One of the sad parts of living in a culture that both represses and glorifies sexuality is that you lose very good words like ‘intimacy’ down the drain of wasted, euphemistic meaninglessness. I frequently have need of the word ‘intimacy,’ but always pass it up in favor of something less descriptive, simply to avoid any awkward connotations.
But I’m not feeling so cowardly today.
I’d like to discuss intimacy in its purest sense, suggesting nothing sexual at all, but rather a depth of relationship between two people. I take this word to imply a bond that is rare and also much to be desired. I’ve experienced only a few intimate relationships in my life, but as I ponder them, I become more convinced that there are few things in life as satisfying as such a tie.
Easily the most intimate relationship I’ve ever known is the one I share with my wife. Examining one’s marriage is actually a good way of figuring out what makes a relationship deep. There is an amazing unity of interests (not in the “I’m interested in . . .” sense, but in the “we have no conflicts of interest” sense). There is a comfort level that completely destroys any chance of any awkwardness or uneasy pretense. And there’s also a security strong enough to simultaneously allow confident authenticity and non-catastrophic conflict. It goes without saying, too, that there’s a vast mutual knowledge of the history and tastes and quirks of one’s partner– although I think this element is the least important of the aspects of intimacy.
It’s this depth of feeling that is so natural between spouses that makes marriage such a wonderful, improving experience. But while we may see marriage as instructive on how to build intimacy, I’m not so sure we are justified in viewing it, as we often do, as the sole repository of intensely close relationships.
My other intimate relationships have been deeply fulfilling, but I find them much harder to sustain. Very close-knit relationships with three different mission companions will remain in my mind as very satisfying, but all of them are only memories now. While I am in touch with many old friends, I do not enjoy the closeness with these people that I have at times. For one entire summer of work and play, one friend and I were inseparable, driving around on sales calls in the day and double dates at night. For a few months after my mission, one friend was so important a part of my life that neither of us ever left the apartment without a note detailing where we were and when we’d be back. Both of these people remain friends, but that same intensity is entirely alien now. Even siblings, the most near and dear people one can imagine, ebb and flow in their proximity to one’s life, based on shallow considerations like time and space.
In this fallen world, I take it as a fact of nature that I am incapable of maintaining the deep, soul-sharing relationships that seem to only flare up spontaneously for a few months or years. But as I contemplate how much I cherish my marriage, I wonder why I am not trained to similarly cherish these other relations. Assuming a righteous completion to our lives, my wife’s place in my eternity is certain. Is it odd that I have no idea whether I’ll enjoy similarly deep interactions with others?
While it may not appear so, this is a deeply religious set of questions for me, given my understanding of the individualistic nature of our theology. We know no system of mystically interwoven souls, all one in God forever. If I am saved, I will be saved alone; my wife’s journey will also be solitary. When we arrive, we will be reunited forever, but our roads to that end were in some sense separate. How much more distant are the roads of each of my other loved ones– especially those not sealed to me by any temple-endorsed bond of family.
While it seems we are encouraged to think of our relationships as some of our most important possessions in this life, some of them are eternally honored by God, and some seem to receive his complete indifference. Had David remained true, where would Johnathan figure in his reward? What are friends in the eternities?
Further, what is it in the soul that finds such ultimate joy in being bound to others, but is also incapable of perpetuating the bond? Why, in a gospel based on joy, have I heard nothing in church about the sweetness of my time with those three companions, or those college friends, and how do I arrange them in my mind against what is truly important in the gospel sense? If the power by which our families are forever sealed is Christ’s, does he have some ability to knit our souls with others as well, on whom we have no claim other than genuine friendship?
And the final question: is the soul, like the mind, incapable of holding two thoughts at once? Does a deeply fulfilling marriage come at the cost of abandoning intimacy with all others? If so, is that the soul’s natural state, foreshadowing an eternity of creation in solitude with one’s mate? Or is it simply an artifact of our imperfect state, to be remedied when we are perfected? Can one enjoy intimacy with a spouse, and a slightly inferior intimacy with many others at the same time?
I apologize for the scattered thoughts. If you have any ideas on these themes, I’d love to discuss.