The Necessity of Testifying vs. the Possibility of Being

I'm kind of drifting at the moment.  Content to sometimes go to church and sometimes not.  Happy to live according to some commandments while ignoring others.  Reconciled, for the moment, to letting my parents and family believe what they will about my church activity (mostly that I'm the stalwartly active member I've always been in their minds) regardless of my actual thoughts and ideas about the church.  And I'm okay with this.  Mostly.

I don't want to live in this double way, voicing my true beliefs here and to certain friends who will not respond with sorrow and anger to how I feel while maintaining a different face publicly.  But I also do not want to deal with the pain and anger and confrontation of living my beliefs openly.

To be honest, I'm not sure what "living my beliefs openly" actually means.  Is it really necessary to proclaim my beliefs to those around me?  Must I openly state my heterodox understandings of the gospel to be genuine?  Can I not simply be without having to bear testimony to the beliefs that inform that being?

These are earnest questions to which I do not know the answers.  I am constantly moved to speak--to share my own perspectives and ideas.  Part of me believes this is the natural offspring of my Mormon heritage, which has strongly emphasized testifying.  Another part of me believes it is the remnants of a belief that I must be right, and in being right I must help others to see rightly.  I don't want to do that though--to believe so strongly that I am right that I proselytize, trying to convert others to my way of thinking.  I simply want to be.  Maybe the problem is that somehow I still feel a need for the church's, my parents', my community's permission to be as I am.

But there, in those last few words, is the catch: "to be as I am."  The thing is I already am what I am.  And I will continue being, even as I grow and evolve.  I don't need anyone's permission to be as I am, because I am already.  And there is, I think, the reason I am content to simply be at the moment.  To stop bucking and fighting and kicking and screaming.  Because in my heart, I know myself.  And I like who I am.

Feasting at the Table of Christ's Gospel, Or the Possibility of Community

Seraphine's thoughtful post over at Zelophehad's Daughters has gotten me thinking about community.  Specifically about the potential for community within the LDS church.  And, even more specifically, the possibility of finding community for myself in the LDS church.

I believe very much that the gospel of Christ is a communal thing.  My understanding of God is rooted in community and interconnectedness.  To the extent that I accept the Atonement, I understand it as a communal act--both Christ's act as communal and my willingness to act in light of the Atonement as communal.  I'll explore some of these ideas in more depth at a future date.

My question today has more to do with the possible reality of church community than to do with ideals or theories of the gospel and community.  And here is my question: How, when I find so very many differences between myself and many other Mormons, how can I find community in their midst?

Perhaps it's not fair of me, but I have a stereotype of a Mormon in my head.  You're probably familiar with that stereotype if you're familiar with Mormon culture at all.  Fairly conservative in dress; fairly conservative in political, social, and cultural beliefs; dedicated to family; dedicated to church; men work while women mother; opposed to "alternative" lifestyles, whether as simple as being tattooed and pierced or as significant as one's sexuality; rather orthodox religious belief, accepting the teachings of the church; etc., etc.  You get the general picture.  Although I know exceptions to that rule, my experience at church is that most Mormons conform to the stereotype in most ways--even if they have a little nonconformity here and there.

The problem for me is that I have a lot of nonconformity.  I'm liberal.  I'm feminist.  I accept just about any lifestyle you could imagine.  I think clothing is rather unimportant.  I mean, I like clothing and dress nicely; but I don't give a tinker's damn about how anyone else dresses and I think dress codes are stupid. I adore my family and I want a family, but I have unconventional ideas of what constitutes a family.  For instance, I see no reason why a family must have two parents or must have two parents of the opposite sex.  I also think that we build families not only through marriage and having children, but also through friendship.  And I wouldn't hesitate to either adopt or be artificially inseminated so that I can have children if I remain single.

And when it comes to church teachings and doctrine, I'm rather heterdox.  I don't really care about the literal nature of any of the teachings of the church.  God, Joseph Smith's vision, the Book of Mormon's historicity.  Even Jesus.  What's important to me is not the literal reality of any historical teaching of the church, but rather the principles taught by these stories.  I have my own peculiar understanding of the temple (and I both passionately love and hate the temple).  I believe my own personal relationship with God trumps prophetic counsel every time.  I think the commandments are more suggestions and generally good ideas than absolute rules.  I suppose, were I pressed to label myself, I'd identify as something of a humanist with a slight affinity for Christianity.

Back to the question of community.  When I am that different from the Mormon norm, is it possible for me to find community at church?  On one level, I suppose it is.  Simply participating in church meetings, making myself available to serve in callings, speaking in classes, etc. makes me a member of a community.  But at the same time, I feel distant from the members of my ward.  I feel little sympathy between them and me.  Largely because the climate in the church is one which discourages honest sharing of unorthodox ideas and interpretations.  Were that not so, I may be able to find a more genuine community at church--one which helped feed me spiritually rather than leaving me to grasp at crumbs.  Maybe I am selfish, but I don't want to simply eat the crumbs that fall to the floor; I want to participate in the feast.  And I see the potential for such wonderful feasting at the table of Christ's gospel, if only everyone were allowed a seat.

So I find myself sitting rather isolated in church, feeling alone and without recourse to reach out to those around me.  Because I know that no matter how sincerely they express concern, they cannot understand the workings of my mind.  Not because my mind is superior; far from it.  Only because my mind and my soul are different.  Is there something wrong with me causing me not to find the community Seraphine found in her moment of vulnerability?  Is it simply that I am unwilling to make myself vulnerable?  I have made myself vulnerable in the past and I have been burned.  Badly.  So perhaps I am simply gun shy.  I don't honestly know.

In the meantime I look for community elsewhere: among nonbelievers and fringe members of the church; online at Mormon blogs; in social networks unaffiliated with the church.  And I wish that somehow the church could be a big enough community to allow people of openly different understandings to feast at the same table.

Putting God the Father in His Place

I have been thinking about God.  Specifically, I have been thinking about the existence and importance of God.  I suppose I should start at the beginning.  The beginning being a very simple question: Do I believe in God?

The answer is yes.  Sort of.

Which leads to another, not-so-simple but obvious question: Why "sort of"?

Like I said--not so simple.  But I'll try.  I do believe in God the Father.  I think he exists.  And I have a pretty Mormon understanding of what he's like.  He has a body of flesh and bone.  He is distinct from Jesus, God the Mother, and the Holy Ghost.  He loves me and everyone else on earth, past, present, and future.  He's omnipotent, omniscient, aware of everything that happens on earth, yada yada yada.

But the thing is, I just don't care.  I think God's existence is supremely beside the point.  Because in my mind, the point is to live a good life.  To love other people.  To make the world a better place.  To be compassionate, kind, honest, and every other good thing there is.  To strive towards building zion here and now, in this moment, no matter how impossible that may seem.  And God is too often a distraction.

Now that's not to say that I think God is by definition a distraction from those good objectives.  I think many, many people are inspired by their belief in God to be better, more compassionate, more loving people.  However, I think that a belief in, or a focus on a belief in, God is just as likely to fix people's attention on their reward hereafter and distract them from what's important in this life; or, worse, to leave them judgmental of others and therefore unable to reach out in love to all of their brothers and sisters.

So there you have it.  I think God is kind of beside the point.  Which leaves me wondering where my place is in a church which emphasizes the literal existence of God and human beings' ability to become like God.  I find some refuge in some of Mormonism's teachings about God.  That he once was as we now are and that we may become as he now is, for instance.  There's something radically equal between God and human when that is the case, just as there is something radically equal in a true parent-child relationship.  There may be a period of time in which the parent is the adult and responsible for the child, but that relationship changes and opens up to even greater joy when parent and child know each other as adults, as equals.

This idea--that divinity lies within each and every woman and man and child--leads me to my most cherished belief about God: that he is accessible only through ourselves and others.  We can only know God when we truly and deeply know and understand our own divine potentional; when we reach out and accept the divine in every other we encounter, regardless of how different or frightening they may appear.

So when I say God is beside the point, that the point really should be loving others, I suppose I'm in a sense placing God right back in the center.  Because to know and love oneself, and to know and love others, is to know and love God.