Exponent II's Blog, page 42

A Live Coal

Read by author Then flew one of the seraphims unto me, having a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar.— Isaiah 6:6 I ka ‘ōlelo nō ke ola, i ka ‘ōlelo nō ka make. In language there is life, in language there is death.— ‘Ōlelo No‘eau 1191My mom died when I was seventeen. She died in 1997, on the seventh month, the seventh day, at 7:07 in the morning. It’s a bit much, right? All those sevens.She launched like a new constellation across the sky.But seven is a good number: a magical […]

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A Picture in a Thousand Words (Give or Take a Few)

In the blink of an eye, for him, the Garden Court seemed empty except for him and the picture of a girl kneeling in a field of sagebrush.

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“Radical Kindness” – Spring 2025 Call for Submissions

“No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted,” Aesop said. Christ also said that anything we have done for our fellow beings, we have done unto God. It is no secret that kindness is one of the greatest commandments and balms amid our harsh, earthly journeys. And yet, we rarely give kindness the space it deserves. We hope, for this fleeting moment, to do so in this forthcoming issue.

Tell us your stories about kindness, however big or small. Give us something honest, real, and fresh. How has an act of kindness changed you? Surprised you? Terrified you? Have you ever experienced kindness that felt sour, causing you to reflect on the challenge of charity? What about shame, for being a person who needed help? Have you been on the other end, of being transformed by a service? Did someone do or say something hurtful to you once that, only in hindsight, was a kindness? How have you learned to be kinder and more compassionate with yourself?

Whatever your take—be it poignant, biting, testimony-building, messy, or humorous—we want to hear it.

Written submissions are due by January 15, 2025. Please follow the guidelines. Authors and artists should identify with the mission of Exponent II.

(Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash)

“Radical Kindness” – Spring 2024 Call for Submissions

“No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted,” Aesop said. Christ also said that anything we have done for our fellow beings, we have done unto God. It is no secret that kindness is one of the greatest commandments and balms amid our harsh, earthly journeys. And yet, we rarely give kindness the space it deserves. We hope, for this fleeting moment, to do so in this forthcoming issue.

Tell us your stories about kindness, however big or small. Give us something honest, real, and fresh. How has an act of kindness changed you? Surprised you? Terrified you? Have you ever experienced kindness that felt sour, causing you to reflect on the challenge of charity? What about shame, for being a person who needed help? Have you been on the other end, of being transformed by a service? Did someone do or say something hurtful to you once that, only in hindsight, was a kindness? How have you learned to be kinder and more compassionate with yourself?

Whatever your take—be it poignant, biting, testimony-building, messy, or humorous—we want to hear it.

Written submissions are due by January 15, 2025. Please follow the guidelines. Authors and artists should identify with the mission of Exponent II.

(Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash)

Guest Post: Gynecology Trouble & Gyn-Ecology

By Maxine Hanks

Note: This post adds to the blog series Menopause and Me.

In October, the greens of summer turn yellow, orange, and red as the seeds we planted in spring fulfill their potential, birthing nourishment.
 
As a girl, I learned that I had seeds within me that could grow into a human being. Hormones triggered ovulation and endometrium, for gestation or rejection. It seemed complex, as cells changed cells. Would it all work properly?

I would learn that often, it didn’t.

The first sign something was wrong was pain. At age 12, a gut-wrenching pelvic ache announced my first period. I was devastated.  I couldn’t fathom such pain returning every month.

My mother’s remedies failed. No amount of Motrin or heating pads brought relief.
“The pain was abdominal, I vanquished it with capsules meant for headaches. It grinds its way through muscle walls and days and nights of silent despair.”  

No one had pain like mine. It made me dread being female.
In the 1970s, female reproductive systems were a mystery.

My first gynecology exam came at age 26, at BYU. My gynecologist was a Mormon bishop.
Dr. G. announced,”You have a mass on your uterus, it has to come out.”
“Is that why I have pain?” I asked. “Yes, “he confirmed. “It’s either cancer or endometriosis.”

I was ecstatic. If they removed my uterus, my periods would end. No more pain.

“Will you take my uterus?” I hoped.
“No, we must preserve your child-bearing organs,” he countered.
“But I don’t want children,” I admitted.
“You don’t know that,” he refuted. “You may change your mind.”

I resented his assumption. So I consulted a female gynecologist. She concurred with Dr. G.
So, I read gynecology books, about “bikini incisions” as less invasive than a lateral cut through abdominal muscles.

“A bikini cut makes it harder for me to do surgery,” Dr. G. protested.

I was dismayed that he valued his ease over my health. I insisted on a bikini cut. He relented. 
I paid a high price for my agency.

My surgery lasted 3 hours. I lost a lot of blood. When I awoke, I felt like they had given me a different body. Dr. G. greeted me gleefully, “It was endometriosis! We saved your uterus and one ovary, you can still have children.”

I was devastated.

“goddess of gynecology” 1992 by Maxine Hanks

I laid in bed delirious with pain. My chart said, “Castration.” They removed an ovary, not testes. It should have said “oophorectomy.” 

At home, my incision opened and blood gushed out. My mom drove me to Emergency, shrieking. A male resident taped me shut and sent me home.

Next day, Dr. G. said, “I need to reopen the wound. We need to drain it, clean with peroxide, and pack it with gauze. You’ll do this every day until it closes from the inside.”

From Halloween to Solstice, I daily birthed bloody gauze from within my gut, poured peroxide inside, let it fizz, packed new gauze, covered with more gauze, taped it, and wrapped an ace bandage around my hips to hold it all in place. It slowly closed one cell at a time.

“I had a gaping wound from stitches that should have stayed. They sent me home with a band-aid. I stare deep inside my pelvis at proof that I am a walking piece of meat.”  

But this was not the worst side effect.

Dr. G. prescribed hormones, “to prevent endometriosis from returning.” I said, “I don’t care if my uterus works.” He refuted, “We have to preserve your childbearing ability.”

His advice was as pastoral as medical. 

My intuition warned me about synthetic hormones. I had a sensitive system.
“I don’t want to take the pill,” I explained. “I sense my body won’t do well.”

He refuted, “You don’t know that, women do fine on the pill.”
I persisted, “I feel my body isn’t compatible with the pill.”
He insisted, “The only cure for endometriosis is pregnancy or the pill. If you were married I’d tell you to get pregnant right now. So, you’ll have to take the pill.”

I was appalled that he saw pregnancy as medicine, a child as cure. My body knew it couldn’t do pregnancy. Wouldn’t endometriosis just come back afterward? It made no sense. 

In 1983, gynecology was primitive. Women’s bodies were treated like they were abnormal males. We had minimal understanding of female reproductive and endocrine systems.

I brooded over battling my body with bovine hormones to defeat my own endometrium. I knew it wouldn’t go well, my intuition was implicit. I tried one last time to refuse treatment.

I pleaded with Dr. G’s nurse, “I really don’t feel I can take the pill.” She blasted me.
“You must think you know better than the Doctor!! You don’t! You have to do what he says!!”

She killed my will. I didn’t know I could refuse treatment. In 1983, few Utah women knew they could do what they wanted.

I took the pill for six months, feeling bloated. I complained.
“Your symptoms are mild,” Dr. G reassured. “It’s best to stay with what’s working, it could be worse.”

Ah, the pill had side effects after all. I wanted to feel normal. So I told him I’d stop taking it.

“No, let’s try another.” He ordered Demulen. The name evoked malevolence.
I mustered all the courage of a 20-something female in Utah, “I don’t want to take it.”
He insisted, “You must.”

In 1984, I took Demulen, a demon that changed my biochemistry forever. I told Dr. G. I needed to stop. He countered, “You need to stay with it, there aren’t other options.” Yet I learned later, there were many options.

In Dec. I went to ER, feeling intense disorientation, like my soul was trying to leave my body. My blood pressure was 180 over 120. The ER doctor said, “I’m taking you off the pill.”
I thanked God.

Dr. G. was livid, “He should not have taken you off!” Dr. G. was willing to kill me. His authority died that night. I never went on the pill again.

“You’ll never see 40 with your uterus,” he threatened.

Fine with me.
I wouldn’t survive a pregnancy. Hormone pills alone nearly killed me

In Feb. 1985, my period returned, and the pain was unbearable. A laparoscopy revealed that I was full of scar tissue, my abdomen was a mess. (I later learned that Dr. G. botched a woman’s stomach operation that had to be redone.) No wonder my stitches hadn’t held.

A host of new symptoms dominated my cycle. Dizziness, fainting, spontaneous bruising, blood clots, hemorrhaging, allergic reactions to foods and plants, heart palpitations, pressure in my head, headaches, inflamed joints, swollen lymph nodes, inflammation, digestive trouble, and nausea. And excruciating pain. My symptoms splayed across days all month long.

“Grume my womb will bear, sobs of inhuman progeny.”

My health was 10x worse after surgery and pills. My scar tissue ached madly. The pill disrupted my endocrine system, and triggered auto-immune disorders. I was allergic to my own hormones.

I took Anaprox and Hydrocodone, sat in hot baths, unable to function 4-5 days each month. I consulted doctors, nutritionists, gynecologists, endocrinologists, healers, homeopaths, acupuncturists and chiropractors desperate for help. No one could solve the problems. My endocrinology was scrambled. Plus my surgeries, emergencies and constant symptoms took a catastrophic toll on my work and schooling.

My new career was coping with my health.

In Dec. 1985, I was in ER again, with dizziness, disorientation, a scary feeling. I wasn’t on the pill. They couldn’t find the problem. So I tried minerals, miso soup, homeopathic formulas, herbal teas, vegetarianism, vitamins, supplements, even enemas.

Nothing cured me. I felt sick every day.

In 1986, I tried other doctors in Salt Lake. Dr. L. gave me Depo-Provera. It stopped my symptoms but made me gain 50 pounds that summer. I’ve battled obesity ever since.

By now, I knew that male doctors didn’t comprehend female health. So I studied gynecology myself. I learned that estrogen didn’t cure endometriosis; it was genetic. My aunt and sister and nieces all had it, too.

We were a matriarchy of menstrual disorder and pain.

I learned that hormone pills weren’t safe, they caused blood clots, stroke, and death. Demulen had the worst record of all. Yet bad reactions to the pill were “exceptions” to the rule, not taken seriously in research. Only the “norm” was reported.

I learned that women suffer in ways that men don’t see or believe. Our endocrinology and gynecology weren’t real. We were punished twice, by suffering for being female, and by society for being sick.

My symptoms were miserable. Hormone pills hadn’t stopped my endometriosis at all, instead they ruined my health. I was trapped in a malfunctioning body. With every cycle, the pain and inflammation were disabling. The scar tissue in my gut affected my spine and leg. When I tried to exercise, my muscles strained.

I was non-functional 1-2 weeks each month, then manic on pain-free days to compensate.
“The pain was cutting up my life into jagged pieces of time.”

I ate Anaprox and narcotics like candy. I wasn’t getting well.
I was getting angry.

In 1988, I enrolled in Women’s Studies. I needed female validation. I read feminist history and theory and theology. I read women’s texts, and learned they lived in suffering.

A feminist doctor became my savior. Dr. Jones gave me Synarel to shut down my cycles. It had no side effects. It simply worked. I could finally function, work full time, attend school, and write about women’s issues.

I researched Mormon women’s history and feminist history and theology, seeking female healing. I wrote about birth control and compulsory motherhood. “Motherhood should never be mandatory. There’s no such thing as risk-free pregnancy.”

In 1992, my feminist book went to press. And I began hemorrhaging. The symbolism was striking. I birthed a feminist book and I was bleeding. Dr. Jones doubled my Synarel dose, at $300 each, costing $600 a month. But it kept me functional, as long as I could buy it.

Eventually, I couldn’t afford Synarel, so I returned to Anaprox and narcotics, and suffering.
Gyn-ecology was my life companion.

In 1995 my boyfriend confided, “If I had your pain, I’d want to kill myself.”
I gave up full-time work, exercise, and serious relationships, too sick to be reliable.

In 2002, at 46, I finally told my body, “stop.” I willed myself into menopause. My periods ended, my life returned. I could function, exercise, date, travel, attend Harvard, live more normally for a dozen blissful years.

Then in 2014, my body tried to have a period. I was violently ill, back in ER with incapacitating pain, projectile vomiting, hyper ventilating, I couldn’t eat or drink. Only hydrocodone helped. A menstrual cycle was no longer survivable.

My endocrine disorders were lurking beneath my menopause all along, gradually worsening.
Menopause hadn’t cured me.

In 2017, my hormone levels dropped, my menopausal pause faded, symptoms creeped back: inflammation, fibromyalgia, arthritis, hot flashes, and pain. I realized then that a hysterectomy was just another path of suffering, no goldilocks balance of hormones.

We need our ovaries.

In 2019, I had thyroid antibodies, hashimotos, and positive ANA. I was tested for everything from Lupus to RA to Lyme. But it was just ghost cycles, endless allergies to hormones.

In 2021, I learned that the scar tissue in my abdomen over time had pulled my left hip joint too tight, and my pelvis off kilter. I went to physical therapy for a year, but it didn’t help. I was limping, with serious sciatica.

In October 2023, it was 40 years since my surgery and hormone treatments in October 1983. I’d been semi-functional all that time.

Yet suffering taught me to love my femaleness, value my gynecology.

Dr. G. was wrong about the pill; it made me ill. And he was wrong about losing my uterus, still intact at age 68. But he was right about keeping my ovary, not for pregnancy—but for my endocrine health. 

My pain and stiffness worsen every year in muscles, joints, hip, pelvis. I don’t walk, I shuffle. I work lying down since age 60, wondering if I’ll make it to 70. I can’t do surgery. I don’t heal normally. I can’t travel or exercise or be in a relationship. I simply exist.

I knew at 12, that being female meant pain. What if I hadn’t done surgery or Demulon but relied on nutrition and massage instead? Who would I be today? A professor, traveler, wife, adoptive mom? 

Gynecology trouble gave me my vocation as a feminist theologian, along with my solitude sequestered single by pain. Striving for gyn-ecology has governed my life. 

I sense it was meant to be.

Biology is constructed—by biology, and hormones, and surgery, and will. Yet biology is not simply performative. It’s encoded in the nucleus of every cell—from chromosomal to cellular, hormonal to endocrine, systemic to being.

Biology is also essential—in several ways, in spite of variations on its binary theme.
All sexes are real, yet each is different.

What if we didn’t diminish female biology, or try to control it? What if we comprehended female endocrinology and gynecology, with full respect for their own complexity, functions?

Female endometrium is like stem cells, it has regenerative power. Mine migrated from my uterus to my sinuses, where it still bleeds. What if we learned to work with its mysteries, not against them?

I pray every day for healing, but mostly I just cope.
What keeps me going? Hope,
that I can still find endocrine and cellular healing,
that I can help women, by validating female biology and authority,
that I can inspire gyn-ecology.

(*with homage to Mary Daly’s Gyn/Ecology and Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, polar opposites of feminist theory, both needed. Art by Maxine Hanks 1992, “goddess of gynecology” and “madonna on the cross of life.” For mothers and birthing in December, incl. my own.)

Maxine Hanks is an historian and theologian focused on feminist work in Mormon tradition and Christian liturgy.  She lectured in Women’s Studies at the U. of U., with bachelor’s in Gender Studies, masters’ work in History, graduate studies in theology at Harvard, and liturgy at Holy Cross. She writes and lectures on religious studies in Salt Lake.

Empty Cradleboards and Filled Primary Chairs

Do primary leaders still encourage putting 2 fingers behind your head to resemble feathers when singing the phrase “are about the Lamanites in ancient history” in the song “Book of Mormon Stories?” It’s been many years since I was in a sharing time setting but I remember performing this song this way when I taught primary many years ago. I grew up doing it and it seemed like everyone else did too. Did we ever collectively stop?

I’ve spent many years grappling with thoughts about the church’s impact on indigenous people. My Mormon heritage taught me to feel that I had some sort of claim to Native American experiences which were not mine to claim. Even as I write this I grapple with how to convey my thoughts. The best way I can sum up this “claim” would be, because I felt I “knew” the “true” identity of the indigenous people of the Americas, I failed to understand I was participating in racism. Why did I feel like I knew their true identity? Because my scriptures told me so. Prior to a rewording in 2006, the Book of Mormon stated Lamanites were “the principle ancestors of the American Indians” and this message is still consistent in our online and print materials.

As someone who isn’t an academic scholar or Church historian, I can’t speak fluently about the colonialist and Manifest Destiny influence on church doctrine, policies, and practices so I want to share the following story. As a parent who was diligent about the goal of raising children in righteousness, my family read scripture stories every night before bed. We used the comic book style ones because of the young age of our children. One night we had the lesson about the “curse of darkness” upon the Lamanites. I didn’t like presenting a story about peoples’ skin color being turned darker due to iniquity. That being said, I chose to continue the lesson because I had been taught that regardless of the ick factor, this was Doctrine. 

Living in a small town (Eagle Mountain Utah circa 2008) my children did not have the gift of being raised in a diverse community the way I had and it was something I felt they were missing out on. My regret about that fact grew to absolute concern when we were taking a road trip to see my parents in Southern California. As we traveled  we made stops for food and gas and in one restaurant my then 6 year old asked my husband and me “Why are there so many Lamanites here?” We both looked at each other in horror. What the freaking heck had we been teaching our child? We instantly knew we had done/were doing something wrong. We realized we should have made an opportunity to discuss race as a family and because we hadn’t, my son’s entire knowledge of race was based on racist scripture. 

I’d like to say that moment shook me completely off my foundation of deeply held beliefs  but instead it was more like I had suddenly discovered a huge crack in the foundation and was standing there trying to figure out who to call and how it would get fixed? As I re-read that last sentence I realize how dependent I was on people more spiritual than I or more wise than I, to tell me what I was supposed to do. As if life was just a set of rules and instructions to follow. 

The messages I heard about the Lamanites my entire life shaped my view of indigenous people in a way that objectified them like the action figures in the Book of Mormon playset my kids played with on Sundays. Ever since I was little I’d look at the vast landscape on the drive from Orange County to Salt Lake and daydream a view of Book of Mormon battles through the backseat window. At the in-laws family campout, they had it on good authority that right there in Fishlake National Forest was the actual Gadianton Robbers hideout. 

As I’ve gotten older I’ve learned more church history and specifically its impact on Indigenous peoples of North America. I learned about The Lamanite Project which was a church effort that removed 50,000 indigenous children from their homes and placed them with LDS families. There’s a infamous quote from then Elder Spencer Kimball explaining that the children placed with Latter Day Saint families were getting whiter skin. I found out from family members that human remains and artifacts of Native Americans were on display at LDS visitor centers throughout the 60s and 70s. It’s like we’ve just taken whole cultures and erased them and put in our own created characters, you know? And when I think about that I picture empty cradleboards and kids in primary chairs holding 2 fingers up behind their heads. It makes me weep. I recognize my part and know I can’t fix what’s been done but with all the resources out there I can learn and become anti-racist in thought and action.  

I want to acknowledge I write this from the ancestral land of the Cowlitz tribe. 

Guest Post: I’ll Join You Where You’re At

By Kara Stevenson

When my friend first told me that she was a Mormon, I laughed at her. Not because I was mocking her religion, but because I didn’t know that Mormonism existed. I thought it was a religion that never caught traction and died with Joseph Smith. I thought she was making a joke. But she wasn’t.

A few years later she invited me to join her at a youth conference. I better understood Mormons that day.

I saw a people who were brave; boldly testifying in an increasingly secular world.

I saw a people who passionately stood by their values.

I saw a people who strived to be better.

I saw a people who loved God.

I saw a people who were trying their best.

It brought me to tears that this was the group of people that I had laughed at, simply because I was ignorant to the fact that they had even existed.

After several years as a faithful member of the church, I experienced a faith crisis and discovered a new group of people: the ex-Mormon community.

I knew that people left the church. For the most part I respected and understood their reasons for doing so. But I would be lying if I said that I always thought positively of them. I heard the typical tropes that most of us hear: they’re lazy, lacked faith, gave up, and are filled with bitterness.

But I didn’t recognize that thousands of these ex-Mormons worked together to build community and support groups.

I didn’t know that they existed.

I stepped into their space, and I better understood ex-Mormons that day.

I saw a people who were brave — daring to question the status quo and navigate the unknown despite tremendous outside pressures.

I saw a people who passionately stood by their values.

I saw a people who strived to be better.

I saw a people who loved humanity.

I saw a people who were trying their best.

It saddens me that I didn’t learn this lesson the first time: All kinds of people exist and take up space in this world. And they deserve our respect. They deserve to be seen, heard, and validated in their experiences.

Mormons and ex-Mormons aren’t too different. Both communities are filled with broken people who desperately wish to be understood, people who wish to be seen and to have their very existence recognized.

But too often, ex-Mormons may unwittingly fulfill scripture and point, mock, and scorn at those tightly holding onto the iron rod as they inch forward, filled with faith and hope that the beautiful tree of life will be waiting for them at the end.

And many who hold the iron rod do not recognize that, while their grip is firm in one hand, the other may be pointed, mocking, and scorning those who dare to let go and wade into the mist, off on a journey to discover if maybe, just maybe, there is more beyond the rod.

Here’s to hoping that others can learn this lesson quicker than I could.

Humanity is beautiful. Our differences are beautiful.

Though our journeys may look different, at our cores we are all perfectly imperfect beings striving to do our best.

I don’t care if you’re holding onto the iron rod or if you’ve found yourself exploring the mist. I’ll join you where you’re at. Because wherever you are, that place exists. It is a valid place to be. And I refuse to be ignorant to that again.

As long as you are there, it’s a good enough place for me, too.

 

Kara Stevenson is a BYU-I graduate with a bachelors in communications. She primarily uses her degree to negotiate with her two independent and fierce daughters. She is a Disney addict, a video game lover, and she enjoys dabbling with writing on the side.

Guest Post: The Pressures to Marry Quickly, and What I’ve Learned From Pushing Back

by Sarah Schow

Growing up, I couldn’t wait to live on my own. As the oldest of seven, I made sure to tell my parents any chance that I could, that I did not appreciate being the guinea pig.

I remember being at EFY in 2007, and the question was asked about what we most looked forward to when we were married. I answered that I most looked forward to making my own rules. The teacher for the class thought my answer was hilarious and made light of it, cracking a joke at my expense.

I have a fear of authority, but I also love to push back where possible—a complex I picked up from being the guinea pig, I’m sure. That inner turmoil of being true to myself while simultaneously pleasing those in leadership positions has been something I’ve carried into adulthood. I’m still active in the church, but I vocalize my thoughts and push back as much as I feel comfortable doing. I have found that it’s gotten easier over the years, but the path I’ve painstakingly carved out has lots of bumps and detours.

One of the pivotal moments in my young adulthood was the experience of dating my husband for as long as we did. We dated for five years—not the norm, I know.

My dad always told me cautionary tales about couples he knew from his time in YSA, or how he and my mom advised us to date a year before getting married. He also told me how when he had his exit interview for his mission, his mission president told him to “go home and get married before you get weird.” My dad often revised that advice, saying, “Go home and get un-weird, then get married before you get weird again.” I also remember hearing from trusted YW leaders to not marry a project. So much advice and cautionary tales were thrown my way growing up, that when it came time for myself and my boyfriend (now husband) to make our decisions, we were then told we were doing it wrong.

We had been dating for not even three months when our YSA bishop at the time asked us to meet with him. He told us to get married because he was worried about how physical we were. I was sitting there thinking, “We’re doing the same things as anyone else. Back scratches in sacrament meeting, make outs on the couch at our respective apartments.”

Holding back angry tears, I told our bishop no, because my parents always told me to date a year before getting married, and my family was going through a lot of things that prevented them from even attending a wedding, let alone fund one. (My dad was laid off and couldn’t travel due to things with his work visa, etc.)

That same bishopric then pushed us to be in temple prep at least three times because they thought if I took temple prep, it would get the ball moving and get me on board with marrying my husband.

Don’t get me wrong, I had the desire to marry him—no convincing needed there, but we weren’t ready and had to experience things as boyfriend and girlfriend before we got married. We ensured that our foundation was solid before we started building upon it.

Fast forward three years later after that conversation with that YSA bishop, we had a new bishopric, and a chance to be led by people who didn’t have preconceived notions about us. The bishop we had was amazing, and we both leaned on him a lot during that time in YSA. But unfortunately, more people started to talk about us. A lot of people assumed that we were having premarital sex, that we’d never get married, and that we should split.

A member of the bishopric was dealing with tithes and offerings with our friend who was the ward clerk at the time. The counselor asked our friend if he knew when we planned on getting married. Our friend simply responded that he didn’t know, nor was he our keeper. The counselor then responded, “You either know after six months or you don’t.” Our friend told us what he had heard. I was seeing red. I went to our bishop the following Sunday and told him what I had heard, saying that I shouldn’t have heard it, but it also shouldn’t have been said. Our bishop was so understanding, apologized on the counselor’s behalf, and said that, yes, it shouldn’t have been said, and then thanked me for talking to him about it.

Shortly after that experience, there was a remark made on a YSA confessions page about my (now) husband and I. That if we were couples goals for some people, “YIKES!” and then quoted Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies,” song: “If you liked it then you should have put a ring on it.” Peers from my YSA liked that post; I was hurt and angry.

The following Sunday after that confession was posted was fast and testimony meeting. I remember getting up and bearing my testimony, saying that I don’t expect anyone to understand me perfectly, but my Savior does. He understands me perfectly, oh what comfort that brings to me! I also bore testimony that nowhere in the scriptures does it say that we need to hit certain milestones by certain ages or timelines—we don’t need to marry after three months of dating. We don’t need to figure out our careers by a certain age, we don’t need to have a certain amount of kids within a certain amount of time after marrying, we don’t need to be home owners by a certain age—the list goes on and on. Everyone’s timeline will be different, and that’s what is so beautiful about the plan. The end goal is to return to our Heavenly Parents, but how we get there will look different to each of us.

Shortly after that testimony meeting, my (now) husband and I decided to take a break from church. We needed to step away from the noise and unwanted feedback from our YSA peers and leaders. We needed to focus on us and take that time. We were not perfect— we did end up having premarital sex and living together, but we needed to do things on our own terms. I did have family members tell me that I was just trying to justify the choices that I made during this time, but how else are we supposed to learn if we don’t choose for ourselves?! Isn’t that the whole point of the Savior’s plan?

A year and a half into our break from church, we got married. We went far away from our college town, hired a female officiant, and got married with just our family members and our friends who were our witnesses. The small ceremony was perfect because we did it on our own terms, in our own timing—not because we were told to. I have no regrets on how we did it. The people who needed to be there were there. We made a simple post saying “Surprise! We’re married!” on Instagram, and the amount of support we received was overwhelming, even from the naysayers who made the bets that we’d never get married.

About five months after we got married, we felt ready to go back to church. We wanted to test the waters as in a family ward and see how the environment differed. Thankfully, our family ward was (and still is) great. They’re accepting and they really strive to be like Christ. They don’t care where we’ve been or how we got there. We feel welcomed and also lucky.

I was definitely nervous that a lot of people would bombard us with questions regarding when we’d have kids, but thankfully we didn’t encounter that, possibly because we stuck our necks out for our decision to take our time with dating one another, or maybe people are just better at respecting that boundary.

A year after we got married, we decided to get sealed. My feelings about the temple aside, it was a happy day. Even though our sealer objectified me a little bit and spent a lot of time talking about tithing, I was just happy to be committing to someone that I truly knew. That was always a fear of mine growing up, that I would be marrying a stranger. Thankfully that wasn’t the case. I knew my husband. He was and still is my home. We truly have become one. We are aligned in our thinking and our goals. We communicate. We are quick to forgive. We are true partners. If we had gotten married as quickly as our first YSA bishop desired for us, would we have been as strong as we are now? It’s hard to say, but I am so grateful for the courage of our convictions.

There are couples that started dating around the same time as us, who married a lot quicker than we did. Thankfully a lot of them have remained together, but not all of them have been so lucky. Perhaps those people were meant to go through that experience, but I often wonder if they would have rushed into marriage if the pressure and expectation were simply not there.

As scary as it is to go against the grain, I know I am better for it. No two relationships are the same, so why would our timelines be the same? Some people need to take longer than others. We need to stop pressuring people to “go home and get married before they get weird” after their missions. We need to encourage young people to find themselves. Find out what they’re passionate about. Develop their testimonies away from the influence of family and future spouses. Our young single adults need to do things because they feel the timing is right for them, and also need to not be afraid to mess up along the way.

Getting married shortly after dating someone has been such an unspoken rule in our church culture. Like I said, even though I have a fear of authority, I also like making my own rules— so you bet that I’ll do what feels right to me, even if I’m shaking and terrified nine times out of ten.

My advice to young single adults is to take your time. At the end of the day, it’s your life—you have to be comfortable with the pace you set. Nobody else should have that power or influence over you, especially because they’re not the ones living your life. Even if you’re angry crying in your bishops office like I was, I hope you also have the courage to say no.

 

Erasing Church History: The New Book of Mormon Introduction

This fall, the church published a new Introduction to the Book of Mormon on the Book of Mormon app, aimed at investigators. (Or should I say “friends?”) So far it’s only launched on the BoM app as a missionary tool, clearly aimed at introducing those unfamiliar with Mormonism to the book of scripture. I haven’t found any indication that this new introduction will be on the Gospel Library app or new print BoMs, but you never know these days with the church.

On the surface, this update is a simple rewriting to introduce the book to newbies in a less intimidating way. From a PR perspective, it seems like a smart move. As a lifelong member, however, I have questions. And feelings. More feelings than I imagined I would.

A few thoughts immediately jumped out at me:

–The tone shift. The original BoM introduction was written in the 1980s and it reads like an extension of scripture. The new introduction has a much more congenial tone, like what you hear in an inspirational video (or from a very savvy salesperson). I can’t parse out if this feels positive or slimy to me.

–Less historical focus. The original BoM intro declares the book to be an ancient record of the early Americas, and describes the book’s history and the story of Joseph Smith. But the new intro doesn’t even mention Joseph Smith’s name. It briefly states that there are ancient records and the location of one was revealed by an angel in 1823 and translated into the BoM. I feel the church wants to move away from their fantastical Mormon roots to fit in more with mainstream Christianity, but I don’t agree this is the best move.

–It’s all male. This will surprise absolutely no one, but it still makes me sad. Instead of taking the opportunity to mention Heavenly Mother or at least Heavenly Parents, the new intro only discusses Heavenly Father. If we leaned into Heavenly Mother, wouldn’t we attract more interest in a modern world? But I guess that would require breaking down too much patriarchy for all the old white men to stomach. The intro also mentions “faithful, courageous people” in the BoM, but let’s be real: there’s only men in the BoM; it’s male stories told from a male perspective about male courage and male faithfulness.

–The word “translated” always makes me itchy. This might just be a personal grievance, but I get uncomfortable when we say the BoM was translated. I guess technically it’s correct in that it went from one language to another, if you believe the gold plates were real. But it’s not like Joseph was doing an academic study. He was literally just speaking out loud whatever was in his head when he stuck his face in a hat. Or what he saw on the peep stone? Heard from God? No one really knows. Calling it a translation implies a false image that leaves many feeling deceived when they learn the truth.

–The new testimony of Joseph Smith includes non-KJV scripture. In the Appendix of the BoM app, you’ll find Joseph Smith’s testimony has also changed from the original version. The Gospel Library version quotes Joseph Smith describing the visits of Moroni. The new version is in third person. Again, it makes sense being geared towards non-members who didn’t grow up hearing this story a million times. But what strikes me as noteworthy is the choice to include a non-King James version of James 1:5: “One day he read in the Bible, ‘If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives to all generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him’ (James 1:5; NASB).” This is probably to find familiar ground with other Bible readers, but after a lifetime of being told the KJV is the only correct version of the Bible, it’s a little odd. Could the church be moving towards adopting a new Bible translation, one that isn’t outdated with confusing language?

I recognize that these are smaller things that might not bother some members. But at the heart of these changes are real frustrations and questions worth exploring.

At what point does smart marketing turn into deception? Where is the line between presenting a better PR image and a bait-and-switch? Why can’t the church present a more honest and open look at their history and religious quirks?

I’ve thought many times about what it might be like to meet the missionaries as a “friend” these days. You get love-bombed by sweet 19 year olds and told all about Jesus Christ and probably feel awesome. But what happens when you actually start attending church and hear so much about temples, covenants, conditional love, and prophet-worship? How many people do you know that joined the church and within a year were gone as they learned about the reality of things like garments and the true history of Joseph Smith? I’ve personally known individuals like this, scared off when they realize the church isn’t really just about Jesus or loving others. This new BoM introduction certainly reads much friendlier and easier to comprehend. But without any real “Joseph-Smith-stuck-his-head-in-a-hat-and-said-words-inspired-by-a-magic-rock” context, how many converts will ultimately feel duped by the missionaries and the church? I’m not saying the church needs to air out all our dirty laundry in an introduction by any means, but increasingly trying to cover it up is not doing us any favors in the long run.

Continually watering down or pushing aside church history because it doesn’t sound great to other Christians doesn’t make people like us more and it certainly doesn’t make the history just disappear. We are an American born and bred church, straight out of the Second Great Awakening with magic peep stones, treasure digging, and mysticism. No amount of distance or ignorance will change that reality. I’m not saying the problematic parts of our history are something to celebrate. But they shouldn’t be hidden if we want long term growth and change. Only sunlight can get out those dark spots.

Instead of trying to just suddenly drop all our weirdness, we should arm new members (and old members!) with knowledge and understanding. I would love to see more church curriculum laying it all out, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Put these materials directly into the hands of members, not hidden on the website or only accessible to those who visit a Deseret Book store. Encourage potential members to learn it all, even make it part of the missionary discussions. If we can’t admit our strange history and still be “true,” then we were never “true” to begin with.

What do you think of the new Book of Mormon Introduction? Do you feel the church is moving away from its history?

Envisioning Temples that are more Hospitable, Interactive, and Inclusive

Finding Unexpected Inspiration at my Local Oratory

On Canadian Thanksgiving Day, my family walked to the largest church building in Canada, St. Joseph’s Oratory. My brother-in-law was visiting from Utah and we were taking a break from a day of cooking and lounging before we sat down to eat.

It was one of the first wintry days of the year with rain and chilly winds. Instead of enjoying the Oratory’s lookout and walking into the woods as we planned, we decided to take refuge inside the church. 

Inside the building were hundreds of visitors. They were eating in the café, visiting relics, viewing the creche exhibit, lighting candles in the grotto on behalf of loved ones, praying in the basilica chapel, and attending services in the smaller crypt chapel.

There were festive smells of bread, turkey, and pastries coming from the café. This and the nativity sets in the gift shop evoked the spirit of Christmas in the middle of October for me. Noticing several families caring for young babies made me think of the newborn Christ. As I looked at a snow globe featuring Mary with baby Jesus while peaceful music played, I realized that something different was happening in me: Being in this Jesus-focused space reconnected me with a sense of wonder at His birth in a way I hadn’t felt for years. 

We entered the basilica chapel. While the exterior of the building has a Renaissance revival style, the interior is decorated in art deco and is quite modern. The immense domed space felt like an appropriate reflection of transcendent and spiritual things, like an acknowledgement that God’s love encompasses all of humanity and creation.

I noticed details I never had before. Low on the walls are quotes to ponder carved beautifully into stone. Stained glass depicts scenes of Joseph, Mary’s husband, caring for the child Jesus. I noticed semi-private spaces behind the pews where to ponder life-size relief sculptures depicting the stations of the cross. I noticed the beauty of mosaics depicting scenes from the life of Christ on the backdrop of the sanctuary. I felt renewed trust in the power of simple spiritual practices to bring inner peace and hope, whether memorizing a quote, lighting a candle, or gazing at art depicting the face of God.

Any cynicism toward other Christian traditions was absent. I am gradually experiencing more moments of moving from a perplexity stage of faith to a more peaceful harmony stage. In moments of harmony like I experienced that day, I feel like all of humanity’s longings, doubts, traditions, and missteps belong and will lead to wisdom, and that God’s love gives us more than enough grace to include everyone. In the words of Julian of Norwich, it seems to me at these times that: “All shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of things shall be exceeding well.” In these moments, I also realize I don’t need to belong to other faiths to claim their spaces as sacred places to reconnect with the mysteries of God. 

Although the Catholic Church has greatly decreased in membership and activity here in Quebec since the 1950’s, the Oratory continues to expand its services and activities for patrons. They are building a new visitors’ center, renovating their museum and outdoor spaces, and just built a carillon bell tower. I admire their efforts to make this free center more inviting, interactive, and accommodating to visitors who come from all over the globe. It succeeds at providing welcoming, hospitable, and interesting spaces for families (including small children), groups of pilgrims from around the globe, and whoever seeks refuge off the street.

My visit to St. Joseph’s led me to think about my concern that Latter-day Saint temples are not oriented toward outsiders, members’ or families’ needs for connection. If we’re going to build hundreds of more temples as Pres. Nelson has planned with our tithing money, I’d like to see these temples help more than just fully participating Latter Day-saints and our global dead. I dream of temples that are founded on fraternity and connectedness rather than patriarchy and exclusivity, and that integrate and celebrates both feminine and masculine hospitality, creativity, and spirituality. Temples where you could possibly bring small children and be supported if need be, where a teenager could (again) look forward to soft-serve and a fun chat at the end of a visit, or where a stranger could find refuge from the rain and have a spiritual experience just as I did at St. Joseph’s.

I dream of a temple that is more community-oriented, with spaces and opportunities for connection

Cafeterias were one of the more enjoyable parts of going to temples for many people, especially teens and young adults, but now the Church has gotten rid of them all. Patrons miss having a space to connect over food. Personally, I miss the smells of mash potatoes, pies, and gravy that once greeted me at temples not unlike coming home to my grandmother’s house. Cafeterias made the temples that had them more hospitable, more family and community-oriented and in my mind more feminine than they are now.

One of the current goals behind building many more temples at once seems to be to make temples for all members within a reasonable driving distance. I get the value of this, but it also means we’re losing traditions of traveling to the temple as communities, which only makes going to the temple an increasingly solitary experience. Reinstating cafeterias or spaces like them where it is appropriate to socialize normally, eat and connect, would be a positive move.

Pres. Nelson’s stripping away of many Latter-day Saint traditions. programs, funds, and priorities besides temple worship is leaving many individuals and households feeling disconnected from their community roots and less motivated to stay engaged in the Church. If we want people to be motivated to go, we need to foster a more rewarding community life outside the mostly solitary experience inside the walls of the temple. We can’t let the temple become all we do or focus on.

And while the temple is supposed to be about family connections, visiting itself isn’t very accommodating or focused on either nuclear or extended families visiting. What if the temple became oriented toward families of all sizes and age ranges visiting and having interactive experiences together?

I long for temples that are culturally vibrant and connected to our past

Church administrators have ceased live endowment sessions and gutted the Salt Lake Temple of historical artwork and architecture to modernize and standardize the rituals inside. I don’t approve of these moves. I would enjoy temples that are less sterile and white and more visibly historic and eclectic. Seeing layers of history in places of worship can play an important role in connecting us to things that are greater than ourselves and our heritage.

Administrators have also recently gotten rid of some of the historic language and concepts in the endowment. I’m on board with changing language that is sexist, unethical, or oppressive, but I’m skeptical about other changes being the best direction. I took a university course about “the art of memory,” including how communities remember that made the point that across religious cultures, ritual language is usually carefully preserved throughout time. The goal is to keep it intact to preserve the past and to preserve origin stories, etc. I’m concerned that our leaders are not prioritizing this enough. In other traditions, there are prayers that have been around for hundreds and hundreds of years. Our religion isn’t even two hundred years old yet, yet we have had frequent changes to ritual language recently. For some members, frequent adjustments and regular dramatic makeovers water down the impact of sacred ritual language and make the temple a disorienting moving target rather than a spiritual home to return to.

I need temples that are more more interactive and engaging

Recently, temple rituals, especially the endowment, have become more of a passive, motionless, and isolated experience. The patrons do less and less, the presentation explains more and more explicitly what temple should mean to us. I miss practicing steps ahead of time during the endowment. I miss moving and standing up. I miss viewing a film rather than still images. The films helped me engage the content and made the temple more conducive for being in touch with my emotions, noticing symbolism, making creative connections, and tapping into personal imagination. And now that the temple tells me transparently about how and why diverse things tie back to Jesus, my mind is less interested and engaged throughout. I actually thought more about Jesus during past versions of the endowment. I’m disappointed that streamlined efficiency seems to be currently treated as the top priority. And I get the idea that slides make accommodating multiple languages and temples much easier, but I find the cost outweighs the benefit. I’m pretty discontent with much of the direction we’ve been moving toward recently.

I would prefer it if we used our bodies more in the temple, and if the presented content were more spiritually, artistically and emotionally engaging. I want interaction and real opportunities for my creative and spiritual capacities to be engaged rather than what turns out to be a passive, sedentary taking in of content with pre-determined meanings. I would like a full-embodied and mentally engaged kind of spirituality to take the front seat instead of convenience.

The Springtide Research Institute recommends that clergy who lead youth should invite the youth to help create religious community rituals to produce better results helping young people develop spiritual sensibilities. I wish I were granted space to contribute more to the content and meanings of the rituals I experience in temples. Being more active contributors there through ritualized words and actions would be more beneficial to patrons’ spiritual development and well-being.

We could also expand temple services to include interior spaces apart from the formal rituals to make the temple more of a place to just go connect with God. The temple could include semi-private spaces to pray, ponder, read, and write, with more diverse seating and lighting options. It would be nice to be welcomed to the temple even if you don’t have time or interest in doing an ordinance. I’d like there to be more freedom, within reason, to move around without supervision, much like at the oratory, where I can explore and experience all kinds of spaces meant for different kinds of worship and practices.

I dream of a temple with multiple Adams and Eves from many racial and ethnic backgrounds, speaking many languages

The temple presentations have never been inclusive to our ethnically and culturally diverse global church membership. Adam and Eve and God consistently being white seems to communicate some kind of racial priority or hierarchy that makes many ill-at-ease. This needs to change.

I need to see representations of the divine feminine in the temple

In the Oratory, there is a beautiful, cave-like, dimly-lit grotto in which half the walls are actually the rocky surface of Mount Royal, which often has water trickling down it. In this space, there is a beautiful sculpture of Mary, the mother of Jesus. It feels like a sacred nature and divine womanhood-focused space and I love it. I desire ways to connect with Heavenly Mother and to see Her visually in the temple, through both art and in the presentation.

I envision temples with spaces that are welcoming and open to the public.

St Joseph’s Oratory’s website explains, “Welcoming is at the heart of its mission…Everyone finds a space for reflection and an unconditional welcome.” We could create inclusive spaces in temples where all receive an unconditional welcome to spend time in the space and feel and ponder the love of God. This week I learned on Mormonland about how the secrecy and exclusivity of LDS temples can create negative feelings toward them and lead to unpleasant rumors. It’s normal across cultures for people want to understand what’s going on and be invited and included in sacred spaces. Temples could easily have spaces inside that provide something comparable to the hospitality and a religious literacy-oriented approach of Temple Square. Welcome centers, multi-faith prayer and meditation rooms, mini museums, music opportunities, free spiritual support services, art galleries–the possibilities are exciting.

I dream of changes to temple entrance requirements that would make the temple more welcoming and inclusive

So many more people could be welcomed and included if temple interview questions were kept simple and practice-based (i.e. are you following the 10 commandments?) rather than invasive or potentially shaming. The questions should exclude what we intellectually assent to and whether we sustain/submit to the clerical authority of human leaders. In the temple, the goal is to orient and commit ourselves to God, not human administrators. And, despite how chronically we get this wrong at Church, cognitive belief is not the same thing as faith. Lived practice and relational stances (e.g. trust, love, and willingness) are aligned with faith in God and following Jesus much more than any intellectual assent to ideologies. In many other religions, to enter a sacred space, what really counts is are you willing to have good manners and follow the rules; whether you want to be there is the crucial issue. Treating cognitive belief in Church dogmas as a prerequisite for worthiness/entrance is keeping many people away from temples who might otherwise benefit and want to be involved. This really needs to change!

I dream of temples where members need not pay tithing to participate in ordinances

Temple entrance requirements need reforms, especially during our current era of increasing income disparity and poverty. Ten percent of one’s income is absolutely not an equal offering among members when we compare the wealthy with the poor and disadvantaged. Even in many middle and lower middle income households today, paying tithing makes a big difference to one’s quality of life, negatively impacting flexibility and much needed emergency funds. Some families, for example, have to make choices between whether their children will participate in community activities that are much needed for their physical and mental health or to pay tithing (and accessing these activities for children is all the more needed in an era when neither the Church nor society at large are providing adequate community supports for kids). Some couples must choose between paying for things like marriage therapy, medical treatments, or other family essentials or tithing.

On the blog, one woman who identified herself as Frustrated recently shared: “Daycare and health costs have eaten into our savings such that we can no longer pay any [tithing] to anyone. Our mortgage is less than most people’s rent, so it’s not like we can downsize there, either. We are working on our spending habits re: groceries and other necessities…I’m trying to save up for a much-needed roof replacement. I will not be lectured to about giving to the Lord’s church when the Lord’s church has enough to last til the 2nd Coming (whenever that may be) and then some. What little money I can save I spend helping give Christmas presents to those in worse financial straits than us.”

When individuals make choices to prioritize meeting important needs over paying tithing, adults are then excluded from participating in important rituals and rites of passage. Dads are informed by their bishoprics they won’t be allowed to baptize, confirm, or ordain their own kids. Parents can’t benefit from time in the temple or bring there teenagers there.

Promises of blessings in return for faithful tithing verge on magical thinking and manipulation. And as Frustrated points out, the Church’s wealth seems to be evidence to many members that it doesn’t need to take money from the poor or from anyone on a tight budget whose well-being will be negatively impacted rather than blessed by the sacrifices of tithing. These are the people the Church should be giving the most to instead of taking from. Are we being asked to buy our salvation? How much is this requirement just a way for the institution to ensure itself a steady financial intake rather than something that is pleasing to God? I believe Jesus would overturn many of the metaphorical tables of our administrator’s temple entrance requirements.

I Dream of the Church Giving Back to Members in More in Ways than Just More Temples

This Fall, Church funds were withdrawn and cut off in my stake. Suddenly, we had a $0 budget for the rest of the year, and no one seems to know why. My ward has a large population of humble asylum seekers and immigrants from all over the world who offer a lot to the Church. It seems to me it is an unwritten rule that if you belong to a Christian church, that church will provide a Christmas meal that will be a free gift. Yet our ward has no hope of a Christmas celebration unless we require the members to bring the equivalent of what their entire family would eat for Christmas dinner to the party themselves. My recent Christmas party experiences with the Church are something straight out of a Dickensian dystopia. Last year, we didn’t have enough food at the dinner (due, I assume from what I know, to budget cuts and just never having enough money) and many went home hungry. Our party this year is, by necessity, a potluck with anxious leaders spending time contacting everyone trying to get them to sign up for as much food as they can spare. It seems to me that the church isn’t giving much of anything substantial back to the members of my ward, many of whom are paying tithing at great cost. Where is the reciprocity? To be frank, the deprivation of funds to my ward and stake upsets me immensely and I consider it unethical. Inspiration to build more temples, however legitimate, is no excuse for Scrooge-like, penny-pinching actions in the face of the social needs, monetary offerings, and free labor contributions of members. If the celestial kingdom has no resources for Christmas parties, barbecues, craft nights, or talents shows, I’m not interested. If all we do together is have sterile, white, quiet spaces with chandeliers, count me out! The current administrations’ fixation on investing in temples becomes neglectful and oppressive rather than a blessing whenever they fail to show hospitality to ordinary members and other guests. In preparation for Jesus’s coming, we need to respond to his commission to feed his sheep rather than ignore human needs and strip religion down to temple worship.

Final Thoughts

I dream of temples that are more inclusive and welcoming to both our own members and to the world, where all pilgrims could benefit from coming to in their search for connection with one another and divinity. I think this kind of temple would do a better job strengthening our struggling LDS communities, helping us retain more of our young people, and strengthening people outside the Church and on its margins. How we do temples and Church has changed many times before and it will change again. I’m holding out hope that things could be much better–more hospitable, more inclusive, more interactive, and better at meeting our needs and desires. In the meantime, I’m going to keep trying to learn from other places of worship, and reclaiming them as my own sacred spaces.