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Thorny Issues

First, a couple of disclaimers. I know my posts are growing more religious in tone, but I'm rarely motivated to blog unless I'm really conflicted about something (or really excited, and if you know me, you know I'm not excitable). The experience of living out my religion conflicts me, so you get to read about it. If you don't want to read that sort of thing, I totally understand and suggest you skip this post and the next couple. Also, this post refers to no one in particular, but intends to consider what I see happening with many people I've known. My anecdotal evidence is, therefore, vague because it tries to describe the aggregate of many individual experiences. Also, I'm always open to different ways of thinking, resolving, and interpreting issues, so if you don't agree or if you just have something to say that you think I should've said, please do share. That said:

When I share the Gospel with others, I expect their lives to be better for it. Predictably, this expectation is both supported by scripture (e.g. "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Matt 11:28-30, emphasis mine) and in direct contradiction to it (e.g. "Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law." Matt 10:34-35). Regardless of whether or not my expectations are justified by an appeal to Christ's own words, I do assume that offering others the option to accept Christ into their lives will result in blessings. And, like any mortal, I expect those blessings to be immediate and obvious. But you know, sometimes that isn't what happens. Sometimes an attempt to come unto Christ actually appears to make someone's life harder. I have seen more than one person, faced with extreme difficulties as a direct result of newfound faith, decide to give up on Christ (or church or religion or whatever signifier they're using) altogether. It's just too hard for them. All they have to show for their foray into Christianity is a broken heart and a bitter taste in their mouth. Sometimes they also have strained or broken familial relations and shattered careers as well. Having watched various friends' struggles over the past several years, I am left wondering, was it such a good idea to share the Gospel with my friends to begin with?

I've been thinking about this for a while now, and this weekend I stumbled upon a familiar parable that I hadn't dusted off in a while. Surely you're familiar with the parable of the sower (Luke 8, and other places)? To review-- a sower goes out to sow his fields. As he sows, some of the seeds land in the wayside and are tromped on or eaten up. Some of the seeds land on a rock and wither as soon as they sprout because they lack moisture. Some of the seeds fall among thorns and are choked out by the weeds. And some land in the furrows and grow up into good plants. Christ provides an explanation of this parable to his disciples. Pertinent to my thoughts is the allegorical connection between the seed that fell into thorns and those people who "when they have heard, go forth, and are choked with cares and riches and pleasures of this life, and bring no fruit to perfection" (Luke 8:14). Maybe you can see where I'm going with this. Many of my friends who embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ only to turn away from it are like these seeds among thorns. Real tragedy strikes and they feel abandoned. The balancing act of being in the world but not of it is too hard. Something happens, either in themselves or in their context, so they bring no fruit to perfection. This happens to all of us, of course, at one time or another, but my concern is for the people who are so overcome with "thorns" that they just check out altogether, for those people who lose their way and never make it back.

I'm not really content to just leave it there, though. I can't just say, "Ah, well. Too bad my friend isn't good ground for seeds. Sucks to be him." And that explanation doesn't really answer my question either. If anything, it would suggest that hearing the Gospel isn't necessarily a good thing. Only one fourth of the options presented in the parable are desireable.

I'll tell what did work for me, though (and it might not work for you). The realization that, since the seed refers to the word of God, the ground in this parable corresponds to our own hearts. We decide what kind of ground we want to be, and, I think, we get to decide what grows there. If I want to worry about (to take examples from my own life) what my friends will think more than I want to follow Christ, then that's my prerogative. If I want to hang on to the grief and bitterness of an abusive marriage more than I want to let Christ's charity enter my heart, then that's my right as well. If I want to keep on doing the things I've always done rather than change my habits and become a new, better person, then nothing can make me do otherwise. So if people decide that they're done with the whole church thing, it's their choice. They're not being suckered into anything, just like they weren't suckered into joining the church in the first place. It's a choice they're making, and while I don't have to like it, it's important that I recognize their right to make it.

Right after Lehi (I'm in the Book of Mormon now, non-LDS readers) tells his children that the purpose of our existence is to have joy (2 Nephi 2:25), he goes on to explain how important choice is to us, and what it is we're free to do. Updated with some gender neutral language, Lehi says, "Wherefore [people] are free according to the flesh; and all things are given them which are expedient unto [them]. And they are free to choose liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator of all [humans], or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil; for he seeketh that all men might be miserable like unto himself" (2 Nephi 2:27). The same sort of thing is said elsewhere throughout scripture. We can choose to follow Christ or we can choose not to, and it's a choice that each person makes with every other decision we face: will this action bring me farther from or closer to the Lord?

So why then is evangelism a good thing? Because it brings people to a knowledge of the choices they have. It's not my job to ensure that, after people have made a choice to follow Christ, their lives are perfect. Nowhere in the scriptures (and Mormons have a lot of scriptures) does it say anything like "Only share the Gospel with people who you know will endure adversity well," or "You personally are responsible for making everyone's life happy and easy, particularly people with whom you've shared your beliefs." Neither of those things are true. What the scriptures do say is that it "becometh every man who hath been warned to warn his neighbor" (D&C 88:81) and that those who seek the Lord early will find him, and will not be forsaken (D&C 88:83), whatever we may think at the time. People who fall away for a time can always choose to come back, but it's their choice.

Sharing the gospel with someone is as much an exercise in faith as accepting it is. All my life, I've known of Christ's love for me. My entire testimony rests on that one unshakeable rock. I don't think I'm all that great, so if Christ can care for me like the idiot sheep I am, then surely he will do it for others. Christ stands at the door and knocks, he stretches out his hand after us, he tries to gather us like a hen gathers her chicks, he invites us to a feast, among so many other metaphors-- all I have to do is tell people he's there. I introduce one friend to another. It's that simple. And if I really have faith in the Lord's goodness, then when I'm presented with the opportunity, that's what I'll do. It's my choice to share my testimony with others. They decide how to respond to thorns.

Mother's Day and the Childless Female Mormon

Let me say right at the outset that I am a fan of Moms. I am a fan of my mother especially. I believe that Mothers absolutely deserve to have a day when their efforts and love are acknowledged, when they are cared for and loved in return. I am a huge supporter of Mother’s Day for Mothers. Actual mothers deserve everything they get on Mother's Day and more. So, mothers of the world, please don’t take the following as an attack on you personally. It’s not you, it’s me.

Due to factors beyond my control, I won’t be in church this Sunday, and I am ecstatic. Depending on how it goes, I may not ever go to church on Mother’s Day again. I hate going to church on Mother’s Day. It was not so bad when I lived in the same town as my mother, when my own status as a child (though an adult) rather than as a mother was understood. I could listen to the homilies about angel mothers and sing the songs and participate in discussions about how necessary good mothers were, using my own mother (who really is pretty amazing) as reference. I could nod along in agreement—“Why yes, my mother is a saint for putting up with me. Why yes, motherhood does sound difficult and thankless and lonely. Why yes, of course Heavenly Father values and blesses mothers.” This was not so bad because the day was clearly not about me.

Now that I live away from my mother, among people who have never even seen my mother, things are different. I am an adult. All of a sudden, I see that those “consolation prize” assurances are directed at me. “Every worthy sister will eventually receive all the blessings that the Lord has promised--” those blessings being, of course, a husband and children—“if she will remain righteous,” runs one familiar refrain. And here I was thinking that I was already blessed, and already righteous (enough). Silly me. “There are many different ways to be a mother,” runs another. “Some women are mothers without ever having any children, as they teach and care for children in their sphere of influence.” Talk about immaculate conception. Now I can be a mother without ever even bringing a child into my home. Looks like labor and childcare are for suckers.

As if the afterthought speeches weren't bad enough, there’s always some stupid gift that’s given to every adult woman at church. I hate these. To me, they say, “We know that for whatever reason, the Lord hasn’t seen fit to trust you with a child—a thing even Christina Aguilera could do—but maybe you’ll do better with an African violet.” My violets always die. Maybe they’d do better if they didn’t wind up in the trash as soon as I got home.

I don’t mind honoring mothers at all, but I resent the fact that somehow I am supposed to be included in this honoring. I know people mean well when they include childless females in the gifting/honoring that happens on Mother’s Day, and maybe some women really are comforted by all of this, but I feel that these very actions actually degrade me. They make me feel like less of a human being altogether. It’s one thing to say that a woman’s highest achievement and greatest happiness in life can be found in roles as wife and mother; it’s quite another to imply that “woman” is synonymous with “wife” or “mother.” The latter is exactly what happens every Mother’s Day. And if woman = mother, then logically if I’m not a mother, then I’m not a woman. And if I’m not woman in a system in which one must be either a woman or man, what am I??? Again, I know no one means for this sort of thing to be said, but this IS what’s being said when all women are grouped together on Mother’s Day.

I never felt like I was “only” a daughter of God until I realized that people expected me to be a mother, too. I never resented the so-called “divine roles” of wife and mother until my identity became dependent on those labels, particularly since I have so little control over making them happen. I think that I am already abundantly blessed by being “a daughter of [my] Heavenly Father, who loves [me], and [I] love Him.” I think I have quite enough to do just trying to fill that role to the best of my ability. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my following God’s plan for my life—a plan which, at present, does not involve motherhood. I believe those things, except for on Mother’s Day.

I’ve had about enough of watching other women—my apologies, I should’ve said real women—beatifically smile as their little ones warble a shaky “Mother, I Love You” from the pulpit. If I have to sit through one more Mother’s Day full of stories about giving birth, potty training, or breast feeding, I may smack someone. I want to shake those women who so luxuriously and ostentatiously complain about Logan and Madison’s arguments, about Jenny’s booger-eating habit, about how Eli throws toy cars at the babysitter. Don’t misunderstand me; mothers are perfectly justified in enjoying the rewards of their position. I’m glad they’ve found community with each other. I’m glad they have the chance to share their concerns and frustrations. But I am not one of them and those are not conversations in which I can participate. When I go out on a limb and venture a comment, I’m invariably told how much better I’ll understand the issue once I’m a mother myself. “Don’t worry,” they pat my leg, “It’ll happen someday.” The woman with mashed Cheerios in her hair pities me? Only on Mother’s Day. And I understand it because on Mother’s Day I pity me too.

If you want to honor women, that’s great. Let’s have a Woman’s Day. I’d love that. But that’s not what we have. We have Mother’s Day. Honor the mothers. They’re the ones who have sacrificed so much for their children. They're the ones who give up their own desires, their own sleep, their own privacy, even previous identities, to an extent, in order to provide their children with what they need to succeed. Good mothers hurt when their children hurt and rejoice when their children rejoice. Good mothers nurture, teach, and protect their darlings. Our relationships with our mothers are not always positive or uncomplicated, but that doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate the amazing gifts they have given us. I’m alive, so I have at least one major reason to be grateful for my mother. Let me honor her. I don’t want her achievements to be cheapened by the inclusion of people like myself on her special day. I’ve done some cool things in my life, but it’s just ludicrous to celebrate what a great mother I am. The only living thing I remotely mother is a fish, and I haven’t cleaned his bowl in over a month. I think I fed him a couple of days ago, but I can’t be sure. Clearly this is not the kind of commitment actual good mothers have towards their children. Let us honor and celebrate them and leave me happily out of it.

Sitting Still

The more I think about it, the more I believe that the purpose of church is to teach us to sit still. Now, I understand how this can seem stifling, but I honestly don't think this is a bad lesson to learn. Sitting still is a skill that we are lacking more and more.

I run the children's ministry in our church and almost every week we talk about what it means to be reverent. This last week (and the previous two weeks), the children talked about a working definition. There's a song we sing about what reverence involves ("Reverence is more than just quietly sitting..."), but it's one thing to sing the words and another for the children to think about them. The littlest ones, when asked, said that being reverent meant sitting in your chair, keeping your feet still, not talking, not poking your neighbor, and so forth. The littlest ones have learned the principle of reverence as a negation of action rather than as an act in its own right. I feel like that is a failure on my part, but I can't think of a better way to approach it. Before you can be reverent, you do have to stop being irreverent. The older children, though, seem to have moved beyond that limited understanding. "When you're reverent," said one child, "you're thinking about Jesus and how you feel about Him." This reflection is the active part of reverence. Even if these children are not able to really do this all the time, it is gratifying to hear that they understand the principle.

For me, sitting still and reverence are not synonymous, but they are related. My definition for both involves an inner state of being that is only occasionally related to one's physical being. So yes, reverence involves sitting quietly, but it also involves an inward yearning for connection with the Divine. There may be times when true reverence requires physical action. Sitting still can involve the physical act of not moving, but there's more to stillness than sustaining the lotus position for a given period of time. Of course I mean that I think it is important for us to develop inner stillness. I don't think the world is ever going to calm down. I don't think our lives ever slow down. That's ok. If we are able to cultivate a stillness within ourselves, a place within that welcomes interaction with the Divine or a place that is safe and quiet or place within like a cooling stream that washes our frustrations away, then our busy lives are more manageable.

Obviously, since I am an LDS Christian, there are certain traditions of fostering inner stillness that I participate in. Temple attendance is one LDS contemplative action. There are so many symbols involved in temple worship and one that I think I can speak of is the action of attending that still, calm place. The metaphor of the body as a temple is a common one. Attending the temple regularly can teach us to value still places and to become familiar with them. This familiarity allows us to emulate that stillness. Another thing I do is to pray, which I guess is a pretty obvious one. The other major thing that I do regularly is to participate in the Sacrament. In our church, as in many others, the time of the Lord's Supper is one conducted theoretically in silence. I reflect not just on my relationship with the Divine, but also on how I've done in the previous week and on how I need to change. I have no intention of discussing that private time in further detail, but the reverence of those moments helps me cultivate inner stillness when I'm elsewhere. Now, I'm not saying that I'm perfect at always having this stillness, but I am saying that these practices help me. Other faiths have other traditions that are equally beneficial. Even people who claim no particular belief participate in things that help to ground them and encourage emotional peace in their lives.

I know I'm not covering any new ground here. Simone Weil, Eugene England, Eckhart Tolle, Mother Teresa, C.S. Lewis and many, many other far more erudite people have considered the principle of stillness and its necessity in our lives. Lots of people who are not at all erudite have considered it as well. Frequently the necessity of church is in question by other believers. Sometimes we comfort ourselves when members of our congregation offend us by saying that the Gospel is true, even if its members aren't. I think, like Professor England, that the Church is as true as the Gospel, though. He covers the topic thoroughly, so I won't discuss that in depth. I do want to point out that I need church to teach me how to be still. I need church to help me learn how to focus my thoughts, my breathing, my belief, and my relationship with God no matter how many babies are teething or toddlers are talking. I need church to teach me how this ambient noise is just part of the environment in which Christ is enacted. Just as Christ joined us here on Earth without losing His Divinity, we need to learn how to remain ourselves, to remain still, while joining our environments.