Paul Tillich’s Porn Stash
In her seminal work Indecent Theology, Marcella Althaus-Reid relates a fact about prominent theologian Paul Tillich, first shared by his wife Hannah in her memoir From Time to Time12—namely, that he had an enduring attraction to sadomasochism, and kept a collection of pornographic photos of young women being whipped as they were tied to crosses.
Despite the role that BDSM played in his life, Tillich never explored kink in his theological works—an omission which Athaus-Reid sees as a great loss. She writes:
“What is to be condemned and regretted is not that Tillich was a sadomasochist, but the fact that he did not ‘find the courage to be’ out of the closet of his sexuality; a sadomasochist theologian, for instance, reflecting on an issue of importance in his life as in the life of others. […] [Systematic theologians] keep pretending […] that the chaotic nature of sexuality does not belong to the sphere of interest of theology—except to condemn it.”
Here, and throughout her work, Althaus-Reid contends that the purpose of theology is to explore “issue[s] of importance” in the lives of real people, rather than flee into metaphysical abstraction—to articulate “God talk” that can be understood and used by people like the poor women, cross-dressing prostitutes, and other outsiders she knew from her youth in Buenos Aires.
Theology, in other words, ought to engage with “the chaotic nature of sexuality,” rather than simply run from it in terror; to deal with the material world, where all kinds of people are doing kinky things all the time, often for very meaningful reasons.
Rather than condemning such “per-versions” from a constructed sexual norm, Althaus-Reid argues that the theologian’s job is to face them directly, along with the many other dimensions of human experience that have been excluded from an artificial understanding of the “natural”—and explore the ways in which a fully incarnate, immanent God makes himself uniquely present in them. Moreover, those theologians with a particular connection to kink, such as Paul Tillich, are in some sense duty-bound to speak about it, and integrate it into a broader, fuller understanding of what it means to be a Christian in this world.
In other words, if I think that I met God at a BDSM convention, at a modest hotel not far outside Chicago, then I ought to come clean about it.
“Abusive gestures or postures or clothing”
To give Tillich (and myself) some credit, this stuff is difficult to talk about. As Althaus-Reid herself points out, kink hasn’t historically been a welcome topic in our conversations about God.
If theological arguments against bondage, fetishism, and other kinds of kink aren’t as readily available and fiercely defended as those against homosexual behavior, it isn’t because traditional conservative theology welcomes these practices with open arms. On the contrary, orthodox sources generally consider BDSM and related pastimes to be so obviously contrary to Christian teaching—so blatantly, intrinsically wrong—that there isn’t much need to make a case against them in the first place.
Where that case is actually written out, it paints the combination of sex with pain, restraint, roleplay, etc. as contrary to “nature,” a violation of a hypothesized natural law according to which sex has a limited and specific function. In a Catholic Answers blog post entitled “The Attraction of Aberrant Behavior,” for instance, Fr. Hugh Barbour, O. Praem., argues that:
“To be sexually aroused by an object or activity that is not related to the union of male and female and the procreation of human nature is an indication of an imbalance […] Abusive gestures or postures or clothing do not represent a true and free relation between the sexes; rather, they act out sexually other psychological aspects of the relationship of the sexes that suffer from the exaggerations and misperceptions of fallen human nature.”13
The desire for kinky sex is, by this definition, a product of our “fallen human nature”—a symptom of our fundamental brokenness, and therefore something to be resisted. Adam and Eve, before eating that darn apple, could have had no urge to tie each other up, or step on each other’s chests while wearing high-heeled boots. The fact that some of their descendants occasionally do want to try these things is a sign of how far we’ve fallen from what we’re supposed to be.
These activities, and even the “gestures,” “postures,” and “clothing” that often go with them, are labelled as inherently “abusive”—that is, improper or misapplied. There is a correct way to “relate,” and that is “the union of male and female [for] the procreation of human nature.” Behavior which falls outside of this norm is wrong because it is outside. It is not directed at the proper aim of sex.
If this is indeed a full and accurate understanding of kink, it stands to reason that there wouldn’t be much theology about it. After all, if theology is “talk (logos) about God (theos),” and if “God” is the fullness of goodness, justice, and truth, we would hardly expect to find him in the places where we revel in our “imbalance” and “fallen human nature” by donning corsets and consensually saying mean things to each other.
But what if kink is something more than “Aberrant Behavior”? Is it really so easy to shove aside bondage and fetishism as mere deviance from “natural” sexuality, and therefore irrelevant to a serious discussion of God? In other words, does God clutch at his pearls and faint at the sound of creaking leather—or is he, in fact, quite at home in the dungeon? Can we meet him there?
Recognizing God
But wait a minute: what does it mean to “meet God” here in our ordinary, material world? By what criteria can I judge one experience as more or less “Godly” than another? How, in other words, can I know for certain that a feeling I want to label as “Holy Spirit,” “Divine Presence,” or something similar, is in fact what I hope it is—and not, for instance, mad cow disease, or a little devil whispering evil, lewd thoughts in my ear?
The short answer: I can’t know. At least I don’t think I can. If there’s a way to be 100% certain of the rightness of my intentions, never mind my actions, I haven’t found it yet.
What I can do—all I can do—is rely on my best reasoning, and look at my experience through the lenses provided by those who claim to have met God themselves—to review the work of those people who believe they have encountered divinity at some point in their lives, and see to what extent my experience lines up with theirs. Doing this can, at a minimum, offer me a rough sense of what given thinkers and saints were trying to convey when they spoke of finding “God” in the world, and allow me to see if I recognize their “God” in my own life.
I might, for instance, turn to St. Ignatius, who literally wrote the book on this subject. In his Spiritual Exercises, Ignatius posits a number of rules for discernment—the process of figuring out whether a given experience comes from God, whether a particular course of action is aligned with God’s will, etc.
While these rules can get quite complex, generally speaking, Ignatius argues that thoughts which increase one’s sense of peace over the long term are likely Godly, while those that cause anxiety or doubt are more likely devilish. As Jesuit Fr. Robert J. Spitzer puts it in a blog post on the topic:
“When decisions, resolutions, or patterns of action increase love and trust in God in the long term, that’s a sign that they are consistent with the workings of the Holy Spirit and can therefore be called spiritual consolations. Conversely, decisions or actions that gradually decrease love, trust, and hope are not consistent with the workings of the Holy Spirit, and they result in spiritual desolations.”
From this Ignatian point of view, then, affect or feeling is not something to be suppressed, ignored, or abandoned. It is, in fact, a critical tool in figuring out what is best for us in this life. To vastly oversimplify, according to these rules of discernment, there is a certain, limited extent to which we have to use our gut when trying to recognize God in our daily lives.14
This is a surprisingly existentialist take from a sixteenth-century Catholic theologian. It must have been refreshing to churchgoers steeped in the abstractions of medieval scholasticism.
We find a similar appreciation for the relevance of lived experience in the work of Gabriel Marcel, one of the very few explicitly existentialist philosophers the Church can lay claim to.
In The Mystery of Being, Marcel defines a “philosophical investigation”—that is, a search for the truth—as “a gathering together of the processes by which I can pass from a situation which is experienced as basically discordant, a situation in which I can go so far as to say that I am at war with myself, to a different situation in which some kind of expectation is satisfied.”15
Note the parallels between Marcel’s “philosophical investigation” and the Ignatian process of discernment. In both cases, one arrives at what is right, good, true, etc. not through formal proofs or by appeals to authority, but by observing what generates a sense of peace where there had been disturbance—in Marcel’s terms, what moves us from internal “war” to a feeling of being “satisfied” with the answers one has found.
According to a particular line of Catholic thinking, then, a person can determine the extent to which a thought, action, situation, lifestyle, etc. is aligned with what we might call truth, love, the work of the Holy Spirit, and so on by carefully examining the feelings it evokes over an extended period of time.
Things which bring lasting peace, joy, and trust—as opposed to instant gratification, even in the form of fleeting spiritual highs—can be considered good, and worth exploring further. Those which generate anxiety and fear over the long term—even if they feel good in the moment—are probably not conducive to our spiritual wellbeing, and should most likely be dropped.
That being the case, the question then becomes: does attendance at a kink convention, of all things, fit the bill? Could BDSM—both the practice itself, and the community surrounding it—possibly lead to the deep, enduring sense of peace Ignatius and Marcel are describing? If so, how would that work?
Intersubjectivity
As an existentialist, Marcel spent a good deal of time thinking about what it is like to be in the world—defining the human experience, good and bad, as he saw it. He compares the individual subject, constantly worried about self-preservation, to an awkward, lonely party guest, nervous about making some mistake and being humiliated in front of strangers. He writes:
“Such a young man is, as you so admirably express it in English, to the highest degree self-conscious […] To such a young man it seems that he has been literally thrown (as Christians were thrown to the lions) to the malevolent lucidity of other people’s glances. Thus he is […] hypnotized […] by what he imagines other people may think of him.”16
Marcel’s description of a fragile selfhood constantly on its guard bears a strong resemblance to the experience of being in the closet, whether one is hiding their kinks, gender, orientation, or any other dimension of their sexuality which falls outside of a perceived norm.
The closeted sadomasochist, for instance, is very familiar with the “malevolent lucidity of other people’s glances”—the destructive power another person’s negative judgement can have on one’s sense of self. Indeed, fear can make what “other people may think” the most important thing in the closeted person’s life.
Justifiably afraid to be perceived as “imbalance[d]” or “abusive,” the closeted kinkster may spend enormous energy putting on the performance of a vanilla sexuality, hiding their real wants from others and even themselves. There is a sense of pulling inward, of tightening around oneself, to prevent anything damning from getting out. As a result, such a person does not have the sense of being truly known by anyone else. They are safe behind their mask—and profoundly alone.
The better, fuller way of being, according to Marcel, is what he calls intersubjectivity—a lived experience of communion17 with others. In the realm of intersubjectivity, boundaries between selves become porous, even if they don’t dissolve entirely. To realize a sense of intersubjectivity is to feel a deep solidarity with another, to welcome and be welcomed. Further developing the metaphor of the young man at the party, Marcel continues:
“Suppose that the ice is after all broken, and that the conversation takes on a more intimate character. ‘I am glad to meet you,’ says [a] stranger, ‘I once knew your parents,’ and all at once a bond is created and, what specially matters, there is a relaxation of tension […] He is lifted right out of the here and now, and, what is very strange surely, this unknown person whom he has just met accompanies him on this sort of magic voyage.”18
Intersubjectivity, according to Marcel, releases the “tension” that the individual subject carries to defend itself from attack. In other words, the move from egotism to intersubjectivity is one instance of a “philosophical investigation” and its conclusion.
Communion is the answer to isolation, recognizable because it brings with it noticeable changes in feeling, specifically relaxation, ease, and peace where there had been self-consciousness, doubt, and tension. By finding its way into the experience of intersubjectivity with another, the lonely, anxious self brings an end to its internal “war,” and becomes “satisfied.”
Realizing intersubjectivity, then, is one way to reach the end of the philosophical investigation around existential angst—a direct experience of transcendent Good, Truth, etc. In other words, from Marcel’s point of view, intersubjectivity is an experience of God in the material world, which feels like a homecoming for the lonely person who has spent too long in exile.19
A “Magic Voyage”
Growing up with a kink—or several—is a challenge. It’s hard to find positive depictions of kink and kinky people in the books we read and the shows and movies we watch. At best, kinky behavior becomes an easy target for lazy comedy writers, an absurd parody of sex. At worst, it has been used as a justification for denying legal rights to kinky people, on the false assumption that such attractions are evidence of mental illness. I’ve already mentioned what conservative theology has to say on the matter.
All of these things combined can leave the closeted kinkster feeling like Marcel’s awkward young man at the party, all the time. That emotional vacuum—that need to be recognized, to be known—can make the prospect of flying across state lines to meet several hundred other kinksters very appealing, albeit terrifying. Actually making the trip, and experiencing that gathering—that intersubjectivity—can be transformative.
To get to the point: about three years ago, as of this writing, I flew to the suburbs of Chicago to attend my first rope bondage convention as a recently single man. This, after spending many years in the closet for all the reasons outlined above.
That weekend, surrounded by people like me—people who like the same things I do; who’ve been through what I have been through; who have the ability to know me—I experienced the hallmarks of what Ignatius would call consolation, and what Marcel would think of as the satisfactory end of a philosophical investigation.
I attended classes in knot-tying. I watched demonstrations of incredible rope-handling skill. More importantly, I openly spoke the truth, for the first time in my life, with others who understood it. In the process, I had a profound experience of Marcel’s intersubjectivity—a sudden release of tension in my heart, a softening of boundaries between I and Thou…and a feeling of finally coming home.
Joseph A. Tetlow, SJ, offers another reliable sign of consolation in his overview of Ignatian discernment:
“When, without warning or any preparatory activity, you are consoled with the love of God above all things, you can trust that it is a good spirit (particularly if it comes with tears).”
This, I think, is the strongest proof I have that the Spirit moves in our playspaces and dungeons: that weekend, after many years of being unable to cry20, I wept every day.
In the hotel room; in the bathrooms; in the hallways between temporary classroom walls; I cried. I was a mess. And in that mess, parts of my body I’d assumed were bones turned soft and melted away. Gently pulling rope over a willing partner’s skin, I became part of a We. There was no more pretending. No more fighting. Finally—finally—there was peace.
“Courage”
Even so, why bring it up?
According to Marcel, we are on the right track in our philosophical investigations when we discover those questions which point to “a line of direction along which we must move.”21 Following that line demands “a certain courage, a courage in following out the course of our thoughts where it leads us[.]”22
The experience that Ignatius and Marcel describe has a compelling quality. It pulls us forward, in the direction of deeper involvement with those contexts and situations that seem to bring it out. So it’s convenient—less disruptive—if God reveals himself to us in the traditionally accepted places: in church on Sunday mornings, for instance, or during a nature walk.
But if he instead decides to show his face at a kink convention; at the club, or in the octagon; during cardiac arrest or a Buddhist retreat; we don’t get to decide whether or not we saw him. All we get to decide how we’ll respond—whether we’ll turn away and bury our noses in a catechism, or instead “follow[] out the course of our thoughts where it leads us[,]” wherever that may be.
And if we’re honest with ourselves, we’ll understand that we “must” go that way if we are to really live.
- According to the same memoir, the couple also practiced a (strained) open marriage, decades before the concept had a popular name.
- As an antidote, Fr. Barbour suggests that “A Catholic who is tempted by these thoughts must first of all avoid all entertaining of them (most people would have little idea of these things unless they had found them online, for example) and meditate on the mysteries of the Lord’s own conception and birth and bodily life by praying the holy rosary.” The fact that this attempt to control thoughts with prayer is a perfectly crafted trigger for scrupulosity apparently never crosses his mind.
- Even with all of these caveats in place, it’s worth reiterating that this is only one person’s very broad-strokes take on Ignatian discernment. For instance, I’ve glossed over Ignatius’s strong emphasis on the importance of checking one’s interpretations with a spiritual director—which I do only rarely, due to my own difficulties with the Church. All of which is to say that the conclusions which follow are my own. I highly doubt your local Jesuit priest will have much patience for the idea that BDSM can act as a channel for divine grace.
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine's Press. p. 8
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine's Press. p. 176-77
- The allusion to the sacrament seems to be deliberate.
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine's Press. p. 177-78
- “This distance presents itself to us as an inner distance, as a land of which we should have to say that it is the land we are homesick for—as being, in fact, just what the lost homeland is to the exile.” Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine's Press. p. 193
- The convention was one among several transformative factors here.
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine's Press. p. 13
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine's Press. p. 15
- According to the same memoir, the couple also practiced a (strained) open marriage, decades before the concept had a popular name.
- As an antidote, Fr. Barbour suggests that “A Catholic who is tempted by these thoughts must first of all avoid all entertaining of them (most people would have little idea of these things unless they had found them online, for example) and meditate on the mysteries of the Lord’s own conception and birth and bodily life by praying the holy rosary.” The fact that this attempt to control thoughts with prayer is a perfectly crafted trigger for scrupulosity apparently never crosses his mind.
- Even with all of these caveats in place, it’s worth reiterating that this is only one person’s very broad-strokes take on Ignatian discernment. For instance, I’ve glossed over Ignatius’s strong emphasis on the importance of checking one’s interpretations with a spiritual director—which I do only rarely, due to my own difficulties with the Church. All of which is to say that the conclusions which follow are my own. I highly doubt your local Jesuit priest will have much patience for the idea that BDSM can act as a channel for divine grace.
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine’s Press. p. 8
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine’s Press. p. 176-77
- The allusion to the sacrament seems to be deliberate.
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine’s Press. p. 177-78
- “This distance presents itself to us as an inner distance, as a land of which we should have to say that it is the land we are homesick for—as being, in fact, just what the lost homeland is to the exile.” Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine’s Press. p. 193
- The convention was one among several transformative factors here.
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine’s Press. p. 13
- Marcel, G. (2001). The Mystery of Being. St. Augustine’s Press. p. 15
