At first, “queer nun” may seem a paradoxical juxtaposition. What, after all, could be “straighter” than a nun? Our stereotypes of nuns generally run to the repressed, the rigid, the frigid. Upholding decency to the point where it becomes almost a parody of itself - the stereotype of the nun seems the opposite of everything queer. Thus the delight of so many when they see pictures of “nuns having fun,” of nuns acting like - human beings.
While monks have also been used for comedic purposes, they are not so clearly defined by this (f)rigidity. Monks’ seriousness aligns more closely with masculinity, deserving a sort of respect or admiration. Perhaps as a result, many women who live “monastic” lives identify as monks rather than nuns. “Monk” is both masculine and (sometimes) generic; “nun” is clearly only feminine.
It’s partly for this reason that I insist on using the term “nun.” In the canonical language of the Roman Catholic Church, which is widely used in other circles, a “nun” is a member of an enclosed community who has made “solemn vows.” A “sister” is a member of an active, apostolic community, who makes “promises.” I won’t take you through the hard history of this distinction. I just want to say that I’m not using “nun” canonically. “We” all “know” what “nun” means - it means a whole package of archetype and stereotype that is bigger than canon law.
Nuns, like monks, are seeking something that is not widely available in modern Western culture. As Beverly Lanzetta describes it, “each monastic expression is focused on one thing: seeking truth, the ultimate. The monk is a person who has committed his or her life to a search for the holy, to encounter reality directly.” This entails a “commitment to silence and solitude, finding that the tools for transformation exist within each person’s depth.” This is not a plan, not an idea, but a pull at one’s soul: “the aspiration to be a monk is the result of some prior mystical experience that convinces the person of a vision of wholeness and human possibility.” This experience, and this aspiration, sets people at odds with the everyday values and projects of society. And not just modern capitalistic societies; people are led to leave their families, their villages, their fields, as much as offices and factories. Throughout history some people have taken this path that looks distinctly queer.
I don’t mean that every person who is now in a religious order fits this description. Over time, as orders became institutionalized and colonized by their parent churches, people joined for many reasons. Women joined to escape forced marriages and find meaningful work; to give themselves to service; to grow in many ways that may not have been mystically inspired. But the core inspiration of monasticism is this quest. And as the traditional orders decline, that core is becoming more visible, and taking form in new ways. Our community is one of thousands. But even as people join these communities, the communities remain “queer,” on the margins of their locations. Even as some community members become popular lecturers and writers, they are noteworthy for their queerness.
So rather than being paradoxical, “queer nun” may actually be redundant! What could be queerer than dropping everything to find God? What could be queerer than doing this as a woman in a patriarchal culture?
As I share my journey with you, I hope that you too will discover reservoirs of queerness running through your history and your possibility. These are the sparks of God lighting your path, singing in your veins; listen to them.
