Exponent II's Blog, page 275

When God moves (or when God says goodbye)

[image error]I was in a Safeway parking lot situating my wiggly one-year old into her car seat when I felt a sudden, overwhelming ache to find God again.

Two months later, I still can’t guess why my soul chose that unremarkable moment to break itself open again. Nothing about that grocery trip or the subsequent piling of everyone and everything into my hand-me-down van had been particularly inspiring or thought-provoking or otherwise unusual. My kids weren’t being particularly endearing or difficult. And as best as I can remember, I hadn’t heard anything on the news that morning or at church the day before that had left me feeling especially emotional or introspective.

Still, that’s when the empty place that God had once filled so easily and brilliantly decided to make itself known again, and not with a polite nudge but with broken, hollowed-out sobs that crashed through me until I was again filled with the familiar longing and despair I’d first met as a stunned Mormon girl in fresh-from-the-packages temple clothes.

Fortunately, I didn’t actually break down until I’d managed to finish buckling my younger daughter in and slide the side door shut, and because I’d parked in the back, I let myself cry for a minute before pulling it together enough to climb in, start my car, and send some Caspar Babypants through the back speakers so that my two backwards-facing girls were happy and I could spend the 7 minute drive home sitting with this painful, blessed ache that I’d thought I might never experience again.

It had always been painful to think back on the ease with which I’d once been able to experience God and then to puzzle over why that had all so abruptly ended. Months after the temple sent my spirit into chaos, I was still overcome with that contrast and unable to find a sufficient answer to the desperate What did I do wrong? that played on repeat in my heart and mind. Every so often I’d feel a quiet blip of divine reassurance, but then the ache would return, and eventually, despite returning again and again to the temple and to the places and words that in the past had so dependably connected me with the Divine, I honestly don’t think my body could take it anymore. I finally began to accept that something had changed and that for whatever reasons, I couldn’t go back. And eventually, I learned to care less and less that I had lost God.

I know that might sound cold or even blasphemous to some people, and that it might sound like a childish overreaction to others. It sounds like all of those things to me sometimes, too, but there it is nonetheless. And after a couple years of this profound sadness and confusion, apathy wasn’t just a welcome relief but the thing that allowed me to keep going through the religious motions. While I eventually began to attend the temple less and less, to the casual observer, my current activity in the church still looks pretty much like it did 5 years ago (except with a husband and two kids).

But then, after a year or so without feeling much of anything about God, the grocery store parking lot happened. This time, though, I was overcome not just with familiar heartbreak but with gratitude, because the loss of God was something I was apparently still capable of feeling.

 

I’m not entirely sure what to make of this experience or of the apathy I so easily slipped back into shortly thereafter.

 

Sometimes, I think that it was God’s way of saying goodbye, and that the profound gratitude I felt was there to provide closure in some way: to remind me to be thankful for the good times we had but that really, it’s time to let go and move on.

 

And at other times, I think that something within me was insisting that God is still out there somewhere and in some form, waiting patiently for me. That perhaps it’s like the beautiful analogy Pastor Alan Jamieson recently offered in an episode* of the “A Thoughtful Faith” podcast: that “it’s like God was sitting in a room with [us]… sitting in one corner of the room and speaking a particular language,” but then God “moves to a different corner of that room and starts to speak in a different language. And we are naturally looking to that same corner—the place we expect to see God—but he isn’t there anymore. And we’re listening for God, but we can’t hear him.”

 

Perhaps the message in that parking lot was that God misses me, too. That losing God doesn’t mean I’ve been abandoned, but that when God has moved, it is so that They can “[speak] to us in a new way so that our view and experiences of God can grow and get bigger.” The optimist in me hopes this latter option is true; that the Mother I especially sought and lost that day in the temple is still out there somewhere. But when I try to conceptualize the kind of courage it might take to find a God who seems to have moved, but who still so dependably seems to be found in the same places and the same words for almost everyone else I know and associate with, most of the time, I end up feeling unsure and exhausted and small, and indifference just works.

 

I’m not sure what that moment in a grocery story parking lot meant—whether God has bid me farewell or is waiting for me to take a leap of faith. Maybe it’s up to me to decide which it was.

 

 

 

 

*Listen here. The part that this quote is pulled from begins at about 35 min.

Parable of the Prodigal Daughter

There was a woman who had two daughters. The younger one begged for her share of the estate until her mother relented. Soon after, she left and squandered her wealth in wild living far from home. After she had spent all, conditions changed and she became needy. She hired herself out to a citizen of that country, who sent her to feed pigs. She was so hungry, she wanted to eat the scraps for the pigs. When she came to her senses, she thought about how well-fed her mother’s servants were and decided to return and be a servant in her mother’s house.

While she was still a long way off, her mother saw her and was filled with compassion for her; she ran to her daughter, threw her arms around her and kissed her. The daughter said to her, ‘Mother, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your daughter.’

But the mother said to her servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on her. Put a ring on her finger and sandals on her feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this daughter of mine was dead and is alive again; she was lost and is found.’

Meanwhile, the older daughter was working in the field. When she came near the house, she heard music and smelled the feast. So she called one of the servants and asked her what was going on. ‘Your sister has come,’ she replied, ‘and your mother has killed the fattened calf because she has her back safe and sound.’ The older sister became angry and refused to go in.

So her mother went out and pleaded with her. But she answered her mother, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this daughter of yours who has squandered your property comes home, you kill the fattened calf for her!’ ‘My daughter,’ the mother said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we should celebrate and be glad, because this sister of yours was dead and is alive again; she was lost and is found.

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This beautiful parable gives the story of the lost daughter from multiple viewpoints. The younger daughter herself realized the depths she had sunk to and regretted her choices. She trusted her mother’s character as generous and kind. She was willing to make herself a servant to receive a small part of the goodness of her mother. The mother, however was merciful and liberal with her and accepted her back as a daughter. She clothed her in the finest clothes and gave her a place of honor at a bounteous feast.

The older sister seems to be the focal point of this story. She is very resentful when she sees her sister has returned because she feels slighted that there is a party in her sister’s honor. The older sister never looked to their mother for mercy and unconditional love. She didn’t look at her sister in love and forgiveness, but in judgement and jealousy. She felt that she would earn her mother’s love by slaving away in the fields and working herself to the bone. She said ‘Look at all the work I’ve been doing to earn your gifts and you gave me not even a lousy goat. But my profligate sister is getting a big party with the best cow. You are so unfair Mother.’ By doing so, she never recognized the bounty and free gifts her mother was willing to give. She made herself a slave; her mother did not encourage this. She accused her mother of not even giving her small gifts, while also refusing to come to the feast and partake of the proffered feast. She didn’t trust her mother’s character or understand what her mother really wanted from her or for her. I’m convinced the Mother appreciated both of her daughters and wanted to celebrate the love she had for both of them, and their reunification, but the older daughter would not come to the party!

I wonder how often we, too, choose not to enjoy the free gifts our Heavenly Mother gives us.  How do we mistake how we should be living our lives and make ourselves slaves unnecessarily? How do we exclude ourselves from the party and get angry when other people are celebrated? How often do we judge whether someone is worthy of the blessings they seem to be getting or whether we ourselves might be a more worthy recipient of such gifts?

There have been times in my life when I have been caught up in proving my righteousness. The great heavenly checklist of good Mormon to-do’s was emphasized in church and by leaders around me, so I took it for my daily guide. I strove to mark off each item, though I ultimately found I fell short. Rather than turn to God’s grace, I instead buckled down and rolled up my sleeves and went to work. Temple work, genealogy, visiting teaching, baking bread, family night, daily scripture study with the family and on my own, trying to be uncomplaining, teaching my children, keeping things clean and orderly, paying tithing, etc. The list went on and on. Essentially, I was slaving away in the fields. For some reason I thought that was where God wanted me. I felt like I’d know when God was pleased and rewarding me. And that was a mistake. This focus also led me to became quite judgemental of others, which was flat-out wrong. When I chose to come unto and trust my Mother’s grace, I found I was also filled with grace.

God is the Mother in this parable. Both daughters get to choose whether to believe their own story about life or their mother’s. The younger daughter’s story was that she wanted the good life now, and didn’t want to work. She took all the good things her Mother gave her and partied hard. But eventually she came to the lowest low and decided to turn back to her mother. She didn’t expect much because she had already taken and wasted. Instead she was surprised by the joy and bounty of grace. She accepted that her Mother was somehow still willing to love her and came, though she felt unworthy, to the feast.

The older daughter was troubled, and cumbered about much serving. She stayed busily away in the fields and waited to hear what was happening from someone else rather than approach her mother and her mother’s feast. When she heard the good news, she still kept her distance. She felt that she was more deserving than her sister and didn’t trust her mother’s goodness. What would she have found if she came in to the celebration? I expect that her Mother would have embraced her, called for another robe, and celebrated all of them being together again. Her mother was willing to give her all the good things all along. She just hadn’t been willing to approach and accept them.

I suspect our Mother in Heaven doesn’t want us to be martyrs, sacrificing ourselves on the supposed altar of righteousness. Yes, she wants us to strive to be good, and to work hard, but not as slaves in the field — she also wants us to have joy and fulfillment, and particularly to come unto her and know her. Will you listen to your Mother in Heaven’s version of your story? Won’t She tell you all she has is yours? Won’t She also tell you it is okay to take time also to enjoy life, invest in yourself, and be merry with your friends? When you trust in her goodness I suspect it will be easier to love others as well and not be preoccupied with who is doing what. Won’t she tell you she loves you and has always been there ready with a celebratory feast in your honor?

On Aging: A Poem for My Daughters

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“You don’t look your age,” they say,

When I reveal that I’m forty-two.

But my body has begun to betray me.

Gray hair is just the beginning:

Reading glasses.

Body, back, and foot aches.

An elbow injury during pregnancy that refuses to heal.

I feel it on extreme weather days.

It balks at me when I lift my toddler or carry anything remotely heavy.

It reminds me that my body is not what it used to be.

That healing and wholeness are for the young.

Everything makes me tired.

My favorite part of the day:

My toddler’s nap time.

But that is on its way out.

I shudder to think how I will cope.

And now as I bow my head slightly

To read through the bottom of my newly-acquired bifocals,

I feel connected to the endless number of women who have been

Lucky enough to experience middle, and even old, age.

I hope this means that Wisdom is now my companion.

And that I’ll have the courage to

Grow old gracefully.

Showing my daughters, and myself,

That aging is a gift.

How I wish I could live long enough to cradle their tired faces and hold their

Aching hands as they ascend through middle age to their last day.

I would tell them they are as

Beautiful and valuable and cherished then

As they were on the day they were born.

Islamic Feminism in America with Amanda Quraishi

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Amanda Quraishi

In this episode of the Religious Feminism interview series, Amanda Quraishi, a Muslim feminist, talks about the unique challenges and opportunities for Islamic feminism in the United States, where more ethnically heterogenous groups attend mosques together than anywhere else in the world.  She also tells us why Islamic feminists are kind of sick of the hijab debate and that you can’t judge an Islamic feminist by her head scarf.

You can find episode notes for the Religious Feminism Podcast here at the Exponent website: http://www.the-exponent.com/tag/religious-feminism-podcast/

Links to Connect and Learn More:

Amanda Quraishi’s website

MuslimahMerican

Amanda Quraishi on Twitter 


Amanda Quraishi on Facebook  




Faithfully Feminist: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Feminists on Why We Stay
Listen and subscribe below:

 

Too Little, Too Late

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Did any of you notice a news story last month? The one about Saudi Arabia finally allowing women to drive? As in cars. Well, in June 2018, Saudi women will be allowed to drive cars. Fawziah al-Bakr, a university professor, participated in the first protest against the driving ban in 1990. She is quoted in the New York Times saying, “We have been waiting for a very long time.”

There could be a variety of reactions to this news. One might be amazement that this is happening, because many people might not even be aware that women are so oppressed in a wealthy, supposedly sophisticated and advanced country. Another is along the lines of the ever popular victim blaming approach. “Why on earth do those women put up with this?!” Yet another option is to wonder how, in 2017, in a world with internet, an awareness of human rights, and general progress, there are so.many.men that still think it is acceptable to treat half of humanity like this.

As I was thinking about this advancement, not feeling heady with excitement because this is only a baby step towards equality, my reaction was a little bit “meh”.

I realized it was very similar to my response to news that women can now pray in General Conference. Or news that women who work in the Church Office Building can now wear pants. Really. PANTS. In 2017. Really. It is reasonable for people reading that news to react like I did to the end of the Saudi driving ban. Meh. Like Saudi women, LDS women have been waiting for a very long time.

Too little, too late.

A million mistakes

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When I was twelve years old, my dad’s job transferred our family to Mexico City, Mexico.  While my dad had served a mission in Argentina and regularly spoke Spanish as part of his job, the rest of us knew absolutely no Spanish.  I admit that I was terrified to move there and try to navigate in a world where I didn’t speak the language, and for the first six months (maybe more), things were completely disorienting.  I didn’t know where to find basic items at a grocery store.  I couldn’t buy a movie ticket without help.  I didn’t realize how much I used to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations until I realized that I couldn’t understand anything that anybody around me was saying!

I was able to start Spanish classes immediately, and had plenty of resources around me to learn the language.  I started at the most basic level (hello = hola, thank you = gracias, book = libro) and gradually started integrating words and concepts into my new vocabulary.  The scariest part of all, though, was speaking.  I was terrified of sounding like an idiot, of having a terrible American accent, or of completely butchering the language I was attempting to learn.  Thankfully, I had an excellent Spanish teacher who repeatedly told our class, “In order to become fluent in a language, you have to make one million mistakes.  So you’d better start now.”

Now, he wasn’t advocating that we go out and butcher the language purposefully.  But he did want us to practice using our voice and saying the words.  He wanted us to keep learning while we tried – I had classes at school.  I had friends who were patient and generous in explaining concepts that I didn’t fully grasp.  I watched movies with Spanish subtitles, I read books, and I immersed myself in learning the Spanish language.  And I made a lot of mistakes.  Some of them were even harmful mistakes – more than once, I unwittingly said something horribly offensive and made sure to apologize, learn from it, and do better the next time.  I don’t know that I ever got up to one million mistakes (since I’m not completely fluent), but as I gradually learned and spoke, I became increasingly adept at speaking Spanish.

I’ve been thinking about this learning experience a lot lately.  I’m a cis-gendered, heterosexual, able-bodied, financially stable, white woman.  I have a lot of privilege in my life.  And as I have to come to see and understand the various intersections of power and oppression in our society, I have wanted to use my privilege to speak up and fight racism, heterosexism, classism, ableism, and other -isms in our society.

But I am terrified.  I admit that I have said a whole lot of dumb stuff.  I sometimes think back on times that I have said something that reinforces those -isms, or times that I’ve taken up the oxygen in the room, or when I’ve made the problems about me instead of those who are actually directly affected.  I’m sure there are thousands of other things that I’ve said and mistakes that I’ve made that I don’t even remember.  But I also think that, as somebody who is trying to learn the language of allyship, I need to recognize that I’m going to need to make a million mistakes, so I’d better get started.

Just like in learning Spanish, I’m not going to make those mistakes purposefully.  I’m not going to go out and ignorantly spout off with the expectation that those around me will correct me and educate me.  I’m going to take classes, I’m going to read books, I’m going to watch movies, and I’m going to listen to people as they speak.  There are going to be many, many times when I will need to fight the urge to speak, and instead sit back and listen.  But when I see or hear people around me saying or doing things that are harmful, or that perpetuate damaging tropes or stereotypes, that will be my chance to speak up.  I may make a mistake.  In fact, I probably will.  But as I’ve tried to speak up, I’ve become a little bit more comfortable every time.  I’ve learned to say “I don’t think that joke is funny” and “Please don’t make comments like that around me and my kids” and, maybe most importantly, “I’m sorry that I did/said that.”

One resource that I have found to be incredibly helpful is the Southern Poverty Law Center’s “Speak Up: Responding to Everyday Bigotry” pamphlet.  It gives sample scenarios that people often find themselves in, responses that could be useful, and helpful role-playing examples that I’ve used with my friends and family.  The links found on our Facebook group guidelines offer several great introductions to intersectionality and having productive conversations.  Nancy’s post, “A Brief Syllabus on Whiteness” has links to several helpful articles, and many commenters added ideas as well.  It’s often daunting to put one’s own comfort, privilege, and knowledge on the line and to try to speak up as an ally.  But it’s so important.  We might make a million mistakes as we do it, but as we learn and do our best, we can become fluent allies and help to dismantle systems of oppression in our societies.

 

My Father’s Path, My Mother’s Path, and Mine

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I knew, throughout Primary and Young Women, that I was a child of my Heavenly Father, that my soul was one of the noble and great ones, and that I was on a path to become like Him. Sure, kind of arrogant, and it did lead me to be kind of self-righteous until I mellowed in adulthood, but I knew that Heavenly Father loved me at least as much as any other person. The Young Women theme affirmed to me every week that I would become like Him, and it was my sacred duty to live up to those values because I was blessed to become exalted.

I prepared diligently to attend the temple to receive my endowment. I wanted to be able to deepen my spiritual reserves, to see greater heights to which I could reach. I was a Gospel Doctrine teacher in my YSA ward, and I felt the spirit testify to me as I taught truth to this group of men and women — much of the time sharing the more complicated versions of events I was learning as I made studying the scriptures and church history a priority.

I had felt for some time that I was on a plateau, and was so looking forward to my endowment, that I was sure would open up the path to me to reach closer to my destiny of becoming like my Father. I paid close attention to people’s discussions about temple-related topics, and so there was a lot that didn’t surprise me. I was uncomfortable with the clothing, but mostly because I wasn’t familiar with how to place and tie everything (and the cheap, mass-produced textiles kept me thinking about consumerism and comparing that to Old Testament scriptures about women producing these items). The ceremonial things that many people find weird weren’t a problem for me.

The problem for me was that I saw that my path had nothing to do with my Father at all. And worse, I realised that my Mother wasn’t present. Not in the temple, not in the Young Women theme, not in Sunday School or Primary. The message I heard in the temple was that my Father did not want me, and my Mother either agreed or was powerless.

In the years since then, I have attended the temple few times – twice to attend sealings of loved ones. The second endowment session I participated in, I realised later I had spent the whole time apologising to the woman whose name I bore. The third, I prayed deeply beforehand to feel my Mother’s presence. I had a special experience in the chapel as people assembled before the session, but that feeling was gone as we took our places and the ceremony began. I spent the entire time as I do some sacrament meetings when I need to feel more grounded, and I counted the number of times the word “love” was spoken. It was zero, and if I participated in another endowment session, I don’t remember it.

[image error]I didn’t have another experience like that, regardless of my seeking for it. In time, I came to terms with my pain that I had imagined a connection to my Father that doesn’t exist. I buried much of my longing for a Mother, telling myself that happens in the next life will happen, whether I worry about it or not. Until I read Rachel Hunt Steenblik’s book of poetry in search of Her, Mother’s Milk, I didn’t realise that much of what I had submerged was anger.

I ached through the first section, The Hunger – I know that feeling well. I was hesitant throughout the next section, The Reaching. At the first poem of the middle section, The Learning, I had to put the book down as long-held-back frustration and anger swept over me.

Tired (p. 40)

The mother

loves us,

but She is

tired.

Why did She create me if I was going to be too tiring to care for? Or was that a surprise, and Her silence comes from regret? If I cannot know Her, how can I learn Her path? Or what if I do not want a path of silence, whether that comes from indifference or inability?

A State of Rest (p. 93)

The mother isn’t

tired anymore.

She sleeps when

Her children sleep,

dreams when

they dream.

I am not ready for hope. I would like that to be true, I would like to be able to feel that, believe that. But for right now, I can’t. I will keep Rachel’s book close in case that day comes for me, and in the meantime, I will forge a path that feels right for me.

No more rote messages for LDS Visiting Teaching! New guideline: “Do what she needs.”

[image error]Read about the change here:  Changes to Relief Society visiting teaching messages: ‘Do what she needs’

Jacinda Ardern, former Mormon is Prime Minister of New Zealand

“The former Mormon and Helen Clark staffer is the youngest woman in history to lead New Zealand…..”

About Ardern’s prime ministerial announcement:  https://www.theguardian.com/world/201...

About the longest serving female prime minister, Helen Clark: https://nzhistory.govt.nz/people/hele...

I don’t believe in prophetesses.

“Miriam, the prophet…” I read. It jolted me.

I was looking at one of the Dead Sea scrolls, part of a library of ancient documents discovered in 1947 which include the oldest known copies of the Bible’s Old Testament. At this exhibit, pages from the scrolls were on display and next to each page was an English translation.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t read that passage about Miriam before. The same story is found in my King James Bible, with one key difference. In that version, Miriam is a prophetess, not a prophet. (Exodus 15:20)

If course, that difference doesn’t mean anything at all. The word “prophetess” is just an outdated word for “prophet.” Back in King James’s time, and even in Joseph Smith’s time, the English language used gendered versions of the same word to differentiate between men and women. Emma Smith, for example, called herself “presidentess” of the Relief Society.

For the most part, the English language has since abandoned the “-ess” suffix. Mormons don’t have a Relief Society presidentess anymore. She is a president, like the Elders Quorum president. But when we talk about female prophets, if we mention them at all, Mormons tend to use the outdated word “prophetess.”

We should stop it.

Using a unique word to differentiate female prophets leaves the impression that they were something other than—and perhaps less than—their male counterparts.

The LDS Guide to the Scriptures, included as a supplement in online and printed Mormon scriptures, goes beyond impressions. Although prophet and prophetess are translated to Old English from the same word in the original text, the Guide provides two completely different definitions for the masculine and feminine Old English forms. The definition for prophet describes a person with a sacred calling, analogous to the modern calling of prophet in the LDS Church, with extensive authority and responsibility.

In contrast, the definition for “prophetess” is much shorter. A prophetess, according to this LDS reference, is a spiritually gifted woman. She has no particular calling or authority. Unlike male prophets, the Guide asserts, prophetesses did not hold the priesthood.

Again, we are talking about the exact same word here, just written differently because of an Old English grammatical rule that doesn’t even apply any more. The Guide offers no scriptural references to support its claims of gendered differences in the status and roles of male and female prophets in ancient times because there are none.

Denying that female prophets were prophets in the same sense that men were lends itself to certain kinds of scriptural interpretations. I was taught as a teenager in LDS seminary that when Aaron and Miriam committed the same sin—complaining against their brother, the prophet Moses—Miriam received a much harsher punishment because, as my teacher explained, while it is wrong for anyone to undermine the authority of a prophet and seek to elevate their own status in the church, it is particularly bad for a woman to do it, because women aren’t supposed to want the priesthood. (Numbers 12) (For a less sexist explanation, read Why Does God Hate Miriam? by EmilyCC.)

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My prayer for Jerusalem’s Western Wall

At the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit, I had the opportunity to participate in the tradition of placing a written prayer on a stone from Jerusalem’s Western Wall. I prayed for women to hold the priesthood and I was not struck down with leprosy. Phew.

Calling female prophets by a different name creates a distinction that did not exist in Biblical times and that we should not pretend ever existed. I believe women were prophets. I don’t believe we should keep calling them something else.