The Trivial Things We Share

Causing a minor stir on the internet is this Commonweal article by Joseph Bottum - "The Things We Share." Bottum, a former editor of First Things and an alleged conservative Catholic, has apparently decided for unconditional surrender on the issue of gay marriage.

As others have remarked, the article is a strangely rambling and lengthy piece. I'm not going to address any of the arguments Bottum makes for gay marriage here - others have done that better than I can (Ed Feser's take is here.) Instead I'd like to discuss the nature of the things that it is that Bottum shares.

For Bottum this is principally folk music and specifically bluegrass music. "The Things We Share" is framed by Bottum's relationship with Jim Watson, like Bottum a bluegrass musician, but with the difference that Watson happens to be gay. And in the end, this makes all the difference, at least when it is combined with Bottum's Catholicism:

A few years ago, his friendship began to cool, bit by bit. You understand how it is: a little here, a little there, and last time I was through New York he didn’t even bother to answer my note suggesting we put together one of our low-rent urban hootenannies. The problem, our conversations had made pretty clear along the way, was that I am a Catholic, and Jim is gay.

Well, actually, gay isn’t the word he would use. I have what might be the worst ability to recognize sexual orientation on the planet, but no one needed sensitivity to guess Jim’s views. Not that he was campy or anything when I knew him, but he was always vocal about his sexuality, naming himself loudly to anyone nearby with words that polite society allows only in ironic use by gay men themselves.

Anyway, Jim gradually started to take our difference personally, growing increasingly angry first at the Catholic Church for its opposition to state-sanctioned same-sex marriage and then at Catholics themselves for belonging to such a church. His transformation didn’t come from any personal desire to marry—or, at least, from any desire he ever articulated or I could see.

A few years ago, his friendship began to cool, bit by bit. You understand how it is: a little here, a little there, and last time I was through New York he didn’t even bother to answer my note suggesting we put together one of our low-rent urban hootenannies. The problem, our conversations had made pretty clear along the way, was that I am a Catholic, and Jim is gay.

Well, actually, gay isn’t the word he would use. I have what might be the worst ability to recognize sexual orientation on the planet, but no one needed sensitivity to guess Jim’s views. Not that he was campy or anything when I knew him, but he was always vocal about his sexuality, naming himself loudly to anyone nearby with words that polite society allows only in ironic use by gay men themselves.

Anyway, Jim gradually started to take our difference personally, growing increasingly angry first at the Catholic Church for its opposition to state-sanctioned same-sex marriage and then at Catholics themselves for belonging to such a church. His transformation didn’t come from any personal desire to marry—or, at least, from any desire he ever articulated or I could see.

Bottum clearly misses the friendship with Jim, but what is it that he misses? Like Bottum, I am a folk musician, but instead of bluegrass I play traditional Irish music, not too difficult to find here in the Boston area. There are  players I have known off and on for fifteen years, and others I have played with consistently over that time. There are very few, maybe one, that I could call a genuine friend, including players I have spent hundreds of hours playing with. I doubt any of them are aware of this blog, and some would be put off - just like Jim - if they read it. On the other hand, I started last year attending a lectio divina group on Mondays. Although I have spent far, far fewer hours in the lectio divina group than I have in Irish music sessions, people who have known me for only a few hours on Monday know me much better than anyone in the Irish music sessions who have played with me for years.

And the reason is that true friendship, as Aristotle teaches us, can only be based on the good, and therefore also on truth. The Irish music tradition was founded in poor farmers playing in the kitchen or pub after a long day's hard work; these farmers shared a Catholic faith and a dedication to family that found expression in their music. I once heard Martin Hayes recount stories of his boyhood watching tough, gruff men play music in his father's kitchen, music that was sweet and gentle and in contrast to the rough exterior of the men playing it. What joined these men was not the music so much as their shared sacrifice and vocation, their sense of tragedy, struggle, faith and joy, all of which came out in their music. Bluegrass music in this country has a similar origin.

You can lose the shared sacrifice and faith but keep the music, but when you do you have lost its substance and have hold of something essentially trivial. It is no longer an expression of a deep human friendship but a sort of lightweight end in itself. Fun, sure, but beware trying to attach anything meaningful to it:

At the same time, there’s been damage done in the course of this whole debate, some of it by me. And I’m not sure what can be done about it. I certainly lost my friend Jim along the way. Some come here to fiddle and dance, I remember he used to sing. Some come here to tarry. / Some come here to prattle and prance. / I come here to marry. You remember how it goes. “Shady Grove,” the song is called. A bit of old-timey Americana, the stuff we all still share.

Sorry, Joseph, what that song is singing we no longer share and haven't for some time now.

A few years ago, his friendship began to cool, bit by bit. You understand how it is: a little here, a little there, and last time I was through New York he didn’t even bother to answer my note suggesting we put together one of our low-rent urban hootenannies. The problem, our conversations had made pretty clear along the way, was that I am a Catholic, and Jim is gay.

Well, actually, gay isn’t the word he would use. I have what might be the worst ability to recognize sexual orientation on the planet, but no one needed sensitivity to guess Jim’s views. Not that he was campy or anything when I knew him, but he was always vocal about his sexuality, naming himself loudly to anyone nearby with words that polite society allows only in ironic use by gay men themselves.

Anyway, Jim gradually started to take our difference personally, growing increasingly angry first at the Catholic Church for its opposition to state-sanctioned same-sex marriage and then at Catholics themselves for belonging to such a church. His transformation didn’t come from any personal desire to marry—or, at least, from any desire he ever articulated or I could see.

The Shocking as a Moral Measure

George Takei posted the following picture on his facebook page:

For those who don't know Takei played Sulu on the original Star Trek series. He's been making something of a pop culture comeback these days, appearing in commercials and cameos on various TV shows. Takei is gay and his cameos sometimes play off his homosexuality (e.g., in one commercial he gives advice to a boy making moves on a girl. When the boy asks "How would you know?", Takei replies "I read.") As might be expected, Takei is an advocate of so-called "marriage equality."

What occurred to me on seeing the picture was just what a poor standard "the shocking" is as a measure of morality. When we look to the past, we find that for any time and place, there were things that were found shocking that we don't find shocking now, and other things we find shocking that were not found shocking back then. In other words, at every time in the past there was some aspect of the shocking that did not line up with today's understanding of morality. In yet other words, at every time in the past, reliance on the shocking as an accurate measure of the moral would have been wrong in at least some respects according to current lights. Which leads to the question: What about now? Is the contemporary sense of the shocking the one time in history when that sense maps accurately to the moral? Or is it simply the case that we, like everyone in the past, tend to make the same mistake of making our subjective reaction of shock the measure of the moral?

Obviously I think the latter is the case. We should strive to be shocked by the truly shocking, and not shocked by what is truly not shocking, with the truly shocking measured by reason. An interracial kiss is not truly shocking, for it is normal throughout history and across the world, and only became shocking in the peculiar racial circumstances of America with its history of slavery and racial division. So the fact that we are no longer shocked by Kirk and Uhura kissing is a laudable instance of Americans conforming their sense of shock to the truly shocking. White men kissing black women is truly nothing to worry about.

On the other hand, while we are not shocked at Uhuru and Kirk, we are also not shocked at 1.2 million abortions per year or the fact that 70% of black births are now out of wedlock. (It's 40% for whites, which should be shocking as well, but is tame compared to the black rate). One or two hundred years from now, will people look back on us and wonder how blase we could be about such states of affairs? The fact that we are not shocked about such statistics should at least give us pause that our sense of the shocking is an infallible guide to the moral.


And, increasingly, we are not shocked by same-sex marriage. Although we still seem to be shocked by two men kissing, which - despite Brokeback Mountain - is rarely seen on the screen. Whether or not people tolerate or even "celebrate" it, it seems that most people would rather not see it, and this may be something that never changes.

In any case, the question is not whether we are shocked by same sex relations, but whether we should be shocked, for we should measure our shock by the moral, and not the moral by our shock.