The Love of a Pope

You would not think Catholic clergy would know much about love. But it has been my experience that few know it better. My parish priest runs marriage retreats that engaged couples rave about.

Our new Pope began his writings today - and decided to speak on the subject of Love. He notes that the word has many meanings, and in ancient Greek, it took more than one word to describe it. They had three words where we use one. What particularly struck me about his new encyclical Deus Caritas Est was this passage:

According to Friedrich Nietzsche, Christianity had poisoned eros, which for its part, while not completely succumbing, gradually degenerated into vice.[1] Here the German philosopher was expressing a widely-held perception: doesn't the Church, with all her commandments and prohibitions, turn to bitterness the most precious thing in life? Doesn't she blow the whistle just when the joy which is the Creator's gift offers us a happiness which is itself a certain foretaste of the Divine?

4. But is this the case? Did Christianity really destroy eros? Let us take a look at the pre- Christian world. The Greeks—not unlike other cultures—considered eros principally as a kind of intoxication, the overpowering of reason by a “divine madness” which tears man away from his finite existence and enables him, in the very process of being overwhelmed by divine power, to experience supreme happiness. All other powers in heaven and on earth thus appear secondary: “Omnia vincit amor” says Virgil in the Bucolics—love conquers all—and he adds: “et nos cedamus amori”—let us, too, yield to love.[2] In the religions, this attitude found expression in fertility cults, part of which was the “sacred” prostitution which flourished in many temples. Eros was thus celebrated as divine power, as fellowship with the Divine.

The Old Testament firmly opposed this form of religion, which represents a powerful temptation against monotheistic faith, combating it as a perversion of religiosity. But it in no way rejected eros as such; rather, it declared war on a warped and destructive form of it, because this counterfeit divinization of eros actually strips it of its dignity and dehumanizes it. Indeed, the prostitutes in the temple, who had to bestow this divine intoxication, were not treated as human beings and persons, but simply used as a means of arousing “divine madness”: far from being goddesses, they were human persons being exploited. An intoxicated and undisciplined eros, then, is not an ascent in “ecstasy” towards the Divine, but a fall, a degradation of man. Evidently, eros needs to be disciplined and purified if it is to provide not just fleeting pleasure, but a certain foretaste of the pinnacle of our existence, of that beatitude for which our whole being yearns.

5. Two things emerge clearly from this rapid overview of the concept of eros past and present. First, there is a certain relationship between love and the Divine: love promises infinity, eternity—a reality far greater and totally other than our everyday existence. Yet we have also seen that the way to attain this goal is not simply by submitting to instinct. Purification and growth in maturity are called for; and these also pass through the path of renunciation. Far from rejecting or “poisoning” eros, they heal it and restore its true grandeur.

This is due first and foremost to the fact that man is a being made up of body and soul. Man is truly himself when his body and soul are intimately united; the challenge of eros can be said to be truly overcome when this unification is achieved. Should he aspire to be pure spirit and to reject the flesh as pertaining to his animal nature alone, then spirit and body would both lose their dignity. On the other hand, should he deny the spirit and consider matter, the body, as the only reality, he would likewise lose his greatness. The epicure Gassendi used to offer Descartes the humorous greeting: “O Soul!” And Descartes would reply: “O Flesh!”.[3] Yet it is neither the spirit alone nor the body alone that loves: it is man, the person, a unified creature composed of body and soul, who loves. Only when both dimensions are truly united, does man attain his full stature. Only thus is love —eros—able to mature and attain its authentic grandeur.

He captures in this what is to me the essence of the true Nirvana - not enlightenment through the gnostic abandonment of all carnality, much as the Manicheans sought. The true enlightenment is love, and we reach it when we unite what our hearts are capable of with the abilities of our minds. It is touched where body meets soul.

Even though I am not a touchy person - I don't like to be hugged - even I recognize that some of the most truly altruistic and loving things people do are physical . The people at the Shepherds of Good Hope who dole out soup are satisfying the physical hunger of the people who go there. The worker at the hospice who holds the hands of someone who is dying is providing physical, tactile reassurance.

So it is in marriage. If an alien came to Earth to observe our lives outside of the bedroom, that alien would probably see more carnality than in the bedroom. Would he not see sex as a cartoonish, buffoonish thing now? So much of the time: that carnality seems so venal, stripped of all non-commercial meaning. Sex is an industry, and not the one you are thinking I mean. It goes beyond that - it is the ultimate horizontal market - selling clothing to tweens, muscle cars to young men, software at Microsoft conventions to geeks, and Atkins-compatible subs at Subway to would-be Jareds. We awkwardly glance away from the flashing, blinking distractions that seek to evince longing in us, even as it makes us feel inadequate, telling us that we must have more, more, or less.... better... more expensive. Give us your money.

But in a relationship infused with real love, this buffoonish kind of carnality falls away. The union is love in its soul and body; a timeless tradition that, by enabling succeeding generations, enables tradition itself; a momentless moment where all vulnerability is given, and generously accepted; where commitment is both promised and fulfilled in the same asking and answer. It is comfort sought and given, a wordless journey back to the Garden of Eve where we were made for one another, because God saw that it was not good for us to be alone.