Exponent II's Blog, page 22

Guest Post: Where’s the Hope of Easter?

by Rachel

Recently, I volunteered myself into a Primary teaching calling with my husband. Over the last few weeks, the kids have been working hard during singing time to learn a beautiful song, “Risen,” by Shawna Edwards, to perform in sacrament meeting on Easter. As we’ve been learning the different verses, it’s been amusing to see how reluctant the kids are to stop singing before the chorus. Even after the chorister cuts them off, they’ll often keep singing right into the chorus. They love the chorus. I love it too.

Risen, to set the captives free

Risen, to ransom you and me

to bind up every broken heart

to conquer death and sin

Risen, to bring us home again.

These children’s voices create a beautiful picture of the hope that Jesus Christ brings us.

But it’s become hard for me to hear. I can’t separate the song from the images I see in the news. The idea of captives isn’t just a mental image or an object lesson. Every day we can see pictures of people in shackles being led onto an airplane, perhaps to be dropped off in a country they’ve never lived in, or perhaps to be thrown without a trial into a prison known for human rights violations with little hope of ever being found again.

Every day we can see broken hearts as families at home and abroad are torn apart, loved ones captured or killed, or even as we fight bitterly with our neighbors on Facebook about whether or not to build a town hall in a peaceful, affluent suburb. We see a longing for a home as refugee admissions are halted or current refugee status is revoked or immigrant visas cancelled without explanation.

We see our retirement accounts dwindling, children dying of preventable disease, hard workers losing their jobs, women living in fear of losing their right to decide what happens to their bodies, and mistrust, fear, anger, and outrage all being carefully cultivated by social media algorithms to turn our attention into money. We don’t need to sing about “spiritual“ death or captivity–we have actual death and captivity on our hands, and there is no deliverance in sight.

As I live in anxiety about what’s to come in my son’s lifetime, I’m greeted at church largely by platitudes. I watched hours of a global General Conference with little to no mention of the large and immediate problems so many of our brothers and sisters are facing. I sit in church and listen to my fellow members talk about Jesus Christ and I can’t help but wonder, are you okay with what’s happening now? Singing songs of redeeming love means very little if those songs aren’t also sung with the heart to change our world. Being safe on the covenant path isn’t reassuring while our fellow citizens and elected leaders are marching everyone down a path of misery and destruction.

It’s beautiful and fortifying to hear fresh, bright, intelligent children singing about hope. But it also makes me sad to realize exactly how much we’ve put on Christ’s shoulders. It feels as though many of us, however good, hardworking, and well intentioned, have completely given up the project to build the kingdom of heaven on the earth, instead content to kick the can down on the road on the assurance that Christ’s Atonement will make it all right in the world to come. What about the life we have now? Christ’s grace will indeed save us all, but do we deserve any part of it when we’ve abdicated our responsibility to love our neighbors here and now in the life we’re currently living? Isn’t our time in this world supposed to be for something, after all?

On Easter, I’ll be thinking about the miracle of Jesus Christ’s resurrection. I’ll feel hope and pride and comfort as I watch my Primary children sing a beautiful song. But I’ll also be feeling a despair that comes from the vast difference between the words and our reality. I know Jesus Christ will save us in the end. But I also know that we’re capable of doing so much more to save ourselves.

Rachel is a full-time mom and sometimes writer living Utah Valley. She graduated in humanities from Brigham Young University.

Do You Ever Stick Up for Me?

Tears of relief, frustration, hurt, anger, and comrade flowed as I listened to author Lindy West utter the vulnerable, powerful words, “Do you ever stick up for me?” in her essay, “Gear Swap.” They came unexpectedly and continued, warm and cathartic, as West described meeting with two male friends for their podcast in 2017. They sincerely wanted her advice on how to be better male allies post #MeToo. She considered using the academic jargon that often enters this type of discourse to explain how they could use their privilege to help dismantle systems of injustice and oppression. Unexpectedly, West found herself turning to the personal instead, vulnerably asking her friends,

“Do you ever stick up for me?”

As I type this and reflect back on the essay, I’m tearing up again. They’re not especially profound words, but they encapsulate so much of how I feel about feminist advocacy and male allies. We’re so often asked, “What can I do?” “How can I help?” “What is my job here?”

And it’s exhausting because, as West so wisely puts it,

“Sexism is a male invention. White supremacy is a white invention. Transphobia is a cisgender invention. So far, men have treated #MeToo like a bumbling dad in a detergent commercial: well-intentioned, but floundering, as though they are not the experts. You are the experts.”

More often than not, I believe men do know what to do. But they are not sure it’s worth the sacrifice. Being a feminist killjoy sucks. Not getting that it’s “just a joke” over and over isn’t fun. Refusing to let the little things go because all of the little things create the culture that allows the big things is a tiresome burden. It won’t win you friends, make you the life of the party, or secure your place in the patriarchal order. In fact, I promise it will threaten it.

I’m asking if you do it anyway.

“Gear Swap” is just one of West’s inspiring, gut-wrenching, and thought-provoking essays in her collection The Witches are Coming. It’s worth reading (or listening to) in its entirety as West uses her sharp wit. pointed critiques, and fearless writing to venture into these hard conversations in a way that is both refreshing and motivating. She isn’t afraid to lay out the real consequences of speaking up, from eye rolls, to losing friends, to becoming a feminist killjoy, to social ostracism, to bullying, to physical violence. She also doesn’t shy away from pointing out that,

“Coolness is a fierce disciplinarian. A result is that, for the most part, the only people weathering the consequences are the ones who don’t have the luxury of being quiet.”

And we’re exhausted, disheartened, afraid, angry, and it often feels as though our efforts don’t make an impact. But we don’t have the luxury of turning away, shutting it out, or pretending it doesn’t exist. The experts often do.

Many cis, white, LDS men do. And many of them are “good guys” who say they aren’t cool with sexism, who want things to be better for women, and who generally try their best not to be sexist.

But I guess what I’d ask many of them is this: Do you stick up for me?

And not just when it’s convenient or benefits you. I mean when it puts your reputation, relationships, authority, influence, even your perceived masculinity, at risk. When your spot in the exclusive club is threatened and you are not even sure if you’ll see the fruit of your labors in this lifetime.

Do you stick up for me in priesthood meetings when the women aren’t present, so men feel more comfortable relaxing and saying things they wouldn’t around women, criticize women, make generalizations or sexist comments about women, or exclude women from important decisions?

Do you stick up for me in groups where men share tired jokes about righteous missionaries earning pretty wives, women earning MRS degrees, and how women should be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?

Do you stick up for me when there are clear budgetary discrepancies for programs for men/women or boys/girls, even when some of the funds come out of the Bishop’s pocket because he is in the Young Men’s presidency?

Do you stick up for me when you go to the temple and persistently ask God for answers to questions that tear at my soul, like “Why don’t women have the priesthood?”

Do you stick up for me when people imply that I’m inactive because I want to sin or I’m lost and not because I have deep convictions and follow my conscience, despite painful, difficult consequences?

Do you stick up for me by calling out sexism and microagressions, even though it annoys people and earns you a bad reputation, and maybe even costs you opportunities?

Do you stick up for me by pushing against outdated lessons on modesty and chastity that shame women, sexualize girls, and teach boys and men to blame women for their immodest thoughts and actions?

Do you stick up for me, even when some women say they are happy with the status quo?

Do you stick up for me by advocating for the small, meaningful changes women have consistently shared over many years and that they say will have an important impact on LDS culture, perceptions of LDS women, and women’s experiences in the LDS Church?

Do you stick up for me with God by actively praying alongside me for answers about gender disparity until God can no longer doubt that we are ready for more revelation?

Do you do this even though you’re exhausted, disheartened, afraid, angry, and it often feels as though your efforts don’t make an impact?

Because this is what you can do.

Women are not keeping what they need to live in a better, safer, more respectful world (and church) a secret. But very little ever substantially changes. And it won’t change until men are willing to risk – really risk – to make the world better. Until men believe that the “good enough” in “good, better, best” is only good enough for (some) men. And that is never enough.

LDS apostle Dale Renlund even addressed gender disparity in the LDS Church at a women’s conference in Arcadia, California in March 2025, where he basically said, “We know there’s gender disparity. We don’t know why. Sorry it stinks. Don’t speculate. We will try to treat womenfolk better. Continue as before.”

(My synopsis is less than generous. You may want to read the original Salt Lake Tribune article directly.)

I read Renlund’s words with a great deal of eye rolling. Some will say – “Listen! They’re acknowledging gender disparity! They hear us!” My response: “So? What is he doing about it?”

Getting credit for doing the most basic, humane job of listening to and acknowledging the existence and needs of half of the population is not radical. And I’m tired of being told to celebrate every time the LDS patriarchy throws me a crumb.

I’ll celebrate when a prophet or apostle stands up and tells me that gender disparity keeps him up at night; that he is on his knees at every temple session begging God to relieve the LDS Church of the blight of sexist policies; that holding Priesthood keys without women fully holding them too in this life chips at his soul; that he risks reputation, relationships, authority, and influence every time he sticks up for women.

That he speaks up anyway.

Hope Springs Eternal—And So Does Disappointment

Guest post by Judy Dushku

It is April 11 as I write, and our ward Relief Society is about to celebrate the founding of the organization with a luncheon and a rerun of the Relief Society worldwide broadcast that went out last month. It’s curious to me that someone thinks this address, which has already been circulated, critiqued, and responded to all over the Church—and the internet—will still hold genuine interest or appeal for sisters now. Presumably, we’re not the only ward getting a late turn, and others may see it even later.

But my negative feelings about the broadcast aren’t just about the timing. I feel disappointed, yet again, by the content of the messages it contains. And honestly, I feel disappointed in myself for even hoping there might have been something new and inspiring this year. With all the talk in and out of the Church about empowering women—while statistics show women are continuing to leave the Church because they feel ignored—I let myself hope. I’m an example of someone for whom hope springs eternal that something might be different for women in the LDS Church, when it is not.

I read April Young-Bennett’s fine essay about this broadcast here on the Exponent II blog, and I appreciate her work so much. She writes honestly about the hypocrisy in Sister Camille Johnson’s use of the theme of our “common legacy” in the Nauvoo Relief Society. That founding story is complicated and troubling. For years, we’ve known how women tried to organize their own female association—only to have it taken out of their hands and reshaped under Joseph Smith’s direction. The phrase “I turn the key to you” was, for decades, replaced in official discourse with “I turn the key in your behalf.” Only recently has it been restored to its original form, now that many early documents are widely available. But restored or not, the interpretation remains the same: a determined effort to avoid any suggestion that the priesthood keys might be transferred to women.

I would think that such an embattled foundational story would be too hot to handle for a worldwide devotional and might have been better left alone in such a public forum.

And then there’s Sister Johnson’s suggestion that the establishment of the Relief Society restored an order of women’s organization that existed in Christ’s church during His ministry. That’s quite a statement. As one commenter named Mary pointed out, Church leaders have never used early Christian women as role models for Latter-day Saint women—at least not in General Conference talks or official doctrine. Everything I’ve learned about women in the early church has come from other religious traditions. In fact, I’ve often heard LDS leaders treat those kinds of questions with disdain or even derision. So if Sister Johnson is announcing new doctrine here, I salute her and would celebrate her, but if something this significant was being suggested, you’d think it would have been picked up in general conference by someone with more authority in the hierarchy and elaborated upon.

I’ve seen this pattern before. Over my lifetime, Church leaders have used so many different rationales to justify why the patriarchy remains firmly in place. In the 1950s, we were told women were too spiritual and sweet to lead and needed to be protected. Then we were told that motherhood and leadership couldn’t coexist. Then, that if women had real power, they’d be so good that men would disappear from the Church altogether. Later, it was all about covenant keeping. And now, we’re told God wants us to be powerful in a new pattern of women’s power—one no one has ever heard of until now. It feels like another desperate effort to justify continued male dominance.

I have to ask: what are they afraid of? Why work so hard, year after year, to keep things like they are?

I actually have some affection for “our” women leaders. I suspect each one of them, when they were called, thought they might be the one—the one who could bring more respect and useful authority to women in the Church. Maybe they think they have, or still can. But I’m afraid, for all their time and energy and sincere, prayerful effort, the men at the top are so determined to hold on to power that they will not budge an inch.

At 83, I’ve spent a lifetime in this Church. I’ve worked to support change in ways that honor and inspire women. I’ve done that through Exponent II, and one-on-one, and in my family and community. I count hundreds of Latter-day Saint women among my dearest friends. But I’ve seen too much to sincerely expect institutional change. And if the Second Coming comes before this century ends, I think the Church will have blown its chance to change for the better for women and girls.

It’s the same doctrine, dressed in a new fashion, and it is as unappealing to most of us today as it was 100 years ago and more. I have to ignore it and take comfort instead in the rational and uplifting testimonies of women in the Church who know this old way is not Jesus Christ’s way. We keep our faith alive by communicating with each other outside the official channels.

Judy Dushku is a founding mother of Exponent II, a retired professor of comparative politics, and the author of the inspiring historical fiction novel, Is This The Way Home?

I Used To Work The Streets

Part one.

We got a call on the radio- “26 Alpha”, accompanied by the street address of the shelter holding the sick man who was in his 50’s. I put the ambulance in gear and we took off toward the location.

Alpha is the least severe, then there is Bravo, Charley, Delta, and Echo. Echo means they are dead.  These are just a few of the terms used by EMS over the radio.

“Never underestimate an Alpha,” I would say. They never were what you expected…or they were exactly what you expected…you just didn’t know when it would turn on you and be much worse than you thought.

We arrived at one of the men’s shelters in Salt Lake City. Cold, dark, slushy, we pulled the stretcher out of the back of the ambulance. Navigated ourselves to a dip in the curb, and swerved around the sleeping bodies on the ground outside because there was no more room inside the shelter.

(Image-for I Used to Work The Streets)

The gate opened and we were guided to the heavy metal doors. They opened and the smell hit. Sweaty bodies, whose clothes were drenched then dried in the smell of urine and bile. Trying to hold the heavy door open as we pulled the stretcher in, the front wheel hit a foot.

“Sorry!” I whisper.

The lights were low and the massive cement room about the size of a Mormon church house gym, had men lying side by side filling the entirety of the floor space.

“Where is he?” We asked the young 20 year old watching over the sleeping men. We were directed to a man lying on the floor. I stepped over other bodies to get to him to check his vitals. 

Fever, profuse sweating, vomit and diarrhea covered his clothes. “Are you able to stand and walk to my stretcher?” I asked. I help lift the 6 foot something man with my 5’4” self and similar sized partner next to me. We all wobble as we navigate the other men’s bodies and make our way back to the entrance and the stretcher. 

Once in the ambulance, I grab sheets and blankets, adjust the heat and grab a blue emesis bag…in case he vomits during transport. Tattoos cover my patient’s neck leading up to his face which had several tiny teardrops tatted next to his eyes. “Doesn’t this mean this man has killed someone?” I think to myself.

“Do you want me to be in the back?” My partner asked. “Um, yeah I’ll take you up on that.” I then drove and my male partner was alone with our patient in the back.

My partner busied himself making the man comfortable and watched his condition to make sure it did not get worse. But he was sick and moaning and we couldn’t get to the University ER fast enough for him.

Once at the ER, I opened the back doors. Feces spilled out of the pant legs of our patient onto the stretcher, onto the ambulance floor and ran out the door. The ER staff welcomed us outside (not common in most ER ambulance exchanges, but based on the details we gave them over the phone, they know better than to let us inside right away.)

There was an outer shower room that the University ER EMT took our patient into. They started to spray hot water over him and his clothes as they gently stripped him down to give him a thorough cleaning. I grabbed an outside hose that sprayed hot water onto our stretcher and inside the back of the ambulance. We then bleached, wiped, sprayed everything off, and kept the ambulance doors open to air the space out for a bit.

*ERs in Salt Lake City take in a large amount of the unhoused (I am sure ERs all over the U.S. do as well). They will clean the clothes, wash the bodies, and feed the mouths of people in this community. Nurses, Police, Fire, and other EMS personnel are the defacto “parents” of these adults with needs they cannot meet themselves.*

The next call? A 26 Alpha, 90 year old female. We drove to a high rise penthouse in the heart of Salt Lake City…just a few blocks north east of the shelter we had been to.

This time the newly cleaned stretcher is pulled down large hallways, but obnoxiously tight elevators (architects did not think through emergency response situations in designing elevator spaces). We arrived at a beautiful wooden door with nice crown molding all around. As we entered, the smell hit. This time nice perfume, clean spacious interior, and the sent of expensive furniture fill my nostrils. 

A nice older woman was talking on the phone with her son on one of four sets of couches that the apartment contained. Large expensive rings cover her skinny delicate fingers. Her hair, perfectly in place, moved with her as she turned her head.

Framed pictures of George Washing kneeling in prayer next to another of Moroni with the golden plates are on the walls. There are large pieces of Chinese porcelain throughout along with other country’s and culture’s arts, indicating a lifetime of world travel and by the looks of it, missionary work. We help her onto the same stretcher as before, cleaned and with a new sheet covering the top. I then sit in the back and we take the same ride up to the University ER, this time we roll right through the building’s entrance. 

I couldn’t, at the time, formulate the thoughts in my head and the juxtaposition of the two experiences. I loved that we gave them the same treatment to an extent, I felt uneasy by the living conditions of both as well.

Rich, poor, past criminal, harmless old women.  Their base emergent needs were met with the same speed, the same care, the same transportation, the same destination.

Same.

But that is where the same treatment ended. We saved their lives long enough to go back to their previous conditions.

And I am left with conflicting thoughts.

**

Related article: Does the Church Use Our Tithing Dollars Responsibly? I Don’t Think It Does!

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Guest Post: Leading No One

 Guest Post by Alison photo by Thirdman via pexels.com

I currently serve as the sacrament meeting chorister. I am fully aware that what I do is probably not really even necessary. As I look out at the heads of the congregation (heads, mind you, not faces and eyes, because no one is looking at me) I sometimes do feel a bit useless. Even my 15 year old son comments that no one in the congregation follows me.  So every week I just think about how this calling pretty much epitomizes what it means to be a woman in this church.

The congregation probably doesn’t even know how to follow me (does anyone really know how to follow a woman’s leadership in the church? Do they ever really have an opportunity?). They don’t realize that when my arm starts waving, it’s time to sing. (this should be obvious but the fact that the first measure or so is often silent leads me to think they don’t understand this).

They don’t know that they should watch me to see how long to hold the fermatas or if we will be singing extra verses. Or maybe they know, but they don’t care? I am sure the congregation thinks they are following me (even though they don’t look at me? How does that even work?).

But really they are following the organist (who, conveniently enough for this analogy, is a man) because aside from starting when I give the first downbeat, the organist rarely follows me. So it doesn’t matter what I do, they sing what the organist plays. If I were in any of the few leadership positions I’m allowed to be in in the church, people would think they were following me, it would kind of look like it after all, but considering a man could potentially override any decision I would make, even in a leadership position, would I truly be leading anyone?

I am thanked a lot for doing this calling, more than I have been for any other calling I’ve ever had even if you don’t count the times I’m thanked over the pulpit. I’ve had people come up to me after sacrament meeting to thank me. I’ve received text messages telling me that they appreciate what I do. So I guess it’s important? Once someone even mailed me a handwritten note.

Once the bishop said he was so grateful for what I was doing because if he had to do it, he wouldn’t know how and he would just spell his name in the air. But here’s the thing, for all he knows that’s exactly what I am doing. He can’t even see me because, like in every sacrament meeting I’ve ever witnessed, I stand behind the bishopric. They have their backs to me. Those in the highest leadership positions in the ward have their backs to me. If what I am doing is so important and everyone is so grateful for it, why don’t those men make an effort to follow me?

Alison lives in the Midwest with her husband and four children. She teaches elementary school but wishes she was a world famous orchestra conductor.

Leading No One

 Guest Post by Alison photo by Thirdman via pexels.com

I currently serve as the sacrament meeting chorister. I am fully aware that what I do is probably not really even necessary. As I look out at the heads of the congregation (heads, mind you, not faces and eyes, because no one is looking at me) I sometimes do feel a bit useless. Even my 15 year old son comments that no one in the congregation follows me.  So every week I just think about how this calling pretty much epitomizes what it means to be a woman in this church.

The congregation probably doesn’t even know how to follow me (does anyone really know how to follow a woman’s leadership in the church? Do they ever really have an opportunity?). They don’t realize that when my arm starts waving, it’s time to sing. (this should be obvious but the fact that the first measure or so is often silent leads me to think they don’t understand this).

They don’t know that they should watch me to see how long to hold the fermatas or if we will be singing extra verses. Or maybe they know, but they don’t care? I am sure the congregation thinks they are following me (even though they don’t look at me? How does that even work?).

But really they are following the organist (who, conveniently enough for this analogy, is a man) because aside from starting when I give the first downbeat, the organist rarely follows me. So it doesn’t matter what I do, they sing what the organist plays. If I were in any of the few leadership positions I’m allowed to be in in the church, people would think they were following me, it would kind of look like it after all, but considering a man could potentially override any decision I would make, even in a leadership position, would I truly be leading anyone?

I am thanked a lot for doing this calling, more than I have been for any other calling I’ve ever had even if you don’t count the times I’m thanked over the pulpit. I’ve had people come up to me after sacrament meeting to thank me. I’ve received text messages telling me that they appreciate what I do. So I guess it’s important? Once someone even mailed me a handwritten note.

Once the bishop said he was so grateful for what I was doing because if he had to do it, he wouldn’t know how and he would just spell his name in the air. But here’s the thing, for all he knows that’s exactly what I am doing. He can’t even see me because, like in every sacrament meeting I’ve ever witnessed, I stand behind the bishopric. They have their backs to me. Those in the highest leadership positions in the ward have their backs to me. If what I am doing is so important and everyone is so grateful for it, why don’t those men make an effort to follow me?

Alison lives in the Midwest with her husband and four children. She teaches elementary school but wishes she was a world famous orchestra conductor.

No, President Kimball. Priesthood holders don’t preside. They rule.

In 1974, Spencer W. Kimball, president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS), shared an ancient scripture about men ruling over women that sounds a lot like nails on a chalkboard to modern ears. 

Unto the woman he said, …thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee. 

Genesis 3:16 

Apparently, President Kimball didn’t like the sound of that either, so he suggested a revision. 

I like the term preside over thee.  

—Spencer W. Kimball, Sept. 17, 1974, Be Ye Therefore Perfect 

Like President Kimball, most modern Latter-day Saints prefer the word preside over the word rule. Most LDS men I know respect women and don’t want to rule over them. 

Preside is a friendlier term than rule, but is it accurate? Does the LDS Church treat men like presidents or rulers? 

Presidents: 

Are elected by their constituents Serve terms that eventually expire, creating an opening for different leadership 

Rulers: 

Are assigned to the throne by birthright Their terms don’t expire, and there is no opportunity for other leaders to rotate in during their lifetime 

LDS church leaders say men preside, but they mandate that men rule. 

The nicer-sounding term preside has taken on a life of its own in the LDS church in the decades since the Kimball administration, with church leaders encouraging men to “preside” over women in increasingly benevolent ways. A church article published in 1973 about how men should rule over their wives—er, preside over them—now carries a disclaimer acknowledging that it reflects “practices and language of an earlier time.” (See Barlow, Brent A., Feb. 1973, Strengthening the Patriarchal Order in the Home)

I documented the history of the evolving Mormon definition of preside here. 

The Evolving Mormon Definition of Preside

By the time LDS Church President Gordon B. Hinckley published the Proclamation on the Family in 1995, presiding sounded so benevolent that Hinckley saw no contradiction in assigning men to simultaneously “preside over” and be “equal partners” with their wives. 

But some things never changed. Priesthood holders are still selected by birth (the boys) and permanently maintain their authority over non-priesthood holders (all women). These are the characteristics of rulers, not presidents. 

Benevolence does not convert a ruler to a president. Both rulers and presidents can be benevolent; both can be tyrants.  

In 2019, current church president Russell M. Nelson elevated the word preside to eternal significance and backed it with covenant-enforced strength by inserting the word into a temple ordinance. His administration replaced the script of the temple sealing ceremony with new marital vows mandating that the husband, not the wife, will preside in their marriage. 

That’s not how presidents are selected. 

King Oscar II of Sweden and Norway at the Throne of Sweden by Emil Österman, from the book Oscar II En Lefvandsteckning by Andreas Hasselgren, Fröleen, Stockholm, 1908

Our Bloggers Recommend: Recognizing Arab American Heritage Month by listening to Breaking Down Patriarchy Episode 19: Palestinian Feminism – with Dr. Randa Tawil

April is Arab American Heritage Month!

Amy McPhee Allebest, an Advocate and Podcaster from Breaking Down Patriarchy, interviewed Dr. Randa Tawil “to discuss the history of Palestine, how the ongoing atrocities in Gaza are a feminist issue, and the most effective ways for everyday people to take action for peace.”

Click the link below!

Listen to Dr. Randa Tawil here!

We need to talk about Paul, part 2

When I began studying Paul years ago, it was with the intention to learn more about the actual person and his actual writings. My initial New Testament class introduced so much uncertainty in the conversation about the Bible, which was always too certain about Paul (and everything).

So I was unprepared for the question posed, and answered, by Cavan Concannon. His book, “Profaning Paul,” an irreverent look at the man who is the founder of Christianity, almost immediately asked this question:

“Can Paul be redeemed? Can an archive of texts that supported slavery, demonized Jews, propped up dictators, naturalized the submission of women, and endorsed a whole host of other atrocities be welcomed into the struggle against racism, capitalism, fascism, and other ills? I argue no” (6).

That changed the nature of my study and led to other questions: Should Paul be redeemed? Is it worth the effort when so many other sacred texts exist? How can I approach all ancient scripture, which can generously be termed problematic, and find what’s good and valuable and beautiful while coping with what else is there: genocide, murder, human sacrifice, destruction, the utter unfairness and coldness of the God inscribed therein? How to make sense of the contradictions contained within the pages of scripture? How do I even find myself on those pages, amid words written by and for men, using male pronouns, proclaiming a male god, when I have to search for stories about women? When I have to search for women who had who were real humans, not unnamed or silenced or one-dimensional characters needed to tell a man’s story?

Read We need to talk about Paul, Part 1.

Paul: Take him or leave him?

More than any of the facts and theories I’ve learned about Paul the Apostle and Paul the human man who walked, ate, slept, got sick and got cranky, these two things about the biblical Paul stood out. First, a lot of what is attributed to Paul is just not from him. They’re pseudonymous letters to which the author attached Paul’s name to give the writings legitimacy. There’s evidence that even in his legitimate letters, some of the worst pieces were inserted later by editors and revisors aiming for a prevailing narrative that men led and women followed, quiet and submissive. There’s ample proof, in the words of the New Testament and the historical context of the time, that Paul worked with women to start and support house churches and worked with missionaries who were women. A lot of signs point to the fact that Paul is not the problem.

The second, vital point—the actual problem—is this: In the 2,000 years since Paul, men of the church have used his words, or the words assigned to him, to oppress women, to treat us as lesser, to keep us away from pulpits and priesthood and power, to justify gender roles that give men visibility and authority and respect and keep women silent and submissive and invisible.

Is that Paul’s responsibility? Maybe, maybe not. In my mind, it doesn’t matter. The words with Paul’s name on them are dangerous, whether or not they are Paul’s words. In his book, “Liberating Paul,” Neil Elliott—who I think decidedly did want to liberate Paul from the weight of 2,000 years of oppressing the marginalized—wrote:

“The usefulness of the Pauline letters to systems of domination and oppression is nevertheless clear and palpable. This observation must be our starting point. It is not enough to protest that one or another remark in Paul’s letters has been torn out of context to justify acts or horror. Such distortions are too widespread and consistent in the history of Christendom to allow such easy dismissal. These distortions also rest too easily on generally accepted perceptions of who Paul was and what he was about” (9).

The damage has been done, over and over and over again. What’s worse is it continues to be done—these words continue to be weaponized against marginalized groups. I would argue that an apostle who testified of the grace of Jesus Christ and the need for unconditional love would advocate that such damaging messages be thrown out—that the focus of the church should be helping people feel the love of Christ, not clinging to outdated rules.

Approaching Paul today

There is also the argument that Paul’s writings simply aren’t relevant. Throw out the letters that he didn’t write, and we’re still left with rules, admonitions, observations and chastisements for specific people at a specific time in specific circumstances. He never meant for them to be applied broadly to all sorts of problems. It’s irresponsible bordering on dangerous to slap his words onto today’s church.

And you know what? Church leaders know this. Look around at any church that believes in the New Testament. Imagine 1 Cor. 7: 8 being read over the pulpit: “To the unmarried and the widows I say that it is well for them to remain unmarried as I am.”

Let me tell you—as an unmarried woman, that was never the message I got in the pews of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The singles wards, the dances, the mixers, the—was it semiannual? quarterly? monthly?—talks and lessons reminding me to get married all made it clear that these particular words from Paul didn’t hold any weight. Those verses require context, or maybe they were a poor translation, or perhaps Paul just didn’t mean what it sounds like he said—all arguments made by Bruce R. McConkie. So church leaders routinely adapt the words of Paul, or the words attributed to Paul, for their needs.

Can Paul be redeemed?

In defiance of that subhead, let’s forget about Paul for a minute. Let’s return to Dr. Concannon. More important than repairing Paul is repairing the lives of readers and hearers who have been hurt by Paul’s teachings.

“I don’t think there is an easy path to making Paul safe. In fact, it is probably an impossible task. What we can do, I think, is sit in the place of hesitancy and resist, for now, the inexorable scripturalizing drive to redeem Paul, to create yet another (useful) Pauline fiction to obscure who gets to control the Bible. To return to the metaphor that drives this book: Paul is shit. Don’t make him into fertilizer just yet” (12).

Can that be done if we keep Paul? Maybe. I can’t answer that. We can take what we like and leave the rest. It is not hypocritical to feel the love of God when reading Paul’s testimonies of Christ and also to reject what he says about slavery or women or how Christ wants us to follow bad governments. It is not all or nothing. Paul’s words can be right in some instances and wrong in others. They can apply in certain instances and not in others. None of us are bound to accept every word in the Bible as gospel truth. Arguably, we are bound to not accept every word as gospel but to study and consider and think critically and determine for ourselves, seeking personal revelation if that is our thing.

Where does that leave churches? It’s a hypothetical; I don’t know of a single Christian church that has opted to reject the writings of Paul in their entirety because he has and continues to do too much harm. Although there are some churches who are actively rejecting some of his teachings, including by having women be pastors and actively working for social justice, liberation theology and equality, they remain dwarfed among larger (white, American) Christianity. (I do not know enough about Christianity in other churches or about black churches in the United States to speak to them.)

I can’t make this decision—I haven’t even made it for myself yet. I still see good in Paul. But that doesn’t mean I should keep him. I will return once again to Dr. Concannon, who leaves a door to begin healing the wounds left by the apostle: “Paul can’t be redeemed; however, paying attention both to why he can’t and to what happens when interpreters try opens up space to hear new perspectives and forge new alliances that are necessary in the face of human futures that look increasingly polluted, authoritarian, and unequal” (6).

Top photo: Female statues of Sophia (Wisdom), Arete (Virtue), Ennoia (Insight) and Episteme (Knowledge) in the Library of Celsus at Ephesus.

Bibliography

Concannon, Cavan W. “Profaning Paul.” The University of Chicago Press: Chicago, 2021.Elliot, Neil. “Liberating Paul: The Justice of God and the Politics of the Apostle.” Orbis Books, Maryknoll, NY 1994.

A note about sourcing that highlights the problem: In my yearlong study on Paul, I read 12 books about Paul. Two were written or edited by women. I had a hard time finding sources from women, which leads me to wonder if women biblical scholars don’t even bother with Paul—if they’ve already decided he’s not worth redeeming.

What to the Mormon is Holy Week?

What to the Mormon is Holy Week? To the Mormon girl who grew up succored on a Christian superiority complex. Who listened to leaders and lectures from high pulpits on why we were a better church, a more advanced Christianity that didn’t dwell on the misery of death or the chains of old traditions. Who cut her teeth on stories of apostasy and great and abominable churches that clung to crosses and liturgies, while we had fulness and restoration.

Mormonism didn’t need . It had transcended it.

What was Palm Sunday but a well-known image of Christ’s triumphal entry discussed every four years when the New Testament happened to be the curriculum? Lent a joke. Holy Monday and Tuesday without notice. Spy Wednesday unheard of. Maundy Thursday a funny name. Good Friday a disgrace. Black Saturday unspoken of.

What to the Mormon were the traditions of millions of Christians around the world but background noise or something to turn up our noses at? After all, only the living Christ mattered. Crosses were symbols of death, of worldly priests and kings. Wearing one was unacceptable, a sign of active rebellion ripe for judgment. We side-eyed the extremes of those who acted out the stages of the cross. Laughed at testimony meetings at those who threw parades or processions. Shook our heads at those who went to special services on weekdays. Didn’t they get it? Didn’t they know that Jesus was alive and all their silly remembrances of His death were an abomination? Didn’t they know that they were only playing church? Not like us Mormons, those who really got it. Who really knew how to celebrate Easter. How to ignore Holy Week in the name of holiness.

Palm leaves. Suppers. Passion plays. Crosses.

Symbols we know but also do not. Symbols we claim but also reject.

And then Mormons became Latter-day Saints. Overnight.

What to the Latter-day Saints is Holy Week? Suddenly we want it. We hold it dear. We try to make it our own. Prophets speak on it as if we always knew it, as if they never spoke of it with derision. As if we never pointed our fingers from our great and spacious building in mocking at the other faithful servants of Christ.

Will we one day hold palm leaves? Or conduct Passion plays? Will we hold Good Friday services and nail our sins to a wooden cross laid across the altar? Will little children sticker foam crosses from Hobby Lobby and sing Jesus Loves Me? Will old women shuffle into the pews with gold and silver crosses dangling from their necks?

Do our Mormon pioneer ancestors, who pulled handcarts and shared beds with multiple wives, look down at us and wonder what we’ve done with their names? Do we reject them every time we pretend we’ve been Christian all along?

Then what to the Latter-day Saint is a Mormon? Why does my neck hurt from whiplash and my stomach ache from the pretending? The collective gaslighting. The changes with no grace and no apology for our past.

Where must I dig into my sinews to find Holy Week, the one I was taught to scorn or ignore, but apparently also to worship and love? How should I join in Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday––names that sound foreign on my tongue? What to me is Holy Week, a tradition I was never given and a place I was never planted? How many times must I rewrite myself so an ever-changing Mormon Latter-day Saint God will be pleased?

What to the Mormon is Holy Week? Quite a lot and nothing at all.