belonging: the struggle to feel accepted.

last tuesday night i had a bit of a confrontation with a mormon friend over a feminist blogpost i had shared. he essentially dismissed this post as irrational and infantile.  and i got angry and told him off.

the next day, i was in a bit of a funk.  i wasn't exactly sure why.  but when i started thinking about it i realized it had started the night before with this confrontation.  which i initially found strange.  i know this man to be very different from me when it comes to political and social beliefs (think of a young glen beck).  and i know better than to take him seriously.  but he got under my skin and not just in an easily dismissed way.

you see, i struggle with feeling accepted by my community, specifically my mormon community.  not with the fact that my community thinks differently than i do, but with the fact that that community seems to disallow even being what and who i am.  there's this refusal to even engage on the level of ideas.  not with every member of the community, but certainly with most of them.  they hear what i say and dismiss it.  and that's precisely what this man did.  he offered no thoughtful criticism; he provided no counter-argument or rebuttal; he simply, and condescendingly, dismissed what i had presented as a thoughtful and provocative analysis of women's place in the church.  and it hurt.  deeply.

i can't help but wonder if other members of my community, the ones who smile and nod but shift awkwardly when talking with me, whether they too feel the way this man did but are just too nice to say something about it.  i can't help but feel rejected by my own people.  because with all my reservations and concerns and anger and frustration, i am mormon before i am almost anything else.  and i don't know how to divorce myself enough that it doesn't hurt to be rejected so glibly, as if my ideas and i are nothing more than an annoyance to be swatted away.

Defense Mechanism?

The other day I read Hazel Mote's blog.  And then I read my own.  And it has me thinking.

I write analytically.  Hazel writes personally.  I write in the abstract.  Hazel makes connections with others. I don't like it, this difference.  I don't like that I write in the abstract as if I have achieved some distance between myself and the church.  I don't like that I seem not to connect with others through what I write.  The funny thing?  I'm doing it again, even as I say I don't like that I do it.

I've been thinking about this tendency of mine--the tendency to intellectualize, to abstract, to step back away from what troubles me.  Trying to understand it.  I don't understand it yet, but I'm sure it has something to do with my history of trouble with the church.  I think it's some sort of defense mechanism.  But against what?  And how does it work?

From where I sit, this "defense" mechanism seems much more harmful than helpful.  It makes me feel removed from the very people I want to be connected to.  And I'm not sure how to get beyond that.  My instinct tells me it's about vulnerability and openness.  That I need to be more open about my hurts and my fears and my anger; that I need to not just rant about them, but to just lay them out for others to see and feel.  But I don't know if I have the strength to do it.  Even anonymously.

Just a Little Dose of Oaks-Generated Outrage.

I've been thinking about Dallin Oaks in the last few weeks.  More than I would like, really.  First there was his truly awful speech on religious freedom at BYU-Idaho.  I was infuriated by the ridiculous comparison of Mormons post-passage of prop. 8 to African-Americans trying to vote during the Civil Rights Era.  I mean, intellectually I think I know what he's trying to say: that the "intimidation" experienced by Mormons after last year's election is of the same kind, if of radically different degree, as the intimidation experienced by African Americans, that it was essentially voter intimidation.  The problem is he's wrong.  First, what African Americans experienced was not intimidation meant to keep them from voting their conscience; it was meant to keep them from voting period.  And that distinction accepts the premise that what Mormons experienced last fall was even a form of voter intimidation, which it clearly was not.  Mormons were not punished for how they voted; they were not singled out in order to make them feel so much fear that they would not vote in the future (or even that they would not vote their conscience in the future).  What happened to Mormons was the natural consequences of one group funding and promoting and bring to pass the elimination of a legally sanctioned right of another group.  You can't take away the rights of some group of people and expect there to be no negative ramifications.  Hell, Mormons have their own history of having their rights taken away when it comes to non-traditional marriage; you'd think that if anything they'd be sympathetic on the issue.  But no.  Instead they were grossly hypocritical.  And instead they threw around money completely disproportionate to their electoral weight.

And that's not even touching the problem of comparing a few broken windows and a bit of graffiti to people being violently attacked, lynched, and violated in grossly inhumane ways.  Nor the fact that the Mormon church doesn't have an especially good track record when it comes to its past treatment of African Americans.

So yeah.  There was the unfortunate, to put it mildly, comparison.  And then there were the other also  ridiculous assertions the speech made.  Like the right to freedom of religion protected in the Bill of Rights somehow makes religious practice a more privileged practice than your ordinary, run-of-the-mill practice; that somehow when something is said as part of religious speech it deserves more latitude and protection than something said based on some other system of belief.  Because, you know, if you're an atheist and you believe something strongly and say it, clearly you don't deserve as much protection as if you're a Christian espousing something you believe strongly.  I call bullshit.  And I'm not even a constitutional law scholar.  Any ordinary citizen can see the problem in that line of reasoning.

There's so much more that could be said about that particular gem of a talk.  It positions Mormons as martyrs and victims, which is utter bunk.  It argues that atheists are aggressively seeking to destroy religion by demonizing their opponents (something Mormons would never do, of course; coughcough).  It's just a big piece of poop, to put it juvenilely.

And then there was his talk at conference.  Another gem.  One in which he advises parents of "wayward children" to condition how they manifest their love for their children.  Not to have conditional love, mind you; just to have conditional manifestation of love.  Which is radically different.  Because, you know--when you disagree with your parents about basic beliefs and such it's okay for them to tell you you're following Satan and just generally make you feel like you're less than them because you're being disobedient.  Never mind that it's only "disobedient" according to their own personal belief system and not your own.  Never mind that they, like you, have a limited understanding of God's will.  No, no.  Parents do know best and so, because they know what is and is not disobedient, they should carefully and thoughtfully withhold the manifestation of their (unconditional) love in order to let you know that what you're doing is just not okay.

It makes me ill.  There is no such thing as unconditional love which places conditions on its manifestations.  I'm not talking about material support, here.  I understand things like withholding material support from a child who uses that support in order to behave destructively (though I think there's an equally powerful case to be made for continuing that material support).  I'm talking about showing love.  Simple love.  Acceptance of your adult children as your equal, regardless of what choices they make for themselves.  The fact that a child believes differently from her parent does not give that parent the right or create the obligation for that parent to treat their child any differently than they would treat their other, more "obedient" children.  In my mind, that is a violation of the only commandment God has given: to love.

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.

Dream

The other night I crawled into bed, my body physically aching with the pain of a newly broken heart. It took an hour for sleep to come, but when it came I slept soundly. Until I woke with a start at 2:30 in the morning having just had the most bizarre dream.

I dreamed I was with my family. We were all there, but one of my siblings and I were most present. We had all built a contraption of some sort—a structure. It was large and shiny, made of metal—almost monumental. We sat outside it competing with one another. The competition involved taking a small bird with a long feathery tail in our hands and throwing it into the sky. It never seemed to catch anything; it just circled around and around, never going out of sight. After circling for a few minutes, the bird would return. I would raise my hand for it to land. Each time it did, it hurt me—clawing up my hand until it drew blood.

When we launched this little bird, we had to use a utensil that was part of the structure we had built. We each had our own utensil, because we each competed alone. The utensil rested inside a holder that stayed in place on the structure; the two together formed a single key unit of the structure. That utensil helped us launch our bird with as much velocity as we could so it would fly higher and higher. The utensils were at the top of the structure, so they weren’t foundational; but they were central to the structure’s integrity. The structure stood with no problem when we removed them because the holder stayed in place. When I first took hold of my utensil in the dream, it forced me to realize the actual size of the structure: even though these pieces were central, they were no larger than a knife or fork. The structure was not actually that big after all.

At some point, the structure needed repair. My sibling took the piece that had my utensil in it and moved it. It had been at the top of the structure with the others’ utensils, available for me to use. But my sibling moved it to the base where it now formed part of the foundation.

We recommenced our bird competition. It was beautiful. Fascinating. And so painful. So much tearing of flesh on the hands. But I loved my little bird. When I needed my utensil, I looked around for it. I discovered it at the bottom of the structure, flipped around and inverted. I carefully found a way to extract my utensil from its holder without threatening the collapse of the structure. I wanted to continue competing—to give my bird flight. Even though the structure remained standing, my sibling was very angry with me—for threatening the collapse of the structure; for putting my need for that vital component of our competition before the integrity of the structure as a whole. My sibling thought I should have sacrificed my need in order to not risk the integrity of this structure—a structure that ended up being smaller than it seemed. And which stood when I took my utensil out anyway. I was filled with an intense sense of loss—because I had not been permitted to continue; because my sibling’s idea of how the structure should be was deemed more important than my continued participation.


I woke up from this dream with absolute clarity of vision and mind. I remembered all the details—the flash of sunlight on the metal structure; the bird whirling in the sky, its tail flowing behind it; its claws tearing into my flesh as I raised my hand to greet it. And I knew that this dream was true. I’ve had one other dream this revelatory—also at a time of intense emotional pain. That dream seven years ago was also figurative, incredibly detailed, and directly applicable to what was happening in my life at the time. After that dream, I also woke up with a perfectly clear recollection of the dream’s details and with an absolute conviction that it communicated truth to me. I knew I should write it down, but I didn’t. I fell asleep and when I woke again some of the detail was gone. So when I woke up in the middle of the night a few days ago, remembering every detail and knowing that the dream communicated truth, I reached for my computer and recorded it. I knew immediately that it was about my relationship with my own soul and the church.

I have struggled with the church for years. I love it. It is so much of my background. It defines much of how I relate to my family and many of my friends. I love the principles of Christ’s gospel. They are beautiful and precious to me and I try to live by them as fully as I can each day. But I often find myself full of pain and anger because of the emphasis the church and its members put on what could be called church superstructure. Modesty. Hair length. Movies and TV shows. Whether one appears to be living as one should. Coffee and tea. Keeping house and ironing clothes. We spend so much energy on such insignificant things. And at the moment I am finding myself more and more disillusioned with the church’s commitment to honesty and agency. It seems to have completely abandoned Joseph Smith’s counsel to teach the members correct principles and let them govern themselves. The methods used to instruct the members on Prop. 8 in California have been painfully obvious examples of church-sanctioned thought control.

Before sleeping the other night, and before having my heart broken, I had come to the realization that my spiritual health, and the health of my relationships, depends on separating myself from these superficialities. I knew that so long as I continue to battle with the church—seeing and trying to counteract the misdirections and misinformation which I believe work directly against the gospel of Christ—, I will not enjoy peace of mind or peace of conscience. When I woke from my dream, I knew it confirmed what I had decided earlier.

I don’t anticipate completely leaving the church. I love some peculiarly Mormon interpretations of Christ’s gospel. And practicing Mormonism has led me to some intensely meaningful personal revelations about life. When I am able to engage with those truths rather than with the petty attempts at controlling mind and behavior, I am spiritually happy. So I hope to find a way to continue to engage with the church on that level. But I refuse to carry a burden of pain and anguish because I cannot conform to everyone else’s perception of what it means to be Mormon. I simply will not do it. Life is too good and sweet and beautiful to spend it watching a small part of my soul whirling in circles only to return to me and claw at my flesh, and then to be denied even that small portion.