Pelvic Theology, Pelvic Justice

In a recent New York Times guest essay, Catholic writer David Gibson praised Pope Leo for moving his church away from “pelvic theology.” For those unfamiliar with the term, it is a way of dismissing those concerned with all matters related to sex—from abortion to LGBTQ rights to traditional notions of chastity—as morbidly obsessed and (presumably) laboring under some psychological disorder. Given the attractiveness in our lazy soundbite world of any term that delegitimizes critics and thereby makes serious engagement with ideas unnecessary, the phrase will no doubt migrate into Protestant quarters too, if it has not done so already.

Despite Gibson’s assumptions and assertions to the contrary, there are obvious, perennial reasons why Christianity should focus on these “pelvic” issues. The Old Testament surrounds sexual activity both with taboos and with rituals of purification even for acts deemed legitimate. This carries into the New Testament. St. Paul argues that the man who sleeps with a prostitute has committed a particularly heinous sin—not only because he has sexually exploited a woman, but because he has sinned against his own body. The point is that the sexed nature of the human body is central to who we are as human beings. As for the post-apostolic world, the Didache, one of the earliest extant post-canonical writings, makes the rejection of abortion a central identity marker for the Christian community. This was key to the early church’s growth, as sociologist and historian Rodney Stark argued.

This all makes theological sense: The sexual act is biblically (and historically) both a key social bond (Gen. 2:24) and part of the mandate given to human beings (Gen. 1:28). Indeed, sexual intercourse, with its creative potential, is the human act that makes us most godlike. In short, attitudes to sex lie at the heart of what it means to be human. Of course, secular thinkers are free to reject this. A professing Catholic such as Gibson should pay more attention both to the teaching of his church and to the book his church considers to be divine revelation.
And, of course, underlying the notion of “pelvic theology” is the assumption that this sexual obsession is the fault of certain elements within the Church. Strange to tell, when I was a pastor, I had to spend a lot of time talking to young men about their internet pornography habits—but not because I was myself obsessed with such. It was because the culture was saturated with it. Some of them had become addicted to porn before the age of ten, long before I had even met them. I suspect the same applies to those now dealing with congregants wrestling with matters such as abortion, homosexuality, and the like. These are not the creations of the Church but rather the emphases of our age. I write this at the start of a month devoted to those who not only wish to indulge privately in the sexual deviations of their choice but who also demand that everybody else acknowledge the legitimacy of their acts through commercials, marches, and flags more ubiquitous in town centers than the Stars and Stripes. The Church hasn’t caused that; celebrating queerness is part of the liturgical calendar of this present age, not of the Church. The Church does have a God-given calling to respond to moral chaos, but the specific details of the moral chaos are determined by the evils of the age, not by pastors and presbyters.

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