Dealing with "I don't know"

Of all the classic anti-Mormon stuff out there, this is the hardest one for me. This is the one where the only answer I have found is “I don’t know.” So what’s the point of this post, then? Well, it’s how I learned to be OK with that answer.

The thing I have the hardest time with is race in Church history. The first thing you hear about race in the Church is that black men were not able to hold the priesthood before 1978. While I don’t know a good reason for that, there is historical precedence for it. For a long time, I accepted that as a complete answer. God gives His priesthood power to whomever he chooses. In the Old Testament, he gave it only to Levites. There were plenty of worthy men within the covenant who didn’t hold the priesthood. So, while the specific division in modern times didn’t make sense to me, the idea of God giving the Priesthood to only certain male members was not repulsive to me.

Why wasn’t it repulsive to me? For the same reasons that I don’t feel like a second-class member of the church. I don’t hold the priesthood. But I fully receive all the blessings of the Priesthood. To be ordained to the priesthood is to be called to serve in God’s kingdom in a specific way. Being called to serve in other ways is not a problem for me. It isn’t lesser. It does seem odd that the division of callings would be made along racial lines, but some people think it’s odd that other callings are divided by gender. So I can deal with it. If I can receive exaltation without ordination to the priesthood, so can anyone else who isn’t called to serve in the priesthood.

But that leads us to the part that I do have a hard time with. Like I said, I fully receive all the blessings of the priesthood. But “for much of its history—from the mid-1800s until 1978—the Church did not ordain men of black African descent to its priesthood or allow black men or women to participate in temple endowment or sealing ordinances.” (www.lds.org/topics/race-and-the-priesthood emphasis added).

And that’s what I have a hard time with. I had always thought about the structure of priesthood ordination impacting certain men being called to Priesthood offices. When I thought about it impacting temple blessings for all persons of African descent, that was much, much harder to understand. In fact, I’ll just say it: I don’t understand that.

There are partial answers. During the great apostasy, God let several of his children live on the earth when there were no temple blessings available to anyone. And there were times when God gave only the Aaronic Priesthood and not the Higher Priesthood, which is basically what persons of African descent had access to: Ordinances of the Aaronic Priesthood, but not the Melchizedek.

So the idea of not providing full priesthood blessings to everyone in this life is not one that particularly bothers me. But the racial divide doesn’t make sense to me. Ordinances of the Melchizedek Priesthood are essential to salvation. And I just don’t understand why, when the power is on the earth, access would be based on anything other than worthiness.

But here are some things I do know. For one, God is not racist. I know God. And He isn’t. Second, I know the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is God’s church. That same priesthood power at the source of this controversy is real. And it flows in God’s church. Otherwise, none of this would matter anyway. How do I know it’s real? I’ve felt it in the ordinances. I’ve felt it when I’ve been set apart for church callings and the endowment of love and discernment that comes with the stewardship changes me. I’ve felt it in the Sacrament when my guilt was washed away. I know God wants all of his children to fully receive the blessings of His power. I know because I’ve sat in the temple, pouring out my heart for people who could not attend at the time, and I’ve felt how desperately God wanted them to get there.

There are blessings of the priesthood that I crave for myself. I don’t have the highest blessings of the temple myself right now. I’m worthy. But I’m single. I cannot receive exaltation this way. I want it. He tells me not to worry, that the timing isn’t right yet. I believe Him. Do I feel incomplete at times without it? Yes. Have I ever felt forgotten or abandoned? Of course. But mostly I feel His love. And most of the time, I see purpose and meaning in the pain of waiting. Right now I can say that I’m grateful for what I’ve experienced. It has brought me closer to my savior.

But that’s my experience – my experience as a white woman born a decade after the revelation on the Priesthood. And that’s another thing I’ve come to realize: I didn’t live before 1978. I don’t understand what it was like before the revelation. I don’t understand the cultural context. I have never experienced the Church with any other policy than the current one that “all of our brethren who are worthy may receive the priesthood.” So why would I expect God to give me an answer that I would have needed if I had lived a couple decades earlier? I didn't live then. I live now and I need to understand current revelation.

There are many people who lived in the church without full access to priesthood blessings because of their race. They got answers. They got personal answers as to what to learn, and what to do, and how God still loved them. God isn’t going to give me their answers. I have more than enough of my own to seek.

There are things in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that some people find discriminatory or unfair today. I don’t. God has answered the questions I have today. I feel His love in the doctrines. I also feel it in the organizational structure of the church as directed by His living prophet today. I feel that love more strongly in the doctrine than in the principles, but I suspect that’s as it should be. Many of the principles have helped me to understand the doctrine.

I’ve discussed this issue with multiple friends. Many of them can give me answers as to why they don’t worry about it. For the most part, their answers don’t mean a thing to me (other than that I’m glad they’ve found their answers). My answers are my answers, based on my own experience. That’s enough for me right now.

How to Handle a Stepford Mormon

                Two days before my 17^th birthday, my brother was in a snowmobiling accident at a young men’s campout and broke his leg badly. The day before my 17^th birthday, our car broke down. Fortunately I had the next day off work, so I spent my 17^th birthday tending to my seven younger siblings while my parents were gone all day dealing with the car and caring for my older brother. We had a small birthday party in the hospital room and my mother apologized that it wasn’t better.

                The thing is, I honestly didn’t mind. I was glad that it was my birthday. Had it been one of my younger sibling’s birthdays instead, I would have felt an obligation to bake a personalized cake for them and cook their favorite meal like my mother always did. The last time I had tried to make a birthday cake, it turned out looking something like this: 

(Apparently you're supposed to let it cool before you frost it. Who knew?)

                So I was just glad that, if everything was going to go crazy on a birthday, it was mine. Because I really was OK with it, and I preferred that to the stress of trying to make up for my mom being gone on someone else’s birthday.

                The day after my 17^th birthday, I went to a Young Women’s meeting. I was in the Laurel Class Presidency and was responsible for the birthday list. Had it been any other girl’s birthday that week, I would have made sure something was planned to wish her a happy birthday. But that week wasn’t a normal mutual meeting. It was New Beginnings with food and a program for all the Young Women and their parents. So I sure wasn’t going to worry about my birthday and I didn’t really expect anyone else to either.

                I spent much of the evening answering questions about my brother and how he was doing. Nobody wished me a happy birthday. Again, this didn’t bother me. My brother’s leg was far more important to me than my birthday anyway. I stayed after to help take down decorations and put away tables. That was when two of my Young Women’s leaders pulled me aside, stuck a paper crown on my head, pulled out a cupcake and sang “Happy Birthday.”

                I still remember how I felt. Important. Loved. Remembered. I didn’t know I needed to feel any of those things that night. But then when it happened, I almost cried.

               It wasn’t any of the things they gave me that mattered. If I’d wanted a cupcake, I would have made one (I could make cupcakes successfully). If I’d wanted someone to sing to me, I could have just asked anyone to sing to me and they would have. But it wouldn’t have meant anything. The only reason that meant anything was because I didn’t ask for it. I hadn’t reminded anyone that it was my birthday. They just cared.

                So when people ask me what I need or how they can help me, I don’t usually have an answer. What am I supposed to say? “I need you to give me sincere compliments as often as possible.” Or maybe, “I would like you to magically know when I’m feeling lonely and text me just to ask how I am.” I’m a pretty capable, independent person. I’ve lived most of my life without needing “service”.

                I don’t ask questions in Sunday School because I already know the answers: Live the gospel. If I’m having a hard time, I don’t need someone to tell me to pray or go to the temple. I’m already doing it. I’m healthy. I’m employed. I have transportation. I have family support. I rely on my Savior. I’m fine. I really am fine.

                I don’t want you to try to fix things for me because you can’t. My deepest struggles and my most profound fears are related to walking the fine line between where my greatest strengths become my greatest weaknesses. The farther I climb, the more the path narrows and the sharper the drop off on either side. I’m terrified of heights – both literally and metaphorically. 

I go canyoneering with my brother (oh yeah, his leg got better) and we get to obstacles that make me shrink because I know I could get hurt. Really hurt. Sometimes I know I will get hurt. I have been scared so badly that my entire body quivered as I lost control of my muscles. And there usually isn’t anything my brother can do. In the end, I just have to do it. And I know that. But I make my brother sit there for ten minutes while I get up the courage. I hate it if he starts to scout ahead instead of just watching me get through it.

(This is one of my first times rappelling. I literally cried for like five minutes right before this picture was taken.)

                So what do I want? I want you to let me see your soul and know that I am safe there. When you ask me what’s wrong, and I say “I don’t know,” I want you to sit me down and ask me questions until I figure it out. I want you to pay enough attention that you know something is wrong. I want you to want to know me – not because of any obligation or to try to help me, but because you genuinely want to understand how I work and why I feel what I feel, because I am a fascinating daughter of God. I want you to pray for me every day and act on every prompting you receive. Because if you just ask me what I need, most of the time I don’t have a clue.

                Is there anything you can do for me? I don’t know. Can you be the kind of friend I described, instead of just someone I see at church and chat with about school and work and movies? I would have to need you. And you would have to need me, too. That kind of friendship doesn’t just happen. It’s a gift from God. And He doesn’t give it to everyone in every friendship. We mortals can’t handle that much divine love and compassion for everyone (hence Ammon fainting all over the place).

                Somebody recently told me “you don’t love someone until you’ve seen their pain.” It’s true. That’s when I love people. I don’t think many people have seen my pain. Because I don’t show it. That’s how I am. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I’m not sure if I want to change it, or how much I want to change. I like that I can put other people’s needs ahead of my own. I don’t want to talk about myself to people who aren’t really interested. I kind of like that there is a good portion of myself that is reserved for those who are closest to me.

                But I don’t want to be unapproachable. I don’t want to put up barriers. Outside of my immediate family, everyone that’s ever gotten deep enough to see the things that hurt has put in a lot of effort to get there. They’ve had to ask. They’ve had to be patient. They’ve had to push a little. And I want them to do it. But why would they want to? How would they know I need a friend? How would they ever feel comfortable asking hard questions? I don’t. I usually err on the side of being polite. How do you break past that? I don’t know how to just do that. Every time it’s happened, it’s been the Spirit. Other than that, I don’t know what makes the difference.

     This post doesn’t really have a conclusion. Everything else I’ve written so far has been me looking back on things that I’ve figured out. This is where I am now. Incidentally, I don’t want you to fix it :) I think this blog is part of me figuring it out.

When the People Aren't Perfect

            At first, I wasn’t sure if I could write a post like this. I’ve never been deeply offended in the church. I’ve never had bad leaders. But I have been frustrated… frustrated to the point of wanting to use italics and exclamation points and all caps to express it (I apologize in advance for that). You might read this post and think “well your complaints just make you seem pretty petty and prideful.” And you’d be right. I don’t like admitting that, but I think it’s instructive to break down what was really going on when I was offended at church. 

            So once upon a time I had a Bishop. My calling was such that I was very involved in visiting teaching. Our home teaching and visiting teaching numbers were… not where they should have been. At a meeting I did not attend, the Bishop gave some direction. The direction that was given and later passed on to me was twofold:

1.      We’re probably not going to be able to visit everyone every month. Focus on the people who need it.

2.      Don’t just focus on visits. What I want is for everyone to feel loved and cared for, so if there isn’t an actual visit, but the home or visiting teachers are reaching out and having contact in other ways, count that.

            Some people understood the Bishop’s direction to mean the following:

1.      We no longer have to visit everyone. Don’t worry about assigning home or visiting teachers to strong, active members.

2.      Dropping off cookies counts as a visit.

Now, you need a little background on my previous experience in that ward. In fairness, I had some great home teachers and visiting teachers. For example, one visiting teacher arrived late to a scheduled appointment and quickly apologized. She explained that she left her house to discover that someone had parked behind her car and she couldn’t get out. We lived at opposite ends of the ward, so she walked to the church building where her family ward was in session, found her mother and asked for her keys, and borrowed her mother’s car to still come visit me. I felt so loved in that moment. It wasn’t about anything she said in the visit. It was just that I was worth that much effort to keep an appointment with. 

Not all of my visiting teachers were like that. Sometimes I felt like they dropped off a Pinterest quote so they could check me off their list. Often, I wasn’t visited at all. I went one year without even knowing who my home teacher was. It hadn’t really bothered me. I didn’t need home and visiting teachers. I was doing just fine. 

Then I had a hard year. I felt like I was doing a lot to serve in the ward. I knew the ward quite well. I knew a lot of people who were struggling. I tried to reach out. I often felt like I was doing it alone, and it bothered me. On top that, I was going through some stuff myself. I was trying to take care of everyone while desperately wanting someone to take care of me. I struggled with burn out. I felt like I was taken for granted. I started thinking things like:

·         Don’t I deserve the same level of effort as I’m giving?

·         If I just stopped showing up to church, I wonder how long it would take someone to come find out what’s wrong.

At one point, I asked a visiting teacher directly to come visit me. The response I got was basically that she didn’t have time. I was angry. It’s important to say that several people in my ward truly cared about me. Whenever I hit a point where I really needed somebody, they were there. It wasn’t necessarily my home teachers, but somebody was always there for me.

And it wasn’t just me they were there for. There are people I will be forever grateful to because they took care of people I loved in ways that I could not. There were times when people came to church or institute and I wanted to go kiss the person who brought them.

But I had been angry, frustrated, and self-righteously indignant many times over the last year. So when I heard the new direction, and some of the interpretation of it, I was angry all over again. I took it to mean that the Bishop was validating the approach to home-and-visiting-teaching that had left me feeling overlooked and frustrated. And that wasn’t OK. So after some uncharitable grumbling to myself, I asked for clarification on what the Bishop had actually said, not the interpretation that some people had added into it. And then, focusing on his actual direction, I prayed about following it.

Bishop said to count the caring, not the visits. I thought about my own experience as a visiting teacher. Here’s a list of some of the things I have received revelation to do as a visiting teacher:

·         Stop by someone’s place of work and buy something so you can talk to her in line.

·         Write her a letter.

·         Drop off cookies at her house.

·         Have a conversation on Facebook chat.

·         Give her rides to work.

·         Invite her over to play games and eat brownies.

Not only have I done all of those as a visiting teacher, but there have been times when I did them in place of a traditional visit. Usually, it was because the sister did not want a traditional visit, so God told me what I could do instead. Bishop wasn’t saying “you can get away with doing less.” He was saying to serve in the way that was needed, and to focus on service rather than numbers. That’s a principle that I fully believe. It’s a principle that actually requires more effort to apply effectively than just visiting once a month.

Bishop also said to focus on the people who need it. It was a philosophy that I had often followed. When I had been in a position to give counsel on visiting teaching assignments, I regularly suggested assigning the strongest visiting teachers to sisters who I knew were struggling. If I had been told to choose between getting consistent, inspired home-and-visiting-teaching for myself or someone else, I would have given the Bishop a list of several people to take care of before me. Because, gripe and whine as I might, I never did stop showing up to church. I wouldn’t have. I needed it too much.

So why post this? I remember, on my mission, sitting with a family that had once been strong and active and asking them why they left. They described almost exactly the negative feelings that I expressed at places above. But those same frustrations, instead of driving me out of the church, have driven me to Christ. 

Go read this talk by Elder Holland. Or better yet, listen to it. And then pity my pettiness. Christ never gave up. He never stopped serving. During that difficult year, after a particularly hard week, I texted a friend in the ward to say I was feeling better that day. He responded by asking “Why is that? Is it because you know what I know?” I asked him what he knew. He said, “That you have a Savior who loves you.” And I started crying, because that was exactly what had made the difference.