baptisms for the dead, part 2

Continued from baptisms for the dead, part 1...

The interview went well enough. I dressed up in my Sunday clothes, a dress I hated. But then, I hated all dresses. Just was not my thing. An interview with a member of the bishopric, though, required dressing up. It's how it was done, especially in my family.

Over at the church, I sat on the old orange couch in the foyer, my hands planted under my legs as I stared at the red-orange industrial carpet. Brother Hicks, the executive secretary, called my name and escorted me into the bishop's office. I was especially shy as a kid, so "don't speak until you are spoken to" was easy enough for me. Actually, adults had a hard time getting me to answer at all. But these were questions I had to answer, and answer correctly, without guilt on my face, if I wanted the temple recommend to go do baptisms.

I answered simple "yes"es and "no"s to all the right questions, the ones about faith and belief, the ones about behavior and abstinence and attendance. Easy stuff, for me. I'd read the Book of Mormon and believed it was "true." I thought Joseph Smith was a prophet and had restored the True Church and the Priesthood. I'd never even been offered alcohol or cigarettes, let alone try them. Sex was beyond my realm of imagination; I hadn't so much as held a boy's hand. Had he asked me about masturbation (had he thought girls did that), I wouldn't have known what the heck he was talking about.

The bishop signed the card, but kept it for my Beehive leader, so she would just have all of them in one place on the big day.

The next week, I zipped up my coat over my dress, and met the rest of the youth at the church parking lot for the carpool. Several of us piled into Sister Brown's car, excited and acting like any 12 year olds would: giggly and silly and downright untemple-like. Sister Brown quickly scolded us and began a serious lecture about how to act when about to visit the most sacred House of the Lord. Not only should we keep all conversation to a whisper, but we shouldn't talk about worldly things--which boy was the cutest and what outfit we'd be wearing to school tomorrow. Lots of jewelry was inappropriate, as was too much make-up, perfume, and bright nail polish. None of this bothered me, since I didn't wear any of that girly stuff anyway, but some of the other girls got a little uncomfortable recognizing how they were dressed and done up.

A reverent calm came over us after the lecture, and we sat a little more quietly for the ride to the Provo temple, 10 minutes away. Still, we were a group of girls, and the chit-chat started again. As we approached, I thought about how, well, ugly, the Provo temple was. I was pretty sure I shouldn't think of a temple as ugly, though, so I tried to think instead about how my parents got married there.

Once inside--the first time inside a temple!--I attempted a glance around, but we were hurriedly ushered to the left of the main foyer, and down a flight of stairs. I knew this is where the baptisms took place, in the basement. After Sister Brown showed an old man in white the list of our names and recommends, he waved us through a hall to a room.

This room had several wooden benches in it, all facing a large glass window. Through this window, I looked for the first time on the baptismal font, a hot tub-sized pool resting atop twelve golden oxen (representing the twelve tribes of Israel, I had been told). Men sat on either side of the font, above it, on a balcony, all of them in white jumpers. Two of these men worked at a computer console. It seemed oddly out of place. Two groups of youth in white clothes sat behind and to the side of them, girls on the left, boys on the right.

Off this main room were other rooms as well, but I couldn't tell their purpose. Sister Brown gathered us like a mother hen over to one of the rooms, full of white jumpers on hangers. An old lady helped us pick out jumpers in our sizes. Next, we were off to the girls' dressing room. Inside, we were pointed to yet another white-haired woman who stood in front of a large closet of white underclothes. While I was still processing what was happening, I heard another one of the girls list her pantie and bra size.

Oh, no! I was mortified. At twelve, I had already started wearing a bra, but only a training sports bra, and that only because my mom knew I'd be embarrassed in the PE locker room if I had no bra at all. And here was my fellow Beehive, a B since she was 10, and she never let me forget it, either. What size should I ask for? I didn't even know! What a nightmare. Too quickly, it was my turn, and when I couldn't get anything out of the mouth on my burning red face, the temple worker was kind enough to gently help me out with a negative triple A. Or whatever. I wasn't paying attention, just get me out of here already.

The next step was to change into our whites, and thankfully there were individual stalls with locking doors to give us privacy. I changed, put my clothes in a small locker within the stall, and locked it with the key. The key had a safety pin on it, and as I emerged from the stall, I saw the other girls were pinning the key just under the zipper on their jumpsuits. So the weight of the water doesn't pull the jumper open in the font--in front of the boys. I couldn't imagine much worse that having my clothes come open at the chest in front of the deacons in the ward. [Shudder.]

But then I heard the girls talking, and, yes, something could be worse. We were in white clothes and about to be dunked repeatedly in water. The boys will be able to see right through to our bra and panties! There wasn't much we could do about it, either, except get that towel around us as quickly as possible after coming out of the water. That, and imagine that only the boys virtuous enough to avert their eyes politely were the ones we wanted to date someday.

Once we were dressed, we nervously walked barefoot through the locker room, past the showers, and into the font area. There, we were directed to sit on a bench behind the font and wait our turns. The boys from our ward were on the opposite bench, to our left. They were goofing off. In the temple. How immature.

My turn came, and I gingerly stepped down the few stairs into the font, careful not to slip. Everyone was watching. The man in the font doing the baptisms, Mike, a guy from the ward about to go on his mission, helped me down. I got into position, standing in chest-deep water, facing a blue monitor, which sat just above the water to the side of the font. On the screen were the words for the baptism, so Mike could just read them off and not try to speak the words from memory. It was important to say the exact words, or the ordinance didn't count, and we'd have to do it all over again. Same if any part of my body or any strand of hair didn't get immersed completely--that's a do-over. My brother had been baptized twice when he was eight, because his toe had popped up. I secretly wished that had happened to me; I imagined there was something special about being baptized twice, like it washed away the sins even better.

Here in this baptismal font, I was about to be baptized for some dead women, enabling them to receive the necessary ordinance so they could progress from the spirit prison where they were, onto spirit paradise. I had heard stories about people performing baptisms for the dead, and seeing or feeling the presence of spirits, people they were being baptized for. The spirits came to witness their own vicarious baptisms, or to thank the person who got the ordinance done for them. Part of me hoped I would see some of the spirits, or at least feel them. But part of me was scared; seeing spirits might creep me out. I wasn't sure, and I wasn't sure if I had the faith to see them anyway. So I kept the idea to myself. And kept my eyes peeled.

Mike raised his right arm, elbow bent. Reading from the screen, he read, "Sister FTA, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you for and on behalf of Mary Klein, who is dead, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen." After a bit of confusion, we got our arms interlocked into position, with my fingers plugging my nose, and he immersed me completely under the water, and pulled me up again. The water was heavy on top of me, but not too cool, and the jumper pulled me down. Just as I was about to panic, I was out of the water, trying to regain my footing. He immediately started to repeat the prayer, this time with a different woman's name, and I was in the water again. I tried to pay attention to the screen to note the women's names, birth years, and birth places; I felt a special bond with them, being the person who played so significant a role in their salvation. I went down and up twenty times before it was the next person's turn.

I started up the steps out of the water, feeling the soaked, now see-through jumper cling to my body in all the wrong places. Mercifully, Sister Brown had anticipated this and was waiting just at the top of the stairs with a towel, which she draped over my back. She escorted me back past the girls, and into the shower area of the dressing room. Only shower curtains blocked the shower from anyone coming in or going out, and I felt embarrassed and worked as quickly as I could to get out of my wet clothes. But my dry clothes were secured back in the stall, so I was given a "shield" to wear as I walked back to change. The shield was basically a large square of white cloth with a hole cut in the middle for my head to poke through. I pulled my head through the hole, and tried as well as I could to hold the open sides closed all the way back to my stall.

Once dressed, my hair brushed but still wet, I was given yet another set of white clothes, this time to take part in confirmations--the ordinance done just after baptism that confirms the neophyte a member of the church and gives them the gift of the Holy Ghost. I was led into another room off the main room, and into a small cubicle, where two men in white jumpers sat around a chair. Their chairs were built specifically for this; they were like bar stools, with a crossbar elbow rest, so they could easily keep their arms up to put on the youths' heads, for blessing after blessing. I sat in the chair, and folded my hands in my lap. Both men placed their hands on my head (they were heavy hands) and one spoke the prescribed prayer, again saying my name, then inserting the name of a different dead woman each time. Between each time, they lifted their hands off my head, then placed them back down, making a clear distinction between each confirmation.

Finally, my part was done, and I only had to wait in the wooden benches while everyone else finished up. The others with me watched the people in the font, and chatted amongst themselves about this and that. Hopes that the boys didn't see through their jumpers; news that Paul had a crush on Suzie; gossip about who thought who was cute.

Once we were all gathered together, we headed back up the steps. When I left through the temple doors and back outside, I was surprised to find it was dark, and the ground was covered in snow. I had completely lost track of outside; inside had been so warm, so peaceful and filled with the Spirit. (Also, it had been windowless.) It was a little bit of a let down to go back into The World.

For a while, though, I had been inside. I had tasted a little bit of heaven, and I was eager to go back.


It occurred to me only halfway through writing this post that I would have never written down these details as a faithful Mormon. All goings-on in the temple are kept quite private, from personal feelings and reactions to actual ordinances and protocol. Mormons say this is because the temple is sacred, and it was to me. Writing about the baptisms and confirmations so openly would only confirm my status as an apostate. Keeping them secret only makes outsiders all the more curious and suspicious, and the rumors wild. Writing out my experience, I want to show my mundane interactions (talking about boys; worry about bra sizes and wet whites) in the midst of what I understood as my "sacred, spiritual experience." It was both grounded and sublime, as is much of Mormonism.

Thanks to Meg for reminding me about the bra and panties anguish.

baptisms for the dead, part 1

Another story from Growing up Mormon:

I was twelve years old, finally in young women’s and finally old enough to go to the Provo temple to do baptisms for the dead. I was almost giddy about the prospect of actually going inside the temple. I’d been looking forward to this for years. That primary song told me to look forward to it, after all.

I love to see the temple
I’m going there someday
To cov’nant with my father
To listen and to pray

For the temple is the house of God
A place of love and beauty.
I’ll prepare myself while I am young
It is my sacred duty.

I had no idea what it was like inside. I’d only seen the outside, the off white, roundish building with the orange-gold spire. Frankly, I thought this temple was a bit funny looking. Ugly, even, if I could call a temple ugly. I suspected I shouldn’t. My parents had been married in this temple, and I always wondered why they chose that one. It was the closest, I guess. But still, this was the temple I grew up seeing on the hill, lit up at night. And really, it didn’t matter what was on the outside. I was curious about the inside.

My parents kept mum about the whole thing. I saw them go off early in the morning, and come back before my school day began, with their little tote bags. I knew there were “temple clothes” inside those bags, but I never, ever saw them. They were sacred, my mom told me once when I asked. I wasn’t to see them.

Despite their secrecy, I knew a little about what went on inside the temples. There were baptisms for the dead, of course, in the basement, and something called endowments, and marriage sealings. Mom had said something about a cafeteria once, and a chapel. It seemed incongruent to have something so worldly as a cafeteria in a house of God, but then, I guess people gotta eat.

Now I was old enough to be let into the basement to do baptisms for the dead, and that felt special. It wasn’t the whole shebang, but it was something.

When my dad told me I’d have to get a special temple recommend, a “one time use” one, my excitement was dampened by nervousness about the interview. What kind of questions would the bishop’s councilor ask? Was I worthy? What would Heavenly Father see in my heart? I started feeling guilty.

For what? What should I be feeling guilty for? I searched my conscious, my memory. I lied that time when I was three, but that was erased when I was baptized anyway. Right, so I only have to think about what happened since I turned eight. Third grade. Okay, think. A couple lies. Never stole anything from the grocery store. Wasn’t always perfect to my siblings. Never cheated on a test at school. Um...Okay, I think I’m okay. But I still felt mildly guilty, and scared.

bible

I've been reading more of the book I mentioned in my last post, and realized that I've never actually read the Bible all the way through. Sure, I attended Sunday school, where the Old Testament (I now prefer to call it the Hebrew Bible) and the New Testament were the year's topic every 3rd and 4th year. And I was a highly-faithful seminary student all through high school, where the Old and New Testaments were taught my junior and senior years. I even liked it that way; I loved that New Testament finished off my seminary career. Keep the focus on Jesus and all. Then in college, I took a New Testament class again, one focusing on the Four Gospels.

But in all that, did I ever actually read the whole thing? Nope. In seminary, it's the usual practice to read every verse and chapter (or section, for D&C) through the school year. For the Book of Mormon year, that was easy enough, since I'd made a habit of reading that book daily since I was 11. I read every section of D&C, retaining virtually nothing. But for the Bible, especially the Hebrew Bible, the powers that be selected which chapters and verses were important enough for us to read. Numbers for example--we read all that. Vital to know the exact count of each of the tribes wandering the Sinai. And at least most of Deuteronomy. Why did we read those? To know all those laws we no longer follow? Song of Solomon was completely nixed. If anyone asked why, we were told that part was not inspired. Among ourselves, we discussed how it was immoral, pornographic even. Which was enough to get some kids to crack those pages on their own, I'm sure, but if anything was even labeled pornographic, that was enough to keep me far, far away. (I've still never read that book, though I have read some exegesis on it.) So I have read most of the Bible, but I skipped quite a bit, not according to what interested me, but according to what the Church Education System thought I should read.

Oh, and only the King James Version. Which is considered the worst English translation out there. Not only is the English difficult to understand, but it's just a poor translation. It's old. Scholars have learned a lot more about translating Hebrew since then. More modern versions better represent what the Hebrew says, and they say it in language that doesn't sound 400 years old. "Charity never faileth" becomes "Love never fails." Ahh, much better.

Mormons cling to the King James Version, though. Why? Ultimately because that's the version Joseph Smith, Sr. had in his home, as far I as know. So it's what Joseph Smith, Jr., grew up with. All kinds of justifications have arisen as to why they haven't switched to another version like a lot of churches have. Like, the language seems more noble, more holy. Why is James's English more holy than any earlier or later English? And are we forgetting Smith's idea that God speaks the "Adamic" language, not English? And have we forgotten that when the Bible is in other languages, it's not in King James English? The Book of Mormon and D&C are in similar archaic language, which Mormons take as evidence that God just speaks that way. But which says to me Joseph Smith thought God speaks that way.

In addition, there's the major quoting of the Bible in the Book of Mormon. The King James Bible. Supposedly 1000-2000 years before the King James Bible was written. Mormons take this as evidence that both are from God, and further evidence that the King James version is the way to go. Occam's Razor compels me to interpret that anachronism differently.

The greatest joke the King James version played on Joseph Smith is in the italicized words. I asked about the italicized words as a young child, and was told that these words are glossed, not exact translations. For example, in Hebrew you might not need the word "to" in a certain phrase, while in English you do, so it's put in, but italicized. Or there are other words that are translated with hesitation, where the meaning is unclear. Joseph Smith didn't have the luxury of an educated dad to tell him this, though. So when Smith came across the italicized words when rendering his translation of the Bible, he added whole phrases. A large portion of his translation is just his expanding glossed translations as if they were secret passageways to God's lost words. The same is true of the (mis)quoted parts of Isaiah in 2nd Nephi. When I learned about that I was still unsure about the Smith and the Book of Mormon. When I read about that, though, the possibility of Joseph's prophethood dropped 20 notches. Not the final nail in the coffin of my testimony, but it definitely raised suspicions.

Part of my Bible illiteracy is the quoting the Bible in the Book of Mormon. Lots of (2nd) Isaiah, a oneupmanship version of the Sermon on the Mount. So sometimes I can't remember which verses are in which book. At least I recognize this, so I can avoid making a fool of myself by spouting off a quote I think is from the Bible only to have a Sunday-schooled Bible thumper tell me I must be quoting Satan. Then there's the problem of the Pearl of Great Price--it has a lot of similarities to parts of Genesis, but is definitely in its own la-la-land. Like that story about Abraham almost getting sacrificed by his father? I didn't realize that wasn't in the Hebrew Bible until a few years ago. (Who can keep track of all those sacrifices and twice-told stories?)

Anyway, I've decided I want to read the Bible--and not the King James version. Not because I think I should, because I want to be Bible literate in a culture so infused with the Bible. I've tended to be pretty anti-scripture the past couple years, but I know there are some nice things in the Bible, too, among all the morally despicable and just plain wacko parts. I'm looking forward to reading it as mythology for the first time, too. What freedom to read it as "this is what one guy thought" and "this is a ancient story from the Hebrew people" instead of "this is what happened" or "this is what God wants me to do"!

And I'm looking forward to the Song of Solomon.

immorality education

Like other Mormon young women (doesn't everyone else call them teenagers or youth?), I had the importance of "morality" drilled into me. Morals and ethics are fine things, but in Mormon parlance, "morality" means one thing: abstinence from sex. Conversely, "immorality" means having sex. Why the terms took on such specific meanings I cannot fathom, and I believe it creates a skewed idea of what morality actually is, but that's not the topic of this post. What I want to talk about is the Mormon version of teaching youth about sex.

As a youth, I was taught that immorality (which I always had to sort out in my head as different from immortality, another hot topic in Mormon churches) was bad, bad, bad, to be avoided at all costs, and just downright bad. Fornication was listed as the third worst sin, after murder (number two), and denying the Spirit (whatever that means). How messed up is that? Also, if you were "immoral," you were unworthy to go to the temple. And it was the temple where you wanted to get married, to start your eternal family, so you had better avoid immorality!

And how to avoid it? By staying as far away from it as possible. How? Not dating until you were at least 16, not entertaining dirty thoughts, not reading dirty romances, not watching rated-R movies, not watching dirtier PG-13 movies, not having a steady boyfriend until after high school, not single-dating, not staying out past midnight ("When the holy Ghost goes to bed!"), and not going to parties where the parents wouldn't be there. Don't masturbate would've been on the list, had any of our leaders imagined that, yes, females masturbate, too. But they didn't.

Oh, and all the do's, too: Go to seminary, stay worthy of the Spirit, read your scriptures, say your prayers, attend church every week, go to Young Women's activity nights, befriend only people with your same standards (read: Molly Mormons, and only Mormons), listen to good music, read worthy books, and always dream of the day you will be sealed in the temple to a worthy return missionary!

I remember my dad's explanation behind waiting until you were 16 to date: You start dating, hanging out with people you like, and you're going to want to move to the next step--holding hands. Pretty soon, holding hands won't be enough, so you'll want to move on to hugging. Then little kisses. Then even that will get boring, and you'll want to kiss more. Maybe even make-out. And making out will lead to heavier making out, and before you know it, you're clothes are off and you've blown (heh) you're chance at happiness (e.g., temple marriage). So don't start dating early, and don't be alone with your date, until, oh, you're married, mmkay?

Oh, and if you are "immoral" with that 18-year old, you'll prevent him from going on his mission, so not only will you have ruined his life, but you'll have stopped him from teaching all those people he would have converted had he only stayed worthy, you slut!

Did we get any lessons about STDs? Teen pregnancy? How hard it is to be a teen mother? How to deal with the emotions around having sex? Birth control? HIV? Where to get condoms and how to put them on? How to negotiate safe sex with your partner? How anal and oral sex can still spread diseases, if not pregnancy? Nope, nope, nope.

How to say no to a boy? How to be confident and strong? How we have the right to say when and where and how and with whom? No way. How about sexual abuse? Rape? Incest? How to deal with those? Where to seek help? Nope. What to do if you find yourself pregnant? The teachers were eerily silent on the issues.

Instead, it was simple: Stay clean, stay worthy, and all will be well and you'll live happily ever after in your perfect temple marriage. Slip up, and you're screwed (heh). And left to wallow in your guilt for having sexual impulses.

That is, being a completely normal human being.

baby pressure

A friend of mine wondered

Maybe the reason the church tells you to pop them out early is because at that point you're still young and naive, and haven't had time to fear it.

This is definitely the spirit in which I had my son. Way too fast, way too young. And we had even been married for years by the time I had him! I've had people at grad school ask me, "Um, I don't mean to be offensive, but was he planned?"

"Yes, he was," I say. "We were just young and crazy."

I remember feeling the push to bear children while I was at BYU living in married housing. The people without kids were referred to strangely enough as "single people." They were outside the social circles, never quite accepted. The ones with kids had nothing to say to them. I felt like I was getting really old and had waited way too long to get pregnant when I was 21 and had been married for about a year.

When I became pregnant while living there, I didn't tell anyone. I was rebelling against that system of motherhood-is-everything. When I started showing, though, at about 16 weeks, damn my belly, I was suddenly in the in-crowd. Oh, goodie me. The women really had nothing else to talk about but babies and scrapbooking; those were the only issues on which they talked and connected. Even then, I hated that culture, and felt relieved that we moved out of there before the baby was born. Not a single one of my new "friends" tried to follow up when the baby was born. I was in a different ward, you see, all the way down the street.

impressions on returning to Utah

Driving in, I loved seeing the mountains again. Especially the ones in Utah Valley, the ones I saw every day growing up. They are so imposing, high and jagged, circumventing the whole valley. I oriented myself using those mountains; Y-mountain always to the east, a snow-capped, higher range behind and above it. Utah Lake is there, stretching across in the west, with the low, un-forested mountains beyond.

In childhood, I found comfort in being surrounded by their familiar ridges. My world was encased in that valley. Rarely did I venture north to Salt Lake or south to the wilds of southern Utah. Rarely did I go through the passes and canyons to other mountain valleys. My world was simply there, in that pink bubble, the cultural center of Mormonism. Now, the mountains seemed impossibly large, ready to fall over. I stared in awe at the folds and ripples of rock in the canyons, amazed that I never appreciated the millions and billions of years of geologic time, earthquakes, wind, and water that created that beauty.

As I drove down I-15, I saw indications of the Utah Mormon subculture. Five church steeples in view near one exit. New, impossibly large homes spreading across the western valley and up the foothills, farm land and orchards gone. Billboard after billboard garishly advertising luxury homes, Mormon movies, minivans and SUVs. Some were obviously advertising to the Mormon market, hitting up 8-children families to build bigger homes. They made me laugh, a slightly smirking laugh. It was so specific to this market, so Utah.

This is the home of my childhood, of college. I don't feel it is my home now, but still it has that familiarity, that comfort. At the same time, it is different. I am different. So much has changed.

So much has changed.

birds and bees

My home growing up was not a safe space to talk. I couldn't talk about boyfriends or church issues or complain about anything, really, because my mom inevitably handled it poorly. Her way of handling things was to snap out about how I should do things the church's way. If I had a crush on a boy at 14, her response would be an angry and impatient "You're too young!" So did I stop having crushes on boys because I was too young? No, of course not. I just stopped telling her about it. If I had a church question, she'd just say, "Pray about it." Or "I've prayed about it, and I feel fine. What's your problem?" If I had a bad day at school, and I just needed to say so out loud in order to get it off my chest, she'd say, "Quit being so ornery! You'll drive the Spirit away."

It's a good thing I was never rebellious; that could've been very, very ugly.

We've been very open with our son about the sticky issues. We've had 4-year-old-level talks about HIV, God, death, gay marriage, the Easter bunny and Santa, and sex (he saw some farm animals and asked), etc. We've been so open, that sometimes he gets a little too open at school. His teachers have told us, "Your son was talking about the war in Iraq to the other 4-year-olds; I told him that if he wants to talk about that stuff, he should talk to one of the teachers. Sound okay?"

I much, much prefer that he feel comfortable to talk about anything with us than have him be afraid to talk to us and get his information elsewhere. I know he'll get information elsewhere, too, but I want to foster a safe space for him at home. I encourage it by trying to answer his questions, and not act repulsed or impatient like my mom did. Even when he says silly, naughty words like fart and poo-poo face, I remind him that it's okay to say those things when we're being silly at home; but try not to say them at school, okay? Home is the place for that kind of thing.

I know that when he gets older, he'll probably want to be a little less open with his mom and dad. But I sincerely hope that when the time comes, he'll be able to ask, "Mom, where can I get some condoms?" And I won't yell, "You're too young to have sex!"

(But at the rate he's asking questions now, he'll probably know about condoms and ask where to get them by the time he's 6. And then I will say, "You're too young to have sex." But at least I won't yell.)

good friday

Why is it that Mormons never paid attention to Good Friday, Palm Sunday, and all that? (I have to say "all that" because I don't even know what else there is, being raised Mormon.) Seriously, why did our family only pay attention to Easter Sunday and nothing else? And then lament the emphasis on the Easter bunny and the candy? If they really wanted it to be more Jesus-centered ("Christ-centered" as Mormons would say), couldn't they have focused more on the whole ministry of Jesus, the leading up to the death, and then the resurrection?

Was the de-emphasis on the cross and the crucifixion just a way to get away from Catholicism? Growing up, I got the feeling that Mormons were smugly proud of the fact that they emphasized the resurrection of Jesus, not his death. We don't have crosses as symbols, we know the important part is the resurrection. And Gethsemane. Other Christians teach about the whole process from coming into Jerusalem to being tried and tortured, the crucifixion, then the resurrection. But that's not the story I got growing up. The story I got skipped from sweating blood in Gethsemane to the resurrection. Oh, and some stuff in between.

My first Easter season as a mostly-non-believer found me still a believer in Jesus. I think we attended an Episcopal church that day. If you believe in it, chanting "Christ is born, Christ is risen, Christ will come again" is rather comforting, really. In fact, that church service was rather emotional for me. I wasn't sure I believed in Mormonism, so it was refreshing to have a service that didn't have all those strange Mormon teachings and hang-ups, but still had Jesus. Even if you don't believe in the literal resurrection and the Jesus-is-God thing, I can see how the story would still provide comfort in coping with death. (Though it doesn't for me.)

Easter, then, for us, has become about egg-dying and Easter egg hunts. I try to throw is some pagan-ish "See how wonderful the world is in spring! Everything is coming to life, and giving us life! Hooray for the sun!" But really, my son only cares about the Easter egg hunt. He has already decided the Easter bunny "is really just you, Mom!" (he was a skeptic from the tender age of 3) but he still likes the surprise and the hunt anyway. Which is way better than stories about sweating blood in agonizing pain because of some "sin" I committed.

from homophobic to pro-gay marriage, or thinking for myself

When I was a believing Mormon, I accepted the church's stance on homosexuality. I am now ashamed to admit it, but that's who I was then. That is, I let the church do the thinking. I remember first hearing about the idea that a man could love a man and being utterly shocked. How old was I, third grade? As I grew into a teenager, I remained homophobic, and was confused when I heard of a school-mate coming out of the closet. My thoughts about it evolved over time to the point that I thought homosexuality was not a choice, that it just happened. But I was dead set on the idea of man-woman marriage, and that any sex outside of marriage was wrong. Therefore, any homosexual sex was wrong, too. Until about a year or so before I left the church, I still thought that it was okay to be homosexual, but not to act on it. That asking homosexuals to be celibate was a reasonable idea. I remember hearing one of my non-orthodox Mormon friends voice her support for gay marriage, and being shocked. But I also thought, I should look into this some more.

I have since changed my mind about homosexuality and gay marriage.

Last summer when the nation was embroiled in the debate about a marriage amendment, a Mormon once commented to me "Can you believe that people think homosexuality is natural?" I answered, yes, that homosexuality is natural is completely believable to me. It's just as believable as the naturalness of heterosexuality.

Read anything written by a gay Mormon, and you will see the utter pain and suffering they go through believing the way they are is condemned by God. There is no way choice was involved there. If they chose to be gay, why all the pain and guilt? Why have so many gay BYU students committed suicide? Wouldn't they have just chosen to be straight instead? I don't believe seeing it as a non-choice interferes with Mormonism, either.

Being gay comes just as naturally as being straight. Did straight people choose to be straight? I myself was attracted to boys since about kindergarten, and I imagine attraction comes about in most people sometime during childhood as well. I know gay people whose realization for attraction for the same sex came about in early childhood.

I work with two different homosexual couples who are engaged to be married [one of those couples has since married]. They are in love and as excited and as giddy as any heterosexual couples. I applaud them and support them. The amendment would force them to get married only in their hearts; shooting down the amendment would not force any church to perform the marriage for them.

The church can continue to make its stand as outlined in the proclamation. But please don't try to enforce those standards on others or on the nation.

lullabies

The other night, my child had a nightmare in the middle of the night, so I stayed by his bed and sang him songs until he fell asleep. But I quickly ran out of songs past Jingle Bells; Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer (his favorites since last Christmas); Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star; and the ABCs. Maybe it was because it was the middle of the night, but I just couldn't think of any others besides Mormon hymns and primary songs. I couldn't pull a single lullaby out of my head. I remembered Brahm's lullaby existed, but I couldn't think of the tune to hum it.

Even though primary songs are the songs I sang to myself when I was kid and wanted comfort, I just couldn't bring myself to sing them to my son that night. But needing some songs, I ended up humming the tunes to I Am a Child of God, Teach Me to Walk in the Light, and Love is Spoken Here. They don't even make good lullabies.

Why is it I have no lullabies in my repertoire? Because my parents rarely (never?) sang to me? Because if they did--or more likely, my older siblings did--they sang primary songs? I am conditioned so that primary songs soothe me, but now they also frustrate me. The lyrics, the indoctrination about reverence, relying on God, obedience, repentance. I don't want to give that to my son.

Any recommendations on nice bedtime songs for little kids?

the Spirit

I remember the first time I felt one of my prayers was answered. How old was I? After baptism, but still a pre-teen. I had just learned to really love reading novels, and I picked one up from my parents' library. It was a Tony Hillerman book, a murder mystery. The first scene--a description of the mangled victim of a murder--scared the shit out of me.

Of course, that's what the author wanted; it was a thriller, after all. I felt that thrill of horror, and wanted to get rid of it, because it didn't feel like the Spirit. As I lay in my bed, trying to get rid of that feeling, I remembered what I'd learned in church--I could say a prayer when I was scared and Heavenly Father would help me feel better. So I prayed. I struck a deal with God, in fact. "If you help me feel better right now, I'll never pick up that book again."

I wave of comfort flowed over my body. I felt Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. I never picked up that book again, though I was tempted a couple times. It was not the last time I felt the "Spirit." I felt the Spirit many, many times, almost always in the form of feelings--comfort or discomfort--and occasionally in a "still small voice," or an image in my mind.

In my upbringing, the Spirit (aka the Holy Ghost) was one of the most important aspects of the gospel, of spirituality, of religion. It was humankind's connection with the Divine, which Mormons define as Heavenly Father. But it was more. It was also our personal moral compass, our guidance, our conscience. To me, my conscience was the Spirit, the Spirit was my conscience; I didn't have a moral compass or conscience outside the Spirit. I thought the Spirit was guiding me daily, or could guide me daily, as long as I listened--and stayed worthy of His presence. If you offended the Spirit, by not listening, making poor choices, or not creating an mind and environment conducive to the Spirit's presence, then you didn't have the benefit of the Spirit's guidance. And you would make more bad choices, keeping the Spirit away longer, leading to more bad choices, and then you're on your spiral staircase to hell.

Mormonism taught me to give the Spirit top authority. He being a direct conduit to God and all. What you learn from books, from people, from logic, should all be trumped by feelings sent by the Spirit.

You can imagine the extent to which this can go. A couple examples from my life:

High school history teacher tells you that Native Americans came from Asia? Archaeological, linguistic, and genetic evidence, and plain old common sense back it up? Well, you've prayed about the Book of Mormon, haven't you? The Spirit told you it's true, didn't He? Don't you think the Spirit would know better than some PhD researchers? So we know Native Americans are from Jerusalem, because we prayed and had a feeling about it.

I didn't seek physical therapy for a broken ankle because I'd had a priesthood blessing that said I'd be healed completely. The Spirit told him to say it, so I believed it. When the ankle continued to give me trouble, I didn't doubt the Spirit. The blessing didn't say when it would be completely healed, I reasoned. Maybe surgery was necessary for complete healing, but God wanted me to figure that out on my own. So I had follow-up surgery, then physical therapy. And the ankle still bothered me, but I still didn't question the blessing. Maybe Heavenly Father meant for me to go through physical therapy, and I messed up by not going, so He was out of his end of the promise. (The ankle still bothers me every few months; I have since given up on the blessing's promise.)

The Spirit was so much a part of my life that I didn't so much feel the Spirit from time to time as I did feel the absence of the Spirit from time to time.

I now believe the Spirit is nothing but a construct, a piece of social imagination and a way of interpreting feelings and conviction. But it took quite a bit of second-guessing, reinterpreting, wondering-if-I-was-crazy, thinking, and reevaluating to get from point A to point B. Oh, and don't forget the guilt, since denying the Holy Ghost is the worst sin. Ever. Worse than murder. (Hello?)

I'll try to explain that process of exorcising the Holy Ghost from my life in another post.

pre-exit 7: maturing viewpoints

I went through seminary in high school as a star student, loving the chance to talk about things we didn’t talk about in Sunday School. I thought we were bringing up the “real issues.” Getting deep into the Gospel.

When it was time to apply for college, I only applied to BYU. Why go anywhere but the Lord’s University? I wanted to go, because I was supposed to go. I really believed that’s where God wanted me to be. Get a degree, find a nice Mormon husband. What could be better?

In college, I was away from home, learned some critical thinking, and expanded my life experience. Yes, even at BYU. I ran with a crowd that had no problems criticizing things about the church that they didn’t like. Like how we were supposed to “go forth to serve” but BYU put such an emphasis (read: money) on sports and business school, and not on service majors like social work. Gaining exposure to different people and ideas modified my testimony, chipping away at things that I would have labeled “culture” but I didn’t realize were culture before. But I never let anything touch the fundamentals. I could apply critical thinking to the Oneida experiment, or to functionalism, but not to the fundamentals of the church.

Any criticism began with “I know the church is true, but…”

“I know the church is true, but I just don’t understand this policy….I know the church is true, but sometimes I just can’t stand singles wards.”

Any criticism was okay, because I never let it call into the question the Truth of the Church. Criticisms were “really” only about culture, practice, policy, maybe the church, but not doctrine. I thought.

By the end of college, I was more liberal both in my thinking about Mormonism and politically. I don’t think that’s what BYU had in mind, but that’s what happened.

In college, I met and married my husband in a temple. Everything was going as planned.

pre-exit 5: women and the priesthood

Regarding women and the priesthood, I felt intellectually, emotionally, and personally that women are the equals of men. Period. Even when there were direct and explicit teachings in church that said otherwise, I let myself discount them somehow. So I figured that there must be some reason God wanted only men to have the priesthood. I heard and considered the following explanations:

-It was to teach us something, we just don’t know what…yet.
-Women didn’t need it because they were already spiritual betters of men.
-Men have priesthood, women have motherhood.
-Women don’t need it because men already have it.
-Priesthood is not a privilege, it’s a responsibility. And you don’t really want all the responsibility, do you?
-That’s just the way God wants it, so learn to live with it.
-If you covet the priesthood, you don’t understand it.
Etc., etc.

I hated all these explanations, though I seriously considered a couple of them at different times. They are patronizing, misguided, and sorry attempts to justify institutionalized inequality.
And yet at one point I came to feel that not having the priesthood was okay. It didn’t bother me. I’m not really sure how I came to that point or why. I suppose I managed to put the idea far in the back of my mind, and told it to stay put.

And that’s really, really sad. I accepted the inequality imposed on me by the church. I believed it was okay. I think a lot of Mormon women do this—that’s how Hinckley can say, “There’s no agitation for that [to give women the priesthood]. We don’t find it. Our women are happy. They’re satisfied. These bright, able, wonderful women who...are very happy. Ask them.” (Find the transcript here.)

It’s sick that otherwise intelligent, "bright, able, wonderful" women (and I do believe they are) can be made to believe and internalize inferiority. Such is the power of Mormonism.

pre-exit 4: some big issues

I saw that there were problems. Instead of asking the important questions that the problems should have brought up, I thought my way around the problems. Regarding blacks and the priesthood, I thought, “There’s some reason Heavenly Father gave blacks the priesthood only in 1978. What is it?” I never thought it was due to some inferiority or natural inequality of black people. I eventually settled on the idea that God allows humans, including leaders of His Church, to make mistakes and do some things at their own pace. In other words, denial of the priesthood of blacks was mostly influenced by racist America, and God was slowly bringing the church along to come to a more perfect version of the church. (Never mind that I was taught that the church was perfect as “restored” to Joseph smith, or that the gospel is the same yesterday, today, and forever.)

I performed similar testimony-saving gymnastics with the other big issues, and my (ever-changing) conclusions were, like the above, in fact contrary to some of the teaching of the church. I was sure, for example, that I wouldn’t be made to practice polygamy if I was fortunate enough to make it to the Celestial Kingdom with my husband, even though the D&C section instituting polygamy as necessary to salvation (as Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, and John Taylor certainly understood it) is still on the books. And therefore, apparently, still in force, if only in the next life. But I couldn’t imagine a just and kind Heavenly Father who loved me to require me to share my husband with another woman (or women) (despite the fact that he "did require it" of plenty of other women in 19th century Nauvoo and Utah).

Polygamy was an ongoing debate among me and my peers. Was it required? Would I only have to practice if I agreed? What if my husband isn’t faithful; will I be married off as the umpteenth wife to another man? Could I live with my husband screwing another woman? Surely God wouldn’t really make me? What did it mean that D&C 132 was still on the books? Could I interpret it differently? It really just meant marriage itself is required for salvation, not polygamous marriage, right? Right?

Some of my peers couldn’t even stand the debate. Couldn’t even hear the word “polygamy’ without flipping out. It was too horrendous, awful. And yet we never doubted that it was (or at least had been) a part of God’s True Church, and sanctioned by God.

pre-exit 3: does--not--compute

Although I was a quite faithful youth who characterized herself as having a strong testimony, I had a few issues with the church. Rather, there were a few big ones, and a larger number of small ones. (Thoughts about these will unfold over the next few posts.)

The big ones challenged me the most, required the most mental gymnastics to try to understand, and were never resolved. These issues stayed with me, though I’d managed to put them on the back burner now and then. They stayed with me until the end, and are still some of the biggest problems I see in the church. (I won’t say “problems I have with the church,” because I think the problems are the church’s, not mine.)

The big issues were these: the historical denial of the priesthood to blacks (Africans and people of African descent); the on-going denial of the priesthood (and hence any real leadership positions) to women, along with the general inequality of women; and the historical practice of polygamy. (The ongoing practice of polygamy didn’t bother me so much except where it “sullied” the name of the mainstream church. I considered modern polygamists misled and not Mormon.)

I struggled over these issues, and did what I’ll call “faithful Mormon research.” That is, I collected information about these issues in church- and culturally-sanctioned ways: I talked to faithful Mormons, both my peers and my leaders; I looked for references, passages, and comfort in the standard works (mostly Book of Mormon and Doctrine and Covenants); I checked conference talks and writings by past prophets; I read other church publications; and I prayed.

It never occurred to me to go outside those routes, despite the fact that I was dissatisfied by the answers I found. The crucial thing is that I never allowed these or any other, smaller issues, to “damage” my testimony of the church. In my youth, I never thought, “There’s no way Heavenly Father would do such a thing,” or “If there is a true church, it wouldn’t do that,” or “I can’t believe in or support a church that does this.”

The barrier put up by “this is the true church” rhetoric sufficed to keep me from asking those important questions. I just couldn’t think anything that would damage the idea of God being in charge, and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints being His True Church.

I look back at my old self, astounded.

pre-exit 2: a happy, mormon childhood

A great part of the answer to the question “Why did I believe?” can be found in my upbringing.

I wasn’t born in Utah, but I was raised there. We moved there when I was little, my parents sure that the promised land was a better place to raise their several children. I can’t blame them for that. The high-concentration Mormon community certainly provides comfort for people who want to be surrounded by people like them, with their same “standards,” their same worldview and paradigm.

Who doesn’t, really? Even people who seek diversity in their communities still find some commonalities on which to base their imagined community—liberalism, cosmopolitanism, love for diversity itself, a desire for debate and multiple viewpoints. And even within diversity, we still seek sameness, do we not? Aren’t a good number of my friends still white, educated, and liberal? Do I not seek out fellow ex-Mormons as people who understand not only my background, but my changed worldview, and the often painful journey that inevitably accompanies such a change?

Back to childhood in Utah. My family was and is TBM—true, believing Mormon. They are serious believers. While I find that labels and checklists are inadequate to truly describe anyone’s spirituality, using them are quick ways to get us all on the same page about what my childhood was like.

-I was BIC (born in the covenant), as were my parents. Meaning conception occurred after the parents were MIT (married in the temple, the only “true” place for Mormons to marry).

-I was baptized at eight by my father, the “appropriate” age for fathers to baptize.

-My father was an RM (returned missionary), and was the sole income earner for the large family of 8 children.

-My mother was a stay-at-home mom, pretty much since the day she got married and dropped out of college.

-We had family prayer twice a day, and scripture study once a day.

-We had Family Home Evening every week. Prayers, songs, lesson, activity (if we were lucky), and treat (if we were lucky). And until I was a teenager and had other things I wanted to do instead, I really liked it, simply for the family time. I really like my family, and spending that time and family prayer time with them is still a precious and fond memory. If only we’d done it for the sake of spending time together, instead of the reasons we did it: because the Brethren told us to, and we’d probably go to hell if we didn’t.

-We went to church every week, all three hours, even Stake Conference, even on vacation. And we watched all four sessions of General Conference. Luckily, we didn’t have to go to the meeting house to watch, and we didn’t have to dress up. (Only my father and brothers were privileged enough to be born with penises, though, so they went to the priesthood sessions too.)

-We said prayers before every meal.

-We never watched rated-R movies, drank caffeinated sodas, dated before age 16, wore sleeveless shirts, did recreational activities on Sunday, or shopped on Sunday. We did watch TV and listen to music, though we tried to keep it non-violent and classical or churchy.

-Coffee, tea, alcohol, and tobacco were almost as bad as beating up 3-year-olds.

-I kept a journal, because young women leaders taught that I was supposed to keep a family history. For the first several years of journal-keeping, I only wrote about churchy-stuff.

-I read the Book of Mormon daily. Daily. From the time I was still in primary.

-I only hung out with Mormons. Not that I knew any non-Mormons.

-People who didn’t believe in the church or didn’t outwardly practice (they didn’t attend church, they drank or smoked) were apostates and should be avoided at all costs. Unless they were extended family, then we just “loved them anyway,” prayed that they’d see the light, and never, ever talked with them about why they left.

Etc, etc. I could go on, but the picture is outlined. I myself was believing and faithful, and found fulfillment and guidance in the church. I prayed, I read, I held youth callings, I gave talks that inspired and impressed the congregation. I was that ideal Molly Mormon that mothers wanted their sons to marry.

And I was happy with that, and with the church.

Except for a few quirks. A few, very large quirks.

pre-exit 1: in the beginning

I was born to Mormon parents, who had also been born to Mormon parents. I could list some 1830’s converts, if I had the gumption up to give a thorough look at my genealogy. (Or is it “family history” now?) Some of my ancestors are more recent converts, but they were mostly 19^th century ones, quite a few of them making the trek west to Utah, some of them from as far as Europe.

Suckers. What were they looking for in life that made them find Joseph Smith’s story to be credible? I imagine they were poor, downtrodden, and unsatisfied with the traditional forms of Christianity. I imagine they liked the idea of religion and gospel being revealed in its “fullness” and “entirety” by God, that every answer they ever needed was written in the Book of Mormon or Bible, or revealed to a modern prophet. For some people, having all the great answers to all the great questions of life already figured out for them is comforting.

It was for me when I was a kid. I was happy to have the answers to

Is there a God?
Is there an afterlife?
What does life mean?
What am I supposed to do with life?
Am I significant?

The Mormon versions of these questions are standard working material for every missionary. (I’m probably paraphrasing):

Who am I?
Why am I here?
Where am I going?

These are common questions for human beings. And if you are asking them, and two 19- or 20-year-old boys come to your door saying they know the answers, you might just listen. More likely, though, you’ll think they’re a couple of brainwashed cult members, and you’ll send them away, slam the door on them, or sic your dog on them. Either way.

A whole lot of people simply can’t believe that a couple of missionaries or any other person, institution, or book has those answers.

I certainly don’t. But I did. Why?

[to be continued, of couse]