Yesterday I made an
unexpected journey to Spokane from Salt Lake City. My daughter had emergency surgery, and
besides feeling the need to comfort and nurture her, she needs my help with her
two little rascals. On the flight here I sat next to a young woman who was on
her way to visit family during spring break from a school of performing arts in
New York City. She was earthy, tan, and friendly, her bare feet tucked under
her, a worn pair of sandals on the floor under the seat. She struck up a conversation with the fellow
on the other side of her. I closed my eyes, hoping for a little rest.
Annie had called at 4 am from the hospital ER, and since I had been up writing
until 2 am, I was a little worried and weary. In my half sleep stupor I
listened to their conversation by default.
The fellow was also a
student, a senior at Pepperdine University.
“I was going to apply to
Pepperdine”, the girl said, “but it’s a religious school and I couldn’t handle
that. I got to the essay in the
application and the question was ‘What
effect does religion have on education? I decided then and there it wasn’t
for me. I just can’t handle religion.”
He defended the non-churchy sector of
the university, without committing one way or the other. I actually thought he was charmingly
diplomatic. And she was in every other way warm and thoughtful and didn’t make
me feel uncomfortable. I was so
intrigued by her remarks that I pulled my phone out of my pocket and Googled
the word religion.
I would define myself, to
anyone who might want to know who I was, as a religious person. My religious
faith is a huge part of my life. It weaves through just about everything I
think, feel, experience and hope for. Her criticism of religion made me wonder
what she might have thought the definition was.
I have been ruminating on
some inner level since that plane ride how this little row of three passengers
on a plane could have relative ease being beside each other, with such differing
concepts of our very existence. I wonder, fairly often actually, if I am one of
those wackos who has thrown their whole wad of humanness into investing in a
spiritual Ponzi scheme. Am I being inspiringly devoted or ridiculously deceived?
My truthful response to my own question is that without the Holy Ghost in my
life, I cannot and would not know. Indeed, I am a believer, and without that third
member of the Godhead that I worship, I could not know…know…if my proverbial eggs of faith are being placed in the right
basket.
David and I made a choice,
without ever really wavering, to raise our children in an atmosphere of belief. It was not a curtain we pulled over
them. It was more like water in which we
bathed and which we drank daily. We
lived what we believed, and they came along with us. It was important to my husband and me to
raise our kids so that they were able to witness the ebb and flow of our
personal faith. Dave is much more steady than his wife! It never felt right for
me to overemphasize my doubts, but at the same time I did not hide them. I
remember standing at the pulpit in Fast and Testimony Meeting and saying “I am
not sure of much of anything. I wish I
could say at this moment that everything about our church is the absolute
truth. But I can’t, and I can’t explain
why. But I am quite certain that if I were to die tomorrow and find out that
Jesus Christ was not the Savior of mankind I would be in an awful sorrowful
state of disbelief. Probably the one
thing I feel most certain about is that He lived as our savior, He died as our
savior, and that he was resurrected in such a way that we are all enabled to
live again as well. His grace
empowers us to progress as he would like us to, both here on the earth and
hereafter. I have my doubts, that’s for sure.
But I also have my faith.”
I look at these two little
children snuggled beside me here in my daughter’s house. Their innocence is divine, and so is their
faith. They fold their little fingers
together before their dinner plates and thank their superhuman-power-of-a-God
for their food, and they freely ask that Being they cannot see if He will bless
their mommy. They do this freely, and
comfortably; believing. But they are little kids. Not fully developed. I mean, they know there is also a Santa
Clause, right? But I think about them,
and the tiny portion of their brains that they are able to use at this point,
and I say to myself, “How much do we need to explain to them to make them have
a healthy understanding of things? Do
they need to know how the light in the lamp on the living room floor gets the
power to turn on and off? Do they need to understand the process of water
coming clean and cool and easily into the sink? Do they need to understand how
the baby growing in their mommy was not in the right place, had burst its holding place and so they had to hurry
and cut mommy’s tummy and take it out? Because these things are beyond their
comprehension are they not effectively true nonetheless?
In my age I become more
and more aware of my ignorance, and I am stunned at the arrogance with which we
approach divine concepts, like we know things we can’t possibly know at our
young eternal age. And we make others feel foolish for trusting what cannot
be known.
I am saddened to live in a
world where religion is mocked, like it is a weakness and a blindness rather
than a strength and a vision. I understand how it is perceived that way,
because some of us religious sorts are so “in your face” with our beliefs.
I am reminded of my former
neighbors, Bryan and Ann, whose lives were deeply polished to a heavenly shine
by their religious faith. We do not share the same religion, but I deeply
respect the way they live good, loving lives because they feel guided by a
supreme being. Goodness is not exclusive
to one religious sect.
Members of my family are
prone to say, in response to criticism of others: “We are all just down here
trying.” My intrinsic propensity to
believe in religion, in a super human being who has control, has made me feel
more at home, and yet more removed from others.
Such an oxymoron. (maybe I am an oxy-Mormon.) I am stunned that some
people who profess to be Christians call me a non-Christian.
Once, years ago, I took a few
voice lessons from a woman who defined herself as a born again Christian. She was a great teacher, and a kind
person. I sang one of my songs for her
during a lesson. Her eyes welled up, and she said she was sweetly moved by the
message of the song. She stopped herself mid sentence, like she was surprised a
Mormon could write something that was moving.
I responded, “ Debbie, we both believe in the same God.” I was stunned
when she replied, firmly, “We most certainly do not!”
I was speechless for a
minute. I asked what God she worshiped
that was different from mine. She flung
guttural phrases toward me, piercing and angry, like it was shameful that I
would profess to in any way have a part in her God’s kingdom. I listened, surmising
that arguing would not welcome the spirit into the conversation. In the end I asked if we could finish the
lesson. When we were done, I told her I
was sorry for her feelings, and that I had not in any way intended to offend
her or God. I simply believed that there
was more that unites us than divides us. I never again felt free enough to sing
with all my heart for her.
To my children; to their
children; and to all the world I profess that I am a sucker for God. I believe.
I know its not popular. It’s
certainly not hip lately. I have doubts, for sure, especially because I know we
humans run the churches that rise from religion. But the church is not the religion to
me. The religion goes deeper, to the
dirty soil under the pretty churches, where the earth is nutritious and the
nourishment hard to get unless your roots are deeply planted. The church is the orchard, where good fruit should be bounteously harvested And so I plant myself in that place, with
other like flora, our roots intertwining there underground. And our branches? They
reach up toward the light.
