Gay, Celibate, Queer

In Praise of Strangeness

Photo by Oleg Ivanov on Unsplash

I did not find peace with being gay because I discovered how to become respectable by doing all the right things and convincing people I was good.

I was never really under the impression that being gay could be an avenue toward normalcy or respectability if only I were given the right opportunities to slot myself into the status quo. Whatever I did, I knew I would be an outlier in my community, a strange case: if I pursued marriage with a woman, if I pursued marriage with a man, if I did not pursue marriage at all. Sure, there was the comforting thought that there were others like me, that I was not completely alone, that I was in that sense “normal.” But it was more like the sense that there was, somewhere out there, an island of misfit toys like me, a bunch of weirdos that could form a supportive community for me.

For whatever reason, the idea that being gay was “normal” was never the powerfully comforting thought for me that it was for some. I did not think I could ever achieve normalcy; I felt I had to learn to rejoice in the strange.

I became comfortable with being gay because I came to cherish that very strangeness and marginality—how the experience of same-sex love sits uncomfortably with the idea of biological purpose (construed narrowly as procreation), how because it lacks that purpose it points beyond biology to something greater. I became comfortable with being gay because I came to see how expansive it is, how it cannot be reduced to desire for a particular kind of sexual activity but can involve an entire interior world, not to mention an exterior one (a community, a culture, a history). I became comfortable with being gay because I loved men, and the beauty and richness of that experience I considered a gift from God, evidence of his kindness. I became comfortable with being gay because I found that it could be an avenue toward a deeper relationship with Jesus Christ. I came to see being gay as a beautiful flower that many can only see as a weed, worthless and out of place.

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I did not find peace with lifelong celibacy because I discovered how to become respectable by pursuing it and convincing people of its goodness.

The faith tradition of my youth had little respect for celibacy. There were few celibate role models, there was no outward praise of celibacy, nor even much praise of the kind of friendship that sustains those who choose not to marry. I was not under the impression that being celibate could be an avenue toward normalcy or respectability. Especially later, when I learned about intentional communities and celibate partnerships, every celibate vocation seemed like a strange case. I knew celibacy would make me an outlier in my community. Sure, there was the comforting thought that my pursuit of celibacy might protect me from harm, that I would not be treated the way other gay people were. But that was not only selfish—it was also an illusion. I learned that the protection it seemed to provide was very limited, that homophobia does not actually care about sexual ethics at all, and that I could not in good conscience throw other gay people under the bus to save myself.

The idea that being celibate (in singleness, community, or partnership) was “normal” was not even conceivable, let alone comforting. I did not think I could ever achieve normalcy; I felt I had to learn to rejoice in the strange.

I became comfortable with celibacy because I came to cherish how strange and marginal it is—how it sits uncomfortably with the idea of biological purpose (construed narrowly as procreation), how because it lacks that purpose it points beyond biology to something greater. I became comfortable with celibacy because I learned the greater story to which it belonged and the cast of characters populating that story: philosophers, prophets, apostles, monastic communities and pairs, priests, holy virgins, artists and scientists, all experiencing an expansive freedom for more wholehearted devotion to God and pursuit of their calling. I came to see celibacy as a beautiful flower that many can only see as a stem full of thorns, painful and bloody.

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The pursuit of normalcy or respectability did not bring me peace. And to be fair, the pursuit of strangeness for the sake of strangeness has not brought me lasting peace, either. Much less did avoiding either strangeness or normalcy bring me any peace! Peace is the fruit of a right relationship in which each member is seen, known, and is (or is becoming) who they are meant to be. Peace comes from loving and being loved—ourselves, others, and God.

Peace is also, for this reason, the result of pursuing the good, the true, and the beautiful. And the only thing that brings ultimate peace is the pursuit—the endless pursuit—of the Source of that goodness, truth, and beauty, an infinite God who endlessly gives himself to us as we give ourselves to God. In a world that is so often out of step with the good, the true, and the beautiful, that endless pursuit will certainly make us strange, marginal. Queer.