gay ambivalence: on gay men and queer theology

A prompt in a conference call read: What does it mean to identify as a gay man in the era of queer theology? The general answer I have for you is that it means something. There is still something in identifying as a gay man as long as sex between men is difficult to speak of in Christian theology and the church.

First, a prior question: is this the era of queer theology? The answer might be an obvious yes or girl, please. Two introductions to queer theology have been published recently by Linn Tonstad and Chris Greenough, as have collections like Sexual Disorientations: Queer Temporalities, Affects and Theologies and Queer Theologies: Becoming the Queer Body of Christ. In popular books, Mihee Kim-Kort has written Outside the Lines: How Embracing Queerness Will Transform Your Faith. That’s all since 2018, and of course there is earlier work, like Marcella Althaus-Reid’s Queer God (2003), the Blackwell volume edited by Gerard Loughlin (2008), and Patrick Cheng’s introduction called Radical Love (2011).[1]

As soon as 2002, theologians were already offering genealogies of the emergence of queer theology from gay and lesbian theologies in the 1990s. Elizabeth Stuart does this in her book Gay and Lesbian Theologies, as does Robert Goss in Queering Christ: Beyond Jesus ACTed Up. Stuart traces the emergence of queer theology from Goss’s earlier book, Jesus ACTed Up, published in 1993 and from other theological projects engaging Foucault.[2] For Stuart, queer theology emerged from gay and lesbian theology’s failure “to respond to the experiences of those living and dying with HIV/AIDS,” too focused as they were on repeating orthodoxies rather than “dealing with the profoundest theological questions raised” by AIDS.[3] Taking its cues from queer theory, as it ought to in Stuart’s mind, “queer theology is not an identity-based theology, indeed it is an anti-identity based theology. . . . queer theory and, to a large extent, queer theology have emerged from the rubble of gay and lesbian theory/theology. The performance of lesbian and gay identity did not prove to be terribly convincing theoretically or theologically.”[4] Put crudely, gay and lesbian identity was theologically impotent, and AIDS killed it, leaving “queer” to heroically rebuild sexual theologies.

Goss’s Queering Christ also traces the emergence of queer theology from the failures of gay theology. He parses a complicated history of how the gay theology of the 1970s and 80s “inevitably became problematic in its singular focus on gay male issues, excluding lesbian voices.”[5] Goss argues it was also exclusive of bi, transgender, Black, and brown people. Finally, AIDS drew gays into activist coalitions with lesbians, trans people, and bisexuals, leading to theological cross-pollination and queering. Unlike Stuart, Goss doesn’t see queer as simply being anti-identity. He writes, “Queer theologies… will not ever abandon identity and gender as categories of knowledge or liberative practice but will render them open and contestable to various meanings that promote coalition politics.” Like Stuart, Goss’s understanding of how queer theology engages identity is based on his understanding of how queer theory engages identity: “Queer theory aims not to abandon sexual and gender identity as an epistemological category but to render it more flexible, permanently open to revision, and changeable.”[6] Like Stuart, Goss narrates theological development as succession, with new theologies critiquing the life out of old ones. He prophesies, “Bisexual theologies will certainly undermine gay/lesbian and heterosexual theological discourse,” and that “we can expect [transgender theology] to undermine heteronormative and gay/lesbian normative constructions of maleness and femaleness with new interstitional gender spaces.”[7] This language of succession presumes that there is no overlap between bisexual and gay or lesbian, or between transgender and gay or lesbian.

These readings raise some familiar and relevant questions of a genealogical nature. Is queer anti-identity (as Stuart has it), or does it render identity more flexible (as Goss says)? Does queer theology depend on the simultaneous cannibalization and rejection of gay and lesbian theologies as too backwards, too focused on identity? Or can queer theology occur alongside gay and lesbian theologies, the former reminding the latter of the contingency of identity, while the latter encourages the former to linger with particularity?

One more point from Stuart that I find illustrative: Stuart compares how gay, lesbian, and queer theologies approach sex. She writes,

Queer theology though it usually begins with issues of sexuality is not really ‘about’ sexuality in the way that gay and lesbian theology is about sexuality. Queer theology is actually about theology. In gay and lesbian theology sexuality interrogated theology, in queer theology, theology interrogates sexuality. . . . Queer theology denies the ‘truth’ of sexuality and hence declares that it is not stable enough to build a theology upon.[8]

Here, gays and lesbians are sex-obsessed in a way that queers are not: not only are our desires perhaps more fixed, but we want our desires to make some sort of sense, bear some sort of truth. Our theology remains connected to our sexuality and to our sex. So gay theologians build their houses on sand, while queer theologians find more… stable ground? Stability is queer?

Queer theology strays from sex in a way that gay and lesbian theologies do not, at least according to Stuart. Because she says that queer theology is “actually about theology,” it sounds like she sees the turn from sex and sexuality to (“actual”) theology as a good turn. For me, it is not. It is, first, an exclusion of sex and sexuality from the purview of theology. Second, this exclusion of sex reinvests in the theological disavowal of sex that is precisely the disavowal that gave rise to queerness in the church via sodomy. It is, third, an example of how histories of the relationship between gay and queer come to associate gayness with fixity and queerness as endless fluidity.

Queerness-as-fluidity sometimes involves speaking of sexual desires as malleable, be they naturally so, changing across a lifetime, or through intentional reflection in response to how desire is shaped by histories of colonialism, racism, sexism, and transphobia. Queerness-as-fluidity sometimes frames gayness as fixity. It also can involve a methodological fluidity: queer as the site for interrogating how racism, colonialism, etc. are interwoven with configurations of sex and gender, or queer as unmoored from sex and gender altogether. Ubi transgressio, queer ibi est. Where transgression is, there queer is. And often for queer theologians, Deus ibi est. Any kind of transgression is queer is Godly. Take queer sex out and it all gets conveniently flattened into one. In theological registers, where queerness-as-fluidity leaves sex behind, it can easily be confused with Christianity itself. To be a good queer is actually to be a good Christian, and vice versa.  

I’ll try rephrasing the question again, with more specificity this time: What does it mean to be a man who has sex with men in an era in which the church and its institutions at their worst still exclude gays from their sacraments and leadership and at their best peddle a queer theology that would prefer not to talk about gay sex—what it means, what it reveals, what it doesn’t mean or reveal, what kinds of relationships it forges, what kinds of pastoral care (not correction) it requires?

A recent example of queerness-as-fluidity leading to the flattening of queerness into Christianity is found in Mihee Kim-Kort’s Outside the Lines. Citing the 2007 volume After Sex: On Writing since Queer Theory, she writes,

Queerness has undergone numerous challenges and transformations. It began as a way to describe certain expressions of sexuality and gender, and now it includes other markers of identity, such as race, ethnicity, nationality, ability, and more. Yes, it’s rooted in matters of gender and sexuality, but queerness is not meant to be exclusionary. In fact, any kind of exclusion would be counter to queerness, because queerness is about bodies, and we all have bodies.[9]

First, Kim-Kort is absolutely right in naming the relationship between queerness and race, and some queer scholars of color have made the even stronger claim that queerness has never been separate from race. Second, though, she posits a contrast between gender and sexuality on one hand and inclusion on the other. To insist upon queerness’s association with gender and sexuality is to be exclusionary, which she says, is counter to queerness. On my reading, this risks aligning gayness with exclusion, fixity, and backwardness.

Now, some contributors to After Sex do argue that queer theory can be illuminating for more topics than sex and sexuality, but these arguments are more about what queer can do as an analytic than about what can be called queer. Other contributors, as the editors point out, resonate with the claim of Sharon Marcus that “If everyone is queer, then no one is.”[10] Heather Love writes, in her contribution to the volume,

Before we get too excited about the expansive energies of queer, though, we have to ask ourselves whether queer actually becomes more effective as it surveys more territory. In many cases the intentions in generalizing are good. . . . The problem with such a broad vision of queer is… that the intention to be answerable to many different constituencies can end up looking like a desire to have ownership over them.[11]

Or take the chapter by Richard Rambuss, whose own version of “after queer” and “after sex” includes being a gay man talking about how men are hot. He, too, finds room for an expansion of objects of study: “Gay male sex and what gay men find sexual may be much more, or even quite other, than love of the cock. For some, it might also, or even instead, be love of the ass, the male ass.”[12] Even instead! Anyway, Kim-Kort glosses the variations, more and less subtle, within After Sex, and cites the volume as support for suggesting that queer sex is no longer necessary for queer life.

Indeed, for Kim-Kort, queerness “can matter to anyone, whether we identify with queerness or not, whether it resonates a little or a lot—because whenever we love ourselves and our neighbors with the boundary-breaking love of God, we enact this queer spirituality in the world.”[13] Queerness and Christianity are both about a kind of transgression that sounds a lot like a basic Christian ethic of love your neighbor as yourself. This definition leads Kim-Kort to give accounts of queer friendship and promiscuity without sex. Promiscuity is really just radical hospitality.

The problem with queerness-as-fluidity-without-sex is that it makes things easier for the church. Queerness becomes what the church needs it to be, so it doesn’t have to think about gay sex or challenge homophobia and transphobia; rather, the church can just go ahead and consider itself queer—while replicating a phobic silence around queer sex that makes things harder for queers whose queerness is related to their sexual desires and practices.[14]

I am not claiming that gay men experience the worst oppression in society or in the church. Especially not able-bodied cis white gay men like myself. Nor are we alone in this position of being screwed by queerness-as-fluidity-without-sex. Lesbians experience it, too, and when I speak of gays and lesbians, I am speaking of cis and trans gays and lesbian. And pan- and bisexual people who have queer sex and relationships.

Another way of revisiting the prompt: What does it mean to insist upon keeping your gay sex life in your theology?

I think I’m coming around to an answer. In the era of queer theology, gay men inhabit a tension between relevant and irrelevant objects of discourse and subjects of thought. Also, we are simultaneously sex-obsessed and unsexy (not the hot new thing). Where queer becomes more and more capacious, more and more uncritically Christian and desexed, to be a gay man is to remain with the stigma of gay sex.

Although I’ve critiqued queerness-as-fluidity quite a bit, there are things to critique about gayness-as-fixity as well—putting all of one’s subjective weight into a sexual identity. In Telling Truths in Church, Mark D. Jordan offers a brief “Negative Theology of Sexual Identities.” Jordan writes, “the negation of the label ‘homosexual’ is truer in theologically important ways than its affirmation. . . . Negating the identity ‘homosexual’ means something [] like remembering what imposing that identity leaves out.”[15] By this, he means that homosexual is not ultimately adequate “for capturing the erotic passion of persons.” It “is too crude, too silly, to capture what God has done underneath it.”[16] Jordan is worried that our identity categories will too heavily overdetermine how we understand our erotic lives and God within them, all the while misrecognizing how the identities we assume have been constructed for us, how they manage us. For him, the erotic “is our deepest experience of grace,” so to limit our language for our erotic lives limits what we can say about God.[17]

Personally, I’ve not (yet?) felt as if identifying as gay has limited my theology of eros—if anything, it has absolutely blown it open, stripped it of readymade meanings. This rupture is not due to some inherent transgressiveness of a man desiring men but due to the heterosexual Christian context of my upbringing, and indeed, of the church today generally. Jordan admits, “We who live through being gay or lesbian may even need to inhabit fixed identities for a while in church debates before we can set to work dismantling them.”[18] This is identification as a strategy of resistance.

As I continue to see queerness-as-fluidity-without-sex appear in Christian discourse alongside gayness-as-queerness-without-sex (for another time), identifying as a gay man and identifying with gay sex have felt more pressing and fun. It is worth embodying the shame and sin heaped onto us by the church. It is worth putting a face to theologies intended to deface us. Not so they can see whatever hurt we carry with us, or so that we can try to prove that we too are human, or so that we can die on the hill of “gay is good,” but so that the church (including gay and queer people within it who intentionally distance themselves from the stigma associated with queer sex) can see our freedom, our joy, our Rumpelstiltskin-like spinning of shame into pleasure and isolation into vibrant life, which I believe is made possible in the Spirit. 

I’ve got two endings for you. One looks back, and one looks forward. 

i. In 1989, what was then called the Gay Men’s Issues in Religion Consultation within the American Academy of Religion hosted a panel called “Constructing Gay Theology.” In the concluding section of his talk, J. Michael Clark, one of the founding co-chairs of the Unit, writes,

If those of us who are gay men, particularly those of us who deeply identify with the gay ghetto and subculture, are truly going to claim and celebrate our experience as a theological resource, how honest with ourselves are we really willing to be? How much deeper are we willing to delve into our experience and how willing are we to share that experience in the public forum of theological dialogue?

Specifically: Can we acknowledge God’s presence in our personal rituals of preparation… for sex—from weight-lifting, exercising, and dieting to grooming and dressing? Is the numinous not pungent in the frenzy of disco music, the sweat of dancing, the smell of poppers, the activities of cruising and pairing up for sex? If indeed, “nothing that is of us can be alien to our theology,” then not only must we not be embarrassed by this side of our experience; we must in fact make such an affirmation.[19]

I’ll have more things to say about Clark in the future, especially his work later on in the 90s. For now, I love the specificity of this passage. I think it’s the only time I’ve read the word “poppers” in a theological text. But it isn’t the recognizable to the point of stereotypical picture of gay male life that draws me to the passage for our purposes today, but rather the framing of those particulars. How honest with ourselves are we willing to be? What are we willing to talk about in a public forum, even the hyper-particularized kind of space that this unit is? Does embarrassment shape our scholarship? What would we write if we felt truly free? And what, if anything, does that tell us about the state of our field and the institutions where it has found lodging?

ii. In June 2021, the Institute for Cultural Inquiry in Berlin hosted a conference called, “What Happened to Lesbian and Gay Studies?” A strong theme in the presentations was a complication of the narrative that queer theory came along in the early 1990s bringing its anti-identitarian axe to gay and lesbian studies, which had been too narrowly focused on discrete identities.

In his introductory talk, Ben Nichols nuances and tweaks this narrative. Following the “core moment of anti-identitarian high theory” of the early 1990s, the late 90s and early 2000s saw explicit discussion of identity as a concept peter out as queer theory turned to the problems of normalization and assimilation. In the 2000s, he notes, queer theorists developed critiques of homonormativity and homonationalism, looking at the gay and queer complicity in nationalist projects. In the 2010s, Nichols claims, queer projects took a “categorical turn,” in which it became possible to think in and through sexual identities while maintaining conceptual validity. Think Halperin’s How to Be Gay, Darius Bost’s Evidence of Being: The Black Gay Cultural Renaissance and the Politics of Violence, or Natasha Hurley’s Circulating Queerness: Before the Gay and Lesbian Novel, he lists. Or recently, Jeremy Atherton Lin’s memoir, Gay Bar, and Jafari Allen’s There’s a Disco Ball Between Us: A Theory of Black Gay Life. Nichols asks, “What will queer studies be about if it does not have to or cannot ethically be about everything?” Nichols lingers with the distancing of queer from identity, saying, “I wonder how much of the ease with which we fault and displace the identities that might otherwise be seen to ground our work in gender and sexuality studies is a symptom of a basic aversion to those identities. So if we just liked them more, would we be so keen to jettison them?” He asks, “What is it about them exactly that lets us down so badly?”

In Rachel Corbman’s talk, “Identifying Gay and Lesbian after Queer Studies,” she unearths anti-identitarian impulses in gay lib and feminist movements of the 1970s, when gay was basically a “proto-queer catch-all,” quoting Jeffrey Weeks. Then, through a reading of Queer Nation’s history, she argues that queer activism in the 90s was actually much more identitarian than the familiar narrative allows: “Queer… functioned as a loose synonym for gay and lesbian.” She notes that even Sedgwick’s Epistemology of the Closet, often hailed as one of the founding texts in queer theory alongside Gender Trouble, says that structuralist approaches to gender and sex run the risk of being used to homophobic ends. And in their readings and examples, both Butler and Sedgwick’s texts didn’t stray far from gay and lesbian spaces. In summary, Corbman writes, “In overemphasizing queer’s rejection of gay and lesbian, we overdetermine queer, lesbian, and gay in ways that fundamentally distort history.”

So, I return to the question after the question I started with: is this the era of queer theology? In an obvious sense, yes, but this story may require complication as well, as gay and lesbian theology is still being written. For work largely pertaining to gay men, we could cite Richard Rambuss’s Closet Devotions, published in 1998 and Donald Boisvert’s Out on Holy Ground: Meditations on Gay Men’s Spirituality from 2000 as early signs that there would be more gay work to come. We could note Roger Sneed’s Representations of Homosexuality: Black Liberation and Cultural Criticism, published in 2010, and Dirk von der Horst’s Jonathan’s Loves, David’s Laments: Gay Theology, Musical Desires, and Historical Difference, from 2017.[20] There are a multitude of fiction writers, essayists, and poets whose work span gay and theological topics. And of course there is the myriad of apologetic gay Christian books like Justin Lee’s Torn, Wesley Hill’s Washed and Waiting, and God and the Gay Christian by Matthew Vines, to name a few.

While I think it’s a fair question of whether or not there is a “gay men and religion” field and even whether there needs to be one, there iswork to do in this domain. I’ll admit I have a stake in this, as many of the projects I am interested in pursuing are about gay men and gay desire. In Christian theology, where I work, heterosexuality has been made core to the symbolic order through the alignment of the God/Church relationship to marriage and the alignment of sex and procreation, meaning that gay sex has historically been considered a threat to nature. There is a purpose in lingering with the specificities of gay sex––what it has been made to mean, what it might yet mean or not, and what meanings it shatters.

To study gay things and men and sex and desire and religion, we don’t need to conceive of gayness as an unchanging category, either historically or within the lives of those who identify with it – sex, religion, and men aren’t particularly stable categories, either. And we don’t need to see the study of gay men and religion as an entirely separate thing from queer studies in religion and queer theology; neither would it need to “center itself” within queer studies and theology—no one wants that. It doesn’t need to be particularly ambitious or large. It doesn’t need to be the only discourse to which a scholar contributes. But, with relevant critiques of identity in mind, why not study gay men? Why not do theology that is actually about sexuality and theology, from the cultural milieus sexuality engenders?

If it does look a little backwards to some, let them enjoy the view.

[This essay is based off a paper I gave for the Gay Men and Religion Unit of the American Academy of religion. The panel was called “Gay Men and Queer Theory: Reflections on the Shape of the Field.” The paper resonates with “Queer/Christian Collapse,” as I was revising that around the same time I wrote this.]

[1] A lot is obscured by lumping all of these differently queer projects into one category or era.

[2] Stuart, Gay and Lesbian Theologies, 79–81.

[3] Stuart, 75.

[4] Stuart, 89.

[5] Goss, Queering Christ, 241–42.

[6] Goss, 237.

[7] Goss, 236.

[8] Stuart, Gay and Lesbian Theologies, 102–103.

[9] Kim-Kort, Outside the Lines, 3–4.

[10] Marcus, “Queer Theory for Everyone,” 196; Halley and Parker, “Introduction,” 7.

[11] Love, “Queers ____ This,” 183.

[12] Rambuss, “After Male Sex,” 201.

[13] Kim-Kort, Outside the Lines, 6.

[14] Halperin, Saint Foucault, 65. The concerns I’m raising are not new ones. Writing in 1995 on the initial rise to prominence of queer, David Halperin writes [and I quote at length],

“What makes “queer” potentially so treacherous as a label is that its lack of definitional content renders it all too readily available for appropriation by those who do not experience the unique political disabilities and forms of social disqualification from which lesbians and gay men routinely suffer in virtue of our sexuality. . . . ‘Queer’ can even support the restigmatization of lesbians and gay men, who can now be regarded (once again) as sad, benighted folks, still locked—unlike postmodern, non-sexually labeled, self-theorized queers—into an old-fashioned, essentialized, rigidly defined, specifically sexual (namely, lesbian or gay) identity. Lesbians and gay men can now look forward to a new round of condescension and dismissal at the hands of the trendy and glamorously unspecified sexual outlaws who call themselves ‘queer’ and who can claim the radical chic attached to a sexually transgressive identity without, of course, having to do anything icky with their bodies in order to earn it.”

[15] Jordan, Telling Truths in Church, 68.

[16] Jordan, 69.

[17] Jordan, 74.

[18] Jordan, 70.

[19] Clark, “Prophecy, Subjectivity, and Theodicy in Gay Theology,” 41.

[20] Michael Ford’s Disclosures: Conversations Gay and Spiritual (2005) and Michael Bernard Kelly’s Christian Mysticism’s Queer Flame: Spirituality in the Lives of Contemporary Gay Men (2021)—both lean heavily on conversations and interviews in their methodology but are certainly relevant to theology. Broader, but certainly representative of a desire for scholarship on gay men and religion, is Ronald E. Long’s Men, Homosexuality, and the Gods: An Exploration into the Religious Significance of Male Homosexuality in World Perspective (2004), complete with a naked blond white model on the cover.

Theology and the Body Outside Itself

the essay read aloud by myself—please forgive any editing blips as I… did not edit it

This essay stemmed from a course taught by Dr. Eboni Marshall Turman, inviting reflection on how we as students are being formed theologically within our department. It is the impetus for whatever work homodoxy becomes, so I wanted to share it. Thank you to Dr. Turman for the wonderful course.


One of the first texts I read related to queerness and the church after my introduction to gay literature and after putting aside the sort of apologetic texts that circulate in evangelical Christian circles was “Subjectivity and Belief,” an essay by Kathy Rudy in which she recounts the loss of her faith and her experience of being haunted by the church and by her former belief. In 1995, Rudy was beginning her second year as a professor in a dual appointment between Duke Divinity School and Duke’s Women’s Studies department. Although it wasn’t a secret that Rudy was a lesbian with a partner, she reports being outed by “several conservative Faculty members” and being “accused of theological heresy for my current work on homosexuality as well as for earlier publications on abortion.”[1] Her future at Duke Divinity was foreclosed upon, and the administration stepped in to transfer her into a fulltime position in Women’s Studies. For Rudy, the professional rejection led to her leaving the church and losing her faith.

Upon discovering the existence of a gay literature in my junior and senior years of college, I found that in many of the novels I was drawn to—E. M. Forster’s Maurice, Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, James Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain, Randall Kenan’s A Visitation of Spirits, and Jeanette Winterson’s Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit—queerness functioned as something like a wedge or a yeast, opening up space between the church in which one was raised and the future one could imagine for oneself. The question that drove my initial foray into gay literature and Christian theology (and into my master’s degree) was, “Is there a trajectory in 20th-century and contemporary gay literature in which queer figures stop needing to leave the church?” I wanted the tension of the plot to lie elsewhere. Much of the literature I have found instead coheres with Richard Rambuss’s observation that in contemporary gay/queer discourse, “[l]ooking to religion has thus become a means of amplifying eroticism, of reinfusing it with an alluring transgressivity,” as opposed to Rambuss’s other corpus, the English devotional poetry of Traherne, Donne, and others, in which sexual language heightens religious feeling.[2] The trend is an exodus: the language of the church is carried beyond its walls by those who leave or are pushed out of it, those whose sexual excess becomes the church’s sexual excess, whose ecstasy (true to the word’s historical meaning of being mystically drawn out of oneself or besides oneself) draws them outside of the Body of Christ. Outside or beside the Body, it is sometimes used, as Rambuss describes, to name feelings of sexual ecstasy, but for Rudy, there is a remainder of religious experience and subjectivity. One’s old language does not all map onto new experience, does not all make sense of new things; conversely, neither does one’s new language make sense of one’s old experience in the church. Rudy writes, “The world you lived in before, where God operated as a force in your life, seems unrepresentable in the new language.”[3] The exodus is never total; the Body is never quite left behind; the once-churched secular is never truly disenchanted.

To find texts that mirror something of her own alienation, Rudy turns to memoirs. Of the few that resonate, she finds that they often posit too strong a distinction between the inside and outside of religion. “Religion demands of us an all-or-nothing attitude, we are either in or out. One person can only occupy one truth at any given time. Although people can change, they must change as a unified subject, they must say ‘I once believed and now I don’t.’”[4] Against this expectation of a coherent “either/or” identification, Rudy reports, drawing on the work of Avery Gordon, that she is haunted:

still today, several years after leaving, when I feel scared about something I (almost involuntarily) pray, when I am anxious I hear a voice that says God will provide, when I face something that seems insurmountable I remember (and I ask myself, is remembering the right verb?) that with God, all things are possible. The ghosts embedded in these thoughts and practices continue to circulate in my life, even though I would like them to be gone. . . . At an almost physical level of flesh and emotions, the church constitutes and constructs a part of who I am, and no amount of rejection or willful apostasy can ever alter that.[5]

Her state of God-haunting requires a new way to speak of her selfhood. “What I need is a theory of subjectivity that would allow me to be two contradictory things at the same time, that would allow me to say ‘I believe’ and ‘I don’t’ in a way that does not require coherent explanation. I need a theory that will allow me to be fragmented. . . . I need a model that does not obligate me to be only one, unified person.”[6] This is a theological desire.

why church?

“He’ll live on, half in, half out of the community, a familiar figure. . . . Everyone will know about his drinking; he’ll disappear for two or three days every month or so. . . . If he lives long enough, generations of missionaries in all kinds of remote places will think of him as a queer old character who was somehow part of the Hope of their student days. . . . he’ll be found in the chapel at odd times and missed when he’s expected. Then one morning, after one of his drinking bouts, he’ll be picked up at the gate dying, and show by a mere flicker of the eyelid that he is conscious when they give him the last sacraments. It’s not such a bad way of getting through one’s life.”[7]

“Elisha,” he said, “no matter what happens to me, where I go, what folks say about me, no matter what anybody says, you remember—please remember—I was saved. I was there.”[8]

I remember church and praying. . . . I remember wondering what God looks like and I remember after a time stopping wondering what he looked like and wondering more who he was, thinking it was surely possible that he did not like some people so much, despite what my grandfather and the Bible said. I remember wondering what he would tell me if he ever did want to break his centuries of silence. I remember deciding that I would find out if I lived right and finally went home to heaven. Then I remember the day I realized that I was probably not going to go home to heaven, cause the rules were too hard for me to keep. That I was too weak.[9]

There are threads that help you find your way back, and there are threads that intend to bring you back. . . . People do go back, but they don’t survive, because two realities are claiming them at the same time. . . . It is not the one thing nor the other that leads to madness, but the space in between them.[10]


Rudy’s essay distills the tensions present in the gay literature that drew me into theology.[11] But given the disciplinary norms of theology, particularly common claims regarding the relationship between theology and the church, it remains unclear to me to what task exactly I have been drawn. Theologians are (often) concerned with the formation of Christian subjects, whether their approach is liturgical, ethical, systematic, practical, or otherwise. This is a reason one might say, as it is often said, that theology is “for the church,” or as James H. Cone says (and complicates), “[t]heology functions within the church”; it serves ecclesial subjects and critiques ecclesial language.[12] If theology cares about formation within the church, it also ought to be the domain of those who, having been so formed, are expulsed from it. It ought to be the domain of suspended or bifurcated belief, of remembered prayers that slip from lips in the time of trial, of the God-haunted, of those who have learned the language of faith and carry it with them into new settings, of those who leave but nevertheless know something about God and God’s people, who indeed have learned something about the Body of Christ in being hewn from it or from hanging on to it by a thread. While for many, theology remains appropriate to those who participate regularly in the communal life of the church and its sacraments and for whom theology is “for the church,” it has remained a gut contention of mine that what it means to be “for” the church is not exhausted by the speech of those regularly in pulpits and pews and at potlucks following the service, or those clergy and academics whose concern it is to critique and guide the language used by everyday Christians.

In the place where such questions might most naturally be at home, queer theology, the most incisive work on the relationship between theology and the church is that of Linn Marie Tonstad. In articles—“The Limits of Inclusion: Queer Theology and its Others” (2015); “‘Everything Queer, Nothing Radical’” (2016)—and a book, Queer Theology: Beyond Apologetics (2018), Tonstad takes to task those within queer theology who, through a variety of apologetic means and maneuvers, attempt to move “homosexual relationships from the category of the illicit to the category of the licit, leaving everything else unchanged.”[13] Apologetics is the genre of theology where much queer work has staked its claims in the service of more inclusive churches, but the problems that have arisen from such an approach are manifold: inclusive Christians often replicate the exclusions levied against them by denigrating the exclusive other, often through arguments with anti-Semitic undertones, or similarly, they claim to be sinless relative to less respectable queers or inhospitable Christians;[14] in attempts to deconstruct binaries, they appeal to fluidity in ways that simply reinforce the binaries;[15] for legitimization, they appeal to readings of the origins of Christianity in ways that risk reproducing normative visions of humanity and reducing the past to the needs of the present;[16] the arguments they put forward often “ignore the ambiguities of human existence, the ways in which our lives and their consequences are neither transparent to us nor fully within our power to determine”;[17] and, broadly, the desire to find the right argument for inclusion in the church and its sacraments (namely, marriage, but also ordination) has beaten out other avenues of queer theological inquiry. In Queer Theology, after surveying and critiquing the main modes of queer apologetics, she writes, “Many of the arguments depend on conditions that are peripheral to central Christian concerns, while others depend for their effectiveness primarily on gaining Christian sanction for same-sex relationships.”[18] Is that all queer Christian lives reveal? she asks. In taking queer theology beyond apologetics, Tonstad hopes to shift the discipline past the impasse of debating inclusion and exclusion. Although Tonstad’s writing against apologetics is not something like constructive ecclesiology (which she does offer in her first book),[19] her critiques of queer theology reveal that many queer theologians have been remarkably restricted in the forms of relationships they envision between queer people and the church. Desiring to be considered an unproblematic presence, to be normal, respectable, deserving even of rights.

A notable herald of a queer theology that does not contort itself into something decent or easy to swallow is Marcella Althaus-Reid, who is the subject of Queer Theology’s fourth chapter. One fundamental thing Althaus-Reid has to teach about the relationship between bodies and theology—and by extension, the relationship between queer people and the church—is that theologies that systemize are theologies that idealize, distorting reality while hiding the odd sexual valences of the language it uses and stories it tells. She writes, “[t]heology is basically an incoherent act,” and therefore, “theology has its own deconstructive forces, its own instabilities and imprecisions which always create tensions and open new ways of understanding.”[20] Thinking with Althaus-Reid on the material effects of top-down systematic theology, or “T-Theology” (capital T, so theology proper), Tonstad writes, “It seeks to classify all of reality systematically. In other words, it tries to provide holiness scripts for people’s sexual and romantic lives, and by identifying what is decent and God-willed, it produces the indecent, that which (it pretends) is against God’s will.”[21] Here, we witness the production of insides and outsides, of that which is proper and that which is excessive, through the exhortation to decency. But Althaus-Reid argues that theology’s failure at its purported goal of coherence or systematicity is not a cause to reject the enterprise, rather, “This has made of theology something still worth the effort, a path of permanent revelation and rediscovery of the engagement between the sensual and the divine in our lives.”[22] The terrain on which theology’s coherence is found confounded is “people’s experiences and [] their sexual stories, because they reveal the falsity of the border limits between the material and divine dimension of our lives.”[23] There is a danger present in theology, perhaps systematics in particular. In explicating proper doctrine for the church, which requires channeling revelation into discrete but interconnected systematic loci, it is easy to forget that the people for whom the theologian writes are often subjects already formed by the church’s categories and stories—converts, “cradle” Christians, and exiles alike. They have been categorized and resisted categorization; they have found their place or places in the Bible’s stories; and they have also found themselves in positions the church never prepared them for, necessitating them to improvise and stretch their knowledge to meet unanticipated situations. Theologians must offer interpretations of God and reality that are as complicated as the experiences of people who encounter God within, without, and across the categories and systems that have been drawn for them. Mark D. Jordan writes, “If you cannot tell your own life, you certainly cannot tell divine action in it—or describe the divine image glimpsed through it. (The reverse is also true.) Yet so much of theology is written as if it were easier to describe God’s essence than to give an account of a single evening’s desires.”[24] All this to say, theology draws lines of distinction, and although it is often said that those best situated to engage in theology are those who participate in the life of a local church and, it is implied or stated, who are educated enough to know how to correct bad ways of speaking about God, we might expect that many of those who will have interesting things to say in the realm of queer theology and theology generally will be people for whom the church is a fraught attachment. Thus, my subject is the relationship between theology and the Body and bodies it speaks of and for, and how theology accounts for the complications and ambivalences of queer people’s relationships to the church.

why Church?

The expectation that the lost [ascended] body of Christ will return from heaven requires the church to take a dual stance of expectation and refusal inside this current order. Christ’s body went away; it never belonged to the church in the first place. The church lost the body of Christ or never had it for itself. . . . The church continues to anticipate the return of the body of Christ that went elsewhere. . . . Instead of having and being the body, the sign-symbolism of a nonreproductive ecclesiology points to the lost and ascended body of Christ, holding absence and expectation together as forms of relationship to the nonidentical body. . . . Instead of asserting that the body of Christ has been handed over to the church, it recognizes that the body of Christ, elsewhere and outside itself, is its only hope.[25]


There are many ways to construe the purpose of theology, and there are many iterations of Christ’s body. As the Body/bodies to which theology is attached, the church is one place where the two meet. To speak of a body is to speak of boundaries and boundedness, inevitably, of insides and outsides, and the sort of model one chooses for the unity of believers determines what sort of relations can exist across the body’s limits. “Christian speech” is one sort of thing that flows in and out of the Body of Christ. So here, I turn to linguistic models of theology, an artificial category I am creating to draw together theology as God-talk and the cultural-linguistic model of George Lindbeck. They are not mutually exclusive, as they function in different semantic realms—the former a synonym for theology; the latter, a model for religion that has implications for theology. James Cone’s usage of “God-talk” demonstrates one way that speaking of theology cuts to theological delegitimization, particularly anti-Black delegitimization in academic institutional settings—a revelation of how theology creates barriers that can be refused. George Lindbeck’s cultural-linguistic model for understanding religion and doctrine shores up homogenous cultures and communities of shared language by locating theological authority in a distinct but not necessarily apparent core of practitioners. Finally, Kathryn Tanner’s Theories of Culture punctures the neatness of postliberal accounts of culture like Lindbeck’s, offering a more complex model in which the boundary of Christian identity, which is itself not always clear, functions as a point of relation and negotiation between Christians and their surrounding culture rather than a line of clear differentiation. For Tanner, Christian identity is always already predicated on the borrowing of materials and paradigms. She is primarily attentive to the absorption of things from without within Christian identity, but she is also awake to instances of indeterminate influence across the boundaries of Christian identity. By the latter, I mean the significance of moving from within to without and the possibility of remaining ambivalently attached to the church. To speak of Christian speech, then, ought to draw attention to the people who speak it. It can be difficult to find ways of speaking meaningfully of how belief and theology emerge against the grain of the church’s complex boundaries. To do so, I believe, ultimately requires beginning not at the question of how to constitute the boundaries of the church or Christian identity but beginning with the people who know themselves to be unsettled by the church.

While the postliberal grammatical approach is a fairly specific framework and approach to theology (Lindbeck’s championed model is the “cultural-linguistic”), speaking of theology as God-talk shifts attention to how people, not necessarily just academic theologians, talk about God. God-talk, a literal translation of “theology,” emerged in the 1960s, popularized by John MacQuarrie’s book, God-talk: An Examination of the Language and Logic of Theology, and became a common name for theology—adopted by prominent theologians and the academy generally.[26] The implications and possibilities that stem from reformulating theology as “God-talk” and the motivations and assumptions that lead one to use it deserve study, but an initial observation is that “God-talk” may be used to draw attention to shed the institutional and sometimes elitist associations of “theology,” tipping the scale toward everyday speech while blurring the divide between the words of laypeople and theologians. In A Black Theology of Liberation, James H. Cone uses the language of “God-talk” to speak of where theology aligns with the speech of Black people and where theology finds its authorization or validation as theology. Speaking of white seminaries, he writes,

With their intellectual expertise, it is inevitable that white scholars fall into the racist error of believing that they have the right to define what is and what is not orthodox religious talk. Because they have read so many of their own books and heard themselves talk so often, it is not surprising that they actually believe most of the garbage they spout out about God. They therefore think that all authentic God-talk must meet their approval before it can be called theology.[27]

Cone notes how white theologians differentiate between God-talk and theology, the distance between the two allowing room for the judgment of authenticity—“theology” becomes the stamp of imprimatur withheld from Black theology, the stamp which Cone rejects. When listing the sources of Black theology, Cone also situates God-talk in relation to Black experience: “There can be no black theology which does not take seriously the black experience—a life of humiliation and suffering. This must be the point of departure for all God-talk which seeks to be black-talk. This means that black theology realizes that it is human beings who speak of God, and when those human beings are black, they speak of God only in light of the black experience.”[28] Reversing the order of authorization, it is not “black-talk” that seeks to be recognized as God-talk, but God-talk that seeks to be recognized as “black-talk”. Cone draws attention to theology’s hierarchy of white legitimization and upends it. The structures of legitimization are not beyond reproach and may, in fact, demand reproach.

George Lindbeck’s “cultural-linguistic” framework for religion exemplifies the approach of theology as grammar: “a religion can be viewed as a kind of cultural and/or linguistic framework or medium that shapes the entirety of life and thought. . . . it is similar to an idiom that makes possible the description of realities, the formulation of beliefs, and the experiencing of inner attitudes, feelings and sentiments. Like a culture or language, it is a communal phenomenon that shapes the subjectivities of individuals…”[29] For Lindbeck, language is thus the primary way of thinking the relationship between people and the church. People internalize Christian language through participation in the church. Interestingly, an account of religious experience emerges from within his cultural-linguistic model, against the foil of what he terms the “experiential-expressive model.” The experiential-expressive model posits that “[d]ifferent religions are diverse expressions or objectifications of a common core experience”—an experience that, “while conscious, may be unknown on the level of self-conscious reflection,” but nevertheless, it is “present in all human beings.”[30] Rather than religion as the expression of an internal pre-linguistic universal experience, the cultural-linguistic alternative says that in interiorizing religion to the point of fluency, “[o]ne learns how to feel, act, and think in conformity with a religious tradition that is, in its inner structure, far richer and more subtle than can be explicitly articulated.”[31] Lindbeck does not do away with experience as a category, but reconfigures it. Put briefly, some core experience does not work its way outward to the point of articulation; to the contrary, language structures experience.[32] This is a model he argues is fit to meet the challenge of mediating various ecumenical disputes.

Laying out his account of how his cultural-linguistic model would approach the doctrine of infallibility, he writes, “we shall ask who or what can be appealed to as most nearly infallible in grammatical and, by transference, doctrinal matters. The most obvious answer is what the theological tradition calls the consensus fidelium or consensus ecclesiae.”[33] This requires further definition: who is part of this consensus? Lindbeck’s answer is linguistic: those who are competent practitioners, those who speak rightly. “Competence in natural languages is easy to identify. It is possessed by native speakers and a few nonnative ones who can communicate effectively in a given tongue. The limits of the language are marked by the point at which variations in dialect become so great that communication is impossible apart from learning the idiom as foreign speech.”[34] However, participation in the life of the church does not guarantee that one is a competent speaker. He writes, “most Christians through most of Christian history have spoken their own official tongue very poorly. It has not become a native language, the primary medium in which they think, feel, act, and dream. Thus, lacking competence, they cannot, from the cultural-linguistic perspective, be part of that consensus fidelium against which doctrinal proposals are tested.” Doubling down, he continues, “The linguistically competent, to recapitulate, are to be sought in the mainstream, rather than in isolated backwaters or ingrown sects uninterested in communicating widely.”[35] Although it is important to keep in mind that his designation of “isolated backwaters” is not referring to geographically but linguistically isolated places and communities, the whole passage has a smell of something like theological elitism or clericalism, which he attempts to disavow by clarifying that the linguistically competent “may have no formal theological training” beyond being “saturated with the language of Scripture and/or liturgy.”[36] He terms such people “flexibly devout: they have so interiorized the grammar of their religion that they are reliable judges, not directly of the doctrinal formulations (for these may be too technical for them to understand), but of the acceptability or unacceptability of the consequences of these formulations in ordinary religious life and language.”[37] This is postliberal infallibility.

It is important to keep in mind that Lindbeck’s aim here is to find a broader concept of infallibility—broader than the Roman Catholic understanding—toward the goal of ecumenical conversation and cooperation, all in order to argue for the efficacy of his proposed model. Nevertheless, along the way, he restricts the category of those who may speak with theological legitimacy to an unknowable but small amount of the faithful—only the most adept of the mainstream. The few, the proud, the flexibly devout, who bear an “interiorized skill, the skill of the saint.”[38] To prevent the conclusion that only the theologically literate are proper Christian speakers, he maintains that the skill of the saint—the knowledge of the liturgically and Biblically saturated flexibly devout—“is quite different from the reflective and theoretical knowledge of the trained theologian, who employs publicly assessable rules and procedures in seeking to distinguish between the good and the bad, the true and the false.”[39] The distinction intended to safeguard the integrity of non-specialist Christian speech reifies the necessity for the theologian to decide what is true. There is of course a need to determine the bad God-talk from the good, the worse from the better, the false from the true. But a more nuanced understanding of the work of theology and a less regulatory understanding of the role of the theologian is needed to attend to those who may bear the skill of the saint and even the training of the theologian but nevertheless also bear a relationship to the church that is unlikely to meet Lindbeck’s criteria for legitimate linguistic competence, unlikely to earn his imprimatur. Thus the exclusivity of Lindbeck’s model limits the usefulness of his cultural-linguistic approach in broaching theologies against the church—against meaning not only in direct antagonism to but also in the sense of bearing the physical contact of support or collision, or the sense of being brought into distinct relief through separation and juxtaposition, like a silhouette.[40]

In the multiple valences of the word, the early work of Kathryn Tanner could be said to be against the postliberal, cultural-linguistic framework of George Lindbeck and other practitioners of what has become known as the Yale School, her teachers, in part due to the expressly methodological focus of scholarship like The Nature of Doctrine. As Tanner recounts in an essay that was first a reflective piece for the Christian Century, “The hopes of my teachers for their own work came to fruition in the next generation of theologians, of which I count myself a member. Typical of this new generation… is a willingness to make constructive claims of a substantive sort through the critical reworking of Christian ideas and symbols to address the challenges of today’s world,” a shift Tanner credits largely to the influence of liberation theologies.[41] Questions of method cannot be left behind; rather, there must be a new method, modeled more on sociopolitical theory than philosophy. She writes, 

the theologian… now asks about the various ways Christian beliefs and symbols can function in the particulars of people’s lives so as to direct and provide support for the shape of social life and the course of social action. The theologian needs a thorough knowledge of the way these intersections of cultural meanings and sociopolitical formations have panned out across differences of time and place—a thorough knowledge of the various permutations of the Christian symbol system in all its complicated alignments with social forces, for good or ill.[42]

Tanner is offering a different vision of theology, one less determined to prove its own coherence than undergird social action. As is hinted at here, when Tanner is speaking of Christians, she has in mind Christians generally—not a subclass of particularly adept Christian speakers. Tanner’s Christians are people who do not always know how to act or how to speak, not because they are unintelligent or not practiced enough, but because how to act and how to speak are not always obvious: Christians constantly find themselves in new situations that call for new thought. The theologian does help with this, but not, as for Lindbeck, by maintaining a pure Christianity minimally influenced by the outside world through the maintenance of firm boundaries between Christians and culture. Tanner writes, “Theologians need to be honest about the complexities of Christian lives and the way Christian beliefs and symbols figure there.”[43] Even in speaking, as she does in Theories of Culture, of something called “Christian identity,” Tanner acknowledges that there are boundaries to Christianity. But for Tanner, the boundary is a place of meeting and cross-fertilization, rather than simple separation. A place where languages, texts, and bodies variously come against one another. To draw Tanner’s trajectory into conversation with the theological needs identified in parts i and ii above, I will focus on a few nodes in Theories of Culture: the relationship between academic and everyday theologies, the kind of society and boundaries proper to Christian practices and identity, and finally, Christian identity as being characterized as a certain kind of willingness.

In the second part of Theories of Culture, Tanner offers her own constructive approach to theology and culture, following the first part’s history of “culture,” in frequent dialogue with postliberal and correlationist theologies. She situates theology as a function of culture with regards to practices: “theology is something shaped by concrete social practices, and those social practices must be at least, and in their most important respects for these purposes, Christian ones.”[44] With regards to the relationship between everyday and academic theologies, what postliberals speak of as primary and secondary theologies, she critiques postliberals for not taking into account the material aspects of academic theology. Academic theologians do not only describe “the internal logic of Christian practice,” they also generate normative accounts, each making choices about apparent inconsistencies in Christian commitments.[45] When theologies advocate for a certain appropriate behavior or way of speaking in a new context, they are not just repeating what has already been said by the tradition (as Lindbeck would seem to believe), because new uses of the tradition are not self-evident—they are the results of difficult processes of appropriation, testing, and communal determination.[46] Due to the material nature of academic theology, its reality as a certain kind of social practice with specific conditions of possibility, Tanner maintains a distinction between the academic theology and the “theological investigation in everyday life.”[47] Everyday theology often responds to specific situations, rather than the sort of sustained reflection aimed at its own “self-continuance” practiced by specialist theologians.[48] But Tanner spends more time reflecting on the similarities between the two: both are forms of social action; both respond to specific occasions; and both are implicated in the work of the other in some form and level of reciprocated interest, despite inevitable points of competition.[49] Further, academic and everyday theologies share the same basic operations: “First, theologians show an artisanlike inventiveness in the way they work on a variety of materials that do not dictate of themselves what theologians should do with them. Second, theologians exhibit a tactical cleverness with respect to other interpretations and organizations of such materials that are already on the ground.”[50] Where one begins in these processes is “literally a matter of where one is concretely—socially, politically, practically. It is a matter of one’s very particular historical and social locations.”[51] Academic theologians will likely have more specialized tools for these tasks than does the everyday theologian, but the former should follow the latter in using anything one can to meet their needs: “anything that might work is at least considered.”[52] Theology for Tanner is thus an inherently inventive process that should not seek to isolate itself from its surroundings or from material concerns. Theologians work with a wide variety of texts and concepts, many of which do not anticipate their own usefulness to theologians, and a wide variety of potentially conflicting structures of meaning that those texts and concepts are already situated in. Such materials must then be “disarticulated” to fit their new context.[53] And theologians are attentive to their own history and how and where it draws them into the process of theology.

Inherent in the task of theology then, is a distinction between what is readily identifiable as Christian, perhaps self-identified as Christian, and what is not—the theologian is, but their materials may not be. Here boundaries emerge. Again against the postliberal fetishization of the uniqueness or purity of Christian methods,[54] Tanner construes the boundaries of Christian identity in a way that significantly complicates easy identifications of what is properly Christian and what is not. Her objections to firm boundaries are as follows:

  1. “it is never clear how to push some practice onto the other side of the boundary, how to exclude it”
  2. “it is rarely clear on what side of the boundary something falls”
  3. “where boundaries are drawn is never fixed”; they are “too fluid to establish the identity of Christian practices”
  4. “a practice’s importance as a boundary marker does not necessarily reflect its importance for a Christian way of life”
  5. “there is no reason to think that sharp cultural boundaries are necessary to establish the distinctiveness of a way of life”[55]

For all of these reasons, Tanner opts for boundaries that are defined by relation, not negation. Rather than preserving a core of what is inherently Christian, boundaries are the places where Christians repurpose what is beyond for what is within, a process that “should be as much about self-criticism as it is about criticism of other ways of life.”[56] This is a fundamental departure from Lindbeck, and one that opens up theological reflection to be less anxious and more curious regarding its relationship to other people and disciplines. Such openness is, finally, fundamental to Tanner’s notion of Christian identity.

Rather than define Christian identity primarily as, say, the identity of one who is baptized or who participates in the life of the church, Tanner writes, “Christian identity hinges on remaining open to direction from the free grace of God in Christ; that is the organizing principle for its use of borrowed materials and what centers the arrangement of the theological claims that arise in that way.”[57] Christian identity’s openness to the Word requires those things that the Christian takes up from outside to be tested to determine if they distort the Word, to be bent into the service of the Word, but also to be permitted to challenge Christian claims.[58] Openness to the Word is precisely what allows Christians to confidently engage across the boundaries of Christian identity, Christian and non-Christian materials considered together. She writes, “what is knitting the two together for the Christian might just be confidence in that Word.”[59] Christian identity does not only involve openness to those beyond its porous borders; it is also what allows relations between Christians to cohere. Internal disagreements are always subordinate to “a willingness, displayed across differences of time and space, to admonish, learn from, and be corrected by all persons similarly concerned about the true meaning of Christian discipleship.” In such willingness, “each Christian who struggles with what it means to be a Christian takes up [their] place within the historical body of Christians similarly concerned.”[60] Boldly, she claims, “In the end, then, how the identity of Christianity should be summed up is an unanswerable question in that Christianity has its identity as a task; it has its identity in the form of a task of looking for one.”[61]

The sort of collective Tanner here describes is left purposefully not entirely clear; she offers something like an ecclesiology that takes into account the complexities of identity and culture, as opposed to framing the Christian collective as primarily constituted sacramentally, by baptism and the Eucharist. This leaves questions open regarding the forms Christian practice takes within the church in concert with the forms it takes at the church’s boundaries—is there even such a distinction to be made?—as it foregrounds identity as the rubric of Christian living. Nevertheless, Tanner’s understanding of theology as necessarily drawing on non-Christian and Christian materials alike, her capacious boundaries, and her sense of Christian identity as defined by openness to the Word and to one another may provide something like what is needed to speak of the fraught ecclesial attachments held by many queer people as something other than sad signs of their inability to move on from their wounded past into a future liberated from religion or their failure to fully integrate themselves, to fight for their full inclusion into the church. It is necessary to remember that to speak of Christian identity’s boundaries as Tanner does is to speak of the people who navigate such boundaries, whose relationships to the church are not static but play out across time and space and change in relation to their specific circumstances and the particular churches and Christians present in their lives. To return to the church as the Body of Christ, the constructive claims of Theories of Culture suggest that figuring out who is in or who is out of the Body is neither the purpose of theology nor something that we can hope to truly know. So to speak of theology as being for those considered to be the church is less helpful than it may be intended. We do not know where or who the Body is. We cannot pretend to know its boundaries.

why church?

We do not choose our attachments with total freedom; we cannot always choose to be free from their hold on us or from the pain they bring. Whether or not one chooses to seek inclusion in the church through marriage and ordination (rather than, say, baptism), whether or not one does seek these rites but not through the sort of apologetic work that threatens to reify boundaries of inclusion and exclusion; whether or not one wishes to move on from the church entirely, its effects on those who have participated in its life linger—to some providing comfort, to some taking the form of a haunting violation of an intimacy turned wrong.

It feels backwards to be excluded by the church, especially when one doesn’t strictly need to be—there are now options for LGBTQ people. In conversations about my own general sense of disenfranchisement, some have asked why I don’t just join a mainline denomination that is better with gays, and I did—I’ve been a confirmed Episcopalian for more than five years now. The first Episcopal church I attended felt like home, but the place I feel most at home now is the distance between me and the church I was raised in, the Evangelical Covenant Church, a nineteenth-century pietist breakoff from the Swedish Lutherans. The person the church made me is a Covenanter, and the language of my faith has not translated into gay Anglican without remainder—I’ve lost my felt bodily knowledge of the Lord who is a comforter and friend. “The church” is and isn’t the local parish one attends or doesn’t attend every Sunday that houses the community that is or isn’t there: the local mediates the universal, so feeling disaffected from a particular congregation or denomination can make one feel disaffected from the church as the Body of Christ, and the gap can be a real one sacramentally. While I believe that I am part of the Body, I feel pushed outward but not out, toward Christ’s phantom limbs, toward the Body in excess, in ecstasy. And my instinct remains to return.

The theologian may remain at the boundary of the church, pulling together strange assortments of things that seem to speak of the mercies of God, or the theologian may follow those who have left the church or been pushed out of it, whose minds and words remain unmistakably marked by it. Like Rudy, some of them still desire a framework for thinking about their continued dependence on God despite antagonism from God’s Body. Why not try to help?—without needing to claim or reclaim people for Christ who don’t want to be claimed or reclaimed. Difficult questions emerge about how and to what extent the Body of Christ is co-constitutive of the church.

What Tonstad says of the ascended body of Jesus is also helpful here. “Christ’s body went away; it never belonged to the church in the first place. The church lost the body of Christ or never had it for itself; and the church exists in anticipation of a redirection of its own action as its primary mode of being. The church continues to anticipate the return of the body of Christ that went elsewhere.”[62] The church does not own the Body. The Body of Christ is outside of itself, which is what I mean when I saw the Body in excess or in ecstasy. Boundaries remain, marking something of an identifiable church, but to be open to the Word is to be open to encountering the Body in other bodies.

Lest it sound like desire across the Body’s boundaries is one-way, those within longing for those without, Andrew Hahn’s poem “when a faggot speaks up in church” offers the contrary.[63]

when a faggot speaks up in church

he knows what he’s talking about

the preacher raises a hand to God
points to christ on the cross
says     he didn’t die so you could live this way

the congregation claps but they won’t dance
jesus didn’t dance    but he didn’t clap either

i want to tell them i can reach into the sky
& read the stars    like jesus in the lost
gospel of judas    & i can show them what love is
on the red constellations of my body

the preacher tells me i am going to Hell
& that he is sorry    but i know he is satisfied
i will never call church home    again
i will never call christians brothers & sisters    again
i will never sing another song of praise    again
i will never worship God in a way that reminds me of them

but i want to show them how to dance
i will grab jesus from the wall
& hold him in a tango
i will stick my finger into the red star on his hand

he will show me the red star dying in the sky
the rainbow dust cloud reaching the boundaries
of the burst in a halo spanning light years
& he will say    you have made my heart explode

It is surprising that the speaker wants to return in any way to the body that threw him out. His relationship with it has fundamentally changed—no longer home, no longer kin, no longer able to worship with them. Nonetheless, the speaker knows something they don’t know. He knows that his body can teach something they have refused to know—the red constellations of love that mark him. He knows how to dance, how to dance with Jesus. The dance is one form of boundary where the boundary signifies union, one form of bodies against one another where the against is something beyond opposition.

The speaker calls for something of the church that they could not call from him. His freedom from them and from their condemnation allows his body a grace and gracefulness, a freedom to dance with the one they ultimately kept him from. His freedom is that of the Body in ecstasy, the Body outside itself. He has been drawn out into the cosmos. And he intends to take the church with him. This is where theology must go.

Andrew Hahn’s collection God’s Boy may be found here.

[1] Kathy Rudy, “Subjectivity and Belief,” in Queer Theology: Rethinking the Western Body, ed. Gerard Loughlin (Malden, MA; Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2007), 37.

[2] Richard Rambuss, Closet Devotions (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998), 99.

[3] Rudy, “Queer Theology,” 42.

[4] Rudy, 42.

[5] Rudy, 45.

[6] Rudy, 43.

[7] Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited (New York, NY: Back Bay Books / Little, Brown and Company, 1999), 308–309.

[8] James Baldwin, Go Tell It on the Mountain (New York: Vintage International, 2013), 225. Emphasis original.

[9] Randall Kenan, A Visitation of Spirits (New York, NY: Anchor Books, 1989), 251.

[10] Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit (London: Vintage Books, 2001), 204, 207.

[11] My first attempt at these questions was my university honors thesis, a study of the three novels quoted above. Samuel Ernest, “Where Do They Go: Christian Faith and Belonging in Gay Literature” (Seattle, WA, Seattle Pacific University, 2015),

[12] James H. Cone, Black Theology and Black Power (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1997), 83–84.

[13] Linn Marie Tonstad, “Everything Queer, Nothing Radical?,” Svensk Teologisk Wvartalskrift, no. 92 (2016): 125.

[14] Kent Brintnall makes a similar point. Linn Marie Tonstad, “The Limits of Inclusion: Queer Theology and Its Others,” Theology & Sexuality 21, no. 1 (January 2, 2015): 3–5; Tonstad, “Everything Queer, Nothing Radical?,” 125; Kent L. Brintnall, “Who Weeps for the Sodomite?,” in Sexual Disorientations: Queer Temporalities, Affects, Theologies, ed. Kent L. Brintnall, Joseph A. Marchal, and Stephen D. Moore (New York: Fordham University Press, 2018), 145–60.

[15] Tonstad, “The Limits of Inclusion,” 5–11.

[16] Tonstad, 11–14.

[17] Linn Marie Tonstad, Queer Theology: Beyond Apologetics, Cascade Companions 40 (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2018), 47.

[18] Tonstad, 47.

[19] Linn Marie Tonstad, God and Difference: The Trinity, Sexuality, and the Transformation of Finitude, Gender, Theology and Spirituality (New York: Routledge, 2016), 254–86.

[20] Marcella Althaus-Reid, Indecent Theology: Theological Perversions in Sex, Gender and Politics (London: Routledge, 2000), 23, 148.

[21] Tonstad, Queer Theology, 85.

[22] Althaus-Reid, Indecent Theology, 148–49.

[23] Althaus-Reid, 148.

[24] Mark D. Jordan, “In Search of Queer Theology Lost,” in Sexual Disorientations: Queer Temporalities, Affects, Theologies, ed. Kent L. Brintnall, Joseph A. Marchal, and Stephen D. Moore (New York, NY: Fordham University Press, 2018), 303.

[25] Tonstad, God and Difference, 272–73.

[26] For example, Rosemary Radford Ruether, Sexism and God-talk: Toward a Feminist Theology (1983); Gustavo Guitérrez, On Job: God-talk and the Suffering of the Innocent (1987); Delores Williams, Sisters in the Wilderness: The Challenge of Womanist God-talk (1993). In “Part 1: Defining Theology” of the recent Syndicate Forum on the State of Theology, Sean Larsen, the convener, summarized the responses from a wide-ranging group of theologians beginning with the statement, “Theology is about God. Theologians in a variety of self-defined subdisciplines analyze God-talk; they take intellectual responsibility for how their communities talk about divinity.” Shawn Larsen, “Syndicate Project on the State of Theology,” Syndicate, April 20, 2020,

[27] James H. Cone, A Black Theology of Liberation, 40th Anniversary ed. (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2010), 65–66.

[28] Cone, 24. It is important to note that Cone differentiates black experience from how experience functions in white theology. It is not Schleiermacher’s feeling of absolute dependence but “the atmosphere in which blacks live. It is the totality of black existence in a white world where babies are tortured, women are raped, and men are shot.” Cone, 25.

[29] George A. Lindbeck, The Nature of Doctrine: Religion and Theology in a Postliberal Age, 1st ed (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1984), 33.

[30] This is a condensation of the first three of six theses he lays out on the model. Lindbeck, 31.

[31] Lindbeck, 35.

[32] Lindbeck, 37.

[33] Lindbeck, 99.

[34] Lindbeck, 99.

[35] Lindbeck, 100.

[36] Lindbeck, 100.

[37] Lindbeck, 100.

[38] Lindbeck, 36.

[39] Lindbeck, 36.

[40] I describe in more detail what I mean by “against the church” at Samuel Ernest, “Against?,” Homodoxy (blog), June 19, 2020,

[41] Kathryn Tanner, “Christian Claims,” in Theologians in Their Own Words, ed. Derek R. Nelson, Joshua M. Moritz, and Ted Peters (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013), 269–70.

[42] Tanner, 271.

[43] Tanner, 277.

[44] Kathryn Tanner, Theories of Culture: A New Agenda for Theology, Guides to Theological Inquiry (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997), 67.

[45] Tanner, 73.

[46] Tanner, 78–79.

[47] Tanner, 80.

[48] Tanner, 81.

[49] Tanner, 82–86.

[50] Tanner, 87.

[51] Tanner, 88.

[52] Tanner, 89.

[53] Tanner, 118, 145–46.

[54] Tanner, 104–107.

[55] Tanner, 108–109.

[56] Tanner, 114.

[57] Tanner, 150.

[58] Tanner, 150.

[59] Tanner, 151.

[60] Tanner, 155.

[61] Tanner, 155.

[62] Tonstad, God and Difference, 272.

[63] Andrew Hahn, God’s Boy (Little Rock, AR: Sibling Rivalry Press, 2019), 11.

the life of the speaker: pastoral theology

I wrote the following a few years ago for the survey course I took on early Christian theology. It was in part responding to a wave of revelations regarding abuse in the Catholic Church and the Southern Baptist Convention. I’ve been fascinated by first-person speech and what people think it accomplishes, and this was one effort in working some of that out.

Narrating a life—as in, say, biography or hagiography—can involve a struggle of interpretive authority with one’s subject, the stakes of which are high, particularly for those marked deviant—David Halperin refers to the “perennial threat of discreditation through biographical description” that “becomes painfully acute… when the biographical subject is gay.”[1] After all, “it does not require any very strenuous effort to discredit the views of an ideological adversary when that adversary has already been branded… as a madman or pervert.”[2] Questions of perversion and authority are very much alive now, whenever, for example, the Gays are scapegoated for priestly sexual abuse. In Telling Truths in Church, a book that remains relevant since its publication in 2003, Jordan writes, “sex has seemed to threaten the authority of Christian speaking. Trying to speak truth about a churchly sex scandal—or trying to speak the truth about sex in church—or trying to speak what churches might be after some honesty about what sex is . . . these efforts lead us right to the most awkward tasks of the speech called theology.”[3]

While fear of delegitimization may cause some to seek firmer boundaries between life and work, a different strategy has emerged in queer theory and theology. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick writes, “there are important senses in which ‘queer’ can signify only when attached to the first person.”[4] Marcella Althaus-Reid has adapted Sedgwick’s claim into her own practice of theology: “Queer Theology is, then, a first person theology: diasporic, self-disclosing, autobiographical and responsible for its own words.”[5] Instead of obscuring the relationship between one’s life and theology to minimize the risk of delegitimization through the revelation of a life understood by many as perverse, Althaus-Reid maintains that the first person is precisely the location from which queer theology is written. “Therefore, to reflect on issues of the theologian’s identity and ways of doing a Queer Theology, we need to begin a reflection intimately linked to a God-talk on living and pleasurable relationships.”[6] The forbidden fruit becomes the very seed and root of theology.

Queer theology has occasionally interacted with patristic sources, including Augustine,[7] but it has yet, to my knowledge, to tap the work on Christian speech by pastoral theologians like Augustine in On Christian Teaching and Gregory the Great in The Book of Pastoral Rule. Both focus on the role of the Christian pastor and the various other roles with which it overlaps—such as preacher, teacher, shepherd, spiritual director, and cure of souls. For such figures, one’s character, Augustine and Gregory agree, is of the highest consequence. The relevant passage of the fourth book of On Christian Teaching catalogues styles of preaching before pivoting to the life of the preacher, arguing the preacher’s life is of more importance to preaching than the preacher’s style. Gregory’s Book of Pastoral Rule postulates that a spiritual leader “must… be the model for everyone,” “must be devoted entirely to the example of good living,” “must be dead to the passions of the flesh and live a spiritual life,” and “must desire the internal life only.”[8] For both Augustine and Gregory, the authority to speak Christianly stems from the speaker’s personal holiness, and a failure of holiness threatens to delegitimize the speaker’s authority.

The position from which Althaus-Reid suggests queer theologies begin is the very position in which a preacher’s authority to speak would be called into question under Augustine and Gregory; Althaus-Reid’s “lived and pleasurable relationships” would easily qualify as the relationships that concern either Augustine in his defense of the polygamy of the patriarchs—which is procreative and, he argues, without lust—elsewhere in On Christian Teaching[9] and Gregory in his allegorical reading of God’s prohibitions against those with physical ailments being leaders in Leviticus 21:17–21 (the bleary eyed person is carnal; one with a persistent rash is “dominated by the depravity of the flesh”) or in his admonition that sex in marriage should not be merely pleasurable.[10] In juxtaposing Augustine and Gregory with Althaus-Reid, I’m not trying to queer the former by reinterpreting or destabilizing their sexual ethics, or to straighten the latter by dressing her sexually deviant positions in hetero/orthodox drag.[11] My goals are comparatively modest: to demonstrate resonance between patristic and queer theologies in their recognition that one’s life and embodiment legitimizes one’s speech and, within the framework of Augustine and Gregory’s pastoral theologies, to argue that sin is for everyone and authority belongs to the Lord, that is, regardless of how eloquently one preaches and teaches Christian morality, reflection on one’s own sin of any kind ought to safeguard the Christian from believing that their holiness and authority are complete and rightfully their own.[12]

In The Book of Pastoral Rule, first shared by Gregory in 590 CE, Gregory posits that it is because pastors are to be examples to others that their actions bear such an important role in legitimizing their vocation. The spiritual leader must be “the model for everyone,” which implies that the life of the pastor itself is a pedagogical instrument for teaching Christian living and doctrine.[13] Humans are prone to sin already, as is evidence in their need for a model of right living in the first place, but sin can also be taught. Gregory writes, “No one does more harm in the Church than he who has the title or rank of holiness and acts perversely.” Citing Matthew 18:6, he says that it is better for one who “gives off the appearance of sanctity but destroys another by his words or example” to be bound to death by “his earthly acts, demonstrated by worldly habits… than for his sacred office to be a source for the imitation of vice in another.”[14] Due to this danger, the one seeking a position of spiritual leadership must be cleansed prior to attaining such a position. Gregory writes, “no one who has not been cleansed should dare to approach the sacred ministries,” and “because it is very difficult for anyone to know if he has been cleansed, it is best for him to decline the office of preaching.”[15] Even once one is cleansed and in a position of leadership, Gregory maintains that the pastor must still be vigilant, lest their own “personal afflictions… get in the way of zealous corrections” that their flock will require.[16] A life lived rightly is not only a prerequisite for Christian speech; it also makes such speech effective. Gregory writes, “the flock (which follows the voice and behavior of its shepherd) may advance all the better by his example than by his words alone…. For his voice more easily penetrates his listeners’ hearts when his way of life commends what he says.”[17] At the end of the Rule, Gregory pushes the importance of one’s actions ever further, saying, “every preacher should be ‘heard’ more by his deeds than by his words.”[18] For Gregory, the life and speech of a spiritual leader are not intended to be separate concerns; they are of the same calling and are dynamically related to each other, one’s life authorizing and amplifying one’s speech.

Similar concerns are found in On Christian Teaching, albeit in fewer words. Augustine writes, “there are plenty of people who look for a justification of their own evil lives from those in authority who teach them,” which makes it all the more necessary for leaders to “practise[] what they preach[].”[19]Augustine provides qualifications for preaching, the first being that “the person required for the task under consideration is someone who can argue or speak wisely, if not eloquently”—and wisdom requires familiarity with scripture.[20] And a preacher must understand what the audience needs to hear and how they need to hear it and then deliver such teaching intelligibly and eloquently.[21] Augustine then shifts his emphasis to the life of the preacher, saying, “More important than any amount of grandeur of style to those of us who seek to be listened to with obedience is the life of the speaker. A wise and eloquent speaker who lives a wicked life certainly educates many who are eager to learn, although he is useless to his own soul.”[22] Recognizing that eloquence of speech and even wisdom are not available to all who speak, the pastor’s life is not only a model but also a kind of surrogate eloquence. If a speaker lacks wisdom and eloquence, Augustine writes, “he should seek to live in such a way that he not only gains a reward for himself but also gives an example to others, so that his way of life becomes, in a sense, an abundant source of eloquence.”[23] Like Gregory, Augustine sees one’s actions not simply as the ground of Christian speech but as a form of Christian speech itself.

Augustine provides a further extension of the relationship between life and speech: one who speaks truth eloquently but lives an evil life has no proper claim to the truth they preach. Because “the good things they say seem to be the product of their own brains, but are at odds with their behavior,” they “speak something that is not their own.” Violation of the right ordering of life and speech confuses the speaker’s relationship to their words to the point at which their words belong to someone else. “But,” Augustine writes, “it is not they themselves that speak the good things they say…. when they say good things it is not they themselves who say them.”[24] Such a statement could be construed as God using a broken vessel or speaking through Balaam’s ass, but Augustine’s emphasis here is not on the gracious inclusion of sinners into the work of God but on the way one’s sin negates one’s agency as the sinner, to borrow a phrase from City of God, “veers toward nothingness.”[25] Truth can only be ventriloquized through evil lives. Someone who lives well, however, can preach the true words of one who is “eloquent but evil” and speak them as their own: “when this happens, one person transfers from himself what is not his own, and one receives from the other what is his own.”[26] This sounds similar to the “perennial threat” Halperin describes “of discreditation through biographical description,” but it makes a different claim, i.e., that an evil person does not have genuine credibility in the first place. This is not merely an issue of public perception but of truth, albeit truth that migrates from one body to another. However, outing someone as gay or queer can be experienced by the one outed as social delegitimization while others understand it as a revelation of evil from an outside vantage point. The disjuncture between these two interpretations is where queer theology labors.[27]

Holiness in Gregory and Augustine functions similarly to queerness in Sedgwick: one’s actions perform one’s identity and beliefs and authorize a particular variety of speech. While Althaus-Reid’s emphasis on first-person theology is not shared in Augustine’s writing on preaching in On Christian Teaching per se, he does say that each preacher has “their own particular style, and it would be inappropriate for them to have used any other style or for others to have used theirs.”[28] And he does offer up as an example of wisdom and eloquence a passage from 2 Corinthians 11 in which Paul, “obliged to blow his own trumpet, and at the same time present[] this as foolishness,” identifies and disidentifies with the Hebrews, Israelites, seed of Abraham, and servants of Christ, saying of each, “I am too.”[29] In these texts, Gregory and Augustine speak sparingly of their own experience except to illustrate an occasional point.[30] The first person does appear in a confessional register, however, in the short final paragraphs that end both books.

The final part of Gregory’s Pastoral Rule is titled “That the Preacher, After He Has Done Everything That Is Required, Should Return to Himself So That He Does Not Take Pride in His Life or Preaching.” Borrowing an observation from Kate Brackney, a teaching fellow for the early Christian theology course I took at Yale Divinity,[31] this final passage is performative: having said his piece about the qualifications and obligations of a spiritual leader, Gregory steps away from his project, writing,

“Behold, good man, being compelled by the necessity of your request, I have tried to show what the qualities of a spiritual director ought to be. Alas, I am like a poor painter who tries to paint the ideal man. [Again], I am trying to point others to the shore of perfection, as I am tossed back and forth by the waves of sin. But in the shipwreck of this life, I beg you to sustain me with the plank of your prayer, so that your merit-filled hands might lift me up, since my own weight causes me to sink.”[32]

The “good man” being addressed is John, the newly appointed archbishop of Ravenna. Gregory had been pope for five years and ordained for eleven when he sent the text to his fledgling friend.[33] The text’s subsequent proliferation into the hands of a larger readership broadens this ultimate deference to the holiness of his reader and request for prayer. Gregory’s humility is stretched to cover you and me in the elasticity of first-person speech. Critically, he acknowledges that the pastor he has attempted to describe is an ideal and that his own sin prevents him from attaining it. Augustine does something similar. He concludes,

“I thank God that in these four books I have been able to discuss, with such ability as I have, not the sort of person that I am—for I have many failings—but the sort of person that those who apply themselves to sound teaching [Titus 1:9], in other words Christian teaching, on behalf of others as well as themselves, ought to be.”[34]

Like Gregory, Augustine creates space between himself and the type of spiritual leader he has described. While these statements function as a formal attribute of this type of pastoral theology, that does not preclude their authors’ earnestness.

Neither of the bishops are confessing to having lived lives of utter evil, but they do confess their sinfulness, and Augustine does so immediately following his description of how one’s sinfulness throws into question one’s claim on the truth one teaches and preaches. This confession also opens up questions regarding whether or not truth relayed through first person speech—theology beginning in the “I”—can belong to someone else if the speaker is a sinner. Is Augustine’s sin grievous enough to qualify him as one who speaks the truth of another? While there is a marked difference between having “many failings” and living an “evil life,” that he has had many failings is the only positive claim Augustine makes regarding himself in this final section. It is a crack that opens the possibility that even a bishop who speaks with the authority of decades of experience and prayer does not hold a death grip on any truth he teaches; truth is ultimately of God, which is not to delegitimize the inflection, the style, with which it is spoken and lived out in the strangeness of human particularity.

It is often in the throwaway, the formally perfunctory, the negligible nooks and crannies, the personal by-the-ways where a text gestures toward its own undoing. Confession of sin prevents the authors of our texts from confusing themselves with the idealized portraits they offer. In their closing salutations, Augustine and Gregory confess their sinfulness in a way that acknowledges the holiness of their audience in contrast to the sinfulness of the author (Gregory) and suggests that the wisdom they impart does not originate in or belong to themselves (Augustine). Even as these public confessions attempt to undercut the elevation of their authors, they also complete the pedagogical portraits they paint of pastoral ministry—a good priest confesses that they aren’t good—so whether or not holiness can be taught without drawing attention to one’s own perceived holiness remains a question.

Such a reading does not inherently challenge the structures of power and authority that allow for abuse and can in fact be leveraged as an apologetic for those structures and the logics of deferral that maintain them, in which, to borrow language from Linn Tonstad, “deferral (yielding, obedience, fidelity) is the only way to receive a full share in the authority of God.”[35] Left unexplored in this essay is the relationship between sin and the institutional forms of power wielded by priests and pastors that are bound up with their authority to preach the truth of the Gospel. Is there a point at which the abuse perpetrated by priests and pastors, covered up by the church, negates the authority of the church, period? Answers will range widely across Christian traditions, while some who have left the church precisely for these reasons can point to the moment at which church authority stopped making sense. And it is unlikely that queer and hetero/orthodox theologies will agree on how to respond to abuse of authority, be it committed by Catholic priests or Baptist ministers or evangelical megachurch pastors, because church authority has provided the abusive norms by which some Christians are queered and denied authority. Whatever practical and theological work in ecclesiology remains to be done in response, spiritual leaders and those who lay claim to truth must be cautioned to remember, as Althaus-Reid has written, “that holiness is always the holiness of the Other,” or risk confusing themselves with God.”[36]

A bouquet of questions arises here specifically for the queer priest and the queer theologian, who are at risk of delegitimization and, for the former, defrocking. If queer theology’s relation to the first person means that one must speak one’s loves and experiences come what may, that is dangerous, and not only because it risks construing our selves as fundamentally knowable and disclosable. Queer people should not be forced to bear the burden of compulsory personal truth-telling, as theologians have often asked of us. Yet I see the desire of ordained friends to live out their priesthood in forms fitting to their particularity, the particularity of their own iterations of sex and gender nonnormativity, their queerness, and I feel it myself with regards to whatever work I can do in the capacity of a theologian. How can this be possible without making queerness legible for the sake of ecclesial regulation? There must be a difference between freedom and surveillance. The church must have the capacity to recognize the empowerment of the Spirit, which will mean recognizing the necessity of that which cannot be assimilated. Not to capture it and force what it deems to be holy upon it, as misperception of holiness and unholiness can become and historically have become rationale for varieties of abuses, but to pray and provide for its increase. Queerness isn’t holiness, and its excess is not the same as the excess that is grace; but some queers do move gracefully. 

[1] Halperin, 135, 136.

[2] Halperin, 133.

[3] Jordan, Telling Truths in Church, 9.

[4] Sedgwick, Tendencies, 9. Emphasis original.

[5] Althaus-Reid, The Queer God, 8.

[6] Althaus-Reid, 8.        

[7] See, for example, Rees, Romance of Innocent Sexuality; Burrus, Jordan, and MacKendrick, Seducing Augustine; Pettinger, “Double Love: Rediscovering the Queerness of Sin and Grace.”

[8] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 43.

[9] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 78–82. Augustine makes similar arguments regarding polygamy and custom in Augustine, Confessions, 43–48, and Augustine, The City of God: XI–XXII, 162–64.

[10] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 46–47, 171.

[11] For salient queer theological critiques that highlight the exclusivist underbelly of arguments for LGBTQ inclusion, see Tonstad, “The Limits of Inclusion”; Brintnall, “Who Weeps for the Sodomite?”

[12] Due to spatial and temporal restraints and the context for which this is being written, I will focus in this paper on the early Christian writers. A further project could treat more fully the queer sources I engage and their relationship with early Christian writers.

[13] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 43.

[14] Gregory, 32.                                                                                                            

[15] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 39.

[16] Gregory, 51.

[17] Gregory, 51.

[18] Gregory, 207.

[19] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 143.

[20] Augustine, 104.

[21] Augustine, 115–16.

[22] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 142.

[23] Augustine, 144.

[24] Augustine, 145.

[25] Augustine, The City of God: XI–XXII, 119.

[26] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 145.

[27] In the context of the construction of sodomy and dialogue between priest and penitent in the confessional Mark Jordan writes, “Here we see the disparity between the faithful self-description of the penitent and the unfaithful description of the confessor.” Jordan, The Invention of Sodomy, 165.

[28] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 106.

[29] Augustine, 108.

[30] See, for example, Augustine’s story in which he demonstrates the power of the grand style to change lives by relating how a sermon of his ended a yearly period of civil strife in Caesarea. Augustine, 139.

[31] Brackney, “Pastoral Ministry and Church Leadership in Early and Medieval Christianity.”

[32] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 212.

[33] Demacopoulos, “Introduction,” 9–10, 13; in Gregory.

[34] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 146.

[35] Tonstad, God and Difference, 260.

[36] Althaus-Reid, The Queer God, 154.

[1] Halperin, 135, 136.

[2] Halperin, 133.

[3] Jordan, Telling Truths in Church, 9.

[4] Sedgwick, Tendencies, 9. Emphasis original.

[5] Althaus-Reid, The Queer God, 8.

[6] Althaus-Reid, 8.        

[7] See, for example, Rees, Romance of Innocent Sexuality; Burrus, Jordan, and MacKendrick, Seducing Augustine; Pettinger, “Double Love: Rediscovering the Queerness of Sin and Grace.”

[8] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 43.

[9] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 78–82. Augustine makes similar arguments regarding polygamy and custom in Augustine, Confessions, 43–48, and Augustine, The City of God: XI–XXII, 162–64.

[10] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 46–47, 171.

[11] For salient queer theological critiques that highlight the exclusivist underbelly of arguments for LGBTQ inclusion, see Tonstad, “The Limits of Inclusion”; Brintnall, “Who Weeps for the Sodomite?”

[12] Due to spatial and temporal restraints and the context for which this is being written, I will focus in this paper on the early Christian writers. A further project could treat more fully the queer sources I engage and their relationship with early Christian writers.

[13] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 43.

[14] Gregory, 32.                                                                                                            

[15] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 39.

[16] Gregory, 51.

[17] Gregory, 51.

[18] Gregory, 207.

[19] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 143.

[20] Augustine, 104.

[21] Augustine, 115–16.

[22] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 142.

[23] Augustine, 144.

[24] Augustine, 145.

[25] Augustine, The City of God: XI–XXII, 119.

[26] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 145.

[27] In the context of the construction of sodomy and dialogue between priest and penitent in the confessional Mark Jordan writes, “Here we see the disparity between the faithful self-description of the penitent and the unfaithful description of the confessor.” Jordan, The Invention of Sodomy, 165.

[28] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 106.

[29] Augustine, 108.

[30] See, for example, Augustine’s story in which he demonstrates the power of the grand style to change lives by relating how a sermon of his ended a yearly period of civil strife in Caesarea. Augustine, 139.

[31] Brackney, “Pastoral Ministry and Church Leadership in Early and Medieval Christianity.”

[32] Gregory, The Book of Pastoral Rule, 212.

[33] Demacopoulos, “Introduction,” 9–10, 13; in Gregory.

[34] Augustine, On Christian Teaching, 146.

[35] Tonstad, God and Difference, 260.

[36] Althaus-Reid, The Queer God, 154.

homodoxy crawls

When figuring out what to call this website, I was mainly considering “against the church,” which is the phrase I’m using to think about theology. Theology contra ecclesiam is appealing to me because of the history of the condemnation of homosex as the sin against nature, contra naturam, and the common tagline of theology as being “for the church.” As the against? page says, I find “against” to be a better preposition for describing the many sorts of complex relationships queer people have with the church. But after talking through this with my friend Lacey, who kindly entertained my out-of-nowhere urgent need to parse potential meanings of various phrases to buy a domain name, I came to think that calling the website “against the church” would be gimmicky, easily dismissible, and perhaps not as attractive to the intended audience for this website, which is faggots of all genders who contend with Christ and the church, from within and without. Homodoxy is short, gay, and suggestive. Hello, homos. Those who do not fit that description are more than welcome to stay, with the qualification below.

I googled “homodoxy” before buying the domain and found a few different people coining the term as a theological aid. It is used to solve problems raised by disputes between orthodoxy and heterodoxy. I’ll give a couple of examples. In a 2010 post, a blogging priest from New Zealand uses homodox as a name for people who claim to be orthodox but are not.

Homodox means “having the same opinion”. Many people who are misusing, abusing the term “orthodox” are in fact not orthodox at all, they are homodox (let me preempt the comment now: it does not mean worshipping gays 🙂 ) They want everyone to think exactly like them (yes, often particularly about gays). Orthodox can cope with diversity, do not need everyone to agree about everything, celebrate diversity, honour difference: In necessariis unitas, in non-necessariis libertas, in utrisque caritas. (In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, charity.) Picked up by an American blogger here.

One commenter asks, “So, can two people be homodoxaphobic and still like each other?” Other commenters suggest that some homodoxy can indeed be orthodoxy. I don’t know what exactly they are talking about. At any rate, here, orthodoxy is charitable, unlike the gay-obsessed, narcissistic homodox.

More recently, a Roman Catholic blogger at “Christian Renaissance Movement” offered this definition, in a post calling for “more right teaching on marriage and anthropology”:

Homodoxy (n.) – The ideology which supports, casually tolerates, or downplays the disordered nature of same-sex activity, attraction, or public policy which promotes such; adj. homodox; “The homodoxy of the German bishop was being imposed upon the diocese.”; “The thought that clericalism is the root of the abuse crisis strikes me as homodox.”

From “The Heterodoxy We Need”

“Homodoxy” here mirrors homosex while contrasting itself from straight heterodoxy, which is wrong belief that is nevertheless against homosex. He continues, “While there is more than one kind of position which might fall under this definition, and we should always try to understand the precise nature and motivation of some person’s erroneous or bizarre point of view, there is certainly a real current of pro-gay thought which can be called such.” So one might listen to the homodox to understand their fascinating experience while still recognizing it as incorrect. Once the other’s motivations and natures are understood, what then? There’s something flirtatious in this definition that I can’t quite put my finger on.

In both definitions there is concern about uniformity, the imposition of gay beliefs (and bodies) onto other people. The gays are portrayed as colonizers obsessed with reproducing themselves (huh), which is a common trope in Christian discourse about queerness around the world, i.e., the only way for thinking of homosexuality and gender variation is as “Western” ideologies. Christianity isn’t the colonizer; the queers are. We can’t procreate, so we recruit! To anyone with such concerns, I warmly invite you to leave. Or stay, keep reading, if there is some part of you that is intrigued.

Contrast this critique to queer theorists from around the world who have critiqued queer theory for being largely a white, academic, “Western” enterprise, and who call for understandings of queerness stemming from particular contexts. Queer theory can be colonizing, not because it imports homosexuality and gender variation but because it ignores understandings of gender and sexuality already at work in contexts beyond that from which the author is writing.

So, what is homodoxy in the context of this website? The “casual[] tolerat[ion]” of “the disordered nature of same-sex activity” isn’t a bad start.

In contemporary academic writing in a variety of humanities disciplines, including queer studies, it’s a common thing to find your neologism and at the start of one’s project, to state how it makes its critical intervention. These projects often do make necessary critiques and produce fascinating and helpful concepts, but the norms surrounding language and What A Project Does have become a bit tiring. I’ve been joking for a while about wanting to only stage unnecessary interventions. Unnecessary and excessive might be other attributes of homodoxy. Am I selling it?

I am at the start of things (my PhD, my life as a theologian, these thoughts), not the end, so I have no set positive definition to offer. And finding one isn’t my goal. Not a one-to-one relationship of homo- to -doxy, not a solution to a problem, not a set Project so much as a place for many projects. I mainly think of homodoxy and this website as a placeholder for the mix of people and beliefs I want to spend time with—theologians, poets, novelists, theorists, and others. A common ground for faggots who think about God without wanting church authorities to do something with their experience, however understood.

I don’t put “homodox” in competition with “orthodox” or “heretical,” but the following words from Helmut Thielicke’s A Little Exercise for Young Theologians have stuck with me for a few years,

Sacred theology therefore is not a word to be lightly taken upon our lips. Theology is a very human business, a craft, and sometimes an art. In the last analysis it is always ambivalent. It can be sacred theology or diabolical theology. That depends upon the hands and hearts which further it. But which of the two it is cannot necessarily be seen by the fact that in one case it is orthodox and in the other heretical. I don’t believe that God is a fussy faultfinder in dealing with theological ideas. He who provides forgiveness for a sinful life will also surely be a generous judge of theological reflections. Even an orthodox theologian can be spiritually dead, while perhaps a heretic crawls on forbidden bypaths to the sources of life.

Helmut Thielicke, A Little Exercise for Young Theologians, translated by Charles L. Taylor (Grand Rapids, MI: WIlliam B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2016), 68. First published in German in 1959.

Homodoxy crawls.