What We Talk About When We Talk About Sex

My friend Will Crawley has a story about a BBC investigation into pornography profits; his particular angle is the role that the Christian Brothers Investment Services, one of the biggest investors of official 'Catholic money' in the world, plays in bolstering the porn industry.  Apparently the guidelines for investment are easily made flexible - and so the CBIS apparently has a hefty wad of cash wrapped up in the production of money shots. According to Will: "A spokesperson for CBIS told the BBC Hardcore Profits programme that they aim to influence the moral direction of companies in which they have investments. He also suggested that their policy is a common sense response to the world we live in: any Catholic who believes its right to completely withdraw from any company making any profits from pornography would have to switch off their internet supply, avoid most of the world's hotels, and stop watching television."

The spokesman makes a reasonable point; but the world of 'ethical' investing is always subject to this kind of parsing.  Will once reminded me that there's only one answer to the 'Well, where would you draw the line?' when it's posed as a means to doing nothing, a kind of 'Via Apathy'.  The answer, of course, is 'SOMEWHERE'.  Nothing is done perfectly; but it must be done.

More after the fold

I recall that the Presbyterian Church in Ireland used to define its ethical investment policy as keeping its funds out of alcohol, tobacco, and gambling; but it was ok to have shares in missiles.  Pressure from, among others, my friend journalist Mark McCleary helped encourage them to withdraw the blood money, and a new line was drawn.  It will need to be drawn again, and again; as more information emerges  and our understanding of economics and justice develops.  But at least they're trying to draw it somewhere.

I'm not sure where the line should be in the CBIS story; here's an attempt.

1: It makes sense to strive for ethical investment policies to be comprehensive.  I'm not particularly troubled by whether or not a church invests in alcohol, and tobacco used to be ok to me, partly because of Wendell Berry (although I'm fast becoming an annoying former smoking evangelist; the odd decent cigar aside); but gambling is self-evidently a trap that the rich can play with while mostly insulated from its sorrows, while the million-to-one lottery winners become idealised scapegoats on which the poor can project fantasies of escape that lead, in the cases of the rest of the million, to perpetuated poverty.   So I'm with the PCI two-thirds of the way; and while not investing in alcohol seems a bit strange, given Jesus' early role as a wine merchant, I understand the cultural and socio-economic reasons for divestment.

2: As for porn and weapons, well...It seems to me that there's at least as clear a case for churches refusing to invest in militarism and the 'defence' industry as in pornography.  I have a friend whose job used to be to design computer guidance technology that would help direct missiles toward their targets; he left that job to become a pastor, thank God.  My view is that a philosophy that values human life - whether of the religious or secular kind inexorably leads to non-participation in the mechanisms of war; because we take life so seriously that it prevents us from playing a part in its destruction by building weapons.

(This does not mean that I believe a religious or secular humanist should under no circumstances join the armed forces; I haven't come to a full conclusion about this yet; but Logan Laituri's thoughtful post 'Prepared to Die, But Not to Kill' raises the issues far better than I could.)   Now an argument for pacifism, or neo-pacifism, is made elsewhere on this blog; for now, I guess it just seems that the damage done by explosions is pretty objectively measurable; while porn is just something we're supposed to be disgusted at for nebulous reasons that, it seems to me, are more complex than the friendly mavens of either conservatism or hedonism would like.

3: One of my best friends used to direct porn movies.  It was a job; and I have no idea what he felt about it, as I've never asked.  But his example is merely one part of a multi-faceted web of supply and demand involving the - presumably universal - desire for the eroticised human body.  Sure, I'm aware of the arguments about the exploitation inherent to porn - and I'll take them further; it's not just the participants who may be allowing some of their souls to leak - but we, the viewers, might be giving something of our own dignity away when we watch.  Deeper than all of this, however, is the central point I wish to make: There's a reason religious institutions are preoccupied with pornography; and it's the fact that religious institutions are often, quite simply obsessed with sexuality.  In that sense, the fact that some of us often get worked up about pornography is a good thing: at least we're talking about sex.

Well, of course, we're not really talking about sex; we're making assumptions about the human body, about there being constitutional differences between religious adherents and other people, about women and men, about what is right and wrong.  Some of these assumptions make a lot of sense to me - but not for traditionally conservative moral reasons.  It makes sense to me that human beings are made for something more than self-gratification; it makes sense to me that we are not here to be exploited by each other, nor are we made for objectification.  Religious institutions not investing in pornography thus makes a lot of sense.

The problem is that the detachment from the body that seems inherent in religious discourse about pornography means that we're talking about something more than (or other than) porn when we talk about porn.  John Ashcroft's notorious covering up of nude Greek statues in the Department of Justice HQ, Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction, my own recent Costa Rican beach epiphany can all be gathered up by the same Puritanical net - with Ashcroft seen as a hero for the cause of what it means to be moral, Jackson as a cultural whore (not my words), and me as a kind of weird half-man, half-alien, who needs to be naked in the Pacific Ocean under a starkly moonlit sky to find himself.  The paradox here arises when it becomes clear that religious institutions and individuals have sometimes been pretty holistic in their approach to sex and the body - images on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, the conversion declaration of St Francis of Assisi, the Metaphysical poets, and more recently the writings of people like Mike Riddell and Stuart Davis.  But it's rare today for a religious leader to publicly affirm sexuality in all its earthiness and wonder, messiness and delight; it's easier to talk about what we want to stop, the fear of libidinous floodgates opening to unleash meta-level bodily fluids to sweep us all to a red light district hell from which no good can come.  The irony, as far as I can see, is the fact that the sexual repression that characterises so much religious discourse and experience is already a kind of hell; just as much as the places where sexuality is but a commodity in games of pleasure and economic necessity alike.

What I mean is this: when religious institutions talk about the evils of pornography, but hide the rest of what might be said about sexuality under a bushel, what they're usually talking about is at least partly fear of the human body.  Pornography is problematic, to be sure.  But that's not the point.  Sexuality and the body can no more be divorced than my sense of humour and the rest of my personality.  The 'porn part' of sexuality may well be the shadow side; but for a shadow to exist, there must be a source of light.  It's the body and sexuality as sources of light that I wish religious institutions would invest in.

Woodstock: 'The biggest hassle is dealing with politics'

In preparation for the release of Ang Lee's 'Taking Woodstock', which Jett and I discuss on Episode 86,  I watched Michael Wadleigh's director's cut of the original documentary (a gorgeous, filled-to-the-brim Blu-Ray) - a telling experience, given that it's so full of the evocation of an era gone by that we're all supposed to want to live in.  Some immediate reactions followed by a question or two:

The film really takes its time to get ready; the split screens give a sense of the fantastic madness of the endeavour, what immense planning has gone into it, and how enormous the scope of the event was when it actually happened.

'There has to be some way of stopping the influx of humanity' - Bill Graham's considered opinion of how to keep the show business-friendly.

'It's about what's happening now' - the succinct thoughts of someone who typically says 'man' at the end (and/or beginning) of every sentence.

'I want to know why the fascist pigs have been seeding the clouds' - concertgoer disappointed that the CIA or somesuch have made it rain.

'Helen Savage please call your father at the Motel Glory in Woodridge' - either an indication of just how community-oriented this festival was, or proof to conspiracy theorists that coded messages were being sent from the stage to J Edgar Hoover.

'The brown acid is not specifically too good' - a lovely understated piece of pharmaceutical advice.

When the concert finally starts, the most obvious thing is how enormous Richie Havens' hands are; he's not precious about asking for guitar mikes to be turned up; it's clear that nobody cared about professionalism or needing to show i.d. or, by the mid-point, making money.  It was about communication; people unshackling themselves; taking the risk of looking stupid because social norms have made them afraid to smile at strangers.  Or at least that's what I want to hope it was about.

James Parker in The Atlantic recently called this the last time we were able to police ourselves; there was only a brief window before the festival gave birth to its evil twin, Altamont, infamous for being the site of the killing of Meredith Hunter during a Rolling Stones concert.  Parker tells us that Woodstock itself was not without tension - the burning to the ground of 12 food stands in an outbreak of less than peace-enhancing radicalism not making the final cut of  Wadleigh's extraordinary framing of 'what's happening in America'.

'America is becoming a whole', according to Sri Swami Satchidananda's on-stage invocation, whoe sentiment I want to embrace.  But the mingling of idealism, optimism, wish-fulfilment, fear and anger about the war, and whatever else was going on then gives way today to, at the very least, a question: What the hell happened to these people?  These people, who looked so beautiful, who spoke without embarrassment about the potential for love to be realised as a political strategy, and some of whom created communitarian experiments that actually worked, who, at their most open were willing not to refuse light from any quarter - knowing that the only recently baptised military-industrial complex was failing humanity, so let's look East...  What happened to them?

Well, they became my parents - and I can still see traces of the sentiments expressed in the field when my mum and dad talk about politics and tolerance, especially in a general suspicion of institutions that try to tell you how to be.  But my folks are just two people; and they weren't even there.  It's fashionable to say that more of the Woodstock generation learned indulgence than self-costing activism for a better world; that the gruesome scenes of Reaganite techno-greed a decade or so later were built on the foundations of a social cohort that had taught themselves they could have anything they want, and now.  And there may be some truth in that; surely some of the people responsible for nurturing the vision of being American as selfish, angry and afraid that came to dominate pubic discourse over the past forty years were in that field at Bethel.  But let's also acknowledge that the leaders of recent social movements that have achieved real change were there too, at least in spirit.  There are still true believers out there; they still have something to say; they're still doing things that would slow the world down, and would give us peace and music if we were ready to listen.

So, what 'Woodstock' means to me?

1: I'd love to make a film like this; and the democratisation of cinema may well allow someone to do just that right now.

2: My generation is lonelier than they were.

3: The Who look ridiculous; but so does everyone else.  Some in a good way.

4: The contrast between the anti-war movements of 1969 and 2009 depends on the existence of the draft.

5: The most pessimistic thing I can say?  Some of these people are saying the same things today that they said then.  And it didn't work.

6: The most optimistic thing I can say? Watching Joe Cocker redefine what a human body needs to do to make a sound in 1969  (and it's amazing) looks not that different from watching what Joe Cocker does to make a sound today (and it's still amazing); if he can do it...well...

This Week

I've had a lot of feedback about my Naked post; and am happy that it has provoked some conversation.  I'll write more on this theme in the future - please feel free to post comments with suggestions or questions for what you'd like me to explore.  I'm particularly interested in writing about the interaction between spirituality and sexuality; along with the kinds of questions Michael Pollan and others are asking about our relationship to food and psychology. This week I'm in LA til mid-week, speaking yesterday at All Saints Beverly Hills and Risenchurch Santa Monica.  We had some fun talking about spirituality and the body; and today I'm trying to get some writing done before seeing 'The Hurt Locker'.  Kathryn Bigelow's film is being cited as her best  (which is seductive, given that 'Point Break' does what it's trying to do better than most other films of its kind; and that 'Strange Days' took cybertechnology and crime seriously before it became the cliched trope of a hundred bad movies), and one of the tensest experience you could have a in a cinema (which is why I've avoided seeing it yet, not being sure that I'm in the right headspace for a war film whose reputation is built on being the most realistic depiction of combat horror realised for the screen).  But I plan to see it this afternoon; and I'll post about it here; we'll talk about it on The Film Talk soon.

Naked

“Your principal concern appears to be that the Creator of the universe will take offence at something people do while naked.  This prudery of yours contributes daily to the surplus of human misery.” – Sam Harris, ‘Letter to a Christian Nation’

“How beautiful you are, my darling!  Oh, how beautiful!... Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon; your mouth is lovely… Your two breasts are like two fawns, like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies.… Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride; milk and honey are under your tongue.  The fragrance of your garments is like that of Lebanon.… You are a garden fountain, a well of flowing water streaming down from Lebanon.

Awake, north wind, and come, south wind! Blow on my garden that its fragrance may spread abroad. Let my lover come into his garden and taste its choice fruits.” – Song of Solomon

‘I often think that the Church is totally untrustable in the area of eros.’ – John O’Donohue

‘Cultures that are repressed will be awful at f***ing.  They will decline.  And when they decline because they are awful at f***ing, they will create pornography, experience an epidemic of promiscuity, and cause wars.’ – Dorian Pankowitz, the man who introduced surfing to Israel, paraphrased (but only slightly)

Standing naked on a Costa Rica beach three Mondays ago around midnight, and a few minutes later being flung under and above and through water by tropical surf, as the moon stared down, oblivious to my body, or generous in its refusal to notice, it occurred to me that being naked on a beach in Costa Rica was exactly where I wanted to be.  As if there were nowhere else that I actually could be.  And when I say ‘I’, I mean something more full than my superficial sentiments about vacations and what you should do with them.  I mean something closer to my fullest interpretation of what I really am – a human being, made, if God exists, in the image of God; privileged, to be at a wedding in Costa Rica (although the guests had left by the time I went skinny-dipping); and with the possibility of significant change, just by standing naked on a beach under the moon.

Now the fact is that writing this seems unwise; that some readers may be offended by my nakedness, even though I’m only talking about it, rather than showing it off.  The fact that I have had to censor the f-word in one of the quotations above is part of this same continuum: we can't say the word in certain places for certain reasons, not least of which is the fact that it signals how afraid we are of our bodies.  But surely telling a story about how liberated I felt under the moon when I was naked can hardly be called exhibitionism?  I felt united with the sea – like I belonged there; like the earth was my home; like I fitted in my body.

It wasn’t a miracle; it wasn’t a transfiguration; and perhaps I'm the only person in the world who ever felt disconnected, or even a little dislocated from my physical frame; so this may mean absolutely nothing to anyone else reading.  If I were a poet, I could say this better - so if I'm de-railing your interest, please forgive me and come back later.  But if you're still with me, let me say this:  I found myself waking up a little bit more to the fact of my own body – that whatever else is going on in the world, I have nowhere else to be except in my body.  That’s where I happen.  Not just my fuelling-and-emptying; or my experience of sexuality; or work or play: but ME.  My body is where I happen.  It seems to me that Sam Harris is more right than he knows – it’s not just religious institutions that can turn the body into a site of oppression: for our entire culture may be obsessed with it.  The beauty myth forced on us by media and cultural mavens deadens the soul on the one hand; but on the other, the denial of the body still present in so much of our religious and educational systems detaches us from our very selves.  We wander round in bodies that we don’t like because someone else has told us that we don’t look ‘right’;  as if it were possible for six billion people’s hopes to be reduced to our potential to emulate the cheek bone structure of the rich and famous.

This may be turning into a rant, so I'll try to give it a soft landing.  I'm not sure that there's much more to what I want to say than the fact that I was naked on a beach in Costa Rica and it made me feel more alive than I was before.  But if there is something more, it is this:

I have nowhere else to be except in my body. Nothing happens to, or with, or through me apart from my body.  Yet even though we tell ourselves that we have left the dualism that divides physicality and spirituality behind, it's pretty clear that the competition for how we treat our bodies is still unsettled.  I need to tell myself that my body and I are better suited to befriending each other than denying who we are together.  I have a strong suspicion that the feeling of integration I had while naked on a beach in Costa Rica, while not denying the fact that some things are special because they're unrepeatable, isn't supposed to be the exception, but the rule.  I'm just not sure how to replicate it when I'm not on holiday.  But I know that, in the tension between being and becoming that I'm beginning to understand life to be, I want to.

*Photo credit: www.richarddawkins.net