Working Through Beliefs Together

I enjoyed this article written by a women coming to terms with her husband’s change in beliefs.

But I wanted to understand him. This was Sean, the man who stood by me during years of clinical depression. The man who pretended to be a dinosaur while he chased our shrieking sons around the room. He wasn’t some heathen. I couldn’t believe that. I wouldn’t believe it. He’d always been a skeptic, and even though I didn’t agree with him, I knew intellectually that he’d never make this decision without careful consideration of the fact

I’ve been lucky because my spouse has tried to understand my change in beliefs. It’s not a given so embrace your spouse who cares enough to make the effort. Support them, love them, and have patience. What doesn’t work? Expecting them to follow your path. If they do come along it will be at their pace and when they are ready.

My tears stopped. Her questions were so off-base that they seemed absurd. She was sincere, and trying to help, but she believed what the Church teaches — that a man would only leave because he’s disobeying the commandments. She couldn’t understand this was a rational inquiry. She saw everything as the result of sin.

It’s a lot easier to write off unbelievers as sinners than taking an honest look at what bothers them by actually asking them. I think a lot of people are scared that what they hear might resonate with them so it’s easier to keep them at bay. Truth will stand up to scrutiny.

Thoughts About God

From 1987 to 1989 I left my home in Ogden, Utah and served a mission in Germany for the Mormon church. I made a number of friends, visited dozens of lush German towns, and began to question everything I’d been taught about God.

The nature of God has been something I’ve pondered since I was a young boy, leaving grade school and walking a half mile to the church to attend primary. I met up with friends and a few adults who lead us in songs and taught us about Mormon doctrine including Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon and Heavenly Father (God).

When I was 10 or 11 years old, one lesson focused on how the Mormon church was the only true church on the face of the earth. She emphasized the “only true” part over and over as if she wanted it ingrained in our young minds. I was confused and raised my hand, asking how anyone could know for certain that we had the only true church with so many different churches around the world. Did someone attend each church and declare the Mormon church the only true one? I don’t remember the answer, if one was provided, but I would continue asking these questions as I entered the Mission Training Center.

One year into my mission, I wrote my grandfather to inquire about this and few other church doctrines that didn’t make sense to me. He sent back a reply explaining his views pertaining to the topics I inquired about, but gently advised that I’d have to figure things out on my own.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the nature of God, and asking myself a number of questions such as:

1. Why is the God of the Old Testament such a mean, vindictive, jealous God? I can’t relate to a God that commands armies to slaughter every man, woman, and child regardless of the sins they committed.

2. Why would the Mormon God devise a plan that would result in so few of his children returning to him?

3. Why would the Mormon God deny African Americans the priesthood until 1978?

4. Why would the Mormon God select to restore his church through Joseph Smith, and then watch while he uses his church authority to recruit, groom and marry at least 33 women? Some of Smith’s wives were as young as 14 and eleven of them were already married to other men.

5. Why would the Mormon God command his church to be organized in a manner whereby women are relegated to second class members?

Speaking with friends in and out of the Mormon church, I realize my understanding of God is very different from theirs. I met a number of Pantheists while serving in Germany who told me they believed God lived in nature and could take any form he liked.

Some of my friends don’t believe in a God. Or they aren’t sure there’s a God. I’ve found these people to be the least judgmental of any group. I wonder why?

Others believe in a God to the extent that nearly ever action they take is somehow influenced by him. This God helps them find their car keys, travel from church to home in safety and ensures they perform well on a math test.

If God has so much free time on his hands to help locate your keys why wouldn’t he spend that time helping children who are dying from famine and starvation around the world?

In short, God can be whatever you want him or her to be, and yet that doesn’t feel right to me either. Since nobody has seen God (which is surprising given the billions of camera phones) I’m left to wonder if God is man-made. That’s the conclusion made by Christopher Hitchens in his book titled, “God Is Not Great”. No other book in the last 20 years has rocked my world more than this book. I bought the audiobook and listened to it for the first time as I was traveling from Arizona back to Utah through Nevada. I stopped at the Hoover Dam to take in this amazing man-made structure and pondered what I’d heard.

What I felt was a slap across the face. I’ve listened to it three times already.

Until that time I’d been in a 20+ year religious slumber, going through the motions week after week, but finding myself unhappy at best and depressed at worst.

I’m finally awakening, but finding what I’ve been taught for so many years doesn’t make a lot of sense to me today. I’m still searching, still learning. I feel alone on this journey much of the time, but I suspect that’s normal. My grandfather was right: everyone has to figure this out on their own.

The Stepping Away Part

The easy part of stepping away from an organization I’ve been involved with my entire life is the stepping away part.

The more challenging part is removing the remnants of dogma that have cluttered my mind for so many years. My brain is like a Windows XP registry that’s seen beliefs and convictions come and go, but never fully taking steps to remove the old junk as I’ve gained new knowledge and insight.

Tonight I asked Kim and Luca if they believed people are inherently moral or do they require a parent, church, or someone else to teach them to be good human beings. We all agreed that we believe most people are born with a natural tendency to do good to others.

Yesterday the LDS church decided to excommunicate a women who started a group asking to hold the priesthood. Today some men and women in the same church took to Facebook and their blogs to celebrate her banishment from the church.

I wonder what I ever had in common with there people I once shared an organized religion with. Remember we all share this planet, and there’s more than one journey that leads to happiness.

I have a wonderful support system in Kim and my friends, many of which have reached out to me offering support. If you’re worried about my children or want to call me to repentance please save your energy and respect my decision. I promise to respect yours.

Taking a Break

Last month I returned home from a business trip to Las Vegas and told Kim I was tired of allowing the church to infiltrate my life to the point of largely determining my happiness.

For as long as I can remember I’ve had one foot in the church and one foot out. Going through the motions has been a simpler solution than honestly facing these issues. But it’s begun taking a toll.

So I’m taking a break from my church.

You probably don’t care, which is how I hope everyone will feel when they read this. Nothing is more personal than a person’s beliefs. I don’t base my friendships on the assumption we both share the same beliefs, and I hope you don’t either.

This morning I woke up, put on pair of shoes I’ve owned for ten years and went for a three mile walk around our neighborhood.

I thought about how thankful I am to be the father of five children that bring immense joy to my life. I considered how lucky to have found a company that allows me to work from home, doing what I love to do. And I’m so glad I found Kim who is an amazing mother, friend, and spouse.

I’ve lived 46 years. I’m no longer willing to turn over my happiness for someone else to judge. Today I put both feet firmly on the ground I choose as I search out what it means to believe.

Or not.

Either way, it will be my choice.

“If you don’t design your own life plan, chances are you’ll fall into someone else’s plan. And guess what they have planned for you? Not much.” — Jim Rohm (from Scripting News)

We Make the Rules

I was a first-year college student at the University of Utah when an art teacher introduced me to Jackson Pollock. My teacher explained that the process Pollock used for bringing paint and canvas together was shocking to the established artists of his time.

Pollock would take paint and toss and flick it onto a massive canvas, often walking around it to get the best angle.

His paintings mesmerized and intrigued me. A number of my fellow students found his painting uninspiring and sloppy. But for several months, I found myself in the library searching for every Pollock painting I could find tucked away in the school’s small art book section.

As much as I enjoyed Pollock’s finished works it was his process I was drawn to. The fact that he was doing something that hadn’t been done before, on his terms was fascinating. I suspect at least one person told him he was going about painting the wrong way and he ignored it.

How do we assess greatness without a comparative work?

As I watch my children participate in school and church, I wonder if they are being taught to a standard determined by committee? Class grades provide a clear way to determine how well my children conform. A certain reverence, behavior, and speech are expected at church. Memorization is expected in both places.

At school, one son is penalized because the teacher can’t reach his spelling although each word is spelled correctly. Another son is asked to memorize an Article of Faith in exchange for a treat but is denied such when the teacher can’t understand a word or two.

We make the rules and you will conform. ‘Do things our way or you will be penalized’ comes through loud and clear. Don’t draw outside the lines and absolutely, no flicking paint around our canvas.

As a parent, I add another layer of expectations on each of my children. My son mows the lawn the way I was taught to mow the lawn 30 years ago. That’s how I was taught so it must be the best and only way to do it right.

To this day the way I act around my parents and siblings is more closely aligned with how they expect me to act than how I actually am.

Is it possible there’s a little Pollock in everyone, but few possess the guts to act on it?

Dealing with Doubt

Few topics give me pause to write about more than religion.

I don’t find it difficult to write about my own thoughts and experiences regarding my beliefs, but I’ve found that people close to me either misinterpret my writing or I offend someone. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if I possess the skill to pull it off, but here it goes anyway.

A few weeks ago I read the New York Times article about Hans Mattsson who was called to serve as an area authority for the Mormon church in Sweden. Members began asking him about historical facts that conflicted with what they had been taught in church. When Mattsson went to church leaders in Salt Lake City for answers, he wasn’t satisfied with their response and later decided to go public with his frustration.

As links to this article circulated on Facebook, I watched at the reactions that ranged from shock to dismay to mild disappointment. I read the articles a couple of times and thought, “Yep, I can relate to that.” I can only imagine the pressure Mattsson must feel as a leader responsible for a large number of church members. His beliefs in the church are expected to be rock solid. Is there any room for doubt in a leader?

As a young missionary entering the Mission Training Center in Provo, Utah, I had a lot of questions myself. I studied the scriptures for many hours during my 8 week stay in Provo. By the time I arrived in Germany I was prepared to teach Germans about my beliefs. It would be a few months before my language skills would catch up to the doctrine I had memorized, and I was able to deliver my message to those handful of Germans kind enough to listen. As a side note, I found most Germans to be incredibly friendly and open once I earned their trust. There just weren’t many who wanted to listen to a 20-year old tell them their church didn’t have all the truth.

I had ample opportunity to deliver my message (called discussions) that began with our belief in a God and Jesus Christ which hopefully softened up my audience enough before I dropped the Joseph Smith story bomb on them. All those head nods and hey-you-aren’t-so-strange looks I got while talking about Christ often turned to stares of you-expect-me-to-believe-that!? when I told them about Joseph Smith digging up plates of gold on a hillside.

Most pieces of the Mormon doctrinal puzzle fit within a framework I could comprehend. A few points of doctrine became clear to me the more I studied. But there were two topics I struggled with to the point that I eventually pulled out a pen and paper and wrote a letter to my grandfather asking for his take on the matter. I was close to my grandfather, and we often discussed the early history of the church. He seemed to devour books written by church leaders and would share what he learned with me. I valued his opinion as much as anyone’s because he once told me that he’d gained both a spiritual and intellectual testimony of the church.

To a 20-year old young man, gaining an intellectual testimony meant that all the doctrinal pieces fit together. He had solved the puzzle while mine was still a work in progress. But knowing that each piece fit somewhere was comforting.

I wish I could tell you those two pieces found a home, but that’s not the case. I still pull them out and examine them from time to time. I’m resigned to the fact that one or both pieces may never fit my puzzle. Occasionally, I’ll bring up one of these topics with Kim because I know she won’t mistake my doubt for something it’s not.

There remains an expectation that I’ll figure it out or keep my mouth shut in some circles. My doubt has often been misinterpreted as various larger issues concerning my activity in the church. I tend to let these assumptions roll right on by because a person’s beliefs are his or her own.

So Mattsson’s story gives me hope that maybe we are at the point where people can feel safe expressing their doubts without being judged. With so much information available on the internet it’s wise for the church to support their members who are searching for answers instead of attempting to hide or hush it.

My children are getting to the age where they have questions about doctrine or the history of the church. With the answer often being a Google search away, my goal is to keep an open dialog with them so that I’m part of the discussion.

It’s OK to admit that I don’t have all the answers. Not every piece has found a home. My beliefs continue to change as I learn more about the church and myself. I haven’t always respected people with beliefs at odds with my own. But I’m improving as I focus on searching for common ground instead of highlighting the differences.

My grandfather eventually responded to my letter, the tone of which was, “Hey, everyone has to figure this out on their own.”

That answer means more to me today than it did when I first read it back in my tiny apartment in Fulda.

Until Proven Otherwise

“I’d have a better chance of finding a boyfriend in church than a bar, but we both know that’s not happening.”

“Well, then, good luck!”

As I stood in line at the grocery story tonight I caught the tail end of a conversation between the checker and the young man bagging my groceries. I finished setting the last 2-liter of Diet Coke on the counter and pushed my card through the check stand.

When I told the checker I did not have a rewards card she asked if I was from out-of-town. When mentioned I’d recently moved from the Seattle area she began nodding her head and pulled two more tellers into the conversation.

“I’ll bet nobody in Seattle cares about religion, right? I mean, isn’t that how it should be?”

All I could do was smile, collect my receipt, and head for the door as everyone within a 15 foot radius was chiming in with their opinions on the difficulty of finding love in Utah as a non-Mormon.

Although I spent the first 26 years of my life in Utah, I’d forgotten how much Mormon influence is woven into the fabric of everyday life here. When I met my daughter’s middle school counselor for the first time, he asked, “So your daughter must be a beehive?” And less than two minutes into my haircut, my barber asked, “What ward are you in?”

“What ward are you in?” in Utah is the same as “How are you doing?” anywhere else.

You’re a Mormon until proven otherwise.

Kim and I both understood this well before we decided to move to St. George. Our children made many friends in Seattle, and few of them were Mormon, yet we seldom thought much about it. Sure, there was the occasional birthday party on Sunday that would bring our beliefs to the forefront when our kids explained to their friends that Sundays were time to spend at church and with family.

As Luca would say, “That’s not fair.”

One of our reasons for returning to Utah was to be closer to friends and family. Our children are able to spend a lot of their days with cousins and grandparents and friends who have similar beliefs. I doubt we’ll have to decline many birthday parties or youth sports because they were scheduled on Sunday.

The kids have already made friends who belong to other religions and we’ll continue to encourage them to that end. I don’t know how it will all turn out. The diversity of Seattle was a major reason we decided to stay there for 16 years. It almost feels like the polar opposite of Utah in terms of religious influence on the culture.

Maybe next time I’m at the grocery store I’ll seek out the same checker I had tonight and tell her about the college wards.

Then again, that might guarantee she remains single or flees the state.

Skating On Thin Ice

Lately I’ve felt overwhelmed.

I’ve felt this way before, but it was usually one part of my life I could pause or get rid of. When I felt overwhelmed in college I scaled back the credit hours the next quarter. A decade ago I walked away from a job that was taking a toll on my relationships and making me sick. At times, I’ve reduced the number of church or school activities we commit to and stuck close to home for a while until the feeling subsided.

This is the first time I can recall where everything feels overwhelming to the point that I don’t feel I’m doing anything very well and some things quite poorly.

Work is the lone bright spot, and one that’s not entirely easy to control. So I don’t take this for granted.

But nearly every other area of my life feels like the first time I stood up on ice skates; I’m moving, but have no control over my speed or direction and I know eventually I’m going to crash into someone.

I listen to talks at church about what I’m expected to teach my children, provide for my family while maintaining a strong bond with my spouse. But it often feels like the activities and meetings and then more meeting keep us from spending much time together on the one day of the week set aside to do so. Church is starting to feel like a weekly reminder of everything I’m not doing well.

But it’s not only church that provides a reminder.

Last week Anna forgot her lunch so I rode my bike to her school to drop it off. As I walked into her class, her teacher yelled across the room, “Hey, you forgot this morning was Donuts with your Daughter”.

Here I thought I was doing well to get up at 6 am to get my oldest daughter off to school, returning to make lunches for two more kids before getting our five-year old off to pre-school. And I have the easy part because I know Kim has been up several times throughout the night to feed and comfort our baby.

I used to stay up late to get things done I couldn’t get to during the day. And that worked well when I was single and was even passable before I married a night owl. But it doesn’t work well today, and without a Diet Coke run to the car between church meetings, I’d be fast asleep on the foyer couch by Priesthood.

I forgot I was supposed to help clean the church today. Maybe after I listen to this Mark Knopfler tune one more time. I dunno.

I’d better learn to skate. Or stay off the ice.

The Pastor

When the kids are wound up sometimes we’ll load them up in the Odyssey, give them a Nintendo DS or iPod Touch and tell them to keep quiet. Of course, they are never quiet, but they are strapped into their seats and unable to inflict too much damage on each other.

That’s what we did tonight, and have done on a number of occasions. If we’re lucky the kids will fall asleep giving Kim and I a chance to talk.

Tonight I asked Kim a question that’s been on my mind: “Had you not been raised in a Mormon family, how religious do you think you’d be?”

This lead to a discussion about the differences between religion and spirituality. I believe one can be religious without being spiritual. For me, religion has more to do outward behavior and practices often set forth by an organized church. Attending church and paying tithes or offerings are examples of this. I know plenty of people who are really good at appearing religious.

Looking back on my two year mission to Germany, I recognize most of what I did was centered around quotas, rote memorization, and keeping rules. I had a few spiritual experience during those years, but it was by sheer accident, and had little to do with traditional missionary work.

One of those experiences took place about six months into my mission. My companion and I had been teaching a man who worked as a Protestant pastor. He was interested in learning more about the Mormon church so we got together to discuss how our beliefs meshed and differed from his.

He was single and often invited us to his home for lunch or dinner. Over time we become close friends to the point where he gave us a key to his home where we could retreat from the bitter winter months when our limbs were numb from walking the streets searching for people to teach.

We shared a few ups and downs. Members of his congregation hassled him for speaking to us. Although Germany recognizes Mormons as one of only had handful of sanctioned religions with the freedom to openly proselyte, we were often mistaken for Jehovah Witness missionaries who were more aggressive in their recruiting techniques.

I’d lived in Germany for six months, and my speaking skills were rusty, but I learned to listen and was able to understand well. I often asked my new friend to repeat himself. He showed a lot of patience and never made me feel stupid when I asked for help or referred to my Germany/English dictionary.

Most evenings my companion and I would stay at his home until 9:45. The pastor would call a cab, give us a 10 Mark coin, and send us out the door so we’d be home by the mission mandated 10 pm curfew. But one night, he asked if we wanted to walk home and offered to accompany us.

That gave us about 35 minutes to chat as we walked down moonlit cobblestone streets that lined the tiny city of Unna. This man was more than twice my age, belonged to a different religion, and certainly didn’t need two young American missionaries telling him that what he’d been taught all his life was only partially true.

As we neared our apartment and were about to say goodbye, the pastor reached into his pocket and pulled out two solid silver 10 Mark pieces.

“I want you to have these. Maybe they will remind you of all the cab rides. Or maybe they will remind you of me.” he told us.

I was stunned at his kind gesture.

Connecting in such a manner with another person is a rare experience. Over twenty years later I can appreciate how seldom such connections happen. It’s those connections that kept me going for two years worth of days filled mostly with rejection. Our mission president called it something else: failure.

I can’t recall a single memorable experience I had handing out a Book of Mormon, inviting someone to church or teaching a memorized discussion. The most memorable parts of my mission occurred on the periphery, not in the weekly statistics we called in to headquarters.

The pastor could not have known the insecurities that existed in that 19 year old young man from Utah. Or the feelings of “What the hell am I doing here?” that ran through my mind each morning as I sat in my bed staring at the ceiling. How could he know how I was feeling when he’d only known me for a few weeks?

I felt as though I’d been given a spiritual gift, although it would take years before I’d recognize it as that.

I recently gave my oldest son this silver 10 mark piece, and shared this story with him. By his reaction he gave me I don’t believe he fully understands its significance, but that’s OK.

All in due time.

Cotton Candy and Electric Lime

It’s not uncommon for my children to pull out a pile of paper and box of crayons and begin coloring on the floor next to my computer while I work. Each of them enjoy thumbing through coloring books searching for the perfect picture to bring to life with colors such as cotton candy and electric lime.

But my youngest daughter isn’t as interested in coloring books. She likes to create her own pictures. Oh sure, she’ll color in a picture of a turtle but she’ll make it bright purple. Then she’ll draw a house and family on the turtle’s back and think up a story to tell me.

I’ve been considering my daughter’s willingness to draw outside the lines and create something on her own as my job winds down over the next few weeks.

Having been brought up in a Mormon family, I’ve often felt like my life’s roadmap has much in common with a coloring book. I’m free to select the crayon’s color as long as I color within the lines.

As a young boy, I was taught the proper progression into manhood: High school followed by serving a mission and then college. And make sure you find your eternal companion during the latter half of that span or risk having my records sent to a single’s ward. Eventually settle into a safe and stable job and have a few kids along the way. Just don’t get too crazy.

Of course, nobody from the church followed me around with a checklist to ensure I didn’t stray outside the lines, like the time I took a year off college so my spouse could finish her degree. Or the time I had my ear pierced or decided to leave Utah.

Few question the path of least resistance. Tell friends you’re thinking of going back to school to become a teacher and they praise the decision. But tell them you’ve started a company and their first question is, “What will you do for health insurance?”

It’s much safer to follow the plan created by someone else (and followed by many) than it is to create my own. My career so far has set expectations that are not easy to change. The lines are painted thick. Probably three or four coats worth.

Yet I find inspiration in my daughter. I want to do everything I can to keep her spirit free from all the borders the world tries to impose on her.

Because I know the next time she draws me a picture of an evil snowman, it will be an original. One not found in any coloring book.