AS I LIVE AND BREATHE, YOU HAVE KILLED ME: So I did go see David Morrison at Theology on Tap. These are some very scattered impressions, and not at all a round-up of everything he talked about or a responsible review of his talk–more an update of my post about his book (he’s working on a new edition) and a set of notes on things that struck me. In chronological order of where these impressions occurred in the talk.

Are you gonna go/to the Sodom and Gomorrah show? First, one of the very few things I hated about Beyond Gay was the “scared straight” sections, in which statistics about AIDS, depression, etc were trotted out in a fatalistic, infuriating way reminiscent of DARE anti-drug propaganda. In his talk at the Four Fields, Morrison seemed to be going down that road as he began to talk about how many friends he had lost to AIDS and how that experience was part of the beginning of his journey to the Church. It seemed, as he spoke, as if he were going to say that he was glad he’d been scared off that path before it was too late–as if there’s anything admirable about running away when things get tough.

He really didn’t, though. Instead he gave a much more nuanced description of how the close-up with mortality made him begin to question whether his life had meaning. I felt pretty awful for not listening to him more charitably, especially since he’d quite humbly made it clear that he was actually doing a lot of caring for people with AIDS during that time (although I still maintain that the current edition of Beyond Gay comes off badly in this regard, and I hope the revisions change that).

Is that all there is to a fire?: I did find myself thinking a bit about my own first prayers, when Morrison described his. Not counting a childish (hey, I was like eight) demand that God show himself or I wouldn’t believe in him, the first time I prayed I’m pretty sure I just said, “Lord, cure my unbelief” (possibly without the “Lord”), on my knees before bed.

Nothin’ happened.

Is that all there is?

So, like, St. Paul gets knocked off his daggone horse. David Morrison gets reasonably quick service, with God making His presence known as soon as he began seriously to pray. Me? Not so much.

But I am nothing if not annoyingly persistent. So I did keep praying. Meanwhile, as nothing in particular seemed to be happening in response to these prayers, I kept on with the philosophical stuff that had gotten me on my knees in the first place–clearing away a huge heap of misunderstandings, building the scaffolding I’d need to understand any experience of God I did end up having, basically teaching me the language I’d need to know before I could even grasp that God was talking rather than just, you know, static on the line. And eventually (I seem to recall it took a week or two?? could be wrong–at the time it seemed long, and now seems ridiculously short and easy compared to others’ years of seemingly fruitless searching, begging, and interrogating) I did come for the first time to the recognition of the Creator God, the maker or speaker of things in the world, and that was what I needed at the time. The rest of the getting-Catholic stuff followed more or less swiftly from there, and it was a while, I think, before I had intellectual doubts rather than just deep mistrust and the fear of hurting others and myself by entering the Church.

…Uh, this was supposed to be about David, right? SELF-ABSORBED CAT FINDS HERSELF FASCINATING.

Mission bell: After he began to pray and read the Bible, Morrison had to figure out where to park himself, churchwise. He’d had mixed/not-great experiences growing up Southern Baptist, and it sounds like his partner had had worse experiences with evangelical fundamentalism, so those were off the table.

And so he remembered the Episcopalian ministry to people with AIDS, with which he’d worked in the past. So that’s where he went.

Unsurprisingly, I was reminded of the recent discussions at Amy Welborn’s place, about mission, the ways Catholics can evangelize and the ways we probably shouldn’t. Amy tossed off a tart one-liner to the effect that, you know, you could always try the corporal works of mercy.

And I was also reminded of a post somewhere or other, which I now can’t find and am probably misremembering, about feeling really frustrated with the ways in which evangelization gets done, or something like that, and wondering if it wouldn’t be best if Christians just lived Christian lives and didn’t actively seek to witness to others. And because my inner monologue (monologue! monologue! mono–d’oh!) can get very bitchy at times, I’d thought to myself, “Oh yeah, because Christ totally told us to go out and make next-door neighbors of all nations.”

(…This post isn’t showing me in a very good light, is it??)

And then, I was reminded of the parable of the Good Samaritan, from the week’s Gospel readings.

So… yeah, actually. We are called to make neighbors of one another. And, as David’s story shows, that call is not separable from our call to make disciples of one another.

You’ll notice that I could have reached the same conclusion with a lot fewer steps if I’d remembered the old St. Francis line, “Preach the Gospel unceasingly; with words, if necessary.” But I am slow.

I can get it for you wholesale: Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s rejection of “cheap grace” was a huge turning point in Morrison’s life, specifically w/r/t homosexuality. And while I think that language gets appropriated very quickly and easily, such that “he jests at scars who never felt a wound” and straight people get to tell gay people we’re seeking “cheap grace” if we don’t accept a fairly deep and humiliating sacrifice, I really did like how Morrison presented the idea in this talk: I felt like he was challenging all of us to look at all of the places in our lives where we were seeking cheap grace.

No kind of love/is better than others: I also really, really liked Morrison’s point that there’s no perfect analogy for the love and friendship he shared with his partner before he became Catholic. It was eros, but also philia, but also and very deeply storge, and the eros didn’t crowd out the other stuff. To reject a couple specific metaphors, I don’t think eros is like a deep red dye, indelibly staining the entire fabric of a same-sex love relationship. But I also don’t think it’s like a red thread in cloth, which you could, with time and effort, unpick from the rest of the fabric. It’s just… there, and it has to be sublimated, into care and ardent sweetness and protection and admiration, or whatever complex blend and interplay of loves you speak in your perhaps untranslatable heart.

I have something else I’m thinking about, as well, but my thoughts on that are so desperately unformed that I’m not going to inflict them on you all just yet. Thank Heaven for small mercies, y’all.