Yours, Mine and Ours.

 See the things you want as already yours. 

Think of them as yours, 

as belonging to you. As already 

in your possession. 

-- Robert Collier

I've been thinking about something I read recently that I can't find now (in a book, not online, which makes it harder) and so my apologies to the author because I want to quote you exactly but I don't remember who you are. I will have to paraphrase. 

The idea was that when a person has experienced a childhood that was in some way difficult, deficient or lacking, they often spend their adult life showering those missing elements on the people around them in an effort to make up for it. Whatever it is, they put it in the world for themselves, because no one else did. Kind of a "be the change you want to see" idea, but as a way of self-healing. Anyway, it seemed like truth to me.

But I've been thinking about it lately as it applies to my life in the church. Or I suppose I should say, "The Church", since that's a more accurate reflection of how I tend to think of it. A formal title with caps, -- large, vaguely disapproving -- a dark-suited entity that I am continually trying to please but with varying degrees of success...and also, I admit, sincerity. A mighty institution with which I sometimes feel at odds. (But then big institutions tend to make me feel uncomfortable. Also rebellious.)

In reality, that's flawed thinking on my part. I don't have a lot of church interaction that comes down to me vs. the whole mighty institution. 

I live my church life in wards, in classes, and callings. In friendships, family, hymns and prayers. In visits, and verses of scripture. In spiritual glimpses. 

My church life belongs to me. And it's about time I took more ownership.

I recently read a fascinating essay titled, Forgiving the Church and Loving the Saints: Spiritual Evolution and the Kingdom of God, by Robert A. Rees. He gives this description: "The Church . . . is imperfect. [However,] it is the best instrument the Lord has, given our agency, to effect his purposes. If it is at times inefficient, backward, repressive, it is also at times instructive, progressive and liberating. The church is like us . . . I'll go one step further: the Church is us; it is no better or no worse than we are (and that includes you and me), for the Church is what we make it."

The church is what we make it. 

I'm not sure why that simple and obvious idea struck me as revolutionary. We all show up every Sunday, and put on meetings, and share the sacrament, sing together and have discussions in an effort to better understand what is required of us, look after one another and...yes. In so doing, we make the church.

Rees says, "...the Church includes all of us who have taken upon ourselves the name of Jesus Christ and given our allegiance to his restored gospel. The Church includes the limitations, weaknesses, and prejudices as well as the faith, hope, and charity of all of us who call ourselves Mormon, from the apostles and prophets in Salt Lake City to the latest converts in New Guinea, Nigeria, and the Ukraine. We are all members of the body of Christ. We all constitute that phenomenon known as his church, and therefore we must be careful in ascribing to that church over-simplistic characteristics or seeing it in terms of our own or someone else's invariably limited point of view."

I was talking to a 77-year-old member the other day, one who has been active and served in callings her whole life -- and she surprised me when she came out with this: "It doesn't bother my testimony that I don't fit in."

Huh? You don't fit in? All those years of showing up and contributing every week, being a Bishop's wife for what seemed like forever, even giving up three years of your life to lead, inspire, care for and motivate an entire mission...and you still feel you somehow don't fit in? Now that's interesting.

It also begs me to ask...well then, does anyone?

After I taught my RS lesson this week, the counselor stood up to close the meeting and she thanked me but what she said next took me by surprise. She said, "I really need to thank you...I guess just because...well, you always say exactly what I'm thinking." 

Now that was a revelation. There are other people who think like I do. And they're sometimes in the same RS room! But we would never have known that if I hadn't opened my mouth and let some of my slightly unconventional thoughts out.

I've spent many years thinking, "I wish The Church would/were _______________. You can probably fill in that blank about a million ways. Things I'd like to hear more of, things I'd like to hear less of, ideas I wish we'd explore, ideas I wish we'd erase, policies I wish we'd change, people I wish were nicer, and on and on. Probably about 40 years' worth of weekly ideas. 

But it hadn't yet occurred to me that, if I want more anything in my church experience, I have some power to put it there. 

For instance, if I'd like to hear comments in Gospel Doctrine that are more like the thoughts I'm having, I should express my own. Because suddenly that thought becomes living. It's in the room. Someone could even say they "heard it at church". And maybe someone will surprise me and agree. Maybe not, but it's out there nonetheless.

What am I protecting myself from by keeping my unique feelings and ideas under wraps? From people deciding I don't fit in? But I already assigned myself that title decades ago! 

Here's a thought: put more of myself into my ward and automatically there would be more people at church who are like me. There would be one, anyway. Creating a better, more inclusive environment -- for myself -- one Sunday at a time.  And who knows? By making a little space for myself, maybe I'll make a bit for someone else who's been quietly waiting too, looking for a crack to squeeze into.

I'm tired of feeling I don't fit in. A lifetime is a lot of Sundays, and I intend to stick it out. So maybe we should all decide to stop feeling that way and make ourselves at home. Be whatever way you "wish the church were..." Do things you "wish the church would..." The Church belongs to all of us, and our Sunday meetings belong to everyone who shows up.

Bottom line is, I'm ready to stake a claim. From here on out, my church life belongs to me.

-S.

Singing is Believing.

I asked my husband the other day what he misses most about church when he is unable to attend for a few weeks at a time, and he said he misses participating -- teaching, speaking, fulfilling a calling. I asked him because I'd been thinking about what it is I miss when I am away. 

And that's the music.

I miss singing the hymns. It's my favorite part of worship and how well a ward does it has a direct impact on how happy I am in that ward.

Not that it takes a lot to keep me happy, but I do like a chorister who sometimes chooses my favorites, who likes the big, grand Protestant-old-reliables now and then, who knows how to get people to sing and how to keep the tempo moving (which means you need an organist who not only pays attention but can keep up, and sometimes that's where the real challenge lies. Let me say here that I am sincerely grateful to every member who did not squander their talent/lessons and who will play the organ in church so I can indulge in my beloved hymn singing. As a squanderer, I am undeserving of your gift. Thank you. And if you're a good organist, double thanks.)

And I like it best when I can't really hear myself sing, because everyone else is giving it their all too. If you've ever sat next to me in a meeting, you know that I'm often the loudest person in the room. 

Provided my sister isn't there. We believe in singing praises.

But then, many of my most profound spiritual experiences have been in some way tied to music. A lot of that probably has to do with the ward I grew up in. It was one of Salt Lake's more prestigious, with a building to match. I realize the very title "prestigious ward" has problems, but then that's another post. Like it or not, it was. The building itself was grand. The chapel was presided over by an impressive, bone-rattling pipe organ, and chances were good that the person playing it would have an advanced degree in organ performance. The choir director was likely to be equally well-qualified, and the soloists were some of the same voices who soloed with the Tab Choir. Easter morning might be heralded with the brass section from the Utah Symphony. Sacrament meeting could be the Utah Oratorio Society performing their work-du-jour. The people who wrote the hymns or the primary songs were sometimes sitting in the audience. It was the home ward to one of the prophets, and the governor showed up there too, for Christmas and pre-election Sunday. And oh, how that ward did music.

Funny that my three favorite church music experiences didn't come in big shiny packages. They came quietly, one as the young leader of a bad ward choir with more than enough heart to make up for what was missing in the singing, and one as a ward chorister saddled with an earnest-but-just-beginning teenage boy as my accompanist. In both of those instances, every hymn was an exercise in creativity and faith. 

I've led plenty of church music over the years with tears streaming down my face, and loved every beat. For me, singing is believing.
 
Anyway, the earliest thing I can identify as a true spiritual experience came in a ward Christmas program. My siblings and I were sitting alone, my parents being seated on the stand to perform with the choir. I'm not sure how young I was, but I'm pretty sure my feet were swinging in patent-leathers, so they didn't yet reach the floor. It was dark outside (yes, sacrament meeting used to be in the late afternoon/early evening -- I'm that old) and the chapel had lovely tall windows that ran all the way up both sides. It began to snow, big wet flakes floating down in a soft blessing that stood out against the sky. And just then the choir started to sing "Still, Still, Still." It was the first time I had ever heard that song. And it was nothing short of magic. Or at least I thought so.

Looking back, I realize that it was more than that. It was the kind of magic the spirit works, the kind that sets you off on a journey in pursuit of getting to that feeling again and again.

I've gotten back many times since, to that serene, believing place, and probably forgotten more times than I remember. But that experience stands out because it simply stopped me in my little-girl tracks and assured me that I was exactly where I should be. And that all was right with the world in that moment, in that room.

"After silence, that which comes nearest to 

expressing the inexpressible, is music."

 -- Aldous Huxley

That's my experience, and I'd like to hear yours. We all have one, the first time we figured out that we were on to something that would change everything that came after. The day the spirit stopped by, and then we followed it down the street begging it to come back. I hope you'll share your story in the comments.

And next time you find yourself in church, sing loud please. If only to drown me out.

-S.

 

Of Mutts and Men...Examining Canine Morality (in the Context of General Conference)

"Muggs was always sorry, Mother said, when he bit someone, 

but we could never understand how she figured this out. 

He didn't act sorry."

--James Thurber

I'm a sucker for Wes Anderson's movies, and one of my favorites is Moonrise Kingdom. It tickled every part of my fancy, but one of my favorite scenes in Moonrise Kingdom is the scene after the dog has unfortunately been shot and killed with an arrow, and Suzy and Sam stand looking soberly at his body.

Suzy asks, "Was he a good dog?"

Without missing a beat Sam answers, "Who's to say?"

One of the best movie lines in recent memory, in my opinion. Perfectly delivered (see it here [PG-13]).

Who IS to say what constitutes a good dog? For one thing, as humans we can't have the first inkling about the overall dog code of ethics. Dog morality. Would dogs define a "good dog" in the same way that we might? What are the qualities dogs respect and admire in other dogs? I may be wrong, but based on their partiality to rolling around on dead stuff, I have a hunch dogs may admire different things than we do.

That being said, I think our dog Cooper (a chocolate Lab) is a pretty darn good dog. He's nice, he's relatively obedient most of the time (for a dog) and he strives to please. 

Well...unless food is involved. Food trumps obedience in Cooper's world. When it comes right down to it, his desire to please his mouth is definitely a bit stronger than his desire to please his master. Good news, really, because that makes food a great motivational/training tool for him. But it also reminds me that, when it comes to obedience, Cooper's motives may not always be entirely pure. 

Come to think of it, he also developed exactly none of his "good dog" behaviors on his own. In addition to food rewards, there was plenty of e-collar involvement in his training. Plus a whole lot of other kinds of correction (if you have ever tried to civilize a Lab puppy, you'll understand what I mean -- I always say I would raise 4 additional children rather than face that task again). 

So as I think about it, I'm not sure Cooper really possesses a lot of intrinsic moral development. If any. 

He's a dog.

And I'm a person. I haven't the least idea what it's like to be Cooper.

Several people have asked me what lines bothered me from the Saturday morning session of General Conference (see previous post). And upon further review, I've decided it wasn't so much specific lines as it was the overall tone in some talks. The way the message felt to me. The message I perceived as being behind the words. Is that fair? I'm not sure, but a talk is inherently a two part invention, in which the listener is responsible for one of the parts. So the message I heard (whether intended or not) does carry some validity. 

And the talk that brought to my mind Sam and Suzy and the dog was Elder Holland's talk, The Cost -- and Blessings -- of Discipleship.

If you remember, Elder Holland talked about what I characterize as "sword-Jesus" rather than "peace-Jesus". Admittedly, I have always struggled with wrapping my head around the dichotomy there -- it's hard to have it both ways, after all -- but we can talk about that another time. 

Anyway, I was struggling and juggling along, a bit uncomfortable with that entire idea as usual, and then this line came: 

"Jesus clearly understood what many in our modern culture seem to forget: that there is a crucial difference between the commandment to forgive sin (which He had an infinite capacity to do) and the warning against condoning it (which He never ever did even once.)" 

And right there, it was as if I suddenly felt something drop. I turned to my husband and said, "That feels too closely related to 'love the sinner, but hate the sin.'" 

Which is a line I...for lack of a better word...hate.

I won't write about that specifically -- a lot of people have written about it quite well of late (I think my favorite is this one) but on doing about two seconds of research, I was happy to discover that the offending line is nowhere in the scriptures. It actually comes from the writings of Gandhi, who was riffing off something St. Augustine said ca. 420-something. 

But a lot of Christians have jumped on that line; it gets thrown around a good bit these days. And it's what immediately came to my mind when President Holland said what he did. 

I've examined his statement over and over, and I can't tell exactly what he means, because it seems to me that while he says there is a crucial difference, he never explains what that difference is. His parenthetical statements point merely to the fact that while Christ could forgive sin, he could not condone it. Yes, of course.

So the difference he is referencing as crucial must be between forgiving and condoning?

Or is it between the commandment to do one, and the warning against the other? (Because those are two different things, and commandment wins.) I'm not sure. 

But either way, the real point, as I see it, is this:

He is Jesus Christ.

And I'm a person.

And that makes it problematic when it comes to the idea of forgiving and/or/vs. condoning sins. Or hating sins but loving sinners. Because as a person, I am only responsible for addressing exactly one person's sins: mine. 

I'm sorry, but I can't say a whole lot about your sins. I'm pretty sure that I'm not really supposed to even be thinking about them.When Christ saw people condemning the sins of others, he basically told them to take a good look in the mirror and then once they had the mirror-person's sins completely mastered, they could start looking around for other people to fix.

You may be thinking, sure, okay -- but what about our children? It gets a little more complicated there, because of course we have a responsibility as their parents to teach them what Elder Holland calls the "thou shalts" and "thou shalt nots". But they are still responsible to govern themselves. And the bottom line is they're going to anyway.

So I don't feel that, by failing to point out or even notice the ways in which you are not living up to my accepted moral code, I'm condoning your sin. 

We can agree to disagree on that point if you feel differently. I'm used to that.

But what we can't disagree about is that I have no context for understanding your sins at all. Not even an inkling. I don't know what it's like to be you. Christ does, but then that's what I would describe as the most crucial difference in the whole scenario. 

As a person, the commandment to me is to love, and then love some more. Forgive, and then do it again. Everyone, every time. 

We can demonstrate our beliefs and by our fruits they will know us, and maybe want to produce similar fruits in their own lives. Or maybe not. But it's pretty much impossible to actively, or actually, love people while simultaneously passing the kind of judgment that would prompt us to explain why we're doing it right and they're doing it all wrong. 

No matter what it is. Whether we deem it to be a capital "S" sin or hardly a sin at all. Because there are as many levels of moral development as there are people, and even the best, most obedient looking ones sometimes have their motivations a little out-of-whack.

"Who's to say?" is just a reminder that when people do get judged eventually, they're going to get judged in a unique context. Theirs.

"...for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart." (1 Samuel 16:7) 

And isn't that lucky for all of us. And our dogs.

-S.
(As for Elder Holland, he's still a favorite. For one thing, he earned a whole world of points with last year's talk on mental illness, which we're going to discuss here soon. I think he and I just got off on the wrong foot this time around. So yeah, it happens. But on we go.)

The Art of Faith...or of At Least Making Something Worth Hanging on the Fridge.

Difficulties strengthen the mind, 

as labor does the body. 

-- Seneca

I read something recently along the lines that "any painter who doesn't find painting difficult should be treated with suspicion." It made me feel a lot better about my experiences as an artist. But it made me feel better about my experiences with faith, too.

A lot of the work involved in making art occurs in my head. Most of it, in fact. The part you end up seeing is just a representation of that...a small token. 

A souvenir of the struggle.  

I enjoyed General Conference, much as I expected to. And yet after the Saturday morning session I was quite cranky, because (as I complained to my patient husband for the rest of the day) there seemed to be one line in almost every talk that bothered me, or at least made me say "But --"

I was disappointed and sad about having those feelings. I had been looking forward to it, and then I found I was struggling and even thought that perhaps it would be best if I just stopped listening. I didn't want to invite any more negative emotions. I wondered if perhaps I was in the wrong frame of mind somehow, or if it was just an unfortunate clustering of speakers or topics that wasn't ideal for me that day.

Later, I was fortunate to come across a great post by an LDS mental health professional, Natasha Helfer Parker, analyzing the Saturday morning session talk by talk. I'm not sure why the article focused on only the session that had been problematic for me, but I considered that to be a personal tender mercy. Because after reading it, I felt much less alone in my angst. 

She framed her thoughtful, detailed examination of each talk as follows: "What can we celebrate and feel 'called' to incorporate into our lives in significant ways? What lifts and edifies? What do we need to challenge or think through in different ways (understanding that it is difficult to cover any subject in complete depth within the framework of 10 to 15 minutes that these men and women are given)? What might be healthy for some to hear while for others not so healthy (i.e. those managing depression, ocd, anxiety, etc.)? How do we frame our ideas and thoughts in respectful ways -- especially when we may disagree with one another? How do we maintain the balance between trusting ourselves, offering our voice, and keeping our commitment to sustain our leaders (whom I believe only have positive and protective intentions)?"

My questions exactly. 

But by putting them in writing, she gave me permission to be asking them! And in just that act, I felt some immediate relief. 

I think there was a lesson in that.

She began her comments about each talk by expressing all of the things she found to be positive, uplifting, encouraging, helpful, and generally spot-on. She even examined the lyrics to the songs that the choir performed. I so appreciated that. Because I know that in my own brain, I skew toward the negative and sometimes when I hear something that strikes an off chord I tend to forget the wonderful 99% of what was said and dwell on that niggling little 1%. So that was another lesson -- a reminder to enlarge my viewfinder a bit. 

As I read her thoughts, I found that most of the things that had been troubling to me came under her heading, "Messages I found to be needing of further nuance/discussion". I liked that description, because it perfectly articulated the cause of my discomfort when I hadn't been able to completely identify or understand it myself. It was phrased in a way that didn't put all of the blame on the message or on me, suggesting that perhaps we just needed to get to know one another a bit better. 

Yes! For me, some things are in need of a whole lot of further nuance/discussion. It happens all the time. I wish it weren't the case, because it would be much easier to be a person who required neither. But alas.

Sometimes I need to complicate the issue before I can get it sorted. 

In his article "Forgiving the Church and Loving the Saints: Spiritual Evolution and the Kingdom of God," Robert A. Rees says, "The Church, which so readily serves as a symbol either for ambivalent feelings about authority or as a symbol for a nurturing family, tends to call forth strong emotions.  Consider the variety of feelings people have about the Church. Others have expressed to me all of the following: They love the Church, they hate the Church; they respect the Church, they fear the Church; they are devoted to the Church, they are indifferent to the Church; they feel nurtured by the Church, they feel excluded from the Church. Some seem to experience no negative feelings toward the Church; others seem to be in a constant state of conflict with it."

So no matter where I might find myself on that spectrum during any given decade, year, month, General Conference session, or even moment, it sounds like I wouldn't find myself there alone. And I feel good about that, since it doesn't seem like I'm ever going to land in any one position forever. 

After all, this is faith we are talking about. A living thing. The ultimate work in progress. I don't believe it's intended to land, but rather to change and grow and progress as we create and re-create it. And working through things like talks that rub me the wrong way is one of the ways I do that. I'm learning to accept that about myself, and try to count it as a strength. To celebrate the fact that I'm a painter who finds painting to be pretty darn difficult. To regard my spiritual artist with respect rather than suspicion.

Looking back, I can see how my doubts often seem to have formed an initial sketch for my convictions. It may not be your way, but it is mine. Rather than "doubting my doubts", I guess I find it helpful to get acquainted with them and figure out ways we can make something useful or even beautiful together. 

In my art, some pieces take a lot of working and reworking and re-reworking before they end up right.  Does that lessen me as an artist? Committing the vision to a tangible medium requires an act of faith. And it's as the idea moves through the heart and then out through the hands that the art occurs. Every piece is somewhere on the spectrum between difficulty and flow, but often it's the ones I have to work hardest to translate into something concrete, the ones I really develop a relationship with, that bring me the most satisfaction and meaning in the end.

The future will present 
insurmountable problems -- 

only when we consider them insurmountable.

--Thomas S. Monson

Anyway, in case you're wondering, I stuck with it and didn't have that same perplexed experience with the rest of General Conference. I generally found it to be all the things I was hoping for. Who knows why? Probably another tender mercy, for which I am truly thankful. But I'm appreciative of that challenging 1% too, because it complicated the process a bit and gave me something to work on and grow from. Raw materials for the creation of my faith. All the more reason to keep showing up in the studio.

-S.

Same Bat-Time...Same Bat-Channel.

It takes two to speak the truth -- 

one to speak and another to hear. 

Henry David Thoreau

Ah, General Conference. I love everything about it. It's one of the most soothing sounds in the world to me, and such a distinctive one too. I'm not sure what it is, but there's some specific quality to the sound of the broadcast that makes it instantly recognizable.

When I think of General Conference, I think of springtime in Utah. I think of blossoming trees, the unfailingly beautiful flowerbeds on Temple Square, and sitting on my mom and dad's bed eating breakfast rolls on trays. I think of the sneaky few moments after the session would end when I'd try to catch a glimpse of what the rest of the world got to watch on Sunday. We weren't allowed TV on Sunday, and we weren't allowed to wear pants either, but Conference meant we could stay in pj's until noon and pj's definitely beat dresses. I think of my mother critiquing the choir's performance (too slow! enunciation!), our family chorus of the rest hymn with all four parts covered, wondering if the two hours would ever end, the low murmur of laughter at the occasional joke...and despite the creeping clock, how much I loved having an excuse to all be together. And I think of the prophet's voice.

Later, I think of having to haul my own young family to the ward building to watch the Conference broadcasts. Of trying to keep the girls busy and quiet, with a little resentment that lucky family members out west got to watch at home where Conference still felt restful and festive, rather than like too many hours on a bench in the chapel with little kids. Of loving the familiar glimpses of Temple Square and being jealous of the blossoms and the flower beds because the midwest was usually still struggling with the remains of winter. I think of homesickness. And I think of the prophet's voice.

Later still, I think of gratitude for the invention of the internet so that we could listen at home again wherever we were living, of Conference brunches with dear ward friends who had become our missing family. I think of scanning the choir for familiar faces from many years and many wards, and of my girls' good-natured critiquing of big Utah hairstyles and big polyester choir dresses. Of singing the rest hymn right out loud no matter who we were with because that's what I was raised to do, but missing having all four parts covered. Of being grateful for a week away from stressful callings. Of being interested to hear what the brethren might say about specific issues, or listening for answers to things I'd been struggling with. I think of the camera panning the expanse of the new conference center and how that shift somehow made me feel part of something much bigger. Of how much I still loved having an excuse to be together for two hours. And I think of the prophet's voice.

Different prophets. Different announcers welcoming us to a different Conference designated by a different number. Different springs, different blossoms, different questions and ages and stages. 

Same feelings. Same messages.

Different mold, same Jell-O.

My daughter Chelsea left a comment on my last post that I believe contained a perfect thought for pre-Conference consideration. She said, "We listen, we think, we pray, we choose. That's the order we are supposed to use when it comes to counsel from anyone."

Isn't that great? We are not only encouraged, but are expected to engage in the process! Listening is only the first step. 

And I think one of the things I've enjoyed most about Conference over the years I've been listening is that I have found it to be an intellectually restful place for my often troubled mind. I understand the messages there to be, in general, about big principles for Christ-like living rather than about rules or programs or the nitty gritty details of life in a ward. Those are the things that, for me, can get in the way. Conference helps me to refocus on the big picture. It helps me to think. It reminds me to pay attention to what I feel. And it helps me to continue to choose. The right, the gospel, and my Mormon-ness. 

I am looking forward to once again listening to a prophet's voice. And to remembering it all again too.

-S.