It's Such a Good Feeling.

In re-reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird lately, I came across this passage I particularly liked:

"A sober friend once said to me, 'When I was still drinking, I was a sedated monster. After I got sober, I was just a monster.' He told me about his monster. His sounded just like mine without quite so much mascara. When people shine a little light on their monster, we find out how similar most of our monsters are. The secrecy, the obfuscation, the fact that these monsters can only be hinted at, gives us the sense that they must be very bad indeed. But when people let their monsters out for a little onstage interview, it turns out that we've all done or thought the same things, that this is our lot, our condition. We don't end up with a brand on our forehead. Instead, we compare notes."

The human condition. We're all in it. And while I think the point, at least in part, is to try to transcend it if we can, we will of course accomplish that with limited success here on earth. Because here on earth, we're human from start to finish. All created from the same basic mold, with a few modifications and some special equipment to differentiate us one from another, but all made in God's image. And the only conclusion I can draw from this is that He must like us this way.

I believe Mr. Rogers was really on to Something Big when he said, "I like you. Just the way you are."

I bring it up because I've had love on my mind lately. All kinds of it. The Capital L kind, and also the little bits that we bump into all day long but hardly recognize if we're not paying attention. I've probably been thinking about it as a result of marrying off my baby this past week, and also attending my parents' 60th anniversary celebration. But I know I also started thinking about it shortly after Elder Holland's most recent and now somewhat infamous talk (the one we've already covered here).

A lot of people are still discussing that talk. I've heard it rehearsed in three separate church meetings already, I'm scheduled to teach it in Relief Society as soon as July, and it seems nearly everyone has an opinion about it. This has made me continue to wonder what it was about his words that caused such a stir on all sides, and as I've read interpretations and re-read the text and thought more about it, it's pretty clear that my own negative reaction to it was centered squarely in the notion of God's love, and what our relationship with that love is meant to be. 

I simply didn't feel the kind of love I recognize in some of the ideas he presented, and I think that's why it left me in such an uneasy, unhappy, uncomfortable place. By coming to better understand where that message and I failed to connect, I've found peace on the matter. (But I'll admit I've recruited a sub to teach my upcoming lesson. We'll all be happier.)

On top of that, I've had several conversations lately about the concept of Unconditional Love, and its place in our collective Mormon thought, and more importantly in our curriculum, and there seems to be quite a disagreement as to whether the idea of God Having Unconditional Love For Us is a doctrinally friendly idea or not.

Now -- I don't know any better way to say this than to just say it: The idea of God without unconditional love pretty much just blows my mind.

Or in other words, the idea of A God of Conditional Love is not an idea that I can relate to. At all.

But then I don't think I'm supposed to teach you about God's love so much as help you feel it, am I? It seems to me that's the way we learn about it. We feel it. It teaches us about Itself. That's what the Holy Ghost is for, after all. To help explain what we're feeling. To point out, this is what God's love feels like, at the appropriate times. And to direct our attention to the source.

Because if we don't know what God's love feels like, we don't stand much chance of loving others in the same way. And that's the commandment.

So I've decided it hurt to have a church leader tell me about God's love in a way that didn't feel like the same love I have come to recognize, appreciate and understand in my own life. Because it felt personal.

And as that idea has finally crystallized, I have also realized this: when I don't like things I hear at church, it's most often for this very same reason.

I know what it's supposed to feel like, for me anyway. I have that gift just like everybody else. He's my Father, too.

Unconditional love is the only kind that makes sense, once you're a parent. I just spent the past week with my three daughters, whom I see infrequently now that they're off living their own lives. And it reminded me just how much I love them. Doesn't matter one whit to me what they're doing, when it comes to that. I am just plum crazy about those girls. Sure, there have been days in our relationship when I've wanted to put them in time out or even flat-out spank their behinds, but it never impacted the bottom line. Not even a little. And that's not going to change.

Do my parents feel the same way about me? I can only think that they probably do. I understand that now. Heaven knows I haven't done a thing to earn it, having been bratty as they come as a youngster. But I'm theirs. And as a parent, I know precisely what that means and how it feels.

It seems to me that the destination of any successful spiritual journey is probably the same, regardless of whether or not there is a specific denomination acting as the vehicle to get us there. The goal is to draw close to God, to feel His love, and then to understand and act upon our obligation to turn that love outward and shine it on those we come in contact with. Which is everyone.

I don't really feel God's love in lists of requirements. I don't feel it in things that divide, differentiate or discriminate. If it's a thing that causes anyone to feel that they are in some way less, I don't feel love there. A demand for unquestioning conformity also does not feel like an accurate reflection of His love to me.
 
Instead, I feel it in the billions of ways people are different. And also in the billions of ways we are the same. For me, it's there in my relationships and the ways I care and am cared for.

I feel it wherever I encounter excellence, or striving, or mastery. I feel it in the magnitude of creation, its infinite variety, and in the new chance we are given every day we're lucky enough to wake up. I see it in divine, serendipitous connections between people and ideas, things and events. In the way the Universe seems to tip its hat to me now and then, just to let me know someone's paying attention.

Also in falling off the wagon just like everyone else, but being allowed to get back on. Its in all the hands that reach down to pull me up, over and over.

But the net is much wider than that. When I am on a run with my iPod and suddenly Freddy Mercury sings the opening lines of "Barcelona", I feel God's love. Huh? She feels God's love when Freddy Mercury sings? Absolutely yes. Right down to the tips of my toes. (If you don't know what that feels like, get an iPod and put something really good on it. A sound that feels like love to you, if only because it's better than any sound you could possibly make yourself. You'll know it when you hear it.)

God created giraffes for no reason at all that I can think of. Who does that? Except that giraffes are simply oozing with awkward, graceful love.

I feel God's love whenever I log on to Facebook. Well now that's a bit ridiculous, right? The thing is, I'm miraculously allowed to interact with people from all the different parts of my life there, and to show them that they matter to me. Even though I maybe didn't sit by them in the school lunchroom, it wasn't always a reflection of how I felt. I was busy figuring out how to navigate the world. But every day I noticed they were there, and now I get to show them how glad I am that they still are. Surely that's a divine gift.

Maybe I'm getting a bit silly as I age, but as the years tick by, I feel God's love in just about everything. It's the joyful stuff of life. So I'm not interested in narrowing or restricting any channels, but rather in continually increasing my notice of it, absorbing as much as I can and figuring out how to act as a better, more luminous human reflector.

Unconditional love doesn't mean God isn't interested in seeing us improve, like every good parent is. He expects it. But the fact that He's provided a way for each one of us to do that puts us on equal footing, no matter where we stand. That's unconditional love. And if His expectations are really only relevant to our desire to get closer to Him personally, they don't have anything to do with being a yardstick by which we measure or interact with others.

A light that grows brighter and brighter, until the perfect day. Something like that. That's the kind of love I want to feel, and the kind I want to give.

And always, I'm interested in comparing notes. Because I think you probably know as much about God's love as I do. We're all monsters, after all...but that's quite all right because it seems He designed us this way. And because we are His little monsters, I'm quite sure He loves us. Every one of us. And just exactly the way we are.

Anyway, that's the way it feels to me.

- S. 

A Fine Mess.

The opposite of faith is not doubt, 

it's certainty.

-- Anne Lamott

My mother is really clean. No, I mean really. The toilet paper in her guest bath is actually folded into a little point just as it is in a fine hotel. Her trash cans are perennially empty. The vacuum trails on the carpet remain somehow forever unspoiled. It's been that way as long as I can remember. I say this not to mock her in any way, but because having raised children myself, and seeming to lack completely the ability to stay ahead of the pile of mail on my kitchen counter, I marvel. 

I did then...I do now. So some things are obviously not genetic. Not that I live like a slob, but I do live. And I haven't yet figured out how to keep some of that living from forever showing up, all over my house.

My mother is the only person I know for whom it might be possible to call the realtor to list her home for sale in the morning, and have the agents' open house at noon. All without ever having to get up out of her chair because there wouldn't be a single thing that needed to be done in preparation. 

She could also get invited to lunch at the White House at 11:00 am and show up at 11:15, not even having needed to comb her hair. This is how she lives. This is where she is comfortable. This is the world she carries or creates, wherever she goes.

I was fortunate to attend a church meeting recently in which she bore her testimony. She said that she has never had a moment's doubt. That she was somehow born with perfect faith, and that it has never wavered. In fact, she has never even considered the fact that it could waver. She believes what she believes. She likes things how she likes them. The universe somehow complies. End of story. 

Well then.

Or maybe alas. Because I don't know how she manages that faith trick either.

The currently popular bit about "doubting your doubts" always makes me smile. Because no one needed to tell me to do that. I doubt everything. Which gives my mind the same real, "lived-in" feel that my house has. My mind and my kitchen counter look quite a bit alike most days, actually. Perhaps someone should do a scientific study to see if that's a universal truth of some kind.

I don't think the quote I used at the beginning casts aspersions on my mother's faith. I think it just means that my own less tidy brand is of equal value.

Anyway, I believe all of this is why I am drawn to Anne Lamott's writings. If you haven't read Anne, perhaps you should. She's not LDS, but is a Presbyterian who took a long time finding her way to God, and who seems to value the long slog as much as she does the destination. Her brand of faith feels very close to my own, and I've decided that's because first and foremost, I feel her acknowledgement that faith is messy. Like all the important things in life. Families, relationships, birth, death...all one big happy mess. 

With faith sitting precariously atop the pyramid like a leaking umbrella. It's not perfect and it can't stop the rain, but at least it keeps a lot of it off while you're running to the car. Even though your feet still get wet. 

I'd like to be the Mormon Anne Lamott. I think we need one, or anyway I do. I'm afraid most Mormons might not share my embrace of the idea of messy faith, however. We like things neat. We like them spelled-out. We are answerers, explainers. Solvers of mysteries. 

We like to watch the rain coming down on the world from inside the sturdy shelter we've built to keep us dry. And when we're forced to venture out, we are continually patching the umbrella.

In my patriarchal blessing, it says that I have been blessed with "a believing heart". Darn it, it's true. As hard and as messy as it gets for me sometimes, my heart wants to believe. So I guess I probably did inherit that from my mother, along with the hefty dose of gray areas from my dad. 

One of me continually pokes holes in things, one of me patches. 

Or on good days just sits still, waiting for the storm to pass. They always do. 

I came across a beautiful passage recently, written by a member whose writings on faith have also resonated for me over the years. In her essay Seeing Without Seeing, Emma Lou Thayne expresses it like this: 

"I believed it all -- the seeing without seeing, the hearing without hearing, the going by feel toward something holy, something that could make her cry and could lift my scalp right off, something as unexplainable as a vision or a mystic connection, something entering the pulse of a little girl, something that no matter what, would never go away. What it had to do with Joseph Smith or his vision or his gospel I never would really understand -- all I know to this day is that I believe. Whatever it is, I believe in it. I get impatient with people's interpretations of it, with dogma and dictum, but somewhere way inside me and way beyond impatience or indifference there is that insistent, infernal, so help me, sacred singing -- All is well, All is well. My own church, inhabited by my own people -- and probably my own doctrines, but my lamp, my song -- my church. I would be cosmically orphaned without it."

And so would I. Darned messy, leaky, imperfect, impatient Faith. Darned Believing Heart. 

But thank you for that gift, Mother. Because it's becoming increasingly clear that, in the end, it will probably be the one that made the difference.

- S.

Aches and Pains.

A thought to help us through 

these difficult times: 

Be kind, for everyone you meet 

is fighting a hard battle. 

-- Ian MacLaren

Hard things in the church are tricky. Your hard things are not my hard things, and vice versa. I wish none of us had hard things, but alas. We're living in a world of them. And unfortunately, it's impossible to keep the realities of our lives from colliding with our doctrine.

Here's one of those tricky examples -- something you may think of as being a warm fuzzy thing. I used to. But I've decided its warm fuzziness hides sharp edges.

That thing is this: Families Can Be Together Forever.

For me, that's a slogan I wish we would let slip away. I know it's meant to bring peace and joy and provide an ideal, a goal from which to draw strength and purpose. And for many people, I'm sure it does. But there are also many people for whom it brings pain. Families are complicated things.

There are people for whom that idea holds no appeal, at all. For whatever reason, their families just don't work. I know several.

There are people who haven't started families of their own, and that's difficult in a church that can feel like it's made of, and for, families. I know some of those too.

There are people whose family members do not all share their spiritual lives or goals. I'll bet we all know many in that position.

It's a nice idea to teach children. It sounds sweet and comfortable and good in Primary. But even that is problematic, because young children are literal thinkers so when they hear that families can be together forever, the chances are good that they're not thinking about it the way the teacher is.

That phrase is a good example of something that seems so harmless, it's hard to imagine it could hurt or offend. But perhaps we'd do better to say that Our Relationships Can Continue Forever. Maybe that would provide a little more space for peace and happiness outside the "family" box. We need a new song.

Anyway, I bring it up because hard things have been on my mind lately. And as church members, we're often not upfront about it when we struggle with things that we think shouldn't cause us to struggle. We assume it's something wrong with us. 

Really what we need is to be able to say, "Ouch. This hard thing hurts me. Just so you all know, I am getting no joy from this, and it's not because I'm not worthy of joy."

We have back-to-back weddings coming up in our family. Two daughters are getting married in the space of two months! It's an exciting time, and we are eager for our family to grow. We feel lucky to have found two of our missing pieces.

But weddings bring up another thing that some might think should not be a hard thing but that for me has been known to cause exquisite pain: the temple.

The temple has always been challenging for me actually, and for a variety of reasons. Some are as simple as claustrophobia. But I've had profound experiences there too, and one of the things I love about the temple is that I never fail to feel the spirit there, even on challenging days. It's a remarkable place.

That being said, the temple also breaks my heart in a way that nothing else in our church does.

In our family, the temple is sometimes an insurmountable, rock-hard divider.

We have one daughter who is no longer an active member of the church. I know a few of her reasons, but I'm sure I don't know them all. I'll be the first to admit that I understand many of her choices, and I can't say I wouldn't be in the same position given her experiences. Bad things happen sometimes, and she has endured a few.

I don't spend time worrying about her in the context of "being together forever" -- I have heard all of the comforting doctrine over the years. More importantly, I have faith in the atonement and in our Savior's ability to know her heart, much more fully than I can.

But I do worry about us being together as a family right here on earth sometimes. When it comes to the church, breaking up is hard to do. For all parties.

We have a strong culture. Eschew the Mormon mold and it's easy to feel that you're no longer "in the club". When she first left, of course it was difficult for us. No one raises children in the church hoping they'll choose a different path. But we moved past it many years ago, and I'm not sure she really understands that. She feels different. She feels a division. I think she believes that we must always be disappointed in her, because she knows our doctrine well.

Having grown up in the church myself, I understand why she would suspect us of having those feelings, why she can't quite believe that we think she's amazing exactly the way she is.

And that's why the temple causes me pain. Because the temple reinforces that division. She won't be at her sister's wedding. How does that make her feel? Probably like she's not in the club. Probably like she's different. Probably like we think she is somehow "less". 

But wait! This is our FAMILY I am talking about. Not a club or an organization, a quorum or a congregation. This is my daughter.

And I can't help being genuinely resentful of anything that would ask me to feel that my darling, beloved girl is in any way "less". She is remarkable. She is full of love and goodness and the most amazing gifts. She's really one of the more extraordinary people I know. And it makes me so sad to think that she has a hard time believing I can see her in exactly that way.

So during the wedding, when I should be overcome with the joy of family and the eternal nature of those loving ties, I will also find myself heartsick for the one who isn't there, and for the way in which that day will probably affirm for her the feeling of being the "other one". 

I know because I've experienced it twice before.

We attended the Nauvoo Temple dedication when the girls were younger and I cried all the way through it. Not because I was touched. I couldn't see that far past my pain. I cried because it was the first time she was officially excluded. The church...that I loved...was putting up an explicit wall within my family. That was the moment it came into clear focus for me. And there was nothing I could do as her mother to fill the gap. No reach could bring her to the other side that day. I felt a deep wound. If she wasn't deemed worthy to be there, why should I want to be?

Then she missed her first sister's wedding. At least I was able to brace for the pain. I wasn't blindsided by it, as I had been the first time, but I could still cry about it right now. Just give me 30 seconds to conjure those feelings up.

In trying to explain something sensitive to me, a friend once said, "Wait until you see one of your daughters sealed in the temple. Then you will understand." I could sense his joy at the eternal glimpse in that pivotal parenting moment. But all I could think of was, "I'm happy for you. Actually, I've already seen that. And I'm pretty sure you wouldn't understand." 

You had to be there. For all of it. 

Of course, I'm grateful that two of my daughters have chosen to begin their marriages in the temple. I know the blessing that can be throughout their lives, I know the sacrifices it required, the choices they had to make to be ready for that ordinance. As a mother, my heart truly does rejoice.

But the sadness is nearly unbearable for me too. And I can't deny that. If we could do it any other way, I would.

I tell you all of this only because I suspect some of you will understand. Because I'm sure you have your own hard things. 

Days your heart is breaking while everyone else in the meeting seems to agree that, if you're doing it right, you'll surely be happy. 

Days you hear the message, but it doesn't seem to apply to the reality you see and feel in your personal circumstances.

Days you don't want to teach the lesson because you know it's going to be another hard thing for one of the members of your class.

Days you try to access the joy the gospel can bring but you come up short.

Just about the time I begin to feel like I'm passing the test, I often figure out that the test isn't actually what I thought it was at all. 

And I feel we need to be more aware that even our best teachings, the ones that we are assured will bring peace and happiness if followed, can be hard, painful things for some among us. It all depends on how and where they land. 

We don't need to see the wounds, but I'd like to shift our group perspective a bit so that it's acceptable to acknowledge they're there. Because even though we can't eliminate every hard thing, we can provide softness, kindness, safety, and caring to cushion the blows. Isn't that why we come together every week?

Whether or not we even understand why the cherished words, practices, and principles that bring us joy don't have that same effect on everyone, we need to accept it. Sometimes they just don't. So when it comes to our lives as Latter-day Saints, maybe we should be a bit quieter about how we are all expected to feel. 

Even the best people are not spared hard things.

-S. 

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.