For a long time, I’ve dreaded discussing the facts of life with my son. I blame this dread on New England, where I’m from. It is a place alive and shivering with the fear of sex. Who started this fear? The anti-sex wrestling tag team: the pilgrims and the Puritans.
Why did the pilgrims wear so many buckles?
To keep all the sex in. To smother it to death.
But when you try to buckle up a natural thing, it will escape. Malcolm was right,
“Life finds a way.”
I think it comes down to a very bad equation hatched by the church:
Pleasure = of the Devil.
New Englanders believe in this math with all their hearts. This is why they grow up using the word “Wicked” when talking about all things pleasurable and appealing:
Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips: “These potato chips are wicked good!”
Homemade bike jumps: “This homemade bike jump? Wicked fun!”
Attractive people: “She’s hot!”
“Yeah, but how hot? Scale of one to ten.”
If it’s that good, or if it feels that good, it can’t be from God. This is part of the reason I eat pizza the way I do. Beware, it’s weird.
The church’s mean equation survives because many people still see God as a persnickety stickler, the great librarian of the loins and other cool places of the body.
In other words, God hates what he has made.
Consider the confusion of the loins, those chariots of fire that say, somewhat like Eric Liddell:
“I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me randy as hell. And when I’m randy, I feel his anger.”
Wrong. Sorry, The Church. Your straightjacket of buckles has only produced the sexual underground.Continue reading