Mommy Flowers

I'm delighted today to have a guest post from Desiree, who was gracious enough to share the talk she wrote for Mother's Day today.  Thanks, Desiree!

Hello, I am Desiree X, though if you call me Sister Y, I won't bother to correct you. I have been asked to speak about becoming a mother, since I am obviously in that process now, being 25 weeks pregnant with my first, a son. How odd that is, saying I have a son.

Being pregnant has pushed me to consider my beliefs even more deeply because I am figuring out exactly what I want to teach my children. I want my children to know their Heavenly Parents love them. I want them to know of both Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother. 

I once asked my husband what his thoughts concerning Heavenly Mother were and he gave me a typical Jeff response. He said he didn't know, he'd never really thought about Her much. She was not a subject of importance to him. And that deeply upset me because that is what my goal is, isn't it? To become a Heavenly Mother myself? I couldn't imagine my mortal children nor my spirit children ever thinking I was not important to them. But I understand where he was coming from. Heavenly Father is capable of giving us all the love and guidance we need, just as there are many single mortal parents who are capable of and do raise their children on their own. But, Heavenly Father is not a single parent.

A woman I know from an online group told a story about her daughter recently. In order to keep her overly-enthusiastic kids away from the neighbor's petunias, she has taught them that dandelions are"Mommy Flowers" - and they're allowed to pick as many as they want to bring her. After a pet goldfish died recently, this woman had a conversation with her 4 year old daughter, Lorelei about how we go to live with our Heavenly Parents when we die.

Lorelei asked, "Mom, does Heavenly Mother like dandelions?"

Her Mom said, "I'm sure she does. She created them! We wouldn't even have dandelions without Heavenly Mother."

Lorelei responded excitedly, saying "Oooooooh! I want to bring her lots of dandelions and Mommy Flowers when I'm grown up and dead and go to live with her!!!"

Then a couple of weeks ago, this family walked around outside of the temple and Lorelei saw some dandelions there. "MOM!" she yelled. "There are dandelions at the temple!! Heavenly Mother is at the temple!! Heavenly Mother is everywhere!!"

I hope to have such conversations with my son some day. I don't want him to simply know that Heavenly Mother exists, but to actively think about Her, ask questions about Her, and feel a connection to Her. I testify that both of our Heavenly Parents know us and love us uniquely. Lorelei was right, Heavenly Mother is everywhere, including the temple. I felt Her presence, her love for me, in the celestial room when I first went through the temple a little over a year ago.

I've also been thinking about Jesus Christ's example. It has always fascinated me that as important as getting married and having children is, there is no clear scriptural mention of Jesus having his own family. Instead, he was simply a person. When we talk about him, we identify him as a son and a brother, not specifically a husband or father.

In Luke, chapter 2, a woman named Anna is mentioned as one of the people who greeted the infant Jesus at his presentation in the temple. She is called a prophetess, and is described as being of "a great age". She had lived with her husband for 7 years before he died and then she was a widow for 84 years.

After her husband's death, Anna decided not to remarry or have children, but instead spent her life serving God and telling people about the Savior. Anna shows us that we all have different purposes and callings in this life and whether or not we are married or have children, we are loved and valued by God.

Following the description of Anna is the story about Jesus teaching in the temple at 12 years old. What this story is supposed to teach us is that Jesus had great knowledge, even as a child. But when I was a child, this was my favorite story about Jesus because I learned from it that it is ok to be a kid and make mistakes. Jesus didn't tell his parents where he was and when they found him, "his mother said unto him, Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us? behold, thy father and I have sought thee sorrowing.

And then Jesus did something my 8 year old self found truly amazing. He didn't apologize for making them worry but instead said, "How is it that ye sought me? wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?"

I know if I'd said something similar to my mom, I'd have received one of her infamous lectures. After all, wasn't it a mistake for him to not to tell his parents where he was? Jesus was perfect, but even he was a human child who forgot to tell his mortal parents where he was. He made a mistake, but it wasn't a sin.

And since I've been pregnant, I've come to think more about the other side of the story, which is that his parents lost him, Jesus, the saviour of all mankind. And they didn't just lose him in a shopping mall for 20 minutes.

The scriptures say that Mary and Joseph "went a day’s journey" before realizing he wasn't with them and then it took three days to find him.

Can you imagine the panic and guilt they must have felt? I plan on always keeping this story in my heart to help on the days I feel that mommy guilt everyone talks about. God didn't take Jesus away from Mary, didn't tell her she'd failed or was a horrible mother. She was simply human and made a mistake.

My second favorite story about Jesus was the one where he "overthrew the tables of the money changers" in the temple.

Of course this story teaches us that the temple is sacred and we must never turn God's house into a den of thieves. However, the reason I love this story is because Jesus shows human emotion.

I was adopted from foster care. I have 2 different types of saviors, Jesus Christ, and my adoptive mom. Had I not been adopted, I would either be dead by now or I would be a drug addict/alcoholic, and probably a prostitute. I know it is a startling thought, to think of me living such a life. But the only reason I am not is because my mom showed me a different way to live. I know some people thought she was crazy for taking me and my younger siblings in, but I am so grateful she wasn't afraid to become a mom to 3 very young children in her 50's.

My biological mother and father physically, emotionally, and sexually abused and neglected me. My mom warned me before I got pregnant that having my own children would bring up a lot of my past pain. That when I felt the love a parent has for their child, I would ask how my biological parents could have possible treated me the way they did. My birth mother did not place me for adoption because she wanted what was best for me, I was taken away from her because she abused me.

I am learning that forgiveness can be a very long process. Just when I think I've forgiven them, I find my anger or pain and disbelief bubbling up again.

I am grateful that Jesus showed us that it is ok to be angry, to be human. That it is ok to not instantly forgive people, especially when they have desecrated something sacred, such as the temple, our temples, or the sacred bond between a parent and child. We should not let the pain and anger consume us, but it is ok for forgiveness to not be instantaneous. Having human emotions is not a sin.

I'm so thankful for my knowledge of Heavenly Mother, because as wonderful and loving as Jesus and Heavenly Father are, sometimes you need a mom. I feared men as a child, so, with my past, I am a bit anxious about being the mother to a son. But at the same time, I'm excited for the opportunity to teach him to be a good person.

But even as I happily prepare for this child, I know that just the sight of me can bring up painful emotions and memories for some women, that a lot of women skip going to church on Mother's Day because it is just too hard.

I have witnessed people I love desperately wish for children and not be able to have them. It is true that they can still be aunts and uncles, teachers, and so on. These are important and wonderful roles, but I recognize that being an aunt is not quite the same as being a mother and that the ability to be a mother in the eternities, as comforting as that knowledge is, is not quite the same as holding your child's sticky little hand in yours during this beautifully messy mortal life.

My sister had a miscarriage seven years ago, she had been 12 weeks pregnant with my niece, Sam. Its been extremely difficult for her and my whole family. Sam is happy and is doing what she needs to on the other side of the veil, but I keep thinking about how excited my 6 year old niece would be about her little cousin. How Sam would put her hands on my belly and ask me how my little boy had gotten in there, did I eat him? And I'd laugh and tell her no and that she should go ask her mom.

I remember how difficult it was for me when kids who were born the year Sam would have been born started coming into nursery. But Sam's death has given me a new level of understanding of just how precious each child is.

For me, nursery is the absolute best place to learn about being Christ-like. Jesus said to love one another, and that is what little kids do. They don't care if you are married or who you are married to, or what sort of work you do, they don't particularly care what you look like or what religion you are.

They don't care what you are, they just care about who you are. Are you a kind, loving person? If you treat them with love, that is all that really matters. I look forward to learning from your children every week and thank you for the examples of parenthood I've seen through the years by observing you with your little ones.

My patriarchal blessing calls my children, "those spirits on loan from Heavenly Father." I've taken this as a reminder that our children are first and foremost our Heavenly Parent's children, our brothers and sisters.

So I would just like to end by saying that I know our Heavenly Parents know and love us each as individuals and that I am so grateful for what just these few months of pregnancy have already taught me. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Don't Believe Everything You Read in the Deseret News

Okay, by now we've all read the piece by the DesNews blogger, Andrea Whatcott, entitled "Don't Believe Everything You Read in the News."  In it, she takes most of the mainstream media to task for misinterpreting Elizabeth Smart's recent remarks at Johns Hopkins for their own political ends.  I had several problems with her post that basically boil down to this: I think it's disingenuous.

First of all, I agree with her on this point--you should definitely watch Smart's full remarks, not just read the coverage on them.  Here they are.  Really, go ahead, the video is only twelve minutes long.  Smart's main themes are:
1.  A retelling of the story of her own kidnapping, repeated rape, captivity, and rescue.
2.  An exploration of why she didn't run, and therefore why other victims of trafficking and kidnap might not run:
     a.  Because she was afraid that her captors would hurt or kill her or her family.
     b.  Because she felt that her life was worthless since she had been raped, and no one would ever want her or love her again.
3.  A charge to teach our children more about trafficking and kidnapping, and prepare them with the skills to fight back.  She didn't go into this very much, except to say that we should teach our children that they are of worth, and that it is worth it to fight back or run, because their lives are still of value.  This seems to tie directly into her previous point.

Smart spends a great deal of time on these last two points, so for Whatcott to insist "that's not what Smart focused on" is false.  In fact, Whatcott (or her editor) went back and edited (the editorial note says "updated and expanded") her own Deseret News piece so that it mostly discusses the same themes that all the other mainstream media sources discuss--Smart's feelings that she was "worthless," "dirty," "filthy" and "a chewed-up piece of gum" following her rape--feelings which stemmed not only from the horrors of her rape, but, by her own direct admission, from teachings she had absorbed from her own "very religious upbringing" that because the "most special thing" had been taken away from her, "Who would ever want me now? I'm worthless...I understand, all too well, why someone wouldn't run, because of that alone."

Whatcott claims, "Smart was raped. She felt worthless because of it. I don’t think she would have felt less worthless if her school teacher hadn’t taught that abstinence before marriage is ideal, or if her parents hadn’t taught her the sacredness of intimacy."  Not only is this false--Smart herself cites these two teachings as things that contributed to her feelings of horror and worthlessness--but it's also a straw man.  None of the articles Whatcott cites are claiming that there's anything wrong with teaching kids that waiting for marriage to have sex is ideal.  What they are objecting to--and what I think any thinking person MUST object to--is a certain way of teaching chastity and abstinence that has arisen in conservative Christian cultures--including our own--and that does great damage to people like Elizabeth Smart.  It does damage to the shockingly high number of people (women especially) who are the victims of sexual abuse, incest, and sexual assault in its various forms.  When we teach our youth about sex in a way that emphasizes purity and virginity, which, once lost, can never be regained, we do a disservice to rape victims and to those who have voluntarily had sex--we cast them as tainted, as worth less than their peers, as chewed gum that no one will re-chew.

Departing Young Women General President Elaine Dalton gave a talk at the last General Conference which, in reference to Mormon's account of his people raping, mutilating, murdering, and eating the bodies of captured Lamanite women, said, "Mormon...lamented that the women were robbed of that which was most dear and precious above all—their virtue and chastity." (Talk about taking his words out of context! (She's done it before)) When we teach our daughters that their virginity is the thing that is "most dear and precious above all," and then they lose that most precious thing--by force or by choice--is it any wonder that they feel worthless and irreparably damaged?  In Smart's words, "I mean, if you can imagine the most special thing being taken away from you, and feeling like that...was something that devalued you.  Can you imagine turning around and going back into society where you are no longer of value, where you are no longer as good as everybody else?"

So yes, the chewed gum analogy wasn't the only thing Smart said.  But she wouldn't have said it if it wasn't important, and it was a particularly vivid example of the main thrust of her remarks.  So many media outlets picked it up and ran it, not because they're trying to tear down the church or they hate chastity--but because the way we teach chastity damages people, and it is a very real problem in our community and in others.  The way we teach chastity needs to change.  It wasn't every other media outlet in the country that missed the point, it was Whatcott.

It's possible to correct this problem, but not if we bury our heads in the sand and ask everyone to "move along, nothing to see here!"  The "All is well in Zion" attitude of the Deseret News in general and Ms. Whatcott most recently, the inability to acknowledge that we have a problem, are, I believe, an impediment to the good that could be done by the changes that need to be made.

Other writers have noted some of the ways we could do a better job.  Nate Oman writes that we should decouple chastity from virginity, noting memorably that "Generally, if people keep the law of chastity their entire lives, they will naturally be virgins on their wedding nights. That, however, is not the point of chastity any more than the avoidance of coffee stains on your desk is the point of the Word of Wisdom." (I recommend his full essay here).  Kristine Haglund has noted that we could stop teaching the Young Women that verse in Moroni as if it had anything at all to do with virtue.  Matt Chandler, referring to a variant of the "chewed gum" analogy, involving a wilted rose that has been touched by everyone and therefore "lost" its purity, has beautifully declared "Jesus wants the rose!"  Sarah Hanks has a few ideas for better object lessons to use in talking about sex.  And Richard Beck has explored the Christian purity culture and offered us a new paradigm.

These are the messages we should be giving our youth.  We should teach in love, not in shame.  We should be sensitive to the feelings of victims of abuse.  We should stop teaching our girls that their value lies in their virginity--not because we believe chastity is unimportant, but because we know that our girls are more important than their hymens.

I Have No Need Of Thee

"Now concerning spiritual gifts, brethren, I would not have you ignorant...there are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit.  And there are differences of administration, but the same Lord," Paul wrote to his friends in Corinth (1 Cor. 12:1-5).  He was concerned, because word had reached him that the Corinthian saints had begun to be divided, proclaiming their talents and gifts to be superior to their neighbors'.  Some are given one gift, he wrote, and some another, but it's all the same Spirit and the same Lord.  Your neighbor may have the gift of prophecy, your friend the gift of faith, your wife the gift of healing, and you the gift of tongues, but "all these are empowered by one and the same Spirit, who apportions to each one individually as he wills" (v. 11).

These gifts are meant to bring us together, not drive us apart, just like the many functions of our different body parts unite us and help us function.  "For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free—and all were made to drink of one Spirit. For the body does not consist of one member but of many.  If the foot should say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. And if the ear should say, “Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would be the sense of hearing? If the whole body were an ear, where would be the sense of smell? But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. If all were a single member, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, yet one body. The eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you,” nor again the head to the feet, “I have no need of you.”" (v. 12-21).

There is a great polarization in our world today, in many spheres.  Politics has become so dysfunctional that bipartisanship and moderation are dirty words, and reaching across the aisle for the good of the people is seen as handing a victory to the enemy.  Religion is fragmented into conservative and liberal factions, each dismissing the other as deluded and lamenting their benighted-ness.  We have forgotten that ideological differences need not turn us into embittered foes.

It's an easy position to fall into, when we come up against those with whom we disagree, those who perceive the world differently than we do.  We see only their "not-me-ness" and hastily conclude, "I have no need of thee," not thinking that perhaps the reason for our different perceptions is that we may be the eye, and our neighbor, the ear, perceiving in fundamentally different ways, not because one of us misapprehends the nature of reality, but simply because we have different functions in the body, which "has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body."

Sometimes, perhaps most tragically, we find ourselves so alienated from others' worldview that we are sure that we do not belong to the body, whether it be the body politic or the body of Christ.  Hearing the loud chorus of hands around us excitedly reporting on their tactile sensation, it is easy to conclude that "because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body," and difficult to frame the impulses received by our retinas in a way that is comprehensible to our neighbors, difficult not to think that we will never feel what seems so natural to our neighbors.

I make these mistakes a lot.  From not-so-subtly bristling at those irritating comments Brother Agitate makes in Sunday School, to leaving church in tears, certain that I will never belong among these people who believe so differently from me, the way I perceive my faith and my God often leave me in need of Paul's reminder, "The eye cannot say to the hand, 'I have no need of thee,' nor again the head to the feet, 'I have no need of thee.'"  Because, in the end, we all are members, not just of a church, but of the body of Christ, who told His disciples to "be one, and if ye are not one ye are not mine" (Doc. & Cov. 38:27).

I believe, as I wrote earlier, that there is room for all of us in the fold of God.  There is room for--nay, need for--all of our individual God-given spiritual gifts in building the Kingdom.  It isn't easy to integrate our varying gifts and cacophonous voices into anything resembling harmony, and it's often tempting to stamp out the discordant voices, easy to convince ourselves that unity requires unanimity.  But the radical call of Christian discipleship is to achieve harmony while honoring diversity, to recognize that unity comes, not through conformity, but through charity.

Paul concludes his eloquent discourse by showing the Corinthian saints "a more excellent way" (12:31) to understand the interaction of their spiritual gifts in the body of Christ: have charity, or love, for one another.  For without love, he says, all other spiritual gifts are "nothing" (13:1-3).

"Love," Paul says, "is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends" (13:4-8).  And the other gifts and talents we cared so much about in this life?  "As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away" (13:8-10).  Though now our vision is clouded, there will come a time when we will see clearly, and will know one another fully even as we are fully known.

I hope that, when that day comes, when we "put away childish things," that we won't be left with the uncomfortable realization that we've been cutting off our nose to spite our face--or worse, because it had the audacity to be something other than an ear.  I hope that we can learn to draw circles that take others in rather than shutting them out, even when we wonder how we could possibly share the same body with members who are so different from us.  I hope we will have learned, by then, that we all belong to the body of Christ.  And if the "feeble knees" need strengthening and the "hands which hang down" need lifting up (Doc. & Cov. 81:5), we should remember that these are the knees and the hands of the body of Christ, of which we are all members.  For, in the end, when it comes to the body of our Lord, none of us can ever say, "I have no need of thee."

The Wise Took Oil In Their Vessels With Their Lamps

Jesus had just finished telling his disciples about the coming destruction of Jerusalem and the end of the world.  Looking out from the Mount of Olives, He related a few parables about watching for His return.  He began with a story of ten young women invited to a wedding, who waited for the bridegroom to pass by so that they could follow him in procession to the feast.  “Five of them,” we know, “were wise, and five were foolish.  They that were foolish took their lamps, and took no oil with them.  But the wise took oil in their vessels with their lamps” (Matthew 25:2-4).  

“While the bridegroom tarried, they all slumbered and slept.  And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him.  Then all those virgins arose, and trimmed their lamps” (v. 5-7).

Finding the oil in their lamps was exhausted, “the foolish said unto the wise, Give us of your oil, for our lamps are gone out.”  The wise virgins refused, telling them to “go ye rather to them that sell, and buy for yourselves.  And while they went to buy,” a futile mission, to be sure, for all the shops would be closed at that hour, “the bridegroom came; and they that were ready went in with him to the marriage: and the door was shut.”  The foolish virgins arrived late, and cried out, “Lord, Lord, open to us.  But he answered and said, Verily I say unto you, I know you not.” (v. 8-12).

And the foolish virgins, it must be assumed, turned away, sorrowing.  

It’s a puzzling parable.  Why couldn’t/didn’t the women share their oil with their compatriots?  Why couldn’t everyone walk in the light of the five lamps that were lit?  And why does the bridegroom so cruelly turn away the guests who arrive late?

In Church discourse, the oil represents spiritual strength gained from years of righteous living.  As Spencer W. Kimball put it, “the oil of preparedness is accumulated drop by drop in righteous living.  Fasting, family prayer...control of bodily appetites, preaching the gospel, studying the scriptures--each act of dedication and obedience is a drop added to our store.”  Sometimes we say that the oil is testimony, and that testimony cannot be shared with others.  Except, of course, that one person’s flame of testimony can light another’s lamp, that one person can lean on another when they are weak

I don’t doubt that consistent good works gives us spiritual strength that can sustain us in times of darkness, of doubt, of waiting for the Bridegroom to come.  I don’t doubt that strong testimony can act as a bulwark against temptation.  But I don’t believe that a person could ever do enough good to be ready, could ever amass enough oil of testimony to light their way through the mists of darkness that will encircle us all, at some point in life.  

It is interesting to me that the parable lists two containers for oil, two sources of power: the lamps that each of the virgins carried with them, and another set of vessels, separate from the lamps, that held an extra reserve of oil.  The parable doesn’t say that the wise virgins had more oil in their lamps than the foolish virgins.  It appears that both sets of women had lamps, both filled with oil, but that only one set had an additional vessel filled with oil that they carried with them, “their vessels with their lamps.”  They knew that they would need more oil than they could fit in their lamps. and so they sought out another source, a reservoir deeper than their own.  

The kingdom of heaven is like two groups of people.  Both were waiting for the Savior to return.  Both passed through many nights of darkness as they waited.  Both knew the importance of spiritual preparation and had spent their lives studying the scriptures, doing their home teaching, bringing casseroles to their neighbors and raising good families.  But there came a time in each person’s life, a time that comes in all of our lives, when their spiritual strength was tested.  There came a time when the darkness they passed through overcame them.  There came a time when their spiritual strength was not enough.  There came a time when they were not enough.

One group was mystified.  Hadn’t they been faithful?  Hadn’t they known all the right answers in Sunday School?  Hadn’t they served the Lord well in every calling they’d been given?  Why were they being overpowered by the darkness?  Where was the strength that had sustained them all these years?

The other group was not surprised when they awoke in darkness.  They knew that their efforts, though necessary, would never be enough for the days ahead.  They had brought another source of oil, another vessel to fill them up when they were empty.  When the cry to be ready rang out, their alarm was only momentary.  Then they arose, trimmed their lamps, and filled them with the oil from a source outside themselves.  Their vessels were a gifts from a man they knew well, a man they called a friend.  Over the years, he had often given them extra oil when their lamps had gone out.  They had dined at his table and learned at his feet.  And now they were going to the wedding banquet of his son.

The first group was in a panic.  The wise ones told them of their generous benefactor, but they were too embarrassed to go begging for oil to a man they did not know.  So instead of accepting the oil offered “without money, and without price,” they went to those that sell.  They bought self-help books.  They read advice from Oprah and listened to televangelists.  They meditated and practiced self-actualization.  They found strength in support groups and service projects and never thought to look for the man who gave real light.  And when, their lamps newly illuminated, they rushed on to the wedding feast, the response at the door was one of regret, not condemnation, “Good people, I never knew you!”  Their host lamented that they had never spent time with him, that they were never at home to answer their doors when he knocked, that there had always been a project or a cause or a diversion more worthy of their time, and so his letters and phone calls had gone unreturned.  And when they looked back, they were forced to admit he was right.  He had never known them, though he had tried.  And they had never known Him, not really.  They had no relationship with the Master that they could draw on in times of hardship, when their strength was gone.  They had never taken his proffered gift of oil.  They had thought the dim light that sputtered from their tiny lamps would be all they would ever need, but now they stood in the presence of greater light than they had imagined.  The lamps that filled this room burned with a bright, steady flame, while their little lamps sputtered and smoked, filled with old cooking oil and wicked with scraggly straw.  

And the wise men and women danced and sang, congratulated the newlyweds, and thanked their host for his generosity, in a room filled with light.  They remembered that Isaiah had promised, “Who is among you that feareth the LORD, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness and hath no light?  Let him trust in the name of the LORD, and stay upon his God” (Isaiah 50:10).

And the foolish left, hanging their heads in shame, the words of the prophet Isaiah ringing in their ears, “Behold all ye that kindle a fire, that compass yourselves about with sparks, walk in the light of your fire and in the sparks that ye have kindled.  This ye shall have of my hand: ye shall lie down in sorrow (v. 11).

Behold, Their Husbands Love Their Wives

I think it’s interesting to look at Book of Mormon narrators as real people, as characters in their own stories with their own personalities, styles, and reasons for writing what they did.  Sometimes we make the mistake of assuming they are omniscient and unbiased historians, and we forget that there’s a story behind the story they’re telling—there are details they’re leaving out, there are perspectives of which they are not aware.  Far from discrediting their writings, this approach takes the authors seriously, as it assumes, first and foremost, that they are real people.  Omniscient, unbiased narrators belong in the realm of fiction, and the Book of Mormon is anything but.  Book of Mormon authors, just like normal people, have their own biases and experiences that color the way they write.

For instance, whenever a Sunday School class gets to the war chapters of the Book of Mormon, we’ll often have a discussion about why so many war chapters are included.  Common answers include the idea that we’re engaged in latter-day warfare, or that we should expect physical and/or spiritual war before the Second Coming, etc.  Often overlooked is the simpler answer: there are a lot of accounts of war in the Book of Mormon because Mormon, who was abridging and editing the history, was a soldier and a general—Mormon knew war really well.  He had seen war all his days, and so when he went back to the historical record, he found the accounts of battles particularly gripping.  We see the way he treats the account of Captain Moroni, almost falling all over himself to lionize him, excuse his actions, and hold him up as a standard for others to follow.  He even named his son after the man.  As you read, you can almost see Mormon, with the wreckage of his wicked, embattled people all around him, with the death toll mounting daily, daydreaming in the library as he pores over the records of an earlier time—the last time when his people, the Nephites, were righteous and victorious in battle.  As he envisions what life could have been like if there had been a few more men like this Captain Moroni he’s read so much about, he writes, “if all men had been, and were, and ever would be, like unto Moroni, behold, the very powers of hell would have been shaken forever; yea, the devil would never have power over the hearts of the children of men” (Alma 48:17). 

Every story has context.  Sometimes we have to read between the lines to see it.  I’ve been working on that this year, and I’ve been amazed at how my perspective of the Book of Mormon stories has changed.

Nephi is another interesting character to look at.  We hold him up in children’s songs as a paragon of virtue, the ultimate Mr. “I-will-go-I-will-do.”  But I’ve often thought he came off a little rude to his brothers, and had some sympathy for them—after all, he was always running around quoting scripture at them, telling them off for their unfaithfulness, and haughtily interpreting prophecy.  If I had a snot-nosed little brother doing that all the time, I’d probably want to tie him to the mast, too.  I’m not saying he wasn’t in the right—just that maybe he could have used a few more people skills.

While his family is in the wilderness, the family patriarch (and Nephi’s father-in-law)  dies, and Nephi records his death and his daughters' words of sorrow: "And it came to pass that the daughters of Ishmael did mourn exceedingly, because of the loss of their father, and because of their afflictions in the wilderness; and they did murmur against my father, because he had brought them out of the land of Jerusalem, saying: Our father is dead; yea, and we have wandered much in the wilderness, and we have suffered much affliction, hunger, thirst, and fatigue; and after all these sufferings we must perish in the wilderness with hunger" (1 Nephi 16:35).

It's interesting to me that Nephi frames this encounter quite negatively.  The girls have been uprooted from their home, lost their father, and they list their afflictions, but Nephi dismisses their concerns as "murmuring against" Lehi.  He sees the women's trials so much differently: "And it came to pass that we did again take our journey in the wilderness; and we did travel nearly eastward from that time forth. And we did travel and wade through much affliction in the wilderness; and our women did bear children in the wilderness. And so great were the blessings of the Lord upon us, that while we did live upon raw meat in the wilderness, our women did give plenty of suck for their children, and were strong, yea, even like unto the men; and they began to bear their journeyings without murmurings" (1 Ne. 17:1-2). 

Nephi's brothers, who we label wicked and contentious, saw their wives' suffering differently, "we have wandered in the wilderness for these many years,” they said, “and our women have toiled, being big with child; and they have borne children in the wilderness and suffered all things, save it were death; and it would have been better that they had died before they came out of Jerusalem than to have suffered these afflictions." (1 Ne 17:20).  It occurs to me that perhaps Nephi was the one in the wrong here: perhaps he was guilty of a lack of empathy.  Perhaps his over-zealousness to inherit the promised land led him to ignore the very real suffering of his wife and his sisters-in-law, who bore children in the wilderness without the benefits of ultrasounds and infant formula. Maybe it appeared to Nephi that the women “began to bear their journeyings without murmurings” because they got tired of talking to someone who refused to listen and reprimanded them for their unfaithfulness when their backs got tired of carrying their children across the desert.

I find it interesting that Nephi records three responses to the same women's suffering: his own, his brothers', and their wives'.  And yet it doesn't occur to him that one of these things is not like the others.  Many years later, Nephi's brother Jacob chastised his people for their callous behavior toward their wives, and commended the Lamanite men for the care and love they showed theirs, "Behold, the Lamanites your brethren, whom ye hate because of their filthiness and the cursing which hath come upon their skins, are more righteous than you; for they have not forgotten the commandment of the Lord, which was given unto our father—that they should have save it were one wife, and concubines they should have none…Behold, their husbands love their wives, and their wives love their husbands; and their husbands and their wives love their children; and their unbelief and their hatred towards you is because of the iniquity of their fathers; wherefore, how much better are you than they, in the sight of your great Creator?" (Jacob 3:5-7)

I wonder if it's too much of a stretch to say that the dynamic manifested there was already emerging as the family was crossing the desert.  I'm not saying, of course, that Nephi was guilty of concubinage--or that Laman and Lemuel were great guys I'd want to go on a road-trip with.  Just that perhaps they were better than Nephi in this, at least--they listened to their wives.  They took their concerns seriously.  They defended their wives and stood up for their needs. And it hurt them to see their wives go through so much pain.

I've been amazed since I got married at how loving and good Chandler is to me.  It has been hard for me to adjust to all the changes that have taken place in the past few months, and a few weeks ago all the stress and pressure boiled over again and I was crying and heartsick.  But when I looked in Chandler's eyes and saw how heartbroken he was to see me so sad, how willing he was to do anything at all to make me happy, I was filled with so much love for him, so much gratitude that I'd been given this good man who truly loved me, more fully and deeply than I knew or deserved.  He's the kind of man who would stick up for me when I was most vulnerable, who would say, "Screw you, Nephi, we're not leaving this campsite until my wife recovers, and I don't care how good you think raw meat is for nursing women or how much you think we'll be blessed for getting back on the camels *this instant*!"  (Actually, he's far more diplomatic than that, so he'd probably find a nice way to say that, but still, he's got my back.)  And then he would come stroke my hair and rub my feet and hold me as I sobbed incoherently, and most importantly, he'd listen to me and validate my concerns and mingle his tears with mine and help me know that really, everything would be okay.  I know it sounds like some odd combination of cheesiness and blasphemy to thank God for a husband who complains like Nephi and loves like Laman and Lemuel, but, well, there it is.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love the Book of Mormon.  It’s an endless source of fascination to me—especially when I look for the story behind the words on the page.

On Simon and Matthew and Jesus...and Pants

During Jesus’ ministry, He attracted an interesting crowd. He claimed Pharisees and Saducees, harlots and peasants and merchants and centurions and tax collectors as His disciples. Even among His apostles there were men on opposite ends of the political spectrum. One was a man named Simon, called Zelotes. His moniker tells us that he was a Zealot, a rebel against Roman rule. The Zealots led the revolt against the Romans in 66-73 AD that culminated in the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple and the capturing of the Jewish fortress at Masada. Another of Jesus’ apostles, Matthew, was a publican, a man reviled by his fellow Jews because he was employed by the Romans to collect the taxes they levied. The cooperation of men like Matthew made Roman rule both possible and onerous. I have often thought that there must have been some interesting—and heated—discussions around the campfire when the Apostles traveled with Jesus. 

But His tent was big enough for both of them. His message of redemption and atoning love was for both of them. His fire gave enough light and warmth for both of them.

And for all of us.

And when they argued, He condemned their contention. And when they disputed who was the greatest, He put a little child in their midst, and told them to serve each other, to wash each other’s feet, to bear each other’s burdens, to love one another the way He had loved them.

By this, all men would know that they were His disciples. By their love, not their manner of dress. By their humility, not their declarations of righteousness. And the sign of discipleship hasn’t changed.

I have been overwhelmed, this past week, by the reactions from other Mormons—from people I call my friends—regarding a proposal that this Sunday, in support of greater gender equality in the LDS church, women should wear dress slacks and pantsuits to church. I saw people question their neighbor’s testimonies and understanding of the gospel, their integrity and loyalty to God. I saw people dismiss out of hand the legitimate concerns and very real pain that their neighbors felt. I saw accusations of apostasy and directives to leave the church. I saw death threats.

I am not accustomed to such vile words hurled by my own people against those whose burdens they’ve covenanted to bear. 

I am taken aback to see people who claim to follow a Savior who rejected out of hand the arbitrary standards of the religious leaders of his day, who cling so strongly to modern-day cultural values, who seem so threatened by any deviation from a dress code that had its heyday in the 1950s that they’re willing to denigrate the character of their brothers and sisters in Christ.

I am saddened by the smug displays of self-righteousness I see from my friends. I don’t mean that condescendingly—it honestly makes me sad. Sad, and worried, and perplexed. I admit I have a hard time understanding what could motivate someone to so flippantly cast aspersions on the characters of others, to claim that their manner of dress or their lack of feminist pain makes them morally superior, more righteous or possessing greater gospel understanding--to declare, essentially, “God, I thank thee that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican” (Luke 18:11). 

Or even as this feminist.

I admit I share some of the event organizers’ concerns over gender equality in the church. And still, I love the church. I love its doctrines. I love its prophets. I love its people. I believe this is where God wants me to be. But the pain it causes me is very real. It isn’t because I haven’t prayed as much as you have. It isn’t because I don’t understand the gospel as well as you do. And it definitely isn’t because I want to tear down the church and dance on its smoldering ashes.

Maybe you don’t feel as I do. Maybe it doesn’t bother you that women don’t pray in General Conference, that widows can’t marry their second husbands in the temple, that CES fires its married female teachers when they give birth. Maybe you think this is small potatoes. Maybe you believe that God has divinely ordained the gender roles we see today, and you are perfectly satisfied with that. Maybe you’ve never gone to the temple and felt the sharp stab of pain that seems to pierce your heart as the words you speak go against the deepest yearnings of your soul. Maybe you’ve never gone to God sobbing over the deep inequity you feel in the church you still believe is His.

The bottom line: I suspect there are many of you who are not like me. And there is room enough for all of us in the fold of God. There was room for Simon and Matthew. There is room for you and me.

Friends, I will be wearing a navy pantsuit to church on Sunday. It is the nicest, most professional thing I own, and I believe it is respectful of the house of God and the ordinances of the gospel. I will be wearing it because I long for the day when the talents of God’s daughters will not be constrained by their gender. But mostly I will be wearing it because I long for the day when we will all embrace one another as children of God, as brothers and sisters in Christ, charged with bringing forth His kingdom and building Zion. Because I long for the day when we will cease judging one another by our outward appearance or life circumstance, when we will more fully fulfill our duty to bear one another’s burdens, to lift up the hands that hang down and strengthen the feeble knees. And because the level of reaction to this event has convinced me, more than ever, that the church I love needs less judgment and more acceptance, less social pressure to conform and more ministering to the one.

I hope that you’ll love me anyway. I hope that you’ll listen to me, anyway. I hope that you’ll seek to understand me and all those you’re called to love, to bear their burdens instead of invalidating their pain. I hope you’ll sit by the marginalized, and break bread with the different, drawing circles that bring people in rather than shutting them out. 

I hope you’ll let me love you, in my own very imperfect way, whether you’re like me or not. Whether you’re single or married or widowed or divorced, Republican or Democrat, gay or straight, feminist or patriarch, I hope you’ll join with me in sacred community. There is room enough for you in the fold of God, and room enough for me, too. If you’ll share your burdens with me, I’ll help you carry them. You and I have a place in the church that bears the name of the God we worship, the God who called all to come unto Him, black and white, bond and free, male and female, the God who declared that He is no respecter of persons—and is certainly no respecter of clothes.

Written Upon Fleshy Tables

I was asked to give a talk (sermon/homily) in church today on keeping the commandments and how it leads to a greater closeness with God. Here is the talk I gave:

Good afternoon, brothers and sisters.

I’d like to take as my text today a verse from the gospel of John.  Jesus, responding to a disciple’s question, said simply, “If a man love me, he will keep my words; and my Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him” (John 14:23).  

It’s a beautiful doctrine and an amazing promise.  I wish to speak today on the nature--and promise--of Christian discipleship.  

Jesus spoke these words to a people accustomed to keeping the commandments.  The Jews of His day were known for their exactness in keeping, not just the ten commandments, but over 600 commandments contained in the Torah.  But Jesus pled with those He taught to do something more, to see something deeper.  He wanted them to understand that, when we keep the commandments, we should do so out of love, not duty or fear: “if a man love me, he will keep my words”--the love is the motivation for the obedience.  He wanted them to know that by keeping the commandments out of love, they would invite into their lives a power beyond their imagining.  He wanted them to know that loving discipleship brings us into sacred communion with God, and makes us more like our Heavenly Parents.  Keeping commandments was something his people could do with distinction--but Jesus’ “new commandment”s weren’t commandments in the traditional sense--Christ didn’t give His followers something new to DO, He gave them something greater to BECOME.  “Blessed are the merciful,” He said, “blessed are the peacemakers.”  And then, tucked in among the beatitudes, the definition of Christian discipleship: “blessed are those who do hunger and thirst after righteousness.”  (See Matthew 5:3-10)

Do we do that, brothers and sisters?  Do we hunger and thirst after righteousness?  Notice that he didn’t say, “blessed are those who have 100% home teaching this year,” or “blessed are those who attend the temple every month,” although I’m sure he smiles on both those activities.  He asks us to feel the desire for righteousness as deeply and as strongly and as viscerally as we feel hunger and thirst.  And remember that He was talking to Judean peasants--those who were not as well-fed as we are, in a time when starvation was the kind of problem that obesity is today. These were people who often went to bed hungry.  And Jesus asked them to become the kind of people who felt the desire for righteousness, for communion with God, in the same way they felt the pangs of hunger--and to seek righteousness, to seek God, in the same way a hungry man seeks food.  

The prophet Enos, before his “wrestle” with God, said that his “soul hungered,” which caused him to kneel down before God and “[cry] unto Him in mighty prayer and supplication.”  Then he records the voice of the Lord which came unto him, filling him with the only thing that can satisfy that kind of hunger--the peace and light that come only through the Atonement of Christ.  His hunger filled, he sought the welfare of his people, and even of his enemies, as Jesus would later command, “bless them that curse you, and pray for those who despitefully use you and persecute you.” (See Enos 1, Matt 5:44)

The Lord modeled prayer for His disciples, and for us: His most famous prayer begins: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.” It’s called the Lord’s Prayer, and it’s one we’re all familiar with.  It’s a beautiful prayer, both simple and profound.  It is, I believe, a pledge of discipleship--a plea for the Lord to forgive us, a promise to forgive those who hurt us, a declaration that we will allow God to lead us away from the temptations that trouble us and that we will give all the glory to Him.  (See Matt 6:9-15)

The Lord’s Prayer is instructive on many levels, but the most beautiful part, I think, is in the first line.  Whereas the traditional Jewish prayers of His day began with “Baruch ata Adonai Elohaynu Melech Ha’Olam,” “Blessed art thou, Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe,” Christ addressed God very intimately, calling Him “Father.”  And He went a step further--Jesus could have addressed God as “MY Father,” or simply “Father,” as He had in every other recorded prayer He had offered.  But instead, in a beautiful illustration of His mercy and love, He brought His disciples into His circle, and together with them prayed to God, calling Him simply, “Our Father.”

This simple act is, to me, one of the greatest demonstrations of the condescension of God.  That the great Jehovah, creator of worlds without number, would come live among us, born as a helpless infant to the peasant daughter of a captive people, to experience with us the trials and pains and sicknesses of mortality is miraculous.  But that He, the only perfect, sinless soul, would look at the world, and the mess we’ve made of it, the sheer awfulness of the way we’ve hurt ourselves, each other, and this world, and still join with us and say, “Our Father,” that He would allow us, through His perfect Atonement, to address the Almighty God in the same familiar tone, that He would extend to us what Paul calls “the spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father,” that He would allow us to “come boldly unto the throne of grace and obtain help in our time of need,” this love, this generosity, is astounding. (See Romans 8:15, Hebrews 4:16)

And, I believe, it has everything to do with discipleship.  I believe that, most fundamentally, discipleship means joining with Christ in calling God, “Our Father.”  Not just my father, or your father, or His father, but “our father,” with everything that entails.  Discipleship means consenting to our adoption into the Family of God, mediated by Christ.  It means leaving neutral ground and becoming “no more strangers and foreigners, but fellow-citizens with the saints and of the household of God,” and heeding the call of the spirit that “bears witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God.  If children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint-heirs with Christ.” (See Ephesians 2:19, Romans 8:17)

Discipleship means we do what Christ has asked because we desire to be like Him.  It means that we worship God as Our Father, that we become brothers and sisters, and treat each other that way.  As we, together, strive to become like the Master we worship, we come to understand and keep what Jesus called His “new commandment,” “love one another as I have loved you...by this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”  Discipleship is about love--love for God, love for the Savior, love for God’s children--love for each other. (See John 13:34-35)

Discipleship is about obeying the commandments, not simply because they are commandments, but because we love the one who gave them.  We keep the commandments because they are written, not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God, not in tables of stone, but in [the] fleshy tables of the heart. (See 2 Corinthians 3:3)

Brothers and sisters, I am far from the disciple of Christ that the Lord wants me to be.  I still have much to learn and there is still much that needs to be be written on the fleshy tables of my heart.  But I know and bear witness that the Lord is patient and full of grace and mercy, mighty to save, arising with healing in His wings, and that as I have sought him dilligently, He has begun to take from me my stony heart, and give me a new heart, a heart of flesh, and make me more worthy to be called His disciple.  And I, with Moroni “would commend you to seek this Jesus...that the grace of God...may be and abide in you forever.”  (See Ether 12:41) His arms are outstretched, He still calls disciples, and when we heed that call and follow Him out of love, the Father and the Son will come unto us and abide with us forever.  I so testify in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

“Oh dearly, dearly has He loved

And we must love Him, too

And trust in His redeeming blood

And try His works to do.”

--There Is A Green Hill Far Away