One of the recurring themes during my journey of coming out as a gay man was the idea that, if I became more spiritually strong, I could somehow overcome my physical desires for other men. Under this perspective, those who held power over me were elevating the importance of the soul over the body: the latter can only be redeemed by the former. The result was a profound sense of disintegration – one I sense in fellow LGBTQ+ Catholics who, as adults, still struggle reconciling their spiritual faith with their embodied queerness.

In the Scripture passages for the 20th Sunday of Ordinary Time, we are reminded that God’s goodness must be tasted in order to be seen. What an erotic image! It is one, I argue, that could potentially help LGBTQ+ persons understand how our queer embodiment serves as a location for profound theological insight and spiritual transformation.

Some would interpret the today’s readings as perpetuating a dualism between the divine/spiritual and the embodied/carnal. For example, in today’s Gospel, Jesus makes a clear distinction between the bread of life that grants life everlasting (referring to himself) and the manna their ancestors received in the dessert, which satisfies bodily hunger but does not grant eternal life. We can perceive a conflict here between the body and the soul. It is not difficult to read this passage as containing a clear emphasis or exaltation of the spiritual dimensions of our being over the physical ones.

The earliest most significant treatise of such a dualistic perspective is perhaps seen inthe work of St. Augustine, whose classical book, The City of God, calls us to place our eyes on God rather than on our selfish desires. In his words, “Two loves, then, have made the two cities. Love of self…made the earthly city, and love of God…made the heavenly city” (The City of God, book 14). To participate in the heavenly city where we find God and everlasting life requires a denial of the self, which is why St. Paul reminds us in today’s readings to avoid getting drunk with wine but “instead be filled with the Spirit.” St. Augustine’s dualistic theology is also present in his other work, The Confessions, where he reflects on his sexual compulsions and his journey toward chastity in the service of God.

While I appreciate the idea that the Christian path involves self-sacrifice in many instances (and especially a rejection of vices that lead us to sin, which is what I think St. Paul is getting at), through an incarnational lens, I caution against any exegesis or theological reflections that make a jump toward the false dichotomy that perpetuates such disintegration (and conflict) between the body and soul.

If we take the incarnation seriously, we can begin to see the body – and, more broadly, human embodied experience – as the location where Jesus chose to reveal himself. Moreover, the call to “eat the flesh and drink the blood of the chosen one” further drives home the idea that the experience of God is a profoundly embodied one; including, I argue, a sexual one.

As a queer theologian, I cannot help but read these passages through an erotic lens. Eroticism entails a sense of integration between the embodied, spiritual, relational, and social components of our being. Contrary to popular opinion, eroticism is not just about sexual activity. In fact, so much sexual activity can be devoid of human interpersonal connection and therefore not erotic (e.g., casual transactional hookups with zero intention to honor or respect the other’s humanity), while other human activities can be embodied, physical, and profoundly erotic without being sexual at all (e.g., a traditional father-daughter dance at her wedding). Obviously, sexual expression and activity can also carry immense potential for eroticism.

In his popular book, Queer God de Amor, theologian Miguel Diaz offers a profoundly erotic mystical account of our encounter with God by examining the writings of San Juan de la Cruz (St. John of the Cross). San Juan’s images like “living flame of love,” “Upon my flowering chest which I kept for him alone, there he fell asleep and I caressing him,” and “break the veil of this sweet encounter” deliberately harness embodied encounters as a locus theologicus – as an avenue for knowing God. For Díaz, the bedroom can be such a location.

Drawing from contemporary trinitarian theology about God’s own self-communication, Díaz argues that this divine process looks like a two-way street whereby God reaches out to us and we too reach out toward God. Applying this to a sanjuanista mystical erotic theology, Díaz argues that through sexual eroticism we can more fully get to know God and God can self-reveal in our lives. This includes queer sexual eroticism, which values the sexual embodied expressions of LGTBQ+ persons as two-way avenues for God’s self-communication.

What would it be like for LGBTQ+ Catholics to taste and see Jesus today? The Eucharist certainly provides a location for communing with God – but I wonder if we can begin to imagine how the goodness of the Lord can be present in our erotic encounters among our community. Can the divine be making itself present in the two gay men making out at the gay club? Or in the transgender person experiencing gender euphoria for the first time post-operation? Can the polyamorous orgy be as profoundly sacred as the hermit monk’s vow of celibacy?

For too long, we have been taught to deny the body in the service of the soul when, according to the most sacred tenet of our Catholic tradition, our incarnational orientation calls us to embrace the fullness of our embodied experience as way to better understand God. After all, we need a body to be able to taste and see the goodness of the Lord.

In February of 2024, trans activist Cecilia Gentili died in New York and had her funeral mass celebrated at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The service drew over one thousand queer people and allies from all over the nation, including celebrities like Billy Porter, who paid homage to her work of LGBTQ+ inclusion and advocacy against sexual oppression. Interestingly, the program for the celebration – in true queer fashion that attempts to defy sexual repression – employed what some consider to be salacious and offensive language in honor of Cecilia. For example, she was honored as “St. Cecilia, the mother of all whores.” 

During the service, queer attendees (many of whom belonged to the underground Ballroom scene in New York) were joyfully dancing up and down the aisles, sporting gender non-conforming fashion as they vogued and sang exuberantly. In response to such perceived irreverence, the priest ended the service early by not celebrating the Eucharist and the archdiocese released a statement condemning the celebration and the deception of those who booked the space for expressing a false intention to solemnly and respectfully celebrate the life of Cecilia. Cecilia’s friends and family issued a response statement condemning the Cathedral’s words and actions, stating “The only deception present at St. Patrick’s Cathedral is that it claims to be a welcoming place for all.”

Ecclesial responses like the Cathedral of St. Patrick’s showcase our Church’s profound lack of awareness of the erotic power of spirituality. What may have appeared irreverent at the surface level, from a sexually integrated spiritual angle, could have been interpreted as a genuine expression of embodied erotic spirituality, culture, and faith. It is sad that Church officials (many of whom are disintegrated themselves) chose to perpetuate a dichotomized Catholic faith where queers and self-proclaimed whores needed to check their sexuality at the door of a Cathedral if they wish to participate in a spiritual celebration. This dualism is harmful to LGBTQ+ persons – but it also harms the Church by blinding it from important perspectives about the spiritual power of eroticism.

I conclude with a reflection on what I perceive to be the key lesson to be learned in this scenario. Despite the repeated historical oppression they have faced at the hands of the Church, those queer persons who attended the service still showed up (in droves!) as their full selves to participate in a spiritual service for their fellow leader. Their joyful singing and dancing in honor of the life of their “Saint Cecilia” speaks to the power of their erotic spirituality that seeks to transform spaces by simply taking up room and living authentically. And their response to the Cathedral’s exclusion speaks of a beautiful, well-articulated wisdom that unequivocally condemns oppression and celebrates their embodied queerness. Even though they were denied the Eucharist, their proud embodied celebration reflects the power that lies at the integration of body and soul. Perhaps they have been tasting and seeing the divine all along…