Pillow Talk: Before the Cock Crows
“And who do you say that I am?"
Part I:
I let out a deep, contented yawn and stretched the length of the bed, pulling gently away from him as I kicked the covers away. My companion sighed pleasantly.
I felt as peaceful as a well-fed infant, poised for the quiet oblivion of slumber. Imagining that he too would be as dazed and tranquil as I was after the evening’s activities, I had not expected the subsequent topic of conversation to ignite with such intensity. By this time, we were no strangers to the trailing deceleration of the sort of artful “pillow talk” which had usually served as an elegant threshold into dreamland—not to mention, a giddying segue into the warm, tender embrace of cuddles.
This episode, however, quickly unfolded in glaring contrast to previous times. My brow and eyelid leapt in tandem like the wings of a startled bird of prey and I took a long breath in an effort to steady my pulse as suddenly and effortlessly as he had begun to dive posthaste into the subject of children—having them, adopting them, raising them, teaching them?
Just as I began to sense that this line of inquiry was subliminally en route to its unannounced destination—and quickly—my suspicion was confirmed by his introduction of the one subject of contemplation I had so far been relatively adroit at avoiding amidst this seasonal tryst: Religion.
Religion, as it happened, was my whole life. Patristic theology, ecclesiastical history, and a busy liturgical life, more specifically. Ironically, I was in seminary at the time (and no, I didn’t wear the cassock out on dates). He, on the other hand, was a rarely-observant agnostic Canadian Jewish guy studying musical theatre. That being said, I had remained entirely unbothered by the prospect of the supposed “unequal yoke” with which my former tradition had often warned me to remain unburdened. After all, I had already gotten around to adhering essentially to a sort of patristic universalism anyway, and it wasn’t as though we were anywhere near the stage at which two romantically-involved adults usually begin to drop hints about things as serious as, say, children—or so I thought.
With my body exhausted and hungry and my mind fixed on the sweet release of sleep, his thoughts evidently soared overhead as he finally dropped the proverbial bomb of raising interfaith children somewhere between the Plains of “DTR” and the “WTF” River, as far as I was concerned. My hearing returned lazily from the buzzing ecosystem of thoughts swirling in the imminent rainstorm of my mind in time to hear him out.
“I mean, hypothetically. Like, would the kid have a Christening and a Bris?? I mean, how important is that to you? Cuz I’m not even really sure I want my children raised religious at all. I’d just let them choose, ya know? But, like, you’re gonna be a priest! Surely that poses some… complications?”
“Well, of course! Why not? Uh, the ‘bris-n-baptism’ idea, I mean. I’d be more than happy to raise a child between Mass and Shul. People have been raising children in interfaith homes for ages, and you know I’m very ecumenical. I don’t want you thinking I’m going to force my children—my hypothetical children—“ I corrected myself, as I remained unsure of the whole prospect of having children to begin with.
“—into any one particular sect. Sure, I’d really prefer they remain at least within the Abrahamic families, but, don’t forget, I’m not a fundamentalist. ‘Not that kind of Christian,’ remember? If I were to ever have kids, I’d encourage their curiosity and be transparent; I’d support openness and…”
I had finally responded during his brief but timely pause, and I was bargaining all my chips on the prospect of talking this topic away into pacific resolve. No such luck. As I continued dancing with improvisational fervor to a harmonious arrangement of philosophy and social psychology, mentally stepping and weaving, trotting and prancing in proverbial circles until my impromptu sermon might have been taken for a reenactment of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, he stopped me dead in my tracks and the heart that had been rising like a triumphant submarine from the depths of my chest soon burst open and sank abruptly.
He’d always hated it when I rambled so loquaciously as to be accused of “beating around the bush.” I might’ve known I ought to have kept it concise. The interrupting words were individually punctuated and clearly enunciated, lyrics swelling with the purposeful crescendo and simultaneous ritardando of the line, affecting a tone I found not dissimilar to that of ignorant Americans when they assume a working-class person of color doesn’t speak English.
“DO YOU BELIEVE that Jesus of Nazareth IS the Messiah?”
There it was. I stopped short, void of words and confused by the aromatic blend of awe and fear that settled over my soul, along with some evidently hysterical desire to laugh aloud (which I stifled, trying to make sense of it all). I was hesitating; I could feel the wheels turning through the machinery of my psyche like a video that might as well have been time-lapsed and in slow motion all at the same time.
I never thought I would or could ever hesitate in the face of such a question. And, on the whole, this wasn’t even all that serious, as far as immediate consequences were concerned; the circumstances of that moment were about as far away from martyrdom as one could feasibly get, if one were to scale the various outcomes of this conundrum throughout history. Saints have been set ablaze in the coliseum and still refused to recant the Faith, and here I was feeling completely paused in the face of a straightforward question. Sure, I was no Judas Iscariot (not on the whole, I didn’t think), but I was certainly no John the Beloved or Protomartyr Stephen either.
Having been formed by years of discipleship under the dense fog of what I call “Televangelical Charismania,” my adolescence had heard no shortage of long-winded diatribes against the wild mass of nameless and faceless “persecutors out there,” and I had, of course, been asked that once-popular yet obscene query on more than one occasion in various ways, as though the subject were as ordinary as the trending headlines:
“If you had a gun to your head and were being threatened point-blank to deny Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, would ya do it?”
I felt a twinge somewhere deep in my memory. As can be expected, my escape from that entire movement and its worldview had consigned that volume of such ridiculous sources of worry to the far recesses of my mind—thanks be to God, and to thorough and sophisticated theological training, interspersed with a smattering of experiential wisdoms, and hours of therapy.
In retrospect, I can almost feel that moment, and I’m left to wonder whether most of my delay wasn’t simply due to my fascination with the novelty of the instance (which I admit would be an optimistic assessment). Perhaps part of me actually questioned my priorities for a beat or two; it’s not unlikely, as I have at many moments throughout my spiritual life found myself in doubt, a phenomenon which I do not believe is meant to be qualitatively assessed. The blessing of the presence of doubt is that, in provoking deeper contemplation (sometimes even hurling your doubts to God as amplified prayers), one leaves room for further credence to the verity of their Faith, should it come in handy when in need. By this point in my life, I suppose I had begun to count on the fact that, having never actually been presented with that question—at least not with this degree of precision and sincerity—I had conveniently imagined that it was unlikely to ever actually happen. Logic be damned, apparently.
That night, I learned otherwise.
I had never prayed for the intercessions of St. Peter so earnestly, vividly, or wordlessly. For the first time, I empathized with the Apostle Peter on a visceral level, as absurd as that sounds. I was recalling, of course, Peter’s infamous triple-denial of Jesus on the very night of His arrest. In light of the stress, pressure, confusion, and trauma under which I cannot even begin to imagine St. Peter must have found himself on that fateful night, this was sure to be merely a minor inconvenience by comparison.
Time had been passing, as far as I knew, but for how long? I estimated the extent of that erratic carnival ride of a thought process I had just experienced, measuring it against the tempo of my pulse.
Lub… Dub.
Mere seconds? It had likely been about three seconds altogether, the silent passing of which felt like entire minutes on end.
Alright, only three seconds—but still, I had hesitated.
“Yes. Yes. I do.”
Despite the veritable deluge of thoughts and feelings which had coursed through the aqueducts of my mind in those few short moments, raging on in great gusts of abundance towards the destination of the elusive narrative conclusion, that specter so ravenously craved by the human psyche, I proffered the only response I could humbly, authentically, and perhaps even audibly muster. In the midst of an experience of no little impact, my clear and concise affirmation was the most eloquent phrase I could bring myself to utter:
“Yes."
“Let your ‘yes’ be ‘yes’ and your ‘no’ be ‘no,’” after all, I thought. And it was.
A certain surety came over me in that season of my life; there was a claim upon me, and that “yes” was my identity as a wholly baptized child of God; it was the surrender of my Faith to the nourishment of Grace. That “yes” ministered to my heart, encouraging it to begin the long journey of reconciling the whole person of my being in light of the incarnation—the Divine mystery of the Incarnation is the collective reality that both the whole human person and humanity as a whole are icons of the Living God. It is this paradoxically multifaceted and diverse wholeness and unity that testifies to our universality, or catholicity, in my humble opinion.
My “yes,” by any measure, was not heroic or sanctimonious or rationalized or scientifically proven, and would ultimately lead to the conclusion of that relationship, but none of that mattered when faced with the bold simplicity of the truth. There was so much more I had wanted to say, but there is no amount of rhetoric that can suffice to represent the Good News in action like humble simplicity and authentic transparency. Indeed, “the truth shall set you free.” Humanity is a narrative, and people are wired for connection and story, even to the extent of our evolutionary predisposition to at least subconsciously insist upon a “beginning, middle, and end” of every situation. This human narrative is written on the paper of thought with the ink of word and the pen of deed; it is written to reveal the demonstrable evidence for the fact that the human person still possesses the capacity to echo the resounding polyphony chanted by the eternal realities of truth, beauty, and goodness.
It’s simple, but not easy; difficult, but not complex.
Part II:
“…But in your hearts sanctify Christ as Lord. Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you” (1 Peter 3:15, NRSV).
My personal relationship with the field of Christian Apologetics, up to and including the thought of proselytizing in general, has evolved in different ways at different times in my spiritual life. The topic which had, through late boyhood, been such a pronounced feature of the theology and worldview to which I had adhered would later become virtually imperceptible as I journeyed into Eastern Orthodox Christianity, and has ultimately brought me to a cycle of recurrent periods of discernment and contemplation on the matter. Now, I often find myself restating the inevitably provocative phrase in the midst of theological discussions: “Really, we’re all agnostics.”
The only thing of which I am certain is that certainty is not the point.
I have come to believe that the defense of the Faith, apologia, is a strong wine that must be mingled with the waters of mystery, as reverently and deliberately as the mingling of the chalice in the Eucharistic liturgy (lex orandi, lex credendi). That is to say, the work of apologetics is most accurately and effectively carried out when space is made conscientiously for the fundamental assertion that “God’s ways are so high above our ways as the heavens are above the earth,” as is commonly upheld in Patristic theology’s insistence on maintaining the important principle of mystery, or unknowability. The reality is, the vast majority of the cosmos is beyond knowing, leaving much unable to be disproven. Thus, contrary to the abiding impression Medieval scholasticism has left on the western world, not everything can be argued incontrovertibly or quantified definitively.
Faith is not found in any unwarranted obsession with the arbitrary definition of conceptual ideologies as quantifiable certainties; it is, to borrow from St. James, found in protecting and caring for “widows and orphans,” the outcast and downtrodden, and in being a good steward of your own spiritual wellbeing, uncorrupted by the adversary—the oppressive systems of this world (e.g. White Christian nationalism, income and housing inequality, unjust political playbooks, disparities in healthcare, etc.). True apologetics and evangelism are less about winning hypothetical arguments and more about endeavoring to live a life of witness to one’s Faith in thought, word, and deed. The human person is equipped with the hope required to live life in such a way as to actively radiate the gospel to others. We are each representatives of the connection between faith and works, and are called to exemplify the evidence of our Faith in the peacefulness of our thoughts, the encouragement of our words, and the altruism of our deeds.
As an undergraduate student of theology and Church history, Christian Apologetics was a required course, and thus literally unavoidable. I was grateful for the class overall; it was taught by one of my favorite professors, a Roman Catholic who effortlessly situated the syllabus around the Creeds of the Church. While studying apologetics formally in an academic setting proved something of an antidote to at least part of my maturing aversion to the field, due to its provision of thoroughly thought-provoking discussion and informative study, I still remained well beyond the boundaries of what might constitute a fan of apologetics.
That being said, I have grown into a new appreciation for the art of defending one’s faith. If nobility and integrity remain valued as virtues, then one’s affirmation of the principles of their own faith should surely count for something (not that any Religion is devoid of points which may require some reassessment and fine-tuning). I would not presume to posture myself as an evangelistic advocate nor to promote the aggressive tactics generally employed by such; however, there are definitive merits to the ministry of evangelism and apologetics. Such merits, I would posit, range anywhere from living a generous life to preaching to the multitudes to simply responding in the affirmative when asked about your faith.
My paternal great-grandfather, a German-American Pentecostal preacher remembered for his pastoral generosity, charitable nature, and the passionate rhetoric of his heartfelt preaching, is said to have often advised: “Never be so ‘heavenly-minded’ that you’re no earthly good.” Christianity is an actionable identity, encompassed in the love of God, neighbor, and self, bestowed by the unmerited favor of the Divine. Living it out requires that certain things get done, not only said or felt or thought, to avoid diminishing the integrity of our convictions and to demonstrate healthy and compassionate conduct. Matthew 25 records the indication by Christ of the acts of righteousness by which all are to be judged, and though I believe all creation will ultimately be saved by Grace, this gospel passage’s prerequisites directly correlate to the conduct of each person to the hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, and imprisoned, the very ability to see the face of Christ and to actively venerate it in the faces of the oppressed, the marginalized, the impoverished, the addicted, the abused, and the incarcerated.
The brave and blessed pioneers of Liberation Theology in 20th-century Latin America championed the idea that, in ministering to the poor, we must “feed their stomachs in order to feed their souls.” Indeed, it is in living a life of solidarity with those whom society has cast aside and left behind that we most sincerely share the fruits of our proclamations of the Faith. It is in siding with the travel-sodden, rabble-rousing Jewish Palestinian social justice revolutionary and religious agitator and his pals over the unjust power structures of Caesar’s empire and its business dealings that we do Christian apologetics. This Faith is meant to be an active and equitable one.
Part of our spiritual activity may bring us to the point of oral profession as well, and we should not shy away from this either, but our sacramental, incarnational Faith is one which requires the proverbial hands and feet as much as the heart and mind. A substantial part of doing Christianity, of belonging to Christ, is owning up to it. To receive the Body and Blood of Christ and mean it, to profess the Creeds and reaffirm the Baptismal Covenant in the liturgy and mean it, to amplify the voices of “the least of these” and push back against systemically corrupt systems and mean it, to feed the hungry and clothe the poor and mean it, is to say, “Yes. I am a Christian,” and mean it. As is commonly attributed to St. Francis of Assisi:
“Preach the Gospel at all times; if necessary, use words.”
Part III:
Surrounding the whole issue of Christian apologetics is the subject of “bearing witness” to the gospel, and while this is another topic for another article, it is not unmerited to look to the phenomenon of martyrdom—strongly associated with the posture of sacrifice—as the most unalloyed virtue to be found at the heart of the practice of apologetics. The Greek word for “martyr” means “witness,” the idea being that the crown of martyrdom is found in bearing witness to the Faith of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, from the little crucifixions of life to the historical testimonies of literal bodily martyrs. Martyrdom, like most healing and restorative processes, is a challenge which requires some level of discomfort. True martyrdom, of course, demands not only honesty but humility, and is not to be confused with the melodramatic wailings of pearl-clutching fundamentalists who perceive any indication of equity, diversity, or inclusion as some kind of persecution because of the threat such values pose to the willfully ignorant comfort of extreme privilege upheld by their societal dominance. St. Paul writes to the Corinthian church that “the message of the cross” is “scandal” and “foolishness” to those who do not live it out and to those who take part in the perils of destruction (1 Cor. 1:17-19). An observation of the landscape of contemporary Christianities, especially considering the exponentially increasing volume of the nationalist political movement of American Evangelicalism, would indicate quite evidently that such appraisals of the message of the cross as scandalous foolishness have even taken the main stage, however insidiously, as the loudest voices in the room, continually spouting “Jesus” and “Christianity” for their own self-serving justifications, having so boldly and popularly taken the name of the Lord in vain in their systemically blasphemous opposition to humility, charity, and equity (I will address the question of what it means to take the name of the Lord in vain in a future article).
Therefore, it is no wonder that the mere mention of Christianity might ring of hostility or self-righteous judgment to those who hear it, but it is up to those who bear witness to the Faith as authentically as we can to represent the loving, liberating grace of God in the world. Christianity as a matter of identity in action is one in which we ought never be ashamed; in finding the fullness of our identity in the Lord who creates, redeems, and sustains us, we are also empowered to embody our other identities with which our Baptized identity inevitably intersects.
I’ll never forget the words of another ex-boyfriend of mine, who once stated in an anguish with which I felt the most sincere empathy, “I feel like a closeted gay with Christians and a closeted Christian with gays!” This, beloved, is an example of the truth that representation matters. Despite the booming echoes of legalistic condemnation and wholesale denunciation of entire swaths of the human family which resound like clanging cymbals from the voices of the loveless “religious right,” sharply contrasted by the nature of God as Love (1 John 4:7-21), we the Body of Christ on earth must combat darkness with light, hate with love, and intolerance with affirmation. We, as queer Christians, Christians of color, progressive and leftist Christians, Christians who stand with the oppressed and marginalized, must not be ashamed of our intersectional identities. Indeed, we must bear witness to them and remind the world that we exist, and mightily. Your identity as a whole human person is redeemed by grace—all of it. Representation matters, and thus we must not shy away from any aspect of our identities. This is an issue of honesty, authenticity, and wholesome alignment, not only internally or personally but publicly and notably. To the extent that we preach a Christian gospel which exemplifies the sacrificial love of Christ Jesus for all humankind, we hammer away at the harsh barriers which have too long stigmatized our Faith in the deceptive shadows of its bastardization. We must be authentic in thought, word, and deed, and by our love for all shall we be known.
“Apologetics” will look different to different people, and the evangelistic work of Christianity manifests itself differently in different members of the Body (Ephesians 4:11-16). In order to “always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you,” to live a life which represents the Faith of the Risen Christ with fidelity and assurance, we are called to be a part of the testimony, to live unashamed in authenticity and wholeness. It is up to us to shed light on the progressive, inclusive, and equitable ideals of the gospel which the Lord himself preached. Jesus foretold of the believer’s inevitable experiences of tribulation, humiliation, and rejection by the world, knowing full well that the conscious activities of resisting oppressive power structures, advocating for the marginalized and subjugated, and living into the full authenticity of the human person would be diametrically opposed to the systemically exploitative power structures of society’s ruling classes, and that such an example would invariably be met with derision at best and persecution at worst. Bearing witness to the Faith is bound to require some element of sacrifice, and this is the way of the cross. Authenticity will tend to breed discomfort, but let us embrace those sensations of discomfort as growing pains and in them, find our liberation and journey together to the Promised Land. (See "The Good News of Liberation").
“Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us” (1 John 4:11-12).
Do not be ashamed, but dwell always in Love. Where there is love, there is God; thus, God can be encountered wherever you are—yes, even in bed.
