Mormon Hippocrates

New

2006-08-04T21:08:00.000-07:00

I am contemplating moving my blog to wordpress. Please take a moment, visit http://tylerpaul.wordpress.com, and let me know what you think. Which format do you like better. I will be happy with either and will base my decision, in large part, on your comments. You may leave comments here or on the accompanying wordpress post.

Thanks,

Tyler

Beautiful

2006-08-02T08:35:00.000-07:00

I first knew him as Brother, then Bishop, then President.

Mostly, though, I knew him as Bishop. He interviewed me to receive the Aaronic Priesthood, become a Teacher, and become a Priest. He counseled with me while I navigated the tumultuous waters of puberty and adolescence. I remember him from a June afternoon playing baseball at Sunnyside park. He was pitching: "Ed, you his this ball over the fence just one more time and you might be looking at going back to being a Deacon."

He is a bit lanky, like a scarecrow, with auburn hair, always finely combed. While orthodox in his approach to Mormonism, he wears clothes that skirt the edges of the Utah norm: a baby blue seersucker suit, for instance, with a red and white striped bow tie. He walks with a bit of a lilt, his tall shoulders stooping in a fashion reminding me of my image of Abe Lincoln. Like Abe, too, his face is creased and sallow from years of bearing the concerns of the masses.

When I was 14, he ran for the Utah senate. I attended the state convention where he vied for his party's nomination. I heard him rouse the crowd with his speech--there amidst the elephants, popcorn, and lawn-signs--and then sighed because I knew, as I then reasoned, that he didn't have enough money to win; darned millionares own the senate, he just didn't have a chance.

But the Lord moves in mysterious ways and, after losing, he became my Bishop and then my Stake President before finally accepting a job in Washington D.C. as head of the President's task force to enforce laws against pornography.

About a week ago, though, his father died and he returned to my--and his--home ward for Sunday services.

My dad and I were running late, we pulled in just in time for the beginning of the meetings but, before I could get out of my car, I noticed my old Bishop lumbering lightly up the sidewalk, then the stairs, then into the door of the church. His walk was slow because every few feet brought an embrace, a delighted face, or, so far as I could see, a vocal expression of joy at his return. He had to stoop a bit to return the hugs and, though he was out of earshot, in my mind I could hear him returning the greetings in his soft, beleaguered-sounding voice. A smile spread across his weary face, visible even from the parking lot.

I watched the reunions and thought:

How beuatiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good, that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth.

An Open Letter to Anonymous (on Mormons and Evangelical Christians)

2006-07-30T11:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Anonymous--

Judging from your recent comments, I sense you hold very little esteem for Mormons. I also perceive, in fact you have stated explicitly, you are a believing Christian. In a sense, your feelings about my Church reflect a general divide between those who consider themselves mainstream Christians and members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I find this divide both ironic and unfortunate because I do not believe we stand that far apart on many important theological issues--indeed, I consider myself both an Orthodox Mormon and a born-again Christian. I hope I can persuade you, even if only for a moment, that I can be both of these things and that this does not create an issoluble paradox.

Mormonism, it seems to me, is thoroughly Christian. I could attempt to prove this through many methods, but I will choose to focus on three here: 1) the Book of Mormon brings me to Christ, 2) Joseph Smith was a witness of Christ, and 3) the Temple focuses my life on Christ. These three, each an important pillar of Mormon belief, demonstrate together that Mormonism functions to bring souls to Christ.

My parents raised me on the Book of Mormon. Growing up, I often listened to a Mormon Prophet (Ezra Taft Benson) talk of flooding the Earth with the Book of Mormon; President Benson spoke with a distinctive, high-pitched, rural-accented, staccato voice and I can still hear him pronouncing the name of the book. President Benson's words inspired me to study the BoM, searchingly, from a very young age. Through the years, I have read the book many times and I have learned two overriding truths: the BoM teaches me about Christ and the BoM makes me more Christlike.

My knowledge and testimony of the Savior come, in large part, from reading the Book of Mormon. Many of my thoughts on this subject can be found in my "Jennifer 3" post. For space's sake, however, I will quote just one BoM verse here:

"and he will take upon him their infirmities , that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities."

This verse teaches me that Christ willingly suffered each pain and sorrow I suffer so as to understand, intimately and individually, the secret sadness of my heart. This verse teaches me of the mercy, charity, knowledge, and care of the Savior. The BoM contains hundreds more scriptures like this one.

Beyond this, however, the BoM makes me more Christlike. I do not mean that I read the book, learn of Christ, and commit to become more like Him, though that is also true. Like those of the Bible, the words contained in the BoM transform those who read them--the words themselves are powerful, they change my heart. When I read, I have greater desires to treat others as the Savior would.

Joseph Smith testified of Christ. Some seem threatened by the idea of a modern Prophet, as if the existence of such a man would somehow diminish the importance of Jesus Christ as the Savior. This line of reasoning seems strange since the Bible is the record of Prophets. Some also point out that Joseph Smith acted, at times, in ways not consonant with currently accepted religious practices. On the one hand, of course, Joseph had flaws--as do all men and all prophets. On the other hand, many Biblical prophets engaged in activities that, by today's standards, seem utterly foreign. All of which leads me to conclude that these things, in and of themselves, avoid the more important question: did Joseph, by his words and life, brings people to Christ. My answer is that, though Joseph was not perfect, he founded a people and a culture filled with imperfect individuals who strive to bring themselves and others to Christ. It was, after all, Joseph who proclaimed: “The fundamental principles of our religion are the testimony of the Apostles and Prophets, concerning Jesus Christ, that He died, was buried, and rose again the third day, and ascended into heaven; and all other things which pertain to our religion are only appendages to it.” The very ire “traditional Christians” rouse when they accuse Mormons of not being Christian demonstrates something about the Mormon commitment to Christ. Joseph's claims, though bold, were nevertheless focused on Christ--as is the Temple.

As you doubtless know, anonymous, there are many parts of the Temple ceremony about which we do not speak outside the Temple. While this seems to be of great concern to you, there are various points in the Bible where the Savior instructs people not to speak of the things they have seen or heard--not all truth is meant for all people immediately. What strikes me about the Temple, however, is that Christ plays a central role in all that happens there. Everything done in the Temple is done in the Lord’s name and the things that occur everyday in the Temple occur both in concert with ancient ritual and ancient Biblical prophecy. Indeed, I echo Elder Marion G. Romney, who wrote: “My testimony [is] that…everything in the temple points ultimately to Christ and to our Father. The efficacy of the ordinances and covenants is in his atoning love and delegated authority.” I was struck, as I attended the Temple twice this last week, that the Terrestrial room is dominated by an enormous picture of Christ descending in glory and light at the second coming—in a sense, everything in the Temple is a reminder that, one day, we will all kneel to acknowledge there is no other name nor way whereby salvation may come except through Christ Jesus.

It occurs to me, as I mentioned with regards to Joseph Smith, that some outside of Mormondom feel threatened by Mormonism’s acceptance of so many people, principles, books, and practices as holy. It is as if some feel that our acceptance of Temples, prophets, the Book of Mormon and the like somehow lessens our reliance on, trust in, or faith in Jesus Christ. Quite the opposite, however, is true. Instead of these leading me away from Christ, they lead me to the Savior. There are some Mormons, to be sure, who set their sights beyond the mark of Christ. Some of these saints have gone astray because they fail to center their faith on the Savior. The central principles of Mormonism, however, anchor me, and many others, in Christ. These principles are like planets orbiting the sun—their existence does not detract from the sun’s brilliance, it merely reflects the Son’s light and helps us to focus our gaze, ultimately, on the Son’s central role in our Salvation.

Hoping for reconciliation,

Tyler

Elissa

2006-07-20T18:22:00.000-07:00

One muggy summer night, I emerged from one of the homogenous, burnt-orange, brick MTC buildings. I had returned from my mission to Mexico only a few months earlier and, that night, I had just finished my first session of MTC teacher training. The air in the room had been thick with the Spirit and I savored the sensation as I walked toward the crosswalk.

It was about 9:00 and the missionaries were returning en masse to their dorms. A wearying day of classes had largely quieted the Elders and Sisters and, though they thronged about us, a relative stillness wrapped itself around us.

As I passed the wrought-iron gate, I heard a familiar voice, though I had to turn to place a face and name with the sound: it was Sister Wiscomb, though I had always known her as Elissa. "Tyler--I mean," she stammered, looking at my nametag, "Brother Johnson."

"Sister Wiscomb, how are you?" I inquired as I extended my hand. I had known her fairly well as I grew up in Salt Lake City. We attended the same Elementary and high schools and, though we had never been particularly close, ten or so years had formed between us some significant friendship.

As the sun cast it's long refleciton onto Utah Lake to the West, tinging the top of Mount Timpanogos to the East with sprigs of pink, we spoke quickly, cramming as much information into three or so minutes as we could: how was her Spanish? How was the food? How was her companion? What about her district? Did she get along with her branch president? How was my family? How was Salt Lake (strange how a place so close can seem so far removed)? Had I seen her family? Did I like being back?

The minutes slipped quickly away, and then:

"Sister Wiscomb, when I get home, I'll call your mom, what would you like me to tell her?"

"Tell her I love her. Tell her my Spanish is coming along fine. Tell her I'm fine, but mostly, tell her I love her."

With that, we said good night.

I had things to do, but, upon arriving home, some beautiful urge prompted me to call, right now. So I grabbed an old directory, looked up the Wiscombs and called the elder sister Wiscomb.

"Sister Wiscomb, I don't know if you remember me, but my name is Tyler Johnson, I went to high school with Elissa and I saw her tonight in the MTC. She said to tell you she loves you, and she's fine, and her Spanish is coming along well but, mostly, she loves you."

Sister Wiscomb lapped up every detail about her daughter like a puppy does milk: what was she wearing? what did she sound like? did I hear her Spanish? Did she look healthy? Did she smile? Did she seem happy?

We spoke and, inside, we both glowed, softly, like candles.

Some weeks later a friend wrote my mom the following note:

"Today I spoke with my friend Jill Wiscomb whose daugher...is learning Spanish in the MTC. She and Tyler were classmates at East. Jill had been missing Elissa, her eldest child, terribly and has been concerned for her. Just last night she was praying tearfully for Elissa. As she arose from her knees, the phone rang. It was Tyler, who had seen Elissa at the MTC and was delivering a message for her. Elissa had told Tyler, 'tell my mom how much I love her and I'm doing just great.' Jill wept as she told me how Tyler's phone call was an answer to her prayer."

Jennifer (3 of 3)

2006-07-14T07:33:00.000-07:00

You, observant reader, have probably noticed that this post will have three, not two, parts. Perhaps you are hoping the last chapter in this saga contains a miracle, an epiphany, the story of Jennifer running into the chapel just at the end of Sacrament Meeting and later explaining to us the resurrection of her testimony after a long night of doubt. I, too, wish the story ended that way; and perhaps that will happen some day. For now, however, the story ends as I have already described, with a "letter of resignation" delivered to the Bishop (Jake and Jennifer, incidentally, drifted apart and eventually broke up some months before these latest events).

This story, however, affords us an opportunity to look to ourselves and learn. Jennifer says she left the Church because we do not accept Christ's grace in the way she believes we must. Such a belief is complicated, as are all perceptions, by the fact that it is, by definition, of dual nature. Every perception involves both the perceiver and the perceived. I can do little, I suppose, to change the perceiver in this case. What processes play themselves out in Jennifer's head I do not know; what complexities she brings from her former religion, experiences, friends, and family are mostly a mystery to me. I can, however, at least comment on the belief she perceives we have—on her perception that we downplay the importance of Christ's sacrifice. This belief, of course, is hardly unique to her; many of the Church's critics site this same supposed problem.

My brother, for instance, was once teaching an investigator in a public library when an unknown lady approached the missionaries and the investigator and said, "Don't listen to them—Mormons remove Christ from his thrown and place themselves there instead!" That this belief holds such wide sway troubles me deeply because I believe our canon so clearly refutes it--we, of all people, should be quick to affirm the infinity, grandeur, depth, breadth, centrality, and uniqueness of the Atonement.

For me, one of the most telling scriptures as to the importance of the Atonement in LDS theology comes in section 138 of the Doctrine and Covenants. This section, after all, is very "Mormon," describing, as it does, the spirits "assembled awaiting the advent of the Son of God into the spirit world." The concept of the Spirit World, as described here, is, so far as I know, unique to the religion(s) restored by Joseph. Furthermore, Joseph F. Smith describes a uniquely Mormon congregation of prophets and righteous leaders, including, as his list does, "the prophets who dwelt among the Nephites and testified of the coming of the son of God," as well as, "The Prophet Joseph Smith, and [Joseph F. Smith's] father, Hyrum Smith, Brigham Young, John Taylor, [and] Wilford Woodruff."

That a modern Mormon prophet should have a vision of his predecessors--Biblical, Nephite, and American--does not surprise us. What might be surprising to some, however, is what I consider the focal verse of this section. For, after viewing this vast assemblage of the Savior's faithful servants, Joseph sees the arrival of the Son of God into the spirit world, which he describes this way: "And the saints rejoiced in their redemption, and bowed the knee and acknowledged the Son of God as their Redeemer and Deliverer from death and the chains of hell."

When we learn that "every knee shall bow," then, we are not speaking only of the small and simple among us, but also of the spiritually mighty--even the light of the “noble and great ones” pales before the brilliance of the Bright and Morning Star.

The expansiveness of Mormon theology invigorates me; it is, as Elder Maxwell would say, "inexhaustible." As W. W. Phelps wrote near the dawn of this dispensation: "The visions and blessings of old are returning, and angels are coming to visit the Earth.... The knowledge and power of God are expanding; the veil o'er the Earth is beginning to burst." Joseph Smith responded to Emerson's call for modern prophets and the Pentecost that subsequently burst upon Kirtland, Independence, and Nauvoo is surely one of the great spiritual outpourings in the Earth’s history. For the believing Saints, a window of some twenty-five years included the opening of the heavens, the restoration of Priesthood, the bestowal of new scriptures, the return of the sealing power, the introduction of vicarious ordinances, and the return of the new Testament Church. Let us assure, however, that we always remember that this glorious burst of Gospel light nevertheless does not negate the importance of the central act of history: the Atonement of Jesus Christ. As planets circling the sun, or as spokes turning about the hub, all aspects of the Gospel are, as Joseph once wrote, appendages to the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Without that, everything else—from the creation, to the fall, to the restoration, to the Latter-days—is for naught. Christ is, indeed, the Life; for without Him nothing else breathes nor moves. It is his sacrifice, which ultimately gives meaning and substance to all the rest.

This testimony I have gained, mostly, from my study of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. I share President Hinckley’s incredulousness that the Christian world does not embrace the Book of Mormon (though I guess I’m not surprised, since the Book of Mormon prophecies of the same). For me, there is no greater testament to the divinity of the Son of God than the Book of Mormon. For a partial list of scriptures that affirm the centrality and importance of the Atonement, I might read the following:

Title Page
1 Nephi 8:10-12
1 Nephi 10:10-11
1 Nephi 11:13-24, 31
1 Nephi 19:8-10, 23
1 Nephi 21:10, 15, 16
2 Nephi 2 (esp. 7 and 8)
2 Nephi 4:31-34
2 Nephi 6:9
2 Nephi 7:7
2 Nephi 9 (esp. 5-8, 41)
2 Nephi 10:24
2 Nephi 11:4-7
2 Nephi 17:14
2 Nephi 19: 2, 3, 4, 6, 7
2 Nephi 25:19, 20, 23-27
2 Nephi 31:5-21
2 Nephi 33: 4, 6, 9-11
Jacob 1:7, 8
Jacob 4:4-18
Jacob 5:47
Jacob 7:11-12
Jarom 1:11
Omni 1:26
Mosiah 3-5 (esp. 3:5-11, 15-17, 19; 4:2-9; 5:1-8)
Mosiah 13:27-35
Mosiah 14:2-7
Mosiah 15
Mosiah 16:6-10
Mosiah 27:24-32
Alma 5:6-16, 19, 21, 26-27, 33, 48
Alma 7:3, 9-15
Alma 9:11, 26, 28
Alma 11:40-44
Alma 16:19
Alma 18:39-41
Alma 19:6, 13, 14, 29
Alma 21:7-9
Alma 22:12-18
Alma 24:10-11, 13, 23
Alma 25:15-16
Alma 30:39
Alma 31:31, 38
Alma 33:11-17, 22
Alma 34:8-16
Alma 36 (esp. 17-21)
Alma 38:8-9
Alma 39:15-19
Alma 42:14-24, 26-27 (esp. 23)
Helaman 5:12
Helaman 8:13-23
Helaman 14:11-17
3 Nephi 7:16
3 Nephi 9:14-22
3 Nephi 11-28 (esp. 11:11-15; 15:8-10; 22; 27:13-27)
Mormon 3:21
Mormon 5:14-15
Mormon 7:5-10
Mormon 9:12-14
Ether 3:1-20
Ether 12:4, 41
Moroni 4:3
Moroni 5:2
Moroni 7:22-48
Moroni 8:12, 22, 23
Moroni 9:22, 25, 26
Moroni 10:30-34

It is partly because I so dearly love these verses that Jennifer’s defection from the Church stings me so deeply. My study of the Book of Mormon has given both birth and wings to my testimony of the Savior—I cherish the knowledge the Book of Mormon gives me about Christ.

One final theological note: Mormon theology’s insistence on our giving our “all” does not detract from the magnitude of Christ’s sacrifice. As I have already articulated, Jennifer specifically quoted “by grace we are saved, after all we can do” as a major reason she left the Church. Her argument was that Mormons think less of the Atonement because we believe our utmost is also necessary for us to gain salvation. Someone much smarter than me could write a full treatise on the interplay of grace and works in Mormon theology. For my purposes, however, suffice it to say that Christ has always made clear—in the Old and New Testament, in the Book of Mormon, and in modern scripture—that we must offer up a contrite heart if we are to be exalted. That is, nothing less than all we have to give will suffice.

While this commandment is demanding, however, it also actually reminds us of the Atonement’s vast power to save. For us, after all, “all” we can give will often be relatively little. Only perfection merits God’s presence, and all of us fall woefully short of that mark; only through the Atonement can any of us enter into the presence of God. Just as importantly, it will not matter, at the judgment day, how much our “all” was. For some, especially, this all will have been very little—circumstances, environment, genealogy, and weakness dictate that many of us fall even more short of the mark. At the judgment day, however, it will not matter how much our all was, as long as it was everything we had to give. The Atonement makes the objective sufficiency of our effort irrelevant—Christ, who has descended below everything we face—will know perfectly how hard we tried. And, in the end, it will be that—our effort, not the result—along with the perfection and infinity of His atonement that will ensure those who come unto to Christ and find perfection in Him a place in the Kingdom of God.

Homecoming

2006-07-09T15:49:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I attended a homecoming that reminded me of the core of missionary work. The missionary who just returned shared spectacular stories about angels, ancestors, and the working Atonement. In the end, though, it was not his stories but his demeanor that most captivated my attention. His face shown with love and testimony—those ineffable spiritual forces emanated from his face like sunbeams. There was something is his facial expression, and in the way he focused his eyes and cocked his head when he spoke of those he remembered from Brazil, that testified to the mighty change that transformed him while he served the Lord. Even before he spoke, watching him on the stand, the Savior’s countenance was apparent in his face.

In the end, isn’t that what missionary work is about? That mighty change? That sweet song of redeeming love? That forceful molding of a willing heart? That kindness and hope that press themselves upon us, like sun from behind the clouds? Like the Spirit, the change that comes in beyond adjectives and nouns, it lies within the realm only knowable through experience—an experience like hearing a recently returned missionary speak in an English highlighted by a Brazilian lilt of the glory and power of the Atonement and the Restoration.

Jennifer (2 of 3)

2006-07-06T08:20:00.000-07:00

Sometime in June, I received an e-mail fron Jennifer inviting me to come to a dinner at her house. I was preparing for an exam and probably would have ignored the e-mail completely if Jennifer had not written, explaining the reason for the dinner: "I have some things to share with all of you." Probably because we had been studying cancer in school that day, the idea of a dinner to "share some things" struck me as ominous and I immediately began to fret about what that Saturday would bring.

I spent the next couple of days holed up in the school lab rooms studying for our GI exam. Saturday came quickly, in a blaze of new-summer glory, and I rode my bike from campus into center city. I'll sumarize the nights happenings by quoting from an e-mail I wrote to my parents early the next morning:

"She had asked us to her home night last for dinner and to 'share some things with us.' We ate dinner and laughed and carried on jovially--either unaware or obstinately forgetful of what was to come. Sensing what was [approaching], I braced myself for a lull in the laughter, especially after I saw her leave the room and return with her Bible. Pauses came and went and she said nothing. Finally, seemingly having gathered her courage, she began:

'I've asked you all here because I've wanted to share with you the direction of my spiritual journey of late...'

She proceed to read a psalm, open with prayer, and then explain to us that, during the past weeks she had begun being troubled with aspects of the Church's teachings. The air was so fileld with love and concern that I hoped against hope she might say--'I've brought you all here to ask for help, to see if you can answer my questions.' Alas, it was not so. Instead, she told us she had already spoken with many of us, with her home- and visiting-teachers, with the Bishop, and that she had gathered from those conversations that, while she believes in the saving power of Jesus alone, we believe that we must do something to gain salvation. Like a dagger to my heart, she even chose a scripture [possibly my favorite] to encapsulate the tenets of our faith with which she has been unable to come to grips: 'Guys, you know that scipture that says, "by grace ye are saved after all ye can do?" I just don't believe that.'

Then, in measured, tempered tones, she said, 'I visited the Bishop on Wednesday and gave him my letter of resignation from the Church.'

It was like watching a friend die. She asked us to say or ask anything we wished; we all spoke in turn, cried, pleaded, and tried desperately to understand. She adored our friendship, she said. She wants to keep meeting, to keep having spiritual discussions. But, amazingly, she now claims 'I actually have problems with essentially every teaching of the Church, in some way or another.'

So mature. So courageous. So kind. So respectful. So appropriate. No slinking away. No cowardice. No letting the news trickle through the grapevine. No unkind words. No calls to abandon our faith. Just this twisted testimony that months of thought and prayer seeking the Lord's direction had lead her to leave the Church."

That is the end of the e-mail.

A few hours after that discussion at her house, the Sabbath dawned and we attended church. That was one of the few times in my life I have felt a person's absence at the chapel. The chasm left by the disappearance of Jennifer's light gaped at us like a small black hole. A letter of resignation? It sounded like something you give to your boss, not your Bishop. How do you resign from the Church? Don't misunderstand, I certainly subscirbe to the 11th article of faith: "let them worship how, where, or what they may." Still, such a meteoric rise and fall: from investigator to powerful new convert to ex-mormon in less than six months left me startled and confused. More than anything, it left me sad. Sad that Jennifer would reject something so dear to me and sad that I, or we, or someone, had seemingly failed.

Jennifer (1 of 3)

2006-06-29T15:20:00.000-07:00

It began, I think, in the hallway of an upscale, downtown Philadelphia apartment tower. Jennifer is a lawyer and Jake a student at a prestigious University. They have lived across the hall from one another for some time, but had never met until about six months ago. That night, in November, they ran into each other in the hallway. Each was taken with the other, and both hoped the other would make contact. Unable to overcome the inertia produced by busy lives, nothing hapenned again for about a month, until Jake finally asked Jennifer out--and with that began a beautiful and painful story, one that would leave most of our ward smiling, then crying, then baffled.

Jake and Jennifer began dating almost immediately after getting to know one another. Jake, sensing the direction in which the relationship was heading, asked Jennifer to have a DTR (define the religion). He is Mormon, she committed and non-denominational Christian. They talked and he explained that he was going to marry a Mormon. He told he that, obviously, her religious convictions were personal and private; he simply pointed out that there was little point in their pursuing a relationship if it was going to end in them parting ways over religion. Obstinate? Perhaps. Unfair? Maybe, but honest, nonetheless.

Jennifer agreed to take the discussions and she began to attend church. I still remember her first Sunday because she was hard to miss. She is short, with soft Asian facial features. She dresses smartly and is soft-spoken but with a distinct, punctuating laugh that bounces off walls and pierces through other sounds. Her demeanor is disarmingly calm and she carries herself softly.

The discussions, apparently, went very well for she was soon baptized. The day of her baptism, a longtime friend of hers, from across the country, flew out to "visit." She ostensibly came to support Jennifer, but the word whispered in the corners of the chapel was that this was a friend From Jennifer's former religion, here to convince her not to follow through with this decision.

I always wonder what such friends tell converts-to-be. That we are not Christian? That we are a cult? That sinister, shadowy forces lurk in the church's upper-eschelons? That we do evil things in the Temple? That we will take her to hell? I don't know what this friend said, perhaps she said nothing, but in any case it did not matter. Jennifer was baptized, much to our delight.

It ought not matter, I suppose. But there is something especially comforting to me about someone so learned and talented joining the Church. Jennifer immediately brought her eloquence, analytic mind, and quiet presence to be of service in the kingdom. She was called, somewhat strangely it seemed to us, to be FHE mom in our YSA ward. The Church, though, has never seen an FHE mom quite like Jennifer.

Jennifer treated her calling as if she had been called to be Relief Society President. She immediately prepared about a four month schedule of FHE lesson topics, all centered around the theme "Persepective on Christ from the Book of John." Then, each Monday was assigned a topic along the lines of "Jesus is the Word," "Jesus is the Light," and "Jesus is the Life." Jennifer would also spearhead an accompanying actitivy and, finally, she would cookbook and jaw-dropping home made dinner each and every Monday. Not pasta-roni, mind you, but pork loin, potatoes, and cake or stir fry with all the fixings--her service and dedication were truly remarkable.

The peak of her conversion, however, came a few months after she was baptized. I had brought a catholic friend to church that Sunday and so I had on my super-critical Sacrament Meeting talk ears. Jennifer, not to my surprise, gave one of the better "this is my conversion story" talks I have ever heard. She spoke with calm and raidance about how she came to know the Book of Mormon is true. She used a delicate, sophisticated, and beautiful Chritian lexicon grounded in the New Testament--it was like hearing Paul testify of the restoration. A wonderful and moving experience to be sure.

I wonder now, how we did not see. Were we so blind? Was she so blinded? Was she making it up? Were we hearing only what we wanted? For, in the end, it really did seem that was the peak of her conversion. As she spoke with such reassurance, a storm was brooding in her heart. All appeared well, but it was not. The next months would bring ominous tidings.

And What Is It We Should Hope For?

2006-06-11T18:32:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, tonight, a young woman sits cowering in a corner. She has just been raped and the man who did it told her not to tell anyone, ever. She feels guilty and confused, afraid and deceived, hopeless and dirty. Thoughts run through her head like hyenas, and she looks around listlessly, longing for someone into whose arms she can run--someone she can trust innately.

Somewhere else tonight, an old woman knits in a rocking chair. Her children have long since moved far away. Caught up in dreams of success and fame, they have forgotten about the woman who rocks back and forth, back and forth, tracing an endless loop with her knitting needles--hoping against hope that today will be the day: surely someone will call, visit, or care.

In a prison cell sits a convicted felon, finishing the last years of his sentence. He wrings his calloused hands and forlornly watches the walls, awaiting his freedom. Beyond that, however, he searches his heart for forgiveness, for light, for a lifting of his hidden burden. His life is like a sour chord--the second-to-last in a chorale work--which has never found its long-awaited resolution. His sins hover in the air about him, unforgiven and unresolved.

And on a freeway, bathed in the undulating red light of an ambulance, a young mother kneels, holding her daugher's limp and lifeless form in her arms--the mother has gone beyond weeping, she heaves without motion and almost without sound--wishing her grief could be as clean as crying, she feels like someone has sucked out her soul.

More than likely, all of these situations are occurring as I type these words.

And that is why the Gospel, the Atonement, and the Restoration are paramount in the world: "Wherefore, how great the importance to make these things known unto the inhabitants of the Earth, that they may know that there is no flesh that can dwell in the presence of God, save it be through the merits, and mercy, and grace of the Holy Messiah, who layeth down his life according to the flesh, and taketh it again by the power of the Spirit, that he may bring to pass the resurrection of the dead, being the first that should rise."

I fear many Mormons accept an anemic Gospel. We ingest our daily diet of rote prayers, cute homes, and mundane meetings and fail to probe, to ponder, to attempt to grasp and understand the message at the core of the faith we profess. We fail to see the transformative power of the Atonement--a power which resolves the insoluble, forgives the unpardonable, and brings peace to the disconsolate.

Because we fail to grasp what we have, and because we fail to recognize the plight of the world's suffering, we keep our message to ourselves--not so much out of fear but out of ignorance and apathy--at least I know I have not spread the message as I should have. But in those rare moments when it all coalesces into focus, when I see things, even for a fleeting moment, as they "really are," I long to run from house to house sharing the miracle of the Atonement and the Restoration.

"Christ has paid the enormous enabling price for us!" I want to shout--"come, find solace, find peace, find forgiveness, find comfort, find love. Come, come know God speaks to man, come know His Prophet."

The Gospel, of course, does not offer easy answers. Why should it? The price Christ paid was not easy and the answers he offers are not easy either. But they are simple, they are free, and they are real. The Atonement changes nature, it changes not just thoughts, feelings, actions, and words, but identity--in some core, eternal, fundamental way.

To the ravished, the alone, the sinner, and the bereaved, Christ offers wholeness, company, pardon, and joy. Let us overcome our fears and our apathy--I, for one, anyway, can do a better job of letting those aroud me know the cause of the hope that is within me, for it is the Bright and Morning Star.

Bishop and Historian

2006-06-01T20:00:00.000-07:00

Picture this:

You are the Bishop of a well-educated Avenues ward in Salt Lake City; you are also an amateur Church historian who is preparing an article for a widely-read historical journal. Your article deals with an important leader of the early Church and, while researching, you stumble on a letter which recounts a particularly unsavory episode in this man's life. Intrigued, you research the incident further and find no previous author has brought it to light. Still, so far as you can tell, the depiction you found is accurate. This incident will add a significant facet to your portrayal of the man--it will help you round out the picture you paint. Still, because it is quite troubling, you wonder if you ought to mention it in your article.

You discuss the matter with your wife. She says, "Honey, you have to examine this letter in your article. To do otherwise would be dishonest. This one letter is not going to shake anyone's faith; in fact, such documents strengthen my faith because they remind me our leaders do great things despite their foibles. If you don't publish it, you will effectively be lying. You know what you need to do."

Still troubled, you take the issue to your best friend. "Well, Bishop," he explains, "I respect your wife--but I disagree with her. In fact, I think you're obligated not to examine this letter in your article. As a Bishop, your primary responsibility is for the welfare of your flock. The faith of the members is paramount, not historical accuracy. Besides, what obligates you to discuss the letter? You can still write a fair and balanced article without it. You never know, if you examine something so negative, it may impact one of your members--you know many of them read the journal. Why risk that harm when you have no way of knowing how ignorant you really are concerning the letter's antecedents and context?"

You must submit the article, one way or another, next Monday--whose advice do you follow? Why?

Drugs

2006-05-31T09:58:00.000-07:00

The United States is nearly unique among developed nations because it allows direct to consumer pharmaceutical advertising. The pharmaceutical industry is enormous and these companies ensure their ads are slick and alluring. To site just one example, I have often found myself nearly salivating for Claritin when I see ads for it on television. One particularly effective series of ads shows the world passing by as if obscured by a haze--it looks distorted and blurry, kind of like it might without glasses. Suddenly (upon taking Claritin, we are told), the haze disappears and the world shines with crystalline clarity. Anyone who suffers from hay-fever knows the truth of the first image and that same set of people, including me, can tell you how tempting Claritin becomes as a consequence.

In an attempt to counterbalance this barrage of advertising, I want to pass on a message from someone who is learning a little bit about drugs, disease, and health: don't ask your doctor for drugs you have seen advertised, and especially don't attempt to convince him the drug is a good idea if it is against his professional opinion.

In America, we pride ourselves on our independence. What's more, we don't tend to like experts because they carry with them a certain aura of arisotocracy--besides, who needs experts when we are certain we can get along pretty well by ourselves. This is one instance, however, where independence can be dangerous. Allow me to explain why.

Before a pharmaceutical company can sell a drug to consumers, it must subject the drug to a wide and demanding battery of tests. These tests include animal experiments, experiments on healthy humans, experiments on those who are sick with the disease the drug is meant to treat, and then large randomized trials where the drug is introduced into a subset of the population. During all this time, researchers keep detailed records of the effects--both good and bad--the drug has. If, at the end, the drug is deemed sufficiently therapeutic, the FDA gives the pharmaceutical company permission to sell the drug to the public.

At that point, the drug company launches an advertising campaign to introduce the drug to the public and boost sales. We, the consumers, see only the advertising--and, of course, advertising is meant to convince us to buy the drug. Yes, both print ads and commercials contain "small print" which informs us of potential side-effects. Let's be honest, though, what is the effect of a bit of small print when compared to the powerful images created by expert advertising executives? It is not that the companies are being dishonest, they're just being smart--they want money, and money only comes if they sell lots of the drugs. Consequently, the images promoting the drug are carefully crafted to make us salivate and the words disparaging the drug are carefully arranged so we can dismiss them as an afterthought.

Regardless of the honesty of the pharmaceutical industry, however, another problem is inherent in the FDA approval process: time. A normal drug will be in the testing pipeline for about ten years. Not all of those years, of course, even involve human subjects. Consequently, when a drug becomes available for purchase, we have only a very limited understanding, if any at all, of its long-term consequences on the functioning of mind and body.

Let's look at a theoretical example. A pharmaceutical company develops a new pain-reliver which is shown to be wonderfully effective. Even better, the drug does not cause stomach ulcers or other gastro-intestinal problems. After testing and research, the FDA approves the drug and it becomes wildly popular. During fifteen or so years, millions of Americans per annum buy the drug. Some twenty-years after the introduction of the drug, it is shown that long-term exposure to the medicine leads to cerebral accumulation and, sadly, to a significant increase in the rate of Alzheimer's disease. Such information simply could not have been obtained in initial studies--with this new information in mind, however, many of those who took the drug for relatively benign reasons would certainly have made a different choice.

I do not mean to create paranoia. I do hope, however, that we can be more discriminating in the drugs we take and for which we ask. FDA approval, unfortunately, does not guarantee a drug's safety or efficacy. Consequently, it is generally better to stick with drugs that have been out for a long time (which are hopefully the ones your physician prescribes)--the more exposure we have had to the drug, the more we know about it's long-term consequences. Certainly, there is a place for new drugs. Someone who is suffering from unbearable and/or terminal illness, for instance, may have little to lose by trying a new drug. We ought, however, to view drugs of convenience much more skeptically. We may do well to remember that, if we take drugs right as they come onto the market, we are essentially entering an experiment. Hopefully, the outcome will be wonderful; often, however, there may be hidden consequences of which we are simply not yet aware.

A Favor

2006-05-17T20:09:00.000-07:00

If you read this blog, or if you read my recent posts on Blogger of Jared (all of which are also here), will you please make some quick comment on this post. I want to guage how many people visit my site. I am working on hit-counting software; but until that is up and running, I would greatly appreciate the feedback. Even if you do not belong to blogger, you can simply click on the comments link, switch the dot to "other," enter any name you choose, verify the word, and enter a quick comment like, "I read this when I am really, really bored." I appreciate your help!

P.S. Also, please feel free to include comments, suggestions, compliments, or criticism.

Because She is My Mother

2006-05-16T16:38:00.000-07:00

Though this is a couple of days late, I hope you (especially you mothers) will enjoy it. Please forgive the explanatory tone at the beginning of the post. I gave this as a talk in Sacrament Meeting on Sunday and there were a number of invesitgators present, so I fashioned it for their ears.

Some twenty one hundred years ago, a Prophet named Helaman was also an army commander. He led a small force of just two thousand warriors—all of them young, all of them inexperienced, and all of them volunteers. Early in Helaman’s campaign against the Lamanites, he and his two thousand sons, as he called them, were faced with a difficult choice. The Lamanites had been pursuing Helaman and his sons for two and one half days. The pursuit was so vigorous that Helaman and his army had to rise before dawn and march into the night to keep ahead of their pursuers. Strangely, though, on the third day, the Lamanite army stopped dead in their tracks. Due to a breakdown in communication, Helaman and his two thousand warriors did not know why the Lamanites had stopped. Was it because Helaman’s co-commander, Antipus, had engaged them from the rear? If so, Antipus would be in desperate need of help. Or, was it a ruse—were the Lamanites trying to draw Helaman and his two thousand sons into a battle where their a mere two thousand would be no match for the tens of thousands numbered among the Lamanites? Helaman did not know. And so, he asked the young warriors: should we preserve our own safety and stay out of the battle, or should we risk our lives, hoping that by doing so we may save our brothers from a bloody death.

I can only imagine that scene that day on the battlefield. I imagine the two thousand warriors were drenched in sweat and I imagine their calves, backs, and hamstrings already ached from a wearying three day march. I imagine they eyed their weapons with trepidation—none of them, after all, had ever wielded a sword before. And, finally, I imagine they faced death with some amount of fear—on the one hand, they must have trembled at the thought of losing their own lives. Even more to the point, though, I imagine that these boys who had never before shed blood, and many of whose parents had died as pacifist martyrs, quivered at the thought of taking others’ lives. Nevertheless, something happened on the battlefield that day—some faith sprung up within those boys. They knew they were not the agressors, they knew they would gladly have laid down their weapons if the Lamanites would have let them alone, and they knew their brothers were in danger, and so, with a courage that challenges belief, they told their captain: we will go into battle.

I suppose it is likely some of you have already guessed why I am recounting this story; others of you, if you have not heard the story before, must find it exceedingly odd that I would spend a good portion of my mother’s day talk speaking about war, armies, captains, and stratagems. As we read of the Stripling Warriors, though, we are forced to wonder whence their courage sprang. What impulse propelled them to such faith and resolution despite their naivete on the battlefield? What power emboldened them to stare death in the eyes and stand firm and resolute nonetheless? Where did they learn that their brothers’, mothers’, fathers’, and friends’ lives were more important than their own? Like us, Helaman was astonished at such steely resolve in boys so young. Accordingly, he asked them whence sprang their inner-strength and they replied, apparently of one accord that “they had been taught by their mothers, that if they did not doubt, God would deliver them.” Indeed, Helaman tells us, “they rehearsed unto me the words of their mothers [about God’s support of those who trust in him], saying: We do not doubt our mothers knew it.”

As it turns out, then, the strength these boys demonstrated that day sprang not from themselves, but from their mothers. The courage those boys wielded on the battlefield was apparently given to them while they still sat on their mothers’ knees. I do not wish today to praise these righteous warriors—though their courage gives me pause. I wish instead to pay tribute to those who stood quietly behind the scenes—nurturing these boys and instilling in them a faith that would withstand the hottest flame—I want to praise their mothers.

Why would the words their mothers spoke have been so deeply imprinted onto these boys’ souls? Why, in the heat of a terrible battle, would these boys remember those things their mothers had taught them? Why is that, when I find life most difficult, I turn my thoughts to my mother? Why is that, no matter how far the distance, no matter how long we have been apart, I can always feel my mother’s love?

It is, I believe, because mothers are endowed by God with a special capacity to love. As a baby develops within the womb, everything he needs comes from his mother: oxygen, nutrients, vitamins, energy, and heat all travel from the mother, through the placenta, and into the developing child. After birth, the connection evolves—becoming everyday less physical but becoming simultaneously more deeply spiritual. At first, the infant still receives nutrition from his mother’s breast. Even when that stops, however, the baby finds comfort, safety, and peace within his mother’s arms.

I know, at least, that it is to my mother I run when I am most in need of comfort. When I was little, the boy up the street was a bully and, when he would beat me up on my way home from school, I would run to my mother. As the years passed, I outgrew bullies and grade school and entered the world of girls—sometimes, incidentally, I don’t which is worse. The first time a girl broke my heart—her name, by the way was Erin Enslin and she was blond, flighty, and, to a seventh grade bundle of hormones, enchanting—but when Erin broke my heart I cried on my mother’s shoulder. Later, when the time came to go to college, I cried again with my mother because we had never been apart for very long. And, once again, when the time came for my mission, my mother hugged me last at the airport as I boarded the plane for Mexico. She gave me a note the day before I left which I kept with me every day in my mission and, on particularly difficult nights, I would open the note and read the words and strain to hear my mother’s voice. Even when I could not be with her physically, something about the memory of her love brought me comfort when I was stranded and alone.

I have wondered why my mother’s love is so strong. I have wondered why her care for me stretches across thousands of miles and through twenty-five years. I do not believe I fully understand the depth or the meaning of my mother’s love, but I do believe I gained a small insight into its origin a couple of weeks ago when I was home in Utah for my friend’s graduation. The last several months have been very difficult for my mother. Her father passed away suddenly in September and her mother is slowly disappearing into the frightening reaches of Alzheimer’s disease. Amidst all of this, I have moved to faraway Philadelphia, my brother has moved from the house and gotten married, and one of my sisters has moved away to college. As if all of that were not enough, my father serves as Bishop which means my mom serves in the weighty, neglected, seldom-recognized, and never-officially-confirmed calling of Bishop’s wife.

And so it was that, one day two weeks ago, I stood in the kitchen talking idly with my mother. As we spoke, she sliced tomatoes on the granite-colored cutting board—her hands moving with rhythm and ease through a motion she memorized long ago. Then, as I told her a story, I realized she was not really listening any more; instead, I saw her looking out the back window at a sparrow that hopped down from the gazebo which stands in back of our house. I stopped talking and watched as her lip quivered and as a tear slipped quietly from her left eye and trickled down her cheek.

Seeing her sadness, I stepped over to where she stood and took her in my arms. For a moment, there in the kitchen, I held her as she cried. As I held my mother there, I thought, for a moment, that, in my mind’s eye, I could see her twenty-seven years ago—just two years before I (her oldest) was born. I saw her at her wedding, her body trim and her smile sparkling. I saw her kiss my dad and I watched as sparks flew and chemistry flowed between them. I saw her at school, earning nearly straight As, a bachelor’s of science, and most of a master’s degree. I could see is her eyes, twenty-seven years before, the hopes and dreams that are a part of newly-wed life. And then, the intervening years flashed quickly before me. I saw my mom give up text books and theses for diapers and cleansers. I saw her trade Emerson for Dr. Seuss and Oprah for Sesame Street. I saw her give up parties and water-skiing to attend an endless series of soccer games, dance recitals, and play rehearsals. And then, with a start, my mind swerved back to the present, and I looked at the woman before me. Her hair, now, drooped a bit and did not quite hold its former luster. Her body was not as trim as it once was and the faintest hint of lines born of deep, drawn-out concern sometimes creased her face. Behind her face, of course, a brilliant light still shines. But even that is different now, it is gentler, deeper, and more luminous than the light I imagine from twenty-seven years ago. And as I looked at my mom and pondered on the woman she has become, as I held her in my arms and counted the terrible cost she has paid to stay home with me, stay up with me, and stay the course with me—I realized my mom loves me so deeply for the same reason the Savior loves me so deeply—because deep, willing, and sincere sacrifice begets even deeper, more lasting, and natural love; indeed, greater love hath no woman than this, that she lay down her life for her son.

Brothers and Sisters, please understand, I recognize mothers come in many forms. Some mothers have biological children while other mothers adopt. Some mothers have no children at all but simply nurture and love the young all around them. All of these women are mothers and all of them are vitally important in the Kingdom of God. My purpose, today, however, is not to talk about what a mother is but simply to express, with all the sincerity I can muster, how dearly grateful I am for my mom. I love her deeply and I recognize that the good things I am have come about because she loves me. By extension, I say thank you to the mothers here today—for the nights you have gone without sleep, for the moments you have spent worrying, for the clothes you have washed, the monotony you have endured, and the for the years you have gone without thanks or even recognition—I say thank you, from all of us. Thank you and we love you and please know that, as the hymn reminds us, “angels above us are silent notes taking, the good that you do is not there ignored; though on Earth you may toil without fanfare or tribute, your virtue and suffering are known to the Lord.”

Life is Made of the Things we Love

2006-05-07T07:38:00.000-07:00

This morning at about nine o’clock, Garrison Keillor reminded me life is made up of little things we come to love. Whether important or trivial, these are the things that, every day, give our lives sparkle and vim. Inspired by his thoughts, I’m going to list some of the little things I’ve come to love about what Mexicans call “la vida cotidiana” (roughly translated: everyday life). Please let me know, what are some of the things that make your lives wonderful?

My partial list:

• The “shuffle” setting on my i-pod. I love the fact that, as I walk to school or drive to the suburbs, I can listen to songs selected randomly from my collection of personal favorites. There is something blissful about the transition from MoTab to Ben Folds—it always leaves me smiling.
• My mousey apartment. I live in West Philadelphia and we have had our struggles with heat, mice, and burglars. Still, there is something about this Spartan little existence I can’t help but enjoy.
• The Philadelphia Orchestra. It’s like a MasterCard commercial—student tickets: $6, listening to Beethoven’s 5th in the Verizon Concert Hall: priceless.
• Finishing tests. There is nothing better than walking home after an exam and knowing I don’t have to study really, really hard for at least another couple of weeks.
• Granola. What can I say, I love granola. And, if I buy it at Trader Joe’s, it only costs %2.69 a box (not to mention the fact that they have mango granola).
• The 39ers. I have a group of six friends who mean the world to me. We have been friends since we were about five and we are now attending business school, law school, medical school, no school, and undecided; we live in Salt Lake, Provo, Russia, Philadelphia, and the Bronx. When we get together, it’s as though we had never been apart.
• Emails from Preethi. Preethi writes approximately the best e-mails ever—they always make me smile.
• Talks by Elder Maxwell. My dad and I used to wait for Elder Maxwell to speak. Sometimes, I still go back and read his best lines over and over again.
• The BYU Singers. They make some of the world’s most beautiful music.
• Zion Canyon. This appropriately named swirl or red and black rock in Southern Utah is about as close as Earth gets to Heaven (outside the Temple, anyway).
• My bike. It’s a gaudy red and blue with shocks on both the front and back. I can cruise over rocky terrain and still not have my teeth knock together.
• My family. It would take a whole post to explain the many reasons why. In short, however, they’re some of my closest confidants and best friends.
• Playing basketball and getting dog-tired. I can’t think of anything I love more than running back and forth, back and forth, battling for the post, and scampering after rebounds for so long I can hardly untie my shoe-laces.
• Rock-climbing. There is something about the repeated fluidity of gliding (ok, I don’t really glide, but some really good rock-climbers do) from hold to hold, until the route in burned into my synapses and memory, that makes me happy.

Experiment on the Word

2006-05-02T20:39:00.000-07:00

Some months ago, I was involved in an exchange of editorials and letters to the editor in the Salt Lake Tribune. At issue was the rationality of believing in Mormonism, or, more generally, accepting any kind of religion. One author wrote that no discriminating person could accept such silly precepts as those espoused by the Mormon Church. Drawing an analogy from C.S. Lewis, I returned that belief is not only rational but necessary and universal. Another letter-writer responded that no, my analysis was not correct, faith and rationality exist only in separate spheres—never the twain shall meet.

This last author apparently believes in a qualitative distinction between those things we can prove and those things we believe. There seems little question, to him, that those who accept any religious tenets do so by suspending rationality because no logical process could bring us to believe in God, Prophets, angels, and the like.

I take issue with his view. In Mormonism, at least, faith is not irrational. In fact, my analysis tells me my beliefs are, in many ways, rationally justified and that adopting other views would be intellectually dishonest.

Perhaps I can begin my explanation by examining my understanding of the way in which our culture believes we gain rational knowledge—the scientific method. Then, I will compare the scientific method with the manner by which, in my experience, believers gain religious knowledge. Finally, perhaps I can draw some meaningful comparisons between and conclusions from these two schools of thought.

The scientific method, so far as I can tell, is a method of arriving at our best guess. Most introductory science text books will tell you that almost nothing in science is certain, though some theories have been confirmed so many times by experience as to be nearly beyond question. Science, then, does not seek truth or certainty; instead, it strives to secure an understanding of the way the world works, an understanding that will closely enough approximate reality enough of the time so as to allow us to predict the outcome of certain events and act wisely in accordance with that knowledge. In medicine, for instance, research allows us to learn about the mechanisms of disease; that knowledge, in turn, allows us to minimize sickness, improve life, and delay death.

The scientific method demands that scientists meet strict requirements before they may proclaim their theories as correct. As most fourth-graders learn, science begins with observation. A scientist sees some distinct pattern of sparrow migration, or perhaps the unusual growth of bacteria in a culture tube, or the way in which those with asthma respond to a certain kind of air pollutant. Based on his observations, the scientist develops a hypothesis. The hypothesis forms the crux of scientific inquiry. In some cases, a scientist already has such good information his hypothesis may be, for all intents, already a fact which merely needs formal investigation. In other instances, the hypothesis is little more than a hunch. There is, after all, something of faith in the scientific method, as well. Something beyond purely rational and empirical knowledge drives a scientist who pursues a theory in which no one else believes. In fact, those scientists who heed this call are those we most celebrate: once experiments confirm their hunches, we revere them as visionaries and heroes.

Still, if their knowledge is never vindicated, we are as likely to see them as delusional as to believe them visionary. In fact, there is little difference between a mad scientist and a Nobel Prize winner except that the former never found experiments that would back up his claims. In any case, once a scientist forms a hypothesis he begins to test its validity with a battery of experiments. Here, the key becomes the elimination of variables. To prove the theory he wishes to advance, a scientist must assure the only variable in his experiments is the one he studies. By doing so, he can reasonably assume the changes in outcome he observes arise because of the change in the variable he studies. Such knowledge is the beginning of the understanding of a cause-and-effect relationship—the raison d’etre of science.

Even if he succeeds in eliminating variables, however, the scientist’s work is not finished. Next, he must share his work with his colleagues. It is assumed that he will have taken painstaking notes so that others in his scientific community may reproduce the experiment down to its finest details. Any results the scientist may have observed are suspect—until confirmed by others scientists. In fact, the certainty which is accorded a theory is directly proportional to the number of times the theory has been proved by someone other than the original discoverer. The originator of any idea, after all, may have secondary motives. For his own name’s sake, he may propagate his theory though the evidence is not quite convincing. In extreme cases, he may even doctor the evidence hoping all the while his name will show up in the special topics section of some yet-unpublished science textbook—the more elementary and general the better (even fourth-graders learn about Pasteur, but you have to wait till college organic chemistry to find out about Mr. Markovnikov).

Repetition, then, lends to a theory a special kind of integrity. When many people, most of them with no ulterior motives, concur that the evidence indicates some outcome X, we are all more confident in believing that X is, after all, the case. Consequently, the scientific method is one long process where each concurring experiment further proves all that preceded it. As time draws on, those theories suggested centuries ago, and which have never been disproved, take on the aura of fact. Meanwhile, those suggested contemporarily are suspect and will not be accepted until many experiments and years of experience likewise prove them the case.

The process is rigorous. In fact, that rigor constitutes much of the reason we trust the scientific method. In A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, Mark Twain mocks the denizens of the Middle Ages precisely because they exhibit an appalling lack of scrutiny. Twain makes it plain that they do not submit their notions to anything even approaching the scientific method. In fact, the idea of questioning never enters their minds. Instead, they accept at face value whatever purported facts anyone presents them. This entangles the characters in a number of embarrassingly irrational situations, such as when many of them—especially the leading Damsel, Sandy—become absolutely convinced that a herd of swine is actually a royal family. Consequently, we get to laugh as the humans pamper and flatter the snorting and smelly pigs. In Twain’s mind it is obvious what happens when we do not submit our ideas to harsh scrutiny.
Twain’s analogy provides an intriguing setting for the question we faced at the beginning: are religious folks merely pampering swine? If religious questions, by their very nature, lie beyond the pale of rational examination, then is it possible that believing people are as deluded as the citizens of King Arthur’s realm? Indeed, some would argue that not only is that a possibility but that the weight of evidence suggests that it is the harsh reality.

Again, because I am Mormon, the bulk of my experience with those who consider belief irrational pertains specifically to those who question the Mormon worldview. Some of these, of course, question our—and the rest of the Christian world’s—belief in God. These people may, for instance, look at the evil that obtains in the world and then ask, quite sincerely, and, perhaps, with anguish: if an all-powerful and all-loving God existed, how could he allow such suffering as we see in the world? Forget maladies such as cancer, these people insist, look at the true atrocities such as rape, incest, and genocide: how can you stare such cruelty in the face and then believe in God?

Some, however, accept God and only question Mormon theology. These critics may, for instance, accept the God of the Bible but reject Joseph Smith as a Prophet. I remember, for example, an article entitled “It’s Over, It’s Over, It’s Over.” The author was apparently quite enthused because when the Joseph Smith Papyri were discovered in Chicago Egyptologists concluded that Joseph Smith’s translation was rubbish. Just as some conclude a belief in God is irrational, this author decided that acceptance of Joseph Smith as a prophet is so irrational that the debate concerning him must be, well, over.

But is it? If we approach the religious question from a rational standpoint, is their any supporting evidence? Is it possible to believe rationally? Or is the very idea oxymoronic? If the answer to this last question is yes, we are confronted with a troubling dichotomy since each of us will then have to choose to approach the world either with faith or with reason. Luckily, however, I do not believe such an either/or choice is necessary or wise. Indeed, it seems we can only find truth if we employ both faith and reason: as with grace and works, either without the other is dead.

This is at least true according to Mormon theology. Both Doctrine and Covenants and The Book of Mormon, for instance, make it clear that we are to analyze religion analytically. Perhaps the most obvious example of such counsel is found in Doctrine and Covenants 88:118, where the Lord instructs members of the Church to “seek learning by study and by faith.” Similarly, in Doctrine and Covenants 8:2, the Lord confirms that revelation will also come to the “mind.” Indeed, a quick check of the index to the Doctrine and Covenants makes it clear the Lord is intent on members of the Church using their minds to study, ponder, and receive revelation.

To me, however, the most striking example of the need for reason in matters of faith comes in Alma’s speech to the impoverished Zoramites. I am struck that the last half of the chapter is framed within the context of a single analogy: that of an experiment. Alma advocates a spiritual derivative of the scientific method. Furthermore, Alma outlines in very specific terms how anyone can carry out his experiment: just as a careful scientist details his apparatuses, procedures, reactants, and conclusions so that other scientists can reproduce his work and confirm his results, Alma invites each reader to reproduce the faith experiment—Alma wants each person to experience the results for himself.

Accordingly, Alma instructs us to “give place, that [the word] may be planted in [our] heart[s].” After planting the word, we are to nurture it. Having done so, we are to observe its growth. If the seed grows, argues Alma, we will know it is good—a bad seed would have no life. At this point, Alma acknowledges that our knowledge is still imperfect; nevertheless, just as a scientist must continue to labor even though he cannot know with certainty to validity of his claim, we are to continue to nurture the seed, our faith bolstered by the knowledge that the word has begun to swell and sprout.

Tellingly, Alma recognizes that inasmuch as we gain knowledge concerning the word, faith is no longer necessary with respect to that subject. To quote Alma, our faith becomes “dormant.” As our knowledge base grows, we require less and less faith until “the perfect day.”
It strikes me quite strongly that Alma uses an example that so carefully parallels the scientific method. His analogy seems carefully calculated to convince a skeptical generation, a people who demand evidence, explanation, and personal conviction to believe—Alma provides an avenue for obtaining each of these. Unlike the magicians in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, Alma invites scrutiny. What’s more, “Moroni’s promise” is likewise an invitation to come and know for ourselves the truth of the claims that Joseph and his followers make.

Some will argue this is all a game of semantics. Yes, they say, Alma and Moroni talk about evidence and experiments, but everyone knows that religious questions, by their very nature, cannot be settled on rational grounds. On the one hand, this is true. But, to the extent that it is correct, we must remember that scientific questions cannot be settled on purely rational grounds either. After all, as already mentioned, it is the scientist who pursues a theory in the face of contrary evidence—because he has faith in his explanation—who we eventually tend to venerate.

On the other hand, though, many religious people have subjected their beliefs to some significant amount of rational scrutiny. The fact that many of these people cling to their beliefs, despite what others consider convincing contrary evidence, indicates we ought to learn what motivates rational believers.

When someone poses an important question, one that affects society in some significant way, we must arrive at some conclusion concerning the query. Often, especially if we subscribe to the scientific method, we will settle such a question by having many people carry out the same experiment. Then, we decide an answer based on the findings of all of the parties involved. We are prone to believe that such answers come easily and unanimously to the scientific community, as if every experiment carried out by every scientist yields the same conclusions.
Such, however, is rarely if ever the case. Instead, researchers often break into warring factions who argue for one theory or another, with little or no consensus. Even when one theory accumulates so much supporting evidence as to seem unquestionable, there are still theoretical gadflies who insist that the world’s understanding is misguided. Even in scientific matters, then, “accepted” theories are more often a matter of majority—or of who controls the press—than they are questions of truth and fact.

In religious matters, however, there is even more disagreement. Where most scientists agree on at least some set of fundamentals, religionists cannot come to agreement on even the most basic theological principles. Some believe, for instance, that God is a Single Being, some that He is a Holy Trinity, some that He permeates space, or some that He does not exist at all. Even when we agree on one set of tenets concerning the nature of God, we still must grapple with the question of his personality and character—not to mention His dealing with Prophets and man. All of this can leave our heads spinning—it is easy in the face of such swirling ideas to wonder if we can really “know” anything concerning religion. If any religious tenet were knowable, wouldn’t the religious community have agreed upon it long ago, rather like physicists agree the Earth rotates around the sun? The discord over even the most basic religious ideas is, in fact, probably what leads many skeptics to conclude that no religious question can be answered rationally.

Despite the discord, however, rational methods do come to bear on religious questions. As already mentioned, Alma makes rationality’s role clear when he discusses the experiment we ought to conduct to determine religion’s validity. Alma thereby indicates an important rational facet of religion: it is incumbent on us, unless life presents us with overwhelming evidence to the contrary—or, perhaps, even when it does do so—to believe our own experience. If I pray and receive an answer, that answer forms part of the evidence I must weigh when I consider religious questions. Although others may present evidence that contradicts the conclusions I draw based on my experience, yet I cannot abandon my experience. Indeed, through a lifetime of belief, as my experience builds and I encounter more and more personal evidence of the validity of my convictions, I ought to require more and more contradictory evidence before I begin to question the truth of what I believe. This is not to say that believers should not reconsider their beliefs, of that religious experience constitutes an impenetrable wall through which neither evidence nor logic can pass. I also do not mean to suggest we should not alter our beliefs as we learn and grow. Rather, religious experience should be considered alongside other cognitive factors when we determine what we are to believe.

Contrary to this, some seem to think religious experience is, by its very nature, ephemeral, transient, and flawed. This line of arguing proposes that any tactile evidence automatically trumps spiritual evidence. Such reasoning, however, is actually quite illogical. Just as I would tend to believe the results of an experiment I conduct more than the results of an experiment conducted at some far away university by researchers whom I have never met and reported by a journal about which I know little, I can rationally believe those things in which I have faith despite contradictory archaeological, anthropological, linguistic, or historical evidence. Quite contrary to prevailing thought, it is personal religious experience that trumps other forms, not the other way around.

Religious questions, then, lie only partly outside the pale of rational inquiry. And, to perhaps a lesser extent, scientific questions do, too. In the end, we cannot gain any knowledge by purely rational means. In fact, most knowledge we accept because we have faith in other people. When we buy medicine at the store, for instance, it is not because we have personally carried out experiments that prove the medicine works. Instead, it is because we have a type of faith in the researchers and the pharmaceutical system that brought the drug to the counter. As Joseph Smith pointed out, almost all action requires faith is some principle that has not, strictly speaking, been personally proven to the person acting. Faith, then, is a vital component of nearly all useful knowledge. Further, religious understanding is not based on faith alone, but also on personal experience. Only the two together—faith and reason, belief and study—can bring us closer to the truth.

A Simple Story

2006-04-18T19:12:00.000-07:00

"Elders, will you come to my house today at ten o'clock?"

"Sure, Hermano Villanueva, what about?"

"Yes, well, you see, ummm, maybe I can tell you when you get here, would that be ok?"

"Ok, we'll be there at ten. See you then," and I hung up the phone.

"Who was that," my companion, Elder Rodriguez, asked.

"Hermano Villanueva, he wants us to come over at ten."

"What for?"

"I don't know, he wouldn't say."

"Whatever."

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, it's an appointment, right?"

"Sure, is it your turn or mine to read?"

Brother Villanueva was a rotund giant of a man; speckled facial hair protruded horizontally from his upper lip and chin. He and his wife, who was equally large, mended curtains for a living in a shop made of green, corrugated tin. Though Brother Villanueava seemed to be clipping back the foliage every time we visited him, plants of all hues hung across his entry way like tentacles waiting for careless passers-by. Still, we visited him often because he was the Elder's Quorum President of our somewhat thriving ward in Bosques, just North of Mexico City.

His daughter--round, garrulous, and smiley--kept track of us constantly just to
make sure we staid out of trouble. Finally, Brother Villanueva's
son, Eric, was a tall, broad-shouldered twenty-something who had been
in the process of submitting his mission papers for longer than I had
been in the ward.

At ten, we knocked on the looming, forrest-green door. Brother
Villanueva opened and invited us into his small living room. As he asked us to sit on the over-stuffed couch, his son lurked in the background--prowling the kitchen like a frightened cat--and his wife entered the living room with lemon water. While we sat and sipped our water, Sister Villanueva chatted with us mindlessly
and Brother Villanueva sat, pulled his pants away from his groin, stood, sat and stood again.

Finally, Brother Villanueva walked into his bedroom and came out with
a twenty-something girl following close behind. I looked at her,
assured I did not know her, and then looked at my companion, who
shrugged his shoulders. In an instant, I decided this was Eric's
previously secret girlfriend--we were here to convince Eric that
going on a mission really was that important.

We waited.

After hemming and hawing, finally Brother Villanueva began:

"Elders, I'd like to introduce you...to my son's wife."

I spit water into my glass and looked up in spite of myself.

I tried to cast discrete (yeah, right) glances at the woman's stomach--sure enough, it protruded.

What, precidesly, I wondered, did Brother Villanueva hope we would do?

"Elders, this is Geezel. She and my son are going to have a baby.
And, well, we thought about it and talked to the Bishop and decided
the only thing to do was for them to marry. So, yesterday we went to
the town justice and now it is official--they're husband and wife.
We've explained to Geezel about the Gospel and she would like you to
teach her the discussions. Would that be ok?"

We assented, of course, and began right then with the first of the six
discussions.

A few days later, we returned for a follow up visit:

"Geezel, did you have a chance to read third Nephi 11 as we discussed?"

"Yes, Elder, I did."

"I'm so glad to hear that, can you tell us a little about your favorite part."

"Well, I think the part I liked best was when Chirst gave Nephi, the
Nephite Prophet, the Priesthood power to baptize so that he could
perform baptisms that would be valid in heaven. I also liked the part
when the people had to listen to the voice three times before they
could understand it and then when they finally heard it it was God the
Father announcing the arrival of His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, who
had drunk from the bitter cup..."

"Thank you Geezel, it appears you learned a lot."

The lessons flowed smoothly until we finished with the third. Eric
attended the discussions when he was not working. On Wednesday nights
he met with the Bishop to work through the repentance process. Just a
few weeks after we started teaching Geezel, he took her to Church to
introduce her to the members with whom he had come of age.

Thankfully, the ward accepted Geezel with open arms.

Upon finishing the third discussion, however, we realized our next
meeting would include teaching about the law of chastity. Depsite the
best attempts of all involved, an aura of guilt and shame hung around
Eric like a cloud when he attended Church with Geezel. While he
introduced her as his wife, each introduction seemed to include the
subtext: "this is the reason I can't go on a mission--and, oh yes, she
is in fact pregnant."

The morning we were set to talk about chastity with Geezel, we got on
our knees and prayed: "Father, help us help Geezel to understand the
sanctity of chastity, but help help her to feel uplifted, not guilty."

We need not have worried. Though no miracle hapenned during the discussion, a sweet spirit entered the room and dwelt there like a dove. We compared chastity to a pearl necklace, a gift from a loving Father. We talked about how we should take special care of such a beautiful gift and how, if we smudge the pearls or chip them, we can, through the Atonement, see them become clean again.

The discussion was simple, but it spoke to all of us deeply. Soon thereafter, Geezel was baptized. She and Eric quickly moved past the lingering stigma and she soon bore a baby boy, who I met just before I returned home to Utah after finishing my time in Mexico. Sadly, the timing was not quite right and I had to leave in July. That November, however, Eric, Geezel, and their son were sealed in the Mexico City Temple and, to my knowledge, they continue faithfully in the Church.

In my scriptures I carry a picture of their son--Eric Abinadi Villanueva Dias--a gift they gave me a few days before I came home, on the back it reads:

"Elder Johnson, Always remember us, please. And I will tell me son about you and how special you were in our lives. Every good thing we have comes from the Gospel and from our Heavenly Father. Thank you."

note

2006-04-18T18:58:00.000-07:00

Please looks below to see the post entitled "The Power of the Word." I posted it briefly some time ago, but it quickly disappeared due to an internet problem. I hope you enjoy it, though my words cannot do the experience justice.

An Easter Hymn

2006-04-16T15:24:00.000-07:00

(to be sung to the tune of "As Now We Take The Sacrament")

He kneels alone--His friends asleep--the press is bearing down.
His blood is seeping out like wine, He claws the barren ground.
Beneath the world's weight He moans and seeks another way.
But still He prays: "Thy will be done"--a wayward world to save.

They crown His brow with thorns and nail His frame upon the cross.
In disbelief, disciples watch and count salvation's cost.
His Father hides His face and weeps, the pain is like a knife
thrust deep inside His broken heart--God mourns the sacrifice.

But three morns hence a beaming angel rolls away the stone.
Arrayed in white, the Savior leaves the press He trod alone.
Apostles stare in disbelief, then touch His love-scarred hands.
His Father gathers in His arm the Wounded Risen Lamb.

Christ's white-hot love and sacrifice melt my metal heart.
I sense His love and suffering and long to do my part.
I pray that Christ-like I may offer body, heart, and soul
and through His sacrifice come home--pure, perfect, healed and whole.

note

2006-04-10T10:32:00.000-07:00

In an effort to eliminate spam, I have enabled word verification. I hope this will not deter comments. Please alert me if this causes any problems.

Who Hath Sinned?

2006-04-07T05:02:00.000-07:00

Note: As many of my entries are optimistic, I want to add a bit of a warning that this entry deals with troubling themes. I hope the questions I pose below, while difficult and somewhat sullen, are worth asking.

On an early summer night in 1998, Kipland Kinkel was in trouble. That morning, officials at Thurston County High School found a pistol in Kip's locker and expelled him immediately. Furious, his father picked Kip up from the polics station. They had never gotten along very well--their relationship strained at best--and, on the way home, a terrible arguments ensued. Kip's father had, over the years, bought Kip a few guns in an attempt to "bond" through target-practice. In retrospect, this step seemed misguided; when he bought the guns, however, Kip's father was meagerly searching for a way--any way--to bond with his ever-more-distant son. As they approached their a-frame home some twenty minutes outside of town, Kip's father informed Kip they had reached then end of the line: Kip was going to have to give up his guns. Shouting and swearing ensued and, when they finally pulled into the driveway, Kip bolted from the car and ran up stairs, incensed.

Just a few minutes later, Kip came half way down the stairs, saw his father standing in the kitchen, and then shot him at point blank range. Both appalled and electrified with his own actions, Kip dragged the body into the bathroom and locked it inside. The phone rang, Kip answered it and found one of his school friends on the other line. They talked for an hour, the friend unaware anything was wrong. After they hung up, Kip paced the floor behind the large, front-room windo--waiting for his mom to arrive. Terrified of the reaction she might have after returning home, Kip fingered his rifle and waited. He loved his mother, they had always been rather close. How, though, would he bare her reaction to seeing her husband dead, shot by her son? Finally, after a few hours, she pulled into the driveway. Still frightened, Kip walked to the top of the stairway from the garage and waited a few more seconds. When his mom appeared on the steps, he said "I love you, mom" and then shot her--five times in the head, once in the heart--at point blank range.

The night passed as some sort of eery nothing time, the moon hovering yellow and wan above the dark, Oregon night. In the morning, Kip strapped a semi-automatic rifle to his waist, put a pistol in his belt, taped a knife to his ankle, and then--too young to drive and clad in a dark trenchcoat--took the keys to his parents' ford explorer and drove to Thurston County High School. At about seven-thirty, he parked a block away from the school and walked past the tennis courts, toward the site of his failed education. Upon arriving, he met an acquaintance in the hall.

Kip: "You better get out of her, something bad is going to happen."

"Something bad? What are you talking about?"

"Just leave."

"Why, what's wrong? Kip, what are you going to do?"

Crack!

The shot rang through the nearly-empty High School Hall while the student slumped to the floor.

Those who heard it began to call 911. Meanwhile, Kip made his way to the cafeteria. He opened the door, found the room filled with teenagers, heard the babble of students before class, and then opened fire.

48 shots. 24 students hit, 2 dead. The rifle was semi-automatic and Kip fired and fired until he ran out of ammunition (though, even then, he had filled a gym bag and brought it with him so he would have extra). Finally, a group of students rushed him and tackled him. He pulled a pistol and began to fire again, until they wrestled that away, as well.

Soon, the police arrived. Even then, as they led him to the cop car, he stooped down, pulled the knife from his ankle and attacked one of the officers. In the moments following, as he was driven to the police station and incarcerated, other officers drove to his home in the Oregon mountains and found the grisly unimiginable scene he had left there.

In the minutes following, the story lept from station to station across America--strangely familiar as this was merely the last in a string of bizarre, inexplicalbe high school shootings.

And yet, confronted with such stark horror, we cannot help but ask why? Or, more specifically, who is to blame?

Kip, of course, pulled the trigger. Maybe the blame rests squarely on his shoulders. It is difficult, however, to say so with confidence. In the months before the shootings, Kip's journal began to speak, rarely, of "the voices." Kip complained that they would not leave him alone. Likewise, when a psychologist interviewed Kip soon after the shootings, Kip sobbed and sobbed like a child cowering before a monster. He pleaded with the doctor: "I had to do it! I had no other choice!" And then, shouting at the top of his lungs and in apparently sincere agony, "These voices, I can't take these voices, someone make them go away." Staged? Perhaps. But I've heard the recording, and the anguish sound authentic. It is tempting, then, to diagnose Kip with paranoid schizophrenia. To the point, later diagnostic imaging showed literal holes in his brain--a factor which would have predisposed him to the disease.

Does the fault, then, belong with the pathology? Was Kip's shooting the most bizarre and reprehensible example of lives lost to disease? Are his actions comparable, uncomfortable though the idea makes us, to the thrashings of a man with a high fever? Perhaps those who died that day are like victims of HIV or Bird Flu--casualties of a disease spread by a person who could not even understand his own illness.

Or, perhaps, we might blame the parents. They, after all, are dead and cannot protest. Yet, while they seem to have made mistakes along the way, theirs was, in large part, a record of love and trying desperately to connect with a distant son. They raised their children as best they could. Indeed, Kip's older sister turned out beautifully, with a cheer-leading scholarship and a college degree. Both Kip's parents taught in a local high school: his mother known for her caring and his father for his charisma. As Kip distanced himself farther and farther from them, the parents did everything they could--including taking him to a psychologist--to bring Kip back from wherever he had gone. Indeed, in a bitter irony, they even bought him guns to try to reach him, like steel olive branches in a last-ditch effort to make peace. While this seems stupid in retrospect, for parents who wouldn't even buy him GI Joe toys when he was a boy, the purchased guns symbolize the lengths to which they were willing to go to get him back. And this care did not just come at the end. Long before he was born, Kip's parents located their family in a cabin-like (but very modern) home in the mountains because they believed that "the world is too much with us." Perhaps there, in the mountains, their family would escape that corrupting world--perhaps there they could be safe.

But, of course, the world now reaches nearly every nook and cranny, geographically isolated or not. Perhaps, in fact, we ought to blame the world. In another attempt to help their son, Kip's parents believed he might "connect" if they hooked him up to the internet. When he was about twelve, then, they purchased him a computer and set it up in his room. For hours without end, Kip sat entranced by the images dancing on the screen. He lost himself in the many sordid worlds bred by the caustic and soulless facets of capitalism: first pornography, then explosives, then knives, and finally guns--single loading, manual, and semi-automatic. What did he dream while bathed in the green light of his computer screen? What twisted fantasies did he concoct as he let the terrifying strains of Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson, and the like wash over him? Was it the world that killed Kip's soul?

We watched a documentary detailing these events as the coda to our psychiatry block here in medical school. As the final reels rolled past, we--one-hundred and fifty young people who are grappling to find ways to cure disease--watched in speechless horror, astounded by tragedy, helpless before fate. What happenned? Why? Who made the mistakes responsible for this senseless scene of anguish? Who could we have helped? Who could anyone have helped? There was no abusive home, no oppressive, inner-city slum: none of the usual culprits. Instead, there was only a lonely and troubled boy, trying desperately to stay afloat in the turbulent waters of adolescence and a couple of baffled parents doing their best to love the unloveable. What happened? Who sinned?

And, most troubling, if there are no answers: how do we stop it from happenning again.

Hold On!

2006-04-04T13:15:00.000-07:00

Please forgive the recent lack of posts. Burglars broke into my apartment a few weeks ago and stole my laptop. Also, I have recently experienced problems with blogger which apparently erased my last post. Please know all should be back to normal soon!

The Power of the Word

2006-04-03T11:53:00.000-07:00

That was my summer of irresponsibility--I spent most of it as a ski bum.

My parents didn't want a ski boat, so I mooched off friends whose parents were more willing. I learned to slalom the week after graduating from high school and spent the rest of the summer mastering the art of carving jagged lines into the glassy surfaces of the many lakes near Salt Lake City.

My friends and I built mammoth sand castles and then languished for hours in the sun. My skin turned deep brass and I started donning sunglasses. College, life, and responsibility seemed far away and inconsequential.

In August, life began to creep back up on us. After all, once college began the boys would leave on missions and the girls would begin to marry. Impending adult responsibilities lined up like dominoes and no one wanted to knock the first one down. The magic permeating that summer seemed not long for this world, as if it were a warm mist ready to flee before the dawn.

And so, on August 10th, we headed to Bear Lake for three days of raspberry shakes, skiing the lake, and swimming in the moonlit, translucent water. The days passed: a stream of sunrises, sunsets, bathing suits, and the musky scent of adolescence. Even while still there, we could sense the passing of an era--like watching the final tints of dusk slink away as the sun passes behind the mountains.

As we rode home, we blared the music and drove with the windows down, letting the wind ruffle our hair. Upon arriving at my house, I jumped out of David's car, grabbed my duffel bag, ran in my front door, shouted "hi mom," flung the bag into my room, and plopped myself down in front of the tv.

Five minutes, then the phone rang.

"Hello."

"Hi Ty, it's Rick."

"Whatzup?"

Silence.

"Rick?"

Silence.

"Rick? What's wrong?"

Even before he resumed speaking, I could hear the tremor in his voice.

"It's Karina." He tried to speak with measured tones, like a Bishop at a funeral.

"What's wrong."

"There was an accident, you better come over."

I shouted something to my mom, bolted out of the house in a daze, and ran around the corner toward Karina's house. Three months earlier my life-long friend had committed suicide and, as I sprinted along my quiet street below the arching oak trees, I fet fear, grief, and helplessness wash over me like a crimson tide. Though I was running, I began to feel tight, like a baloon twisted and contorted, about to burst--the plastic bulging and straining in unnatural ways.

Amidst my heaving breaths as I ran faster, I prayed in gasps: "please Father, no, not again, not so soon."

I let myself into her house after gathering my strength to absorb the impending blow. But when I enetered the living room, Karina was sleeping on the couch, breathing heavily. I looked around, confused. Dr. Condie was standing there, but he wasn't looking at Karina; instead, he stood talking quietly with her parents. Rick was there and a couple of other close friends, but no one was crying as I had envisioned. I was perplexed.

Rick took me into another room and explained Karina had crashed into a man and his wife on a motorcycle. A helicopter had come and taken the couple to LDS hospital. It appeared the man would be ok, but his wife was in critical condition. Karina had gone into hysterics and Dr. Condie gave her sedatives to knock her out, to soften the crushing blow.

Within a couple of hours, word came: the woman had died.

Not long after the grim tidings arrived, Karina awoke in hell, with guilt licking and searing her soul like flames did the skin of Abinadi.

She alternated between numbness and hysteria. Whatever her condition, though, it proved immune to help. For some time, how long I don't know because the hours passed in bleary oblivion, I and a few friends held vigil beside her: consoling, comforting, embracing, stroking, cooing, whispering, assuaging, and, after all, accomplishing nothing.

One night, a few days later, after I felt I had poured out all the love I had to give, she finally fell asleep. I went into to her parents room where her dad--muscular, somber, and wan--sat, wearing only pajama trousers and his garment top. I embraced him and wept, and wept, and wept--"I can't do anything," I cried, "I can't help her, I'm no use."

Night had set in, and it seemd both lightless and interminable.

Heather was another friend. She had not been on the trip but had heard what hapenned. Some days after the accident, she called her grandpa, asked if he could help. And so, on a Saturday, I sat with Karina when the doorbell rang. Her father got up to answer and I heard, raising my eyebrows: "Elder Maxwell?"

The apostle entered through the front door and shook each of our hands, while Karina tried vainly to look excited. Soon, he asked us if he could speak to her alone. We left the room and sat in the back yard--watching through the bay window as Elder Maxwell sat, looked into Karina's eyes, and counselled with her.

After about twenty minutes, he opened the door and asked if we would join him in the house. With Karina's family and friends seated in a circle surrounding him, Elder Maxwell placed his hands on Karina's head and began:

"Karina Smith, In the name of Jesus Christ, and by the power of the Holy Melkizedeck Priesthood I hold..." As always, and as I had heard over the pulpit many, many times, his voice resonated with compassion and intelligence. His diction was packed with substance and his imagery was evocative and kind. The sound of his words was a gentle as a lily and as authoritative as the voice of God.

Indeed, at some point during the blessing his words transcended even themselves and began to glow: holy, luminous, and buoyant. "Karina," Elder Maxwell coaxed, "let the sweet peace of Jesus wash over you as the tide." With that phrase, the thick and sable mist that had gathered around us, choking us, invading our lungs like soot, quivered, dissipated, and finally disappeared.

After he closed, Karina slept. I walked home, letting the still August evening air settle carefully onto my skin. The world slowed in its spinning arc and I felt time pause as I soaked in a breath of divinity.

In the months that followed, Karina found the cruel world still awaited--even after the blessing. Still, some miracle happened that day, deep within an unseen chamber of Karina's heart. Like tectonic plates shifting beneath us, like Enoch commanding moving mountains--the ineffable substance that ebbs and flows within us responded to Neal Maxwell's words.

Then, as now, I have pondered and never fully understood the interplay between our agency, our actions, our words, and the Atonement. What I do understand, though, is that day I was witness to the Atonement working a deep, eternal epiphany through the words of the Lord's annointed.

Not many months later, I left for Mexico, my mission field. My skin had faded back to a chalky, peachy shade and I had abandoned the sunglasses--a relic of my reckless summer. Never, however, in Mexico or since, have I forgotten the sound of Elder Maxwell's voice that afternoon. Indeed:

"No tongue can speak, neither can there be written by any man, neither can the hearts of men conceive so great and marvelous things as we both saw and heard [Elder Maxwell] speak; and no one can conceive of the joy which filled our souls at the time we heard him pray for [her] unto the Father."

I Thank Theee, O God

2006-03-12T10:06:00.000-08:00

For some reason, Frontier Airlines seems only to have a red-eye flight to bring me from SLC to Philly. Thus it was that, last night at three AM, I found myself in an aisle seat alternately munching on a slimy oatmeal cookie and sipping a slightly warm ginger ale.

Later in the flight, though, matters turned more serious. I had to stifle my sobs as I finished my spring break book: Lenghten Your Stride: The Presidency of Spencer W. Kimball (hereafter: LYS). I am too young to remember the prophet short in stature, but his son Edward has painted a vivid portrait and, by the time Spencer began his descent into seemingly interminable ill-health, I felt as though a friend was slipping away. Luckily, I think most of my fellow passengers has fallen asleep long before I began crying--but my tears didn't cease for about an hour.

Partly, I suppose, I attribute my love for President Kimball to the second official declaration. For some reason I cannot pin down, the African pioneers fascinate me. I have long treasured the moment the Earth stood still as "Reverend" Billy Johnson (in Ghana) tuned his radio to the BBC frequency to hear, late one night and after ten years of proselyting for the Mormon Church even though we wouldn't send missionaries or many official materials, that President Kimball had received revelation to extend Priesthood and Temple benefits to men of all races and hues. I wept when I read about the revelation in LYS and so I ought not be surprised I wept upon reading of President Kimball's death.

It's not just the revelation, though.

Somewhere in the course of this marvelous book, I gained a testimony that this dimnuitive man was a Prophet--either despite or because of his foibles and feelings of depression and inadequacy. Spencer, as depicted here and in his earlier biography (also by Edward Kimball), was positively and sincerely baffled by his call to the Apostleship, not to mention his ascent to the Presidency. Convcinced of his shortcomings and particularly of his lack of pedigree, Spencer seemed to compensate by wearing out his life in the love and service of others. The deterioration of his body and mind at the end of his life is hardly surprising considering his insistence, throughout thirty plus years of service as an Apostle and President, that he answer most letters, counsel most prodigals, and shake nearly every hand.

On that last note, I could not help but be struck by the following anecdote:

"Just before the last session of the conference [in La Paz, Bolivia], as the General Authorities waited in a room behind the stage, President Kimball told them, 'Before we leave tonight I would like to shake hands with and express my appreication and love to all the Lamanite people here at the conference.' Thinking of the number in attendance, President Romney urged, 'President I don't think that very wise. When we announce this we will have a real problem with security. We will have a problem with discipline. People will be stumbling over each other in order to shake your hand. You are already tired and have been on the road all this time You need your rest [President Kimball was somewhat ill from the extreme altitude].'

"President Kimball sat silently for a few moments, then, without responding to President Romney's objections, simply repeated that he wanted to touch the people. His advisers repeated their advice, Again he was silent. They looked to Dr. Ernest Wilkinson for help. 'Doctor, how do you feel about this? Do you think he is up to it?' The doctor said it was unwise, considering all the recent travel, the altitude, his fatigue at the end of a long day, and the security problem. Again President Kimball sat silent a moment, then repeated his wish. The others, realizing finally that he had made up his mind, yielded.

"As President Kimball concluded the conference, he announced, 'I want to shake the hand of every person here.' An audible gasp came from the crowd. After the prayer, pandemonium ensued. Many of the crowd could not believe he would shake everyone's hand, and they wanted to reach him before he quit. But once they realized he was serious, they stayed in an orderly line. They came--humble people, the well and the crippled. Some smiled, some wept, many gave him an abrazo [(embrace)]. Some got in line a second time. President Kimball freely poured out his time and energy to greet each one, despite the altitude, his fatigue, and his old heart.

"The other five general authorities lined up with him while Dr. Wilkinson, Earl Jones, and Arthur Haycock stood by anxiously. At one point, Dr. Wilkinson quietly approached and asked whether he could stop soon. Barely gancing at thim, President Kimball said, 'If you knew what I know, you wouldn't ask me that question.' The only help he would accept was from Elder McConkie, who stationed himself just beyond the President. As soon as a member had shaken President Kimball's hand, Elder McConkie would reach out, take the person's hands, and pull him or her along with his own greeting, lest the person stop to talk to President Kimball and make his promise to greet everyone impossible."

Last night, bathed in the harsh false light of the airplane reading lamp, I read this passage and cried like a child because I could not help but remember 3 Nephi 11:13-15:

"And it came to pass that the Lord spake unto them saying: Arise and come forth unto me...And it came to pass that the multitude went forth, and thrust their hands into his side, and did feel the prints of the nails in his hands and feet; and this they did do, going forth one by one...."

Spencer, of course, would be terribly uncomfortable with any comparision apposing him with the Savior. It's just that the analogy is so simple, so beautiful, and so compelling I can't help it--it seems that, at the end of a life dedicated to service, love, and the Savior, President Kimball had come to reflect the Lord's love and countenance in a literal, physical, and unmistakeable way.

Tender Mercies

2006-02-17T20:51:00.000-08:00

It really wasn't remarkable, as miracles go.

I had been in Mexico five months and it was Thanksgiving. My friend, serving in Switzerland, had just sent me a letter: sometimes, in the morning, I have to close my blinds while I study or else I end up spending the whole morning staring at the scenery. When I received his letter, I pulled the shades to the side of my window and looked out at a cinderblock wall festooned with garish graffiti--a moment later, a donkey brayed as it wandered by. Switzerland this is not, I thought.

Later that day, Elder Haslam and I walked to the barrio of Bosques del Lago. We crested a hill and looked out on an endless valley where row upon row of monotonous cinderblock houses created a kind of dreary grid. Women with dark and calloused skin sweated in the afternoon sun as they washed and rinsed on stone washboards behind their small homes. Each in succession said gracias, pero soy Catolico, pues, creyente (thanks, but I'm Catholic, well, I was raised Catholic, anyway). We spent the day canvassing a whole quadrant of mini-blocks and found no success.

At the end of the day, we returned home with little enthusiasm. We were a bit excited, though, because Elder Haslam was going to call home that night--not because of the holiday, but because he needed new glasses and the President told him to call and ask his parents to deposit money.

Upon arriving at our apartment, he dialed home and his face lit up as he briefly talked with his mother for the first time since mother's day. They spoke only briefly. When I could tell Elder Haslam was wrapping up his conversation, I asked if I could speak with his mom. I did not know Elder Haslam before our time together and I had never communicated with his mother; somehow, though, mine seemed a natural request.

Hello, Sister Haslam.

Hello, Elder Johnson.

I really like serving with your son, he's a wonderful Elder.

Thank you, Elder.

Within me, warmth began to swell and I suddenly realized I was no longer thinking as I spoke--it was as if I was listening to someone else speak with my voice.

Sister Haslam, would you do me a favor?

Sure, Elder.

Will you call my mom (I gave the number) and tell her I love her. Tell her I miss her but I am happy here in Mexico. Tell her we are having success and we even have a baptism planned for this Saturday. Tell her I love her, will you do that?

Certainly, Elder, I'll call her right now.

With that, the conversation ended and I quickly forgot the experience until I received a letter from my mother a couple of weeks later (written, mind you, the day after my conversation with Sister Haslam):

Dear Tyler,

Yesterday I was having a particularly hard day. I miss you so much and, when I started to think about it, I realized your brother will be leaving pretty soon on his mission. I know you are both doing what you are supposed to be doing, but it is just so hard sometimes. Then, I started to think of how you will soon leave for college and one day you will marry and probably move away. When I thought about all that, it made me very sad. It was just one of those days when everything seemed gray and drab. Sometime last night, I was crying when your dad answered the phone. He handed me the receiver and it was Sister Haslam, the mother of one of your companions. She said she had just spoken to you and you had asked her to tell me you loved me. I told her what a hard day it had been and we both cried over the phone, even thouh we have never met. I could feel your love from Mexico. I thought you would want to know.

Mom

His Image In [Their] Countenance

2006-02-12T08:11:00.000-08:00

Perdon? That's how I responded to Sonya's tortured admission of guilt; roughly translated: I'm sorry, what was that?

Sonya lived with her husband Pedro and their three children in a small but tidy apartment in Tulancingo, a far-off suberb of the never-ending Mexico City. We first met her son as we knocked other doors in his apartment building. He ran up and down the stairs, back and forth, passing us four times. Finally, I stopped him:

Hey, go ask your mom if she wants to hear a religious discussion. He nodded and scampered back up the stairs.

My companion elbowed me: Nice technique, Elder--contacting eight year olds.

We kept knocking.

A couple minutes later, here came Carlos: Mom says come up.

I elbowed my companion back and we ascended the stairs again. It was Christmas time so we sang Silent Night and talked about Christ's birth. Sonya cradled her son in her arms and looked sadly into the distance as we sang. She wanted us to come back and meet her husband that night.

We did. He was cordial but cool. Over the next few weeks we taught their little family the Gospel. When we learned about repentance, Sonya's eyes lit up. As she read the Book of Mormon a change came over her countenance. Each day when we arrived she grabbed the book, clutched it to her chest, and referred to it--with carino--as mi librito (my little book).

Pedro didn't change. He was known, at work and at home, as a rough character. A ward member told us how harsh he could be as a supervisor and his wife told stories of his expectations of perfection--especially when they first married. Back then, if she made a mistake he would clam up for days, the silence was to teach her not to make mistakes in the future. He became a bit more kind as we taught him, but his demeanor retained a stony sheen.

Still, he and his family decided to be baptized. My companion and I were so excited. We had been making special sacrifices that month, hoping for miracles, and this was one. An entire family baptized--we could so easily imagine returning to Mexico for the sealing.

By a strange trick of transfers, I ended up being assigned to interview Sonya and Pedro for their baptism. That morning, we walked with high steps and beaming smiles to their apartment. I would interview Sonya that morning and Pedro in the evening. I sat down with Sonya and we began the interview:

Do you believe in God the Father and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost?

Si, si creo (yes, yes I believe).

Do you believe...

and so the interview continued without a hitch. As we neared the end of the interview, we both found ourselves smiling and weeping--we knew we were witnessing a miracle.

Despite her joy, however, Sonya fidgeted with the edge of the bedspread as we worked our way through the interview. Finally, as I asked the penultimate question, her gaze dropped to the floor:

Is there are serious transgression in your past about which you feel we should speak before I recommend you for baptism? Specifically, have you ever...

Elder, she began, with obvious pain and embarrasment, there is something I need to tell you. Well, about ten years ago, let's see, when we were first married, well, Pedro was very mean to me. I often couldn't feel love in our home. And so, well, I wasn't faithful.

What do you mean, Sonya?

I had...three...affairs...in those years.

I stared, mouth agape, and felt the wind rush from my stomach. I stammered: what? how? you did?

Elder, do I need to tell my husband? I know I can't start this new life if I am lying to my husband. But if I tell him, he'll want a divorce and then everything will be ruined. What can I do? Elder, I want to start a new life, but I can't, not with these sins hidden from my husband? What should I do?

All my wisdom, let alone the words to articulate it, immediately fled. I just looked at her. I fingered the scriptures absently and kept looking at Sonya, whose eyes were rimmed with tears.

Finally, I said, Sonya, I just don't know. I need to talk to my President. I'll call him tonight. Don't do anything until I come and talk to you tomorrow. Just wait. Please.

I felt sick. My companion and I quickly said goodbye and I explained the siuation to him as we walked down the stairs. We spent the rest of the say wandering about like zombies--our dreams for this family scattering like ashes in the breeze.

That night I called the President. I explained the circumstances: President, what should I do?

He sighed his contemplative sigh and was silent for a long while. Then: Elder, I don't know, I'll call the area president and call you back.

Thirty minutes later, the President called. I was not one to question my president, and he was not one to question the area President, but neither of us felt very confident about the conversation which ended: So I tell her she doesn't need to tell him?

Yes, Elder, the President says the Atonement will wash away her sins--they will no longer exist. It was appropriate that she confess this to her Priesthood leader, but as the sins will no longer exist, there is no need to tell her husband.

Ok, President. But it didn't really feel ok. No one believes more strongly in the power of the Atonement than I do, but I could not reconcile the idea of making Sonya take those sins to the grave with her. What would happen in Pedro found out later? If she felt she needed to tell him, who was I to tell her not to?

I slept little that night; the hours passed slowly but 10:00 AM came quickly.

My companion and I sat down with Sonya. Even then, pulling our chairs under us to sit down, I didn't know what I would say. I prayed desperately within: please tell me what to do. No insipiration seemed to come.

With anxious eyes, Sonya blurted out: Elders, I told him.

For the second time in as many days, I felt the wind rush out of my lungs.

You what? I knew I might have told her to do the same, but I couldn't believe she had already gathered the courage. We stared at her for what seemed like five minutes. Finally, she went on: He said we are beginning new lives in Christ Jesus, and the things we did before do not matter. He said those things will be washed away, we will be clean. We are starting over.

Again, I sat gaping, but this time I felt joy welling up inside me like rushing water. I looked at my companion, looked at Sonya, jumped out of my chair, ran around the table, and grabbed her in a bear hug.

We wept.

Days later, we met with her family and much of the ward at the baptismal font. Pedro asked that I baptize him. I will never forget the light that shone from his face, as if his countenance reflected the glow from an unseen and gentle sun. He smiled as I raised him from the water.

A mighty change, indeed.

Perhaps, in the end, I did not understand the Atonement so well as I had thought; Christ's power was much greater than I had ever supposed.

A People of Sorrow and Acquainted with Grief

2006-02-09T19:28:00.000-08:00

While teaching in the MTC, I realized I could not let "my" missionaries enter the field without telling them the truth: a mission is a difficult, taxing, and often harsh experience. Oh, there are miracles a plenty, to be sure, but most days are long, most doors are slammed, and many people are rude. I made a point of looking each of my Elders and Sisters in the eye and saying this may be the hardest thing you will ever do. I knew I taught truth, at least during that lesson, because I learned from what I taught. I articulated feelings through which I had never thought.

Further reflection, however, led me to ask why? Of course, if you have read Elder Holland's Missionaries and the Atonement, you know he atriculates both the questions and the answer better than I ever could. Still, I've spent many hours pondering sorrow, and I hope I have learned a couple of things.

Perhaps most importantly, sorrow is often proportional to spirituality. Yes, that's right, directly proportional. Consider the following examples:

Joseph Smith was, as Richard Bushman has wisely dubbed him, a "prophet of sorrow." Consider Joseph's trajectory: born in poverty, called to bear a mantle which nearly suffocated him, rejected and misunderstood at almost every turn, and finally killed for his integrity (whatever flaws Joseph possesed, and those flaws are real, his integrity remained firm). Joseph was, as he said, wont to swim in deep waters. Considering the betrayal, persecution, and rejection that haunted him at nearly every turn, I am hardly surprised when I read his beautiful, steely cry from Liberty Jail: "O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place?"
C.S. Lewis, the converted atheist and preeminent Christian apologist of the twentieth century, was devastated to find God had apparently abandoned him in Lewis' moment of greatest need. Using the same strong words with which he had, for so long, explained away "the problem of pain," Lewis wrote, following his wife's death: "Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms. If you remember yourself and turn to Him [when you are happy] with gratitude and praise, you will be--or so it feels--welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence."
Ammon and his companions, perhaps the greatest missionaries of whom we have record, found rejection, temptation, and affliction at almost every turn. For every discussion with a Lamoni, there were many nights spent in prison--languighing and waiting for deliverance. As a student of the Book of Mormon, I am often so eager to bolster my faith I skip straight to the "inspiring" parts of Ammon and Co.'s story. In so doing, however, I neglect to acknolwedge, "Now these are the circumstances which attended them in their journeyings, for they had many afflictions; they did suffer much, both in body and in mind, such as hunger, thirst and fatigue, and also much labor in the spirit."

Sorrow, it seems, will constantly accompany those who seek Christ. I at first thought this absurd; Lehi, after all, is clear: "Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have hoy." How can sadness inescapably dwell with Christ's disciples if He promises joy to those who follow Him--indeed, if joy is the very reason for our creation and existence? I realized, however, joy and sorrow are not related as are light and darkness. The latter pair are, by definition, mutually exclusive; they cannot both occupy the same space simultaneously and as one advances the other must retreat. Such is not the case, though, with joy and sorrow.

Instead, joy and sorrow are forever sealed together; just as "neither is the man without the woman, neither the woman without the man, in the Lord," joy cannot be complete without sorrow, or sorrow without joy, in Christ. All things must exist in opposition, as Lehi explains, and so joy finds meaning in sorrow. Furthermore, as we trek through life, we find meaning in each of these only as we experience the other.

Sorrow, I believe, is holy.

Consider the last time you attended a funeral for someone who lived a full and faithful life. The sorrow you felt was, no doubt, both real and deep. Joy, however, infused you sadness with hope. Your joy may have sprung from memories of the past or from hope for future reunions. Your joy was real, but it was made so by the impinging sorrow. Joy and sadness are inseperable. Often, indeed, our ability to feel one increases our ability to feel the other.

This analysis leaves many questions unanswered, however. Most acutely: what of sorrow not infused with such obvious hope--what, for instance, of a funeral for a beloved and wicked man. What about rape? Incest? Murder? Hatred? Abduction? War? The missing? The dead? The estranged? The hopeless? Comfort may abound at the funeral of a saint, but what of the craven criminal who dies alone in the street?

The first answer is: I don't know. What I do know, however, is that "the keeper of the gate is the holy one of Israel, and he employeth no servant there." In other words, every man will eventually face the Savior for judgement. I believe quite strongly that meeting will surprise many of us--many of the most confident will, for the first time, recognize glaring problems and many of the most humble and fearful will find much greater compassion than expected. When it is all over, though, each of us will receive, as Elder Maxwell has pointed out, "according to his desire."

One final thought. I have glaringly ommitted the Savior from the list above; I have done so, however, because the arc of his life teaches special lessons concerning the promises of the Lord to those who find themselves beset by trials and hopelessness they cannot easily overcome. No scene, ever, evokes pathos like the Savior kneeling in Gethsemane. A poem depicts the scene:

He kneels alone, His friends asleep, the weight is bearing down.
His blood is seeping out like wine, He claws the barren ground.
He groans beneath the world's weight, His shoulders weary grow--
but love sustains Him through the night, compassion downward flows.

Most terribly, the Savior found himself without His Father's help. An angel came to bear him up, but the Father had to turn from Him--to be infinite, the Atonement apparently had to include what felt like the betrayal of the Savior's constant companion and friend: His Father. From later in the same poem:

They crown His brow with thorns and hang His frame upon the cross.
In disbelief disciples watch and count salvation's cost.
His Father hides his face and cries. Christ's pain is like a knife
thrust deep inside His Father's heart--God mourns the sacrifice.

Do we wonder that the Savior, sensing the suffering about to engulf Him, pleaded "Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me?" Do we realize what he taught about submissiveness when he concluded his anguish with faith: "nevertheless, not my will but thine?" Do we remember, in our moments of suffering, the anguish of the Savior?

More importantly, however, do we, in those most difficult moments, remember that the Savior's story did not end in Gethsemane? Nor did it end on Calvary, in the empty tomb, or even among the hosts "awaiting the advent of the Son of God into the spirit world." No. So far as we have record, the Savior's ministry in the meridian of time ended in the land of Bountiful, among the Nephites.

When sorrow descends like night upon me, I like to read 3 Nephi 17. There, I find the Savior weeping with joy. I find him blessing, healing, and discovering himself filled with compassion. I like this chapter because it reminds me that, for the faithful, Gethsemane is real but not final. One day, those who keep their covenants will find themselves safe in the arms of Jesus and the Father, surrounded by compassion and healing. The arc of the disciple's journey will have begun in Eden, and it will pass through Gethsemane, but it will end in Bountiful--a land of endless joy and sorrow.

The Abolition of Want

2006-02-06T11:58:00.000-08:00

Want is infinite. That, anyway, is the American economic dogma. The first lesson I learned in Econ 110 was that want is like the receding horizon--ride faster, push harder, and wear out your life in its pursuit and, in the end, it does not matter. Strangely, want does not diminish with achievement or acquistion. I want a car. I get the car. Now, however, I find I want speakers for the car. When the speakers are installed, I need new paint--red, perhaps. By the time my vehicle is outfitted as I originally designed, I am busy seeking next year's model.

Likewise, if want is at all proportional to wealth, it is directly so. We might suspect the opposite. If our desires could be satiated then we would imagine a world where the poor wanted more and the rich were content to have much. Instead, want circumscribes me as a circle of increasing size: the bigger it grows, the more I can see from the periphery. And, of course, I usually want what I can see. Sadly, then, as our acquisitions pile up we find our hunger grows proportionately.

There is something American about this restlessness. Indeed, Tocqueville observed our insatiable desire two-hundred years ago:

"Fortune awaits them everywhere, but not hapiness. The desire of prosperity has become an ardent and restless passion in their minds, which grows by what it feeds on.... Emigration was at first necessary to them; and it soon becomes a sort of game of chance, which they pursue for the emotions it excites as much as for the gain it procures."

That is us. We relish not so much the acquisition as the excitement of the pursuit, the thrill of the game of chance, the perpetual emigration--we like the horizon to continue to withdraw before us.

Then again, do we relish the pursuit? Do we even enjoy it? Particularly when we mistake material wealth for the object and design of our existence, it seems we trick ourselves into thinking hapiness really does lie in the acquisition of something. We believe if we obtain more of this, or the latest of that, or the most impressive of those, we will surely be happy. Unavoidably, however, acquistion brings not hapiness, but emptiness--like drinking from a mirage. Despite the sand in our mouths, however, we set off through the desert toward the next apparent oasis, perpetually convinced of the reality of the water that awaits.

How do I escape this wearying, dry, and draining monotony? Perhaps the secret of abolishing want is the discovery that want only ends within. That is what Jacob taught:

"And after ye have obtained a hope in Christ ye shall obtain riches, if ye seek them; and ye will seek them for the intent to do good--to clothe the naked, and to feed the hungry, and to liberate the captive, and administer relief to the sick and the afflicted."

Redirection, not abolishment, is the final goal. We ought not do away with our want, but we must want different things. We learn in Ether:

"Wherefore, whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God."

In Christ our want turns two directions: outward and upward. On the one hand, we seek a better world here by doing the things Jacob describes. On the other, we seek exaltation as we ascend toward holier spheres.

Hugh Nibley described one way to see things as they really are. He asked us to imagine a man who is diagnosed with a terminal disease--as it turns out, this man has only a few weeks to live. Imagine the way this man would live his life. In a flash, his priorities would realign: the important would pale and the secondary would become vital. A few weeks later, however, the man returns to the doctor and is told the original diagnosis was wrong, he is going to be just fine. The reality never changed, but the man's world-view is forever altered.

We needn't face any such bleak prognosis to lift our eyes above the smog of pressing concerns. Alma taught those who "have...spiritually been born of God...look forward with an eye of faith...and [view] this corruption raised in incorruption." By seeking God, by seeking grace, by doing all and recognizing our reliance on grace regardless, our gaze rises and turns outward and we find ouselves, as Elder Maxwell once observed (quoting G.K. Chesterton), "under freer skies, in a street full of splendid strangers."

As we climb the anscendant path, we find oases scattered along the trail. These fountains, though, give living, sparkling, crystal water which refreshes us and prepares us for the ascents ahead. In the end, we find want has given way to hope, jealousy to contentment, and lust to love.

In the end, the difference between follwing Christ and following Mammon is not the intensity of our motivation, but the hapiness we find in the journey.

An Ode to Mr. Jones

2006-01-28T07:42:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning, I spent two hours with a Chinese Rheumatologist whose English was passable if not fluent; at the very least, what she lacked in fluency she made up for in enthusiasm. You learn quickly in medical school that rheumatology is (one of) the unloved medical specialities. Consequently, every rheumatologist takes it upon herself to convince you rheumatology is fascinating, subtle, and difficult--most doctors, however, disagree. Having now acknowledge this, I fully realize some twist of fate will probably make me a rheumatologist years down the road.

This post, however, is not about rheumatology.

I only brought my class up because, about half way through, one of my classmates skulked into the lab room, sat down at a table across from me, and put his head down in his arms. The enthusiastic Chinese rheumatologist asked him a couple of questions during class but his only response was to barely raise his head and mutter something about not knowing the answer. His eyes were sunken and his face gaunt, his skin, though dark, was pale.

The day before that, I almost walked into a lady who stood motionless behind her shopping cart at the Fresh Grocer. She had her arms crossed atop the back of her cart and her head lay limp on her arms, as if she did not have enough strength to move her legs of straighten her neck. I walked by her, paused, turned around and was going to ask if she was ok, but by that time she had lifted her head and was walking down the isle, apparently well enough to keep moving.

People like these make me think of Maynard Dixon's Forgotten Man paintings. If you have not seen them, the BYU art department actually has one hanging in the art gallery (by what coup, I do not know). The painting depicts a man, head bowed, seated on a curb. While he stares toward the street, crowds of by-passers do exactly that. Despite a flurry of pant-legs and shoes and even including the man who is the center of the piece, no face is visible in the painting. It is as if the crowd, by ignoring the forgotten man, rob both him and themselves of their humanity. Without compassion, everyone involved withers into a kind of faceless phantom--no countenance, no name, no identity, just a flurry of hurrying and rush.

Whenever I see that painting, whenever I face people like those I have met over the past few days, I am reminded of Mr. Folds' "Mr. Jones, Part 2:"

Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark.
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall.
He's cleared all his things and put them in boxes--
things that remind him life has been good.
Twenty-five years he's worked at the paper,
a man's here to take him dowstairs.
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, it's time.

There was no party, there were no songs,
Cause today's just a day like the day that he started.
No one is left here who knows his first name
and life barrels on like a runaway train.
And the passengers change but don't change anything--
you get off someone else can get on.
And I'm sorry Mr. Jones, it's time.

Streetlight shines through the shades
casting lines on the floor and lines on his face--
he reflects on the day.

Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
projecting some slides onto a plain white canvas
and traces it, fills in the spaces,
turns off the slides but it doesn't look right.
And all of these [people] have taken his place
he's forgotten but not yet gone.

And I'm sorry Mr. Jones, it's time.

Mr. Folds' song makes me melancholy because it reminds me how many people, despite lives filled with effort and desire, are left languishing is the gutters of the world. Some stay there only a few moments, but some seem to dwell there forever. It's hard to imagine a sadder scene than the one portrayed in the song (reminiscent, in its way, of Willy Loman's firing): a lifelong newspaperman finishes his career not to song and celebration, not to odes and farewells, but to nothing. He is merely replaced. In the end, it seems he was meaningless.

The disturbing part, of course, is that the world's forgotten men are only forgotten because we choose to forget. They are only forgotten because I--foolish, embarrassed, and sheepish--refuse to pay attention, care, or help. Caught up in the forward motion of my life, I at times rush by and fail to turn to face those who are languishing in the gutter. In the end, it takes so little to change the painting. If you have seen it, imagine the difference it would make if one of those passers-by turned, showed his face, and extended a hand to the faceless man who stares down toward the street--imagine.

Sometimes I imagine and then wonder if I can do the same for someone, somewhere, today. Indeed, I was surprised once to note that, as I walked through the BYU art gallery I was confronted first by The Forgotten Man and then, in the next room, by Christ Healing the Man at Bethesda. Here was another forgotten man, a leper--hidden, actually, beneath a tarp. But here also was the Savior, as He always does to every forgotten one, lifting the cloth extending his man, and healing the one left alone by the rest of us. While I cannot reach everyone, and while I cannot heal like the Savior, for someone today perhaps I can remember and in remembering restore his face, his name, and his hope.

Alternative Explanation

2006-01-14T06:45:00.000-08:00

Elder Maxwell once commented that most who are not members of the Mormon Church are eager to accept any explanation for the restoration of the church and the coming forth of the Book of Mormon--except the one Joseph Smith gave. I have included here a link to an article from a dearly beloved local journalist who will remain nameless, but whose name sounds an awful lot like Meggy Petcher Snack: http://sltrib.com/faith/ci_3401255. This article deals with a Mr. Shugarts, who is writing a book to help readers decode the sequel to The Davinci Code (an interesting strategy since the sequel, of course, has not yet been released). In any case, Dan Brown's new book focuses on the Masons, and part of Shugart's book describes the little-known links between Masonry and Mormonism.

Among other things, Shugart apparently claims that Joseph Smith dug up the idea for the gold plates, as well as the method of their translation, from Masonic legend. This, I admit, is a new one for me. I had heard of apparent Masonic ritual/Temple ceremony similarities before, but not of this explanation of the Gold Plates. What strikes me as amusing is that I accidentally came upon an anti-Mormon web-site the other day which offered another, perhaps complementary, explanation for the Book of Mormon: Joseph wrote it and lifted many of its pages and lines from famous works written before his time. We can, of course, add this to a list that has long included the Spualding manuscript theory as well as many other naturalist explanations I am sure exist but of which I am not aware.

I wonder, though, if the purveyors of these theories pause to consider the implications of the irexplanations. Are we really to believe that Joseph, while sitting in a Masonic meeting one day, thought ya know, I could use some of these ideas, twist them a bit, and then pretend to the whole world that I have found a magic book and magical glasses with which to translate it? That he then went through the rigamarole of pretending to lug around a set of plates and of convincing his family he actually had something to physically hide when the marauders came? That he then hypnotized both the three and eight witnesses in order to make them believe they heard God's voice (especially the three witnesses)? And, finally, that he collected (from the nearby library?) some of the great literary works of our time--including a number of Shakespeare's plays--and sat behind the curtain dictating without pause to a number of scribes while lifting lines from the Bible, Shakespeare, et. al?

Forgive me, I vent. I understand sophisticated authors like Fawn Brodie have offered detailed, nuanced, and subtle explanation for the doings of the Prophet. And I know their explanations deserve more credit than I offer in the hopelessly straw-man-like argument I outline here. Still, I really do believe there are many anti-Mormons (especially with the advent of the internet) who put no more thought into their writings than the supposedly thoughtless and Lemming-like Mormons they pretend to lambast. In the end, I think I agree with Elder Maxwell: perhaps the most sophisticated and nuanced explanation is the one Joseph offered, "Wherefore, [The Book of Mormon] is an abridgement of the record ot the people of Nephi...written by way of commandment, and also by the spirit of prophecy and of revelation...written and sealed up...to come forth by the gift and power of God."

"Know"

2006-01-08T16:40:00.000-08:00

"Know" causes much consternation in the Church. On the one hand, small children are sometimes taught to profess knowledge they may or may not yet posses. On the other hand, most wards have a member who, upon bearing his testimony, will carefully remind members: "I cannot say I know these things, but I want you all to know I believe these things..." "Know" is a word we use often in the Church, but as I sat in Fast and Testimony meeting today I pondered what it means, for me, to know something.

As a medical student, I spend the majority of my time learning scientific "konwledge." We know many of the details about evolution, genetic mechanisms, biochemistry, pathology and physiology. Indeed, underlying everything I learn in medical school is the scientific method--a carefully cultivated theory describing the acquisition of knowledge. According to this theory, we gain knowledge in tiny increments. In Gospel-speak, we learn "line upon line, and precept upon precept." Only Gospel-speak is not really appropriate for describing the scientific method because in science we do not really know anything.

The scientific method describes our attempt to arrive at our best approximation of reality. That is not in any way to disparage the scientific method, I am simply recognizing that the very pattern which sets the SM apart is one of attempt, mistake, retry, mistake, retry (and closer this time to the truth), and so on... In the end, then, I do not believe science seeks knowledge.

Religion, however, deals with both knowledge and belief.

"To some, it is given to know..." I believe knowledge comes we know not how. Some general authorities, like President Hinckely, have described a gradual dawning of knowledge. These men cannot pinpoint a moment in which knowledge came, they seem simply to know. As a person does not mature at any one time, so knowledge may grow unnoticed until one day, concerning some specific subject, a person simply knows. Others, like Alma Jr. in his moment of greatest dread, come to know like lightning. In a moment, something unknown a moment before becomes known.

I suspect people in both categories would have a hard time describing the origin or basis of their knowledge. Search both scriptures and journals and you will find various attempts to put into words the process of knowledge, but I do not think any suffices--both because everyone experiences the dawn of knowledge differently and because, try as mortals might, the process of knowledge reception is--like Christ's prayers on behalf of the Nephites--simply beyond words.

I know Joseph Smith is a prophet. I have tried, through the years, in many circumstances and to many people to explain how I know. Most of the explanation is both easy and relatively unimportant. I can relate the circumstances and the consequences. I have the accompanying scriptures memorized and I can even call upon my dad's testimony for corroboration, as he was there.

The story, however, turns on my moment of truth. The instant occurred while I sat on the couch in my living room at 1451 Yuma. I was reading Joseph Smith's story. I can recall and describe perfectly all the events leading up to that moment; but that moment I can only recall--I have never succeeded in describing it. I have tried imagery as varied as waterfalls and flames, but nothing conveys the transofrmation adequately. It is, to use a lame analogy, like describing a sunset to a man born blind. The colors, the hues, the harmony are all meaningless unless you have seen them.

I do not know how I know. I only know I know. I only know in that moment I knew. Minutes before, I believed, but in that moment something changed and I knew. And I still know. That's about as far as words can take me, the rest, I suppose, can only be learned by experience.

Body of Knowledge

2006-01-06T20:22:00.000-08:00

Having just finished our gross anatomy course, I have mixed feelings about the use of cadavers in medical training.

Before our final exam on Monday, we visited with our "lady" one last time. I know the scene sounds strange, even macabre, but there was a certain reverence there. Her body, I am sorry to admit, is only the tattered remains of what it once was. We have dissected much and it is difficult now to look at her and remember she once was a person.

The hardest day for our group (I work with two Jewish students and one deist) was when we uncovered her face. Before that day, we religiously assured her face was hidden behind the opaque cloth we use to cover the body. As we prepared to learn about the veins, arteries, nerves, and muscles of the face, however, we had to remove the cloth. It had previously been fairly easy to forget she had once been a person, but as we uncovered her countenance, we remembered with acute sorrow that this woman had once been alive.

I think her eyes were most haunting. The eyeballs had been preserved and, though they were robbed now of light, they still had an eerily human look to them. I realized then, as I had not before, this woman has a family, and probably friends. There was likely a funeral and someone certainly shed tears when she passed away. Indeed, this was all more poignant for me because my grandfather passed away in the same month I started my class.

Still, as we met in the lab the other day to say "goodbye" and to pay respects, we each took a turn audibly saying thank you. Odd? Perhaps. Incongruous? I'm not sure.

Certainly, there was something strange about trying to hallow that formaldehyde-soaked room. And yet, as I reflect on that experience, I cannot help but think her gift was not in vain. Now, when I look at someone play the piano, or run, or stand, or blink, or speak, my mind can see the muscles and blood flow and neurons working in a kind of miraculous harmony.

I have no doubt this will change the way I practice medicine. Whether I practice surgery or not, the lady who donated her body forever changed my manner of viewing human health and disease. I believe--or at least I hope--I will be both more empathetic and more skilled because of her posthoumous gift to me.

Indeed, with her gift she extended the legacy of her life by allowing us to become more capable of improving and extending the lives of others. I hope not inappropriately, we are thankful to her and the many others who have sacrificed for the betterment of those left here after the deceased pass away.