In Rome, celibacy perplexes

ArtisHENDERSON sandydays@floridaweekly.com

Rome is a city of sinners and saints. At the foot of Saint Peter’s — the very heart of Christendom — tschotke vendors sell magnets shaped like male genitalia. “Even in the shadow of the church,” they seem to say, “the pleasures of the flesh abide.”

I watched the young priests who strolled the grounds of the Vatican, men with dark hair and fine Italian features, dapper in their black coats and white collars, and I wondered if they were conflicted, those men who — in another incarnation — might pass their days flirting on the Spanish steps.

A recent article in Time magazine grappled with the issue of priestly celibacy, tracing the history of the contentious doctrine to the fourth century. In 306 A.D. the Council of Elvira decided that all priests and bishops — married or otherwise — should forego intercourse. The edict continued until the 12th century when the Church formerly abolished clerical marriage. Today, the debate still rages. In early May, photos surfaced of the popular Miami-based evangelist Alberto Cutié canoodling with his girlfriend, much to the church’s chagrin. The reverend has since left the Roman Catholic Church to join the Episcopal Church and plans to wed his paramour.

With so much controversy over celibacy, why would the church stick with the practice? The Time article points to a practical impetus: “Celibacy meant no offspring vying to inherit church property.” Biblically, though, the reasons occupy a more spiritual plain. In Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, he says, “An unmarried man is concerned about the Lord’s affairs — how he can please the Lord. But a married man is concerned about the affairs of this world — how he can please his wife.” Chastity, it seems, keeps the faithful on the spiritual straight and narrow.

The problem with celibacy in Rome — a place laden with sensual delights — is the same as anywhere: the world offers powerful temptations. Even Martin Luther, the one-time priest and upstart who rocked the Catholic world and launched the Protestant Reformation, renounced his vows and married a nun. Which leads me to ask, if the father of Protestantism endorses it, can sex (within the confines of marriage) be that bad?

In his “Year of Living Biblically,” author A.J. Jacobs took on the mighty task of following the Bible to the letter. He tackled topics as wideranging as facial hair and the wearing of mixed fibers, and even dabbled in — you guessed it — celibacy. Mr. Jacobs goes back

and forth on what he thinks the great book has to say on the subject, but he cites the sensual Song of Solomon as a pro-sex passage (“Your stature is like that of the palm, and your breasts like clusters of fruit. I said, ‘I will climb the palm tree; I will take hold of its fruit.’”).

With lines like this coming straight out of the Bible, I am perplexed for the young priests of Rome. But perhaps I am only perplexed for myself. The priests, after all, have their faith. And I? I have contented myself with a wall calendar of black-andwhite portraits I picked up at a tschotke stand. It’s 12 months of clerical good looks; I found it right next to the magnets. 

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