Love Is...

Can you see Pope Benedict XVI as a sex therapist? Well, I couldn't either until reading Christine Sammut's fantastically bawdy piece of pastoral guidance on issues carnal in Wednesday's issue of The Times. It seems that these days, people just don't think they can get down with the kids unless they are prepared to talk about intra-sheet activity. But as George Bernard Shaw noted "Why should we take advice on sex from the pope? If he knows anything about it, he shouldn't!". But Sammut, on the other hand, certainly seems to know a thing or two about what one could coyly term as horizontal dancing, though the fact she seems to put Pope Benedict's latest hit encyclical on a par with the Kama Sutra is probably not a promising sign. From early into the article, one is assailed with the doubt about this person's authority on the subject:

"Our society, and mostly, the media, exalt one aspect of sexuality - the body and the physical aspect of sexuality - most commonly known as the Eros."

Most commonly known as Eros, you say. With the ambiguous and perversely prudish enlightenment characteristic of religious youth workers, Sammut proceeds to construct a frail and unconvincing position on the fulfilment, or lack thereof, that sex brings with it:

"Many young people have come to realise, only too often, that having a sexual relationship which is only fulfilled in its physical aspect brings them only to an 'ecstasy' which is short-lived and leaves them always searching for something more."

This sort of psychological reaction is not exclusive to sex of course. Indeed, as I read Pope Benedict's encyclical, Deus Caritas Est, I derived a transitory frisson of pleasure, but once the moment had passed I felt dirty, used and abused. After that I had to move on to harder stuff; some Thomas Aquinas, a draw on Saint Augustine, and a few lines of Cardinal Newman. In sexual matters, Sammut suggests that the youth look to heighten the intensity of their ecstasy by other means:

"Many are those who seek to embellish the experience through various means, some outright addictive or perverse. But the end result is always the same: emptiness and hurt which is gaping inside."

What Sammut means by means that outright perverse is probably not wise to speculate about. But it should be clear that while she is contrary to perversion resulting in hurt, it is not as though she is discouraging sharing the love in itself. Indeed, as she urges the young libertines of Malta:

"And so, our invitation to all young people is one: dare to open your gift!"

But it turns out that the gift is letting your other half discover you and connect with you spiritually. What utter drivel! Presumably, she must believe that this kind of clerical mumbo-jumbo can be sold to her horny-handed charges at the University, but what she is not aware of is that Maltese students are as hypocritical as they are dim. While they may eagerly go to seasonal masses and piously profess their Catholic identity, they equally conveniently forget about all that when it comes to the dirty business of spiritually unfulfilling, er, sexual relationships.
So, as grateful we doubtless are to Pope Benedict XVI (who Sammut promotes to Pope Benedict XVII in the byline) for endowing us with his sanctified views on Eros and agape, we will probably have to reconcile ourselves that its contents will be unheeded by the most of Christine Sammut's intended audience. So for the time being, it will be more Ann Summers and less Christine Sammut.