d ever known. Heck, I read St. Teresa in college. I didn’t get it at 18; at 31 and in the midst of a huge emotional upheaval in my life, a few weeks after I had almost died, I got it. I’ve never had the dream again. I would love to have it again.
I loved that dream, not because I’m sexually drawn to men, but because my love affair with Christ is not merely intellectual or spiritual. Christ came to earth in a body: I am incarnate in a body. My body is good, as is my soul, and the spiritual growth of the latter is not contingent upon the constant mortification of the former. It took me a long time to get that, and it was only once I did get that that I was able to stop living a double life, a life in compartments, a life of public charm and conscientiousness and a private world of shame and deception. Jesus is many things to me: my savior, my homeboy, my best friend, my role model, my God. He is also my lover, in every sense. I don’t cheat on my wife with Jesus. Fidelity to a spouse doesn’t preclude a sense that there is one relationship, just one, that ranks above that one has with a husband or a wife. I take seriously the words of one of my favorite hymns (damned difficult as it is to sing), St. Patricks Breastplate:
Christ be with me,
Christ within me,
Christ behind me,
Christ before me,
Christ beside me,
Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort
and restore me.
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me…
That’s not just a list of prepositions. That’s a description of a love that is spiritual, physical, sexual, mystical and carnal all at once. I am not bisexual; I am a man who has loved many women, but my truest lover, truer even than my adored wife, is Jesus. I still sometimes call on Him to hold me at night.
So, long-winded answer to Neil’s question: yes, yes, yes — Christ is the bridegroom as well as the shepherd, the lover as well as the rabbi. If it helps Neil’s bisexual parishoner to direct some of that energy towards Jesus, then I think it’s a wise idea. I’m not talking about masturbating to images of Christ on the cross; that’s an idolatrous violation of the second commandment (and perhaps of good taste.) I’m talking about seeing our sexual lives as married people as including Jesus. If Jesus is supposed to be our co-pilot when we drive (as those ridiculous bumperstickers remind us), why is He left out in the hallway when we go into the bedroom to make love with our spouses? In marriage, we are called to fidelity. But while monogamy means no sex with other people, it doesn’t mean a bar on embracing an intense and rich sexuality that includes Christ.
Every marriage is a triangle, with Jesus at the top as head and the two spouses below as equal points on the bottom of that triangle. Each partner in the marriage is equal to the other; each has a separate and unique relationship with Christ. In a sense, I have two lovers: my wife and Christ. And that relationship with Christ involves inviting Him into every single aspect of our lives. And if we take Him seriously as “closer than a brother”, then we need to see Him in our sexuality as well. For some of us, that will simply mean learning to face Jesus without shame. For others of us, it will be inviting Him to hold us close. And for some of us, gay and straight, men and women alike, it means a willingness to embrace Him as the truest and best of lovers. For me, at least in one dream I have never forgotten, that meant being enfolded in His arms, His skin on me, both of us bathed in His blood, His sweat, and my tears.
I have no shame in saying that I often long for that magical dream to return.
Hugo,
I’m also a big fan of the tradition in Christian spirituality that uses erotic imagery to explore the relationship between Christ and the believer. It’s actually much older than St. Teresa of Avila, of course- it goes back arguably to the Song of Songs, and certainly to the reference in Revelation to “the Spirit and the Bride.”
“And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.”
There are similar echoes of that in some Hindu writings as well, btw, see the mystical poetry of Mirabai.
Hi Hugo,
[This is my first comment here, so if it's too racey, please accept my apologies and edit or delete it.]
I commend you for wrestling with this issue. We share many of the same conclusions and presuppositions (e.g., no porn).
Without getting tooooo TMI, I wanted to share an experience I had when, in a previous life, I was testing my vocation in a monastery. I had masturbated to orgasm since I was three or four years old. (My sexual precocity did not have altogether innocent roots, hence I’ve done a lot of work around shame and guilt…To digress further, I remember the first time I ejaculated in middle school and being surprised but not unprepared from parental sex ed. I remember being a bit disappointed because this now meant I had “clean-up” to do, whereas before I could simply orgasm any time, anywhere, as long as I was discrete about it.) So I had never lived a nonorgasmic life–not in childhood or adolescence or young adulthood.
When I entered the monastery, however, I was prepared to embrace whole hog celibacy. No more touching myself. And the strangest thing happened. I had my first wet dreams. Years earlier, I had been told that once I entered adolescence, this would happen, but it never did, and it all made sense now–it was because I’d been jerking off too much for anything ever to build up!
So it was a great relief to me to know that my sexuality would work itself out without help from me. I continued to have wet dreams at pretty regular intervals; whenever the “reserves” would build up for too long, my unconscious would empty the bucket.
I’ve never told anyone this before–not even my then-brother monks. I did wonder if it worked the same way for them. What was most interesting to me was that even when I wanted to shut off my sexuality, my body wouldn’t let me. So I began to accept whatever my body sent my way in the form of dreams as gifts. And then they started getting religious. Which was wierd, admittedly. But also really mystical and cool and just satisfying in a way that sex had never been for me.
I eventually left the monastery before solemn vows and soon thereafter “backslid” quite a lot, but it was in the monastery that I first began to integrate my sexual self with my religious self. Before that, masturbating was a way of keeping those two selves compartmentalized.
I agree with you and Neil that it’s possible to integrate masturbation as a sexual-spiritual practice. Part of the way I monitor how healthy I am is in paying attention to what floats my boat when I’m engaging in that pasttime. The best, entirely guilt-free orgasms I’ve had are when Jesus is my partner in my fantasy or when I’m enjoying the fact that other people enjoy sex without my having to insert myself into a fantasy where I’m either the giver or the receiver of pleasure. I get off just knowing that others get off, too, and I feel a closeness and oneness with people in their sexuality that way.
From what I’ve read elsewhere, I think you’re mistaken that fantasy always is always sinfully self-centered or, if married, adulterous (correct me if I’ve misinterpreted you). As I’ve tried to describe above, when fantasy does involve me, the ideal is when it also involves God. And I can also fantasize about other people having good, sinless sex and totally rock with that because that’s, after all, what sex is intended to be–pure, *unadulterated* fun.
Oh, and I’m partnered, btw. We have an understanding that as long as I’m available to my partner when my partner needs me, I am free to masturbate as much as I want. And I try to self-regulate as well as be open with my therapist in holding myself accountable for the content of what motivates me to pleasure myself versus holding out in order to give it to my partner. (I’m just hornier than my partner is all, and my partner would rather *not* be the recipient of all my energies!!)
So it’s possible to be a Christian, in a committed exclusive relationship, and masturbate without sinning. The question is not whether you masturbate or not, but what’s going on between you and God and your partner (and others who enter your thoughts) when you jerk off.
C-ya,
Monty
Re: So it’s possible to be a Christian, in a committed exclusive relationship, and masturbate without sinning.
I disagree. I believe it is a sin. It’s far from the worst of sins, and in a fallen world it’s a near-universal vice, but it’s a sin nonetheless- a falling away from the purpose that God intends sexuality to play in our lives.
I think one can only hold that position with integrity if one believes that sexual acts are illicit if they are not open to or capable of procreation. If one denies this premise, the shape of the debate shifts considerably. If sexuality has pleasure as a legitimate end, and being a sexual creature is a fact of human existence, whether coupled or not, then it is only really a vice if it is used as a way of avoiding intimacy with others; when used as a way of engaging in intimacy with God and even others, it cannot be viewed purely negatively or as an absolute vice. Though I would agreee that in common practice, it tends towards (self)-abuse, insofar as our fallen sexuality is always “playing with fire,” whether we’re married or not.
I don’t find what you say convincing. I can’t speak to the Christian/religious part of it.
Being married to a bisexual partner – who is monogamous with me the issues aren’t merely academic.
I don’t think that bisexuality is a simple – linear being in a similar way to how individuals may vary greatly in their “sexuality” no matter what it is – where for example: bdsm – may be the primary form of arousal and pleasure for some and totally unappealing to others.
For some monogamy may work perfectly fine.
For some others however seemingly “ignoring” their “other side” of their sexual being may either not work at all or may only work for part of the time they may be in relationship with another. How such people may deal with this will vary depending upon the individual and couple.
My partner when with her prior partner (a woman) had an agreement that under certain circumstances she could be sexual with men. Since we’ve been together there has been no request – to be sexual with another woman, so we’ve not faced this issue.
I can’t speak to the “Christian” side of this (I’m not Christian in any case). I do think that honesty and communication is more important than any specific set of rules.
Thanks!
Geo, I acknowledge that I was writing explicitly for those who identify as bisexuals who find themselves in committed monogamous relationships, and see monogamy as something essential to the functioning of their marriage or commitment. Some folks will see monogamy as impossible, or merely undesirable. I wish them the best, but they were not the target of the post.
Pingback: Joe Perez :: An Integral Blog » Blog Archive » EQUAL Views for October 24, 2008
I agree with what you’ve written here, and before. And it seems, while though expanded, your answer is the same. The “rules” are the same for straight, gay or bisexual.
It’s not just Neill’s bisexual parishioner who should direct excess energy toward their relationship with Christ, but all believers.
And yes, monogamy is a whole other issue that I think can raise issues, regardless of the bisexuality.
When I read your previous post, I thought I was in a monogamous relationship, but now I’m not so sure. This post makes it feel like we’re speaking two different languages. I’ve sometimes thought relationships like mine, and Geo’s, if I’m not putting words into his mouth, should be called something like “mono-poly” (cue image of monocled millionaire). From our outside behavior, we look monogamous, but the outlook informing us is polyamorous, focused on honest communication, and different from rules-based the outlook you’re describing.
I’m also curious about an option you haven’t considered: sharing fantasies about same-sex lovers with your opposite-sex partner. (These lovers can be imaginary, if you have ethical issues with fantasizing about real people.) If you’ve got a couple who uses yaoi for the purpose of creating a shared fantasy, it seems like their sexuality is directed toward each other. This won’t work for every couple (if a woman thinks the idea of two men making out is gross, she won’t want to look at yaoi), but it might be a good option for some people.
Growing up Catholic, I used to look at pictures of Jesus on the cross (esepcially the ones where he is almost naked) and study his torso and his body. And I remember telling a friend of mine when I was at Immaculate Heart (which is a Catholic girls school in Los Angeles, as you know, Hugo) “I think Jesus is sexy in a weird way.” And she said “OMG, I know. I thought I was the only one who thought that!
I never had a sex dream about him though. I would like to have one like yours. Hot and mystical all together.
AMS,
Yes, erotic imagery is a part of Christian spirituality. Erotic and romantic love are a mirror of the love between God and the believer. The _Divine Comedy_ makes that point very eloquently.
There’s nothing wrong or unhealthy about your thoughts, in other words.
Monty,
No, I don’t think sex is just for procreation. Nor even, necessarily, just for marriage. I do think that God wants our sexuality to be expressed by a long-term, monogamous, and loving relationship. That can be in a marriage or in some other relationship that approximates a marriage and possesses many of the same spiritual and emotional goods.
Masturbation is an attempt to isolate one aspect of our sexuality from the whole, to separate it from the context in which God intends it be used, and to decompose a natural reality that should be whole and complete into its component parts. That’s why the doctors of the church called it ‘contra naturam’. Like I said, not a terrible sin, and a nearly universal one. I’m not pretending to personally holiness, I’m as vulnerable to the ‘phronema sarkos’ as the next man. But still, if we are to be faithful to the spirit of Christianity then we should persist in calling it a falling away from God.
I think I understand your point about the value of a romantic/erotic relationship with Jesus (although as a non-Christian and non-mystic, the concept does make me a little squeamish), but I’m not sure how it specifically relates to Neil’s question about his bisexual parishioner. Is Neil suggesting that, because Jesus is male, his parishioner might find an erotic relationship with Him a particularly helpful way to work out his sexual attraction to men? If so, doesn’t that almost contradict your assertion that every Christian should ‘bring Jesus into the bedroom,’ whatever that person’s gender and sexual orientation may be?
Well, with the understanding that (pace, Hector) masturbation is not inconsistent with either monogamy or Christian practice, Neil’s parishioner can indeed direct his sexual energy towards a distinctly masculine Jesus as well as his wife.
Hugo,
He can indeed direct his sexual energy towards the figure of Jesus, but with the intent of sublimating those sexual energies, not indulging them. If you’re intending what I think you intend to suggest, then that suggestion seems to me to be disrespectful to God, and more akin to Greco-Roman or Canaanite fertility cults than to the Christian faith.
I think if God didn’t want me to masturbate, maybe he should have made me able to have an orgasm during sex.
Hi Hector,
You wrote that masturbation involves three things:
an attempt to isolate one aspect of our sexuality from the whole
I fully grant that some people use masturbation that way, but it is not necessarily a compartmentalizing act. For some, I believe it is and can be an integrating act, allowing people to understand themselves as sexual creatures loved by God. There is a mystical aspect to sexuality that has nothing to do with whether one is single or married/partnered.
a separation of sexuality from the context in which God intends it be used
I think there’s a conflation of “sex acts” and “sexuality” here. If all sex acts are to involve a partner, then this is true. But if we are allowed by God (and intended by God) to be fully sexual creatures in our personhood, then I do not see how masturbation can be always objectively wrong. If abused as a way of avoiding human relating, then yes. But the absolute negatives you propose presuppose an objectivity that I do not see possible.
a decomposition of a natural reality that should be whole and complete into its component parts
As with the above, the question is really whether sexual expression must always be with a partner, or whether we are allowed to feel and be sexual in and of ourselves as creatures of God. Your approach appears to take for granted that sex must always be between two people in the same way that conservatives hold that marriage must always be between one man and one woman, ignoring the varied history of marriage (polygamy) in the past and a priori excluding other understandings.
In short, I think your presuppositions are subjectively true under certain circumstances, but unless you hold to a natural law view that things can be “objectively disordered,” I don’t see how one can be so absolute in one’s condemnation.
Monty
P.S. I must admit I’ve never understood the difference between sublimation and repression. I’d be happy to have an explanation.
A powerful current of my sexual energies flow toward hawt 19 year old girls in skimpy bikini swimsuits, yet I am also called to remain monogamous to my 40 year old wife, who after gaining a bit of weight now wears a one-piece. How can I offer God the proper thanksgiving for my erotic desires, Pastor Neil?
Seriously, monogamy has well-known self-discipline issues, that you’re into wrestling with or you’re not. Bisexuality doesn’t change that.
Also, as a side note, in my experience lots of bisexual women don’t seem to be very bisexual. Women seem to be more comfortable defining their sexuality around their emotional or romantic attraction at the time, while men are more the reverse.