Today's lesson in Elders' Quorum was about reconcilement, which we treated as a matter between people. That is, how do we, as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints react to offenses and mitigate the effects of when we inadvertently offend. It's a not infrequent topic, especially in a Church concerned with membership retention. Still, I ended up listening with less than half an ear as the word reconcile is one that does something different to me than, I'd guess, most people. See, back when I was a teenager, I had two musical interests: Third wave ska (with some punk thrown in for fun) and Dave Matthews Band. The two aren't particularly comparable, but hey…who can ever really justify the ways of their music tastes to men? And, in my defense, I liked the energy of the former and the technical abilities of the latter. (If you ever hear me play the guitar, you'll hear both influences heavily in the way that I approach music.) Anyway, one of the things about the Dave Matthews Band back in the nineties is that they encouraged their fans to record the live shows, to share and collect the unique versions that came out of each of their concerts, as it were. (I don't know if they still do that nowadays, as I've stopped listening to their stuff after the early aughts.) It wasn't as easy to swap that information back then as it is now. After all, high speed internet was for schools, colleges, and businesses that could afford it. I was still on a slow dial-up connection (56k baby!), so I couldn't really download those songs in any real quantity. Fortunately for me, one of the guys in my home ward was also a DMB fan, so he had a small collection of these "bootleg" songs. He burned me a CD so that I could enjoy the alternative versions. One of them, which later became the song "Bartender" on the Busted Stuff album, was called "Reconcile Our Differences"*. You can see the lyrics here, which are important for this particular post because they differ so much from the eventual "official" version of the song.** "Bartender" has some similar themes that clearly started in "Reconcile Our Differences", but since I listened to the bootleg version long before I saw the fully produced album, I often think of "Reconcile" as the superior version to "Bartender". In the song, Matthews sings about what remains of a person when life runs out. Though he drifts over a number of different possibilities, the section that always stood out to me was this part: We reconcile, our differences Matthews is a fairly irreverent person--I remember reading an interview back in '02 or thereabouts where he said he believed in God, but not that He had a plan or anything--so the particular image of a heavenly swimming pool isn't too far afield for the man. Nevertheless, I'm struck by its mundanity, especially as I consider the idea by Montesquieu: "If triangles had a god, they would give him three sides." Whatever the eternal nature of the attributes of God, there's always a contemporary insistence on how He thinks and behaves, one that shifts as time and cultures march forward. I once asked if God wears a tie; why would I not also be curious if He has a swimming pool? But it isn't the swimming pool that really gets to me: It's the whole verse. If we can reconcile our differences, could God and the devil? Today is John Milton's 410th birthday, and in honor of that--and because these types of questions push me in this direction…and because it's actually an accident I did this--I looked up the beginning of Book IV in Paradise Lost. This, you'll remember, is the moment when Satan arrives on Earth and has a deep, honest conversation with himself about what he's about to do. He asks some questions that…well, you should read it for yourself (starting on line 32). It's powerful stuff. So, instead of paying attention to my peers as they discussed not being offended when other people are jerks, I went through a close reading of Milton's masterpiece. It raises all sorts ideas in my mind, but the one that I'm always most struck by whenever I read that part is whether or not God would forgive Satan. Or, maybe, could. Both possibilities are fascinating, as I think both provide different ways of reading both Satan and God. If He would forgive Satan, I think it would be along lines like those that Satan outlines in the poem: […] is there no place In this sense, the price to get back into God's good graces are too high for Satan to countenance. God would; Satan wouldn't. This becomes less about God and more about Satan, as the metaphorical ball is in Satan's court. By the end of the Satanic soliloquy, we get this bit: "For never can true reconcilement grow/Where wounds of deadly hate have peirc'd so deep" (4.98-99).
And that's one of the saddest parts, in my mind, about what's going on with Satan in Paradise Lost. He has come to a conclusion that "all his good prov'd ill in me" (4.48) and, in the case of God's grace, "Be then his Love accurst, since love or hate,/To me alike, it deals eternal woe" (4.69-70). Regardless of God's love or hatred, Satan feels the same pierced wounds. If love feels like hatred, then how does one feel love? But what about the could part of the supposition? Could God reconcile His differences with Satan? Can He walk "on and on" with the devil, let His fallen angel Lucifer into his swimming pool? There's a bit of a double bind here, because if we argue God can't do that, then He isn't the omnipotent being He's supposed to be. Some might argue a won't that's strong enough to be a can't, though that might only be a semantic pivot. Here's some set up to the question that I ended my own exploration with during quorum meeting, and I'll admit that it comes from a uniquely Mormonic point of view: In Mormonism***, there's an understanding that before birth, all current humans had a soul residing in Heaven with God. Therefore, the human family antedates our current world. The extension of that is everyone--all of the angels, all of us, and even Christ Himself--are connected in a familial bond. Lucifer, then, is also part of the celestial family before he was evicted. In that sense, Lucifer is a spiritual sibling to everyone on Earth. And that leads to my question: Does God miss His son Lucifer? For some reason, I'd like to think that He does. --- * Despite my tepid efforts, I couldn't find a version of the song with the lyrics I've linked above. The song's tune is, as I said, on the Busted Stuff album. It's a good one, and the new lyrics in "Bartender" are also thought-provoking. I'd recommend checking it out if you like his style of music. ** At the time, Busted Stuff wasn't even produced--there was, as I seem to recall, a bit of a falling out with the band's producer that led to a bunch of the songs being scrapped--so I listened to the in-the-works music (called, alternatively, The Summer So Far and The Lillywhite Sessions), which had "Bartender" in basically its final form. *** I think there's a difference between teachings of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and Mormonism; hence my usage of the word. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! In the beginning of January, I posted this NPR article that highlights some of the tensions between Christian evangelicals and my own church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It pointed out that there's a definitional difference between the two groups without explaining that definition. I dug around a little and found the podcast that they quoted in the article. Albert Mohler politely but pointedly argues that Mormons aren't Christian because of the ways we consider Christ, the Trinity, and modern-day revelation and prophetic guidance. None of this is particularly surprising to me, but it's always good to hear that my understanding of any situation is correct. Now, as I've said countless times, I don't think that Mormons are Christians in that historical sense; however, the fact that we worship Jesus Christ and try to follow His teachings makes me also feel comfortable claiming a type of functional Christianity for members of the Church. And I don't begrudge anyone who wants to take issue with the differences between a historical and a functional claim--indeed, there's a lot that could be said from that angle. But I'm not trying to rehash previously related arguments. Instead, I'm looking closely at what a friend posted in response to me sharing the NPR article. He and I are friends through quidditch. He's a Catholic, one who has helped field some of my questions about his faith, particularly as I try to teach it in a historical manner in my classes, so I'm interested in not misrepresenting his church's beliefs. This is what he said: It's sort of hard to be a theological friend of a group that outright rejects your core theology, labels you a "Great Apostate," and generally works to convert your faithful. I'm reminded of the phrase, "To have a friend, be one." His comment really made me think. I have grown up in the Church, being raised on stories about the founding of the Early Church, visiting historical sites, and--sadly--imbibing on the heady wines of persecution. This isn't to say that the Church hasn't been through difficult times: No, there have been deep, deadly, dangerous times in the history of the Church where we, as a collective group, suffered immense persecutions and tragic violence at the hands of others who refused to allow others to worship "how, where, or what they may" (Article of Faith 1:11). The result of listening to these stories, at least in my experience, is it made me feel that their times and trials were my times and trials.
Are Mormons persecuted? Yes, in all of the ways in which any modern religion or philosophy is: Derided by opponents, deliberately misunderstood, and treated with suspicion by others who know little--and what they know is negative. But I don't see a widespread, concentrated effort to marginalize Mormons from the public square, threatening their lives, or creating the clear and present danger of the early times in Church history. Inasmuch as the Church makes its stance known on certain issues, there is blowback, but that isn't because people hate the Church, per se. However, I don't see that any differently than a great quantity of things that people disagree with in the course of the day-to-day life in a pluralistic society. The difference between what I thought was going on--the narrative of perpetual persecution--and the reality that I see in the world around me has taken some getting used to. What frustrates me, however, is seeing the same sort of persecutions reversed: when Mormons deride those of other faiths, deliberately misunderstand a particular position (a typical Mormon's understanding of, say, atheism is a good example), or treating others (or other ideas) with suspicion. An example of this last one happened today during Elders' Quorum meeting: One of the elders explained how some Buddhism that he's studying helped him understand the world--which, I thought, was awesome--but he had to diminish what he was doing by saying, "It's weird to say that, I know, but…" and he went on to prove his point. Qualifying where we get our ideas--as if a non-approved source somehow taints the validity of the truth of the ideas--is a bad habit that I need to break myself from. I'd go so far as to say that it's one that most members of the Church need to work on. And this leads back to my friend's comment. On my mission, I felt like there was an us-versus-them mentality, where the "them" usually meant the Jehovah's Witnesses*. In retrospect, that's a problem: It led me to create definitions in their negativity; that is, I know that that is bad (whatever that is) because it's not mine and what's mine is good, so anything that isn't mine can't be, by definition, good. I know that I accidentally insulted people by the way that I spoke to them, not about my own religion, but theirs. Speaking from a position of well-intentioned ignorance, I hurt others' feelings. Being the sectarian humanist that I am, that's a painful realization: Hurting one of my human brothers or sisters is not something I'm proud of. Obviously, this goes both ways. I don't comment a lot on people's conversations on Facebook, but one of my other friends commented on the article I had shared, saying that he, as a Mormon, had been stung when Evangelical friends had called him out on his beliefs about Jesus, insisting that he worshipped a false Christ. That hurts, and not just because it's about religion. Whenever something you care about is dismissed or attacked, it is painful. I don't, however, think that because "both sides do it" that justifies this sort of behavior. I can't claim that I follow Jesus, who said, "Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them" (Matthew 7:12), and then say, "He's a jerk, so I'm going to be a jerk." The whole issue isn't who's doing it, but what each is doing. So while I recognize that there are those who don't treat me and my beliefs with courtesy or respect, I don't see that as a license to do the same to them. There's more to consider with my friend's comment: The idea of converting the faithful. I remember a recently returned missionary back when I was getting close to serving my own mission. He had served in Spain. Upon returning home, he said that he'd had little success in terms of convert baptisms. "Why are you teaching me about Jesus?" he told me, repeating a common refrain from his experiences. "We're the ones who brought Christianity to you." That underscores the strain, though: In terms of Mormonic thought, there's a desire to want to share the message of the Restoration of Jesus' Church. Yet the people who are the most likely to listen to the message would have to be those who already think about and worship Jesus. Converting someone from nothing to Mormonism can be a lot harder than converting someone from Christianity to Mormonism. But I never thought of it the other way around. How would Mormons feel if there was a religion out there--a specific one, with clear precepts, leadership, and communities--that was actively targeting Mormons because of the way in which our doctrine feeds into this new religion's precepts? We'd probably be pretty antagonistic. And though I hope it wouldn't be the case, we could possibly even become outright hostile to others. We do this for plenty of things that we see as threats: Pornography** is the big one that comes to mind. On a more general scale, I hear a lot of warnings against "the ways of the world" without a lot of definition given. But I don't know how I would feel if, say, Islam became the big thing for Mormons to convert to, because moving from one place of perceived salvation to another is what missionary work is all about. None of this is to say that I regret trying to share something that I believe in. I feel that I made a positive impact on a lot of people whilst serving in Florida. But I don't think I looked at the broader implications of what I was trying to do. In some of the cases, the people I worked with had no religious or familial ties that made their conversion problematic. In other cases…well, there were some difficulties. The great complex mess that is life is brought home to me in this, because there aren't easy answers, especially since so much of it is tied up into truth, Truth, and how we access those things. Nevertheless, I stand by the idea that even though I have a different religion than many others, I refuse to let those religious differences separate me from my sisters and brothers in the human family. --- * Jehovah's Witnesses go around in pairs, talking people up about the Bible and Jesus, and often knock on people's doors at the least convenient times. In other words, they do the same thing that I did as a missionary. So it felt like they were copying my style, as it were. ** Mormons and pornography…phew. Well, there's a topic. Maybe for another day? I just wish that Mormons talked about consent, stopping sexual assault, and promoted body positivity with the same gusto and enthusiasm with which they pursue anti-pornography policies and topics. I'm not denying that there's a problem in porn use with Mormons: A few years ago, Utah was ranked as the #1 porn subscription state. Since the majority of Utahns are Mormons, it's likely that there is a problem with porn usage in Mormon culture. But those things I mentioned above--among many others--also deserve resources and attention. In class, I'm rereading Paradise Lost by John Milton. If you're not familiar with the story, you really should check out the poem. It's the absolute best Bible fanfic I've ever read, bar none. Milton, a seventeenth century polemicist and poet, reinvents the story of the loss of both Paradise (Eden, through the fall of Adam and Eve) and Paradise (Heaven, through the fall of Satan/Lucifer and his rebel angels). The poetry is exquisite, the imagery is expansive, and the power of it is unfailingly inspirational and thought provoking.
However, I'm thinking about Heaven today, and though that lines up more with Dante, I started with Milton because 1) I like Milton a lot more than Dante, and 2) these ideas have been floating around since I taught Dante back in August, but since I'm reading theological things again, it's brought my thinking around to this topic again. So here I am, thinking about God's dead and what we will do when we finish up here on Earth. As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I have received a lot of instruction on what happens after we die. This link provides only a little glimpse at the depth of eschatology that Mormonism embraces, and since I'm interested in the greater implications and nuances, I think I'll gloss over any explanations that I normally try to interweave into my essays and instead say this: Here are some resources on Mormon belief on life after death. Feel free to check them out if what's here is insufficient. As a broad rule, Mormons understand and believe in an objective reality that stimulates our senses, out of which we are able to perceive the world--we're naive realists. But we also assert that we can feel things that don't have a quantifiable or objective source; namely, we believe that spiritual promptings and communications between us and the unseen, heavenly world are not only possible, but required for a person to come to the truth. The continuation of that soul--and its eventual reunification with the decomposed body via the process of the resurrection, made possible through the sacrifice and Atonement of Jesus Christ--also leads to the idea that there are eternal elements within an individual that, according to Joseph Smith, are co-eternal with God. That is, there was an essential me long before I was created/born. And when one is speaking of eternity, it only makes sense that it can extend into the past as infinitely as it goes into the future--or else it's not truly eternal. The idea that I've been me and I'll continue to be me and will always have been me is tied up in the sense of Mormonic identity. I think this may be why the Church has such a difficult time with transgender members--among other reasons, I'm certain--because it means that somewhere along the line, the person's gender-based identity was changed. And it's completely unclear where that could've happened. That ambiguity leads to discomfort; hence, to unfortunate and unhelpful policies. When asked what we were doing before we were born, Mormons answer, "Waiting." We believe that spiritual souls are gifted the mortal body (and also helps contextualize the Church's stance on abortion), which is part of who we are, but only through a glass, darkly. That is, mortal bodies lack the eternal possibility that the soul has, and it's through the resurrection that this changes. So, before we're born, we were all hanging out in Heaven, awaiting our chance to gain a body. And we've been waiting an eternity to get here. Whilst on Earth, the basic answer for what we do is to "prepare to meet God", which means a lot of things that, much as the soul is only capable of certain realities, our mortal bodies are useful for doing. For example, a physical body is needed for saving ordinances, including baptism, confirmation into the Church, and temple covenants. Without a body, one can't have that work accomplished. (Mormons believe in vicarious work for the dead, fulfilling these ordinances via proxy, which allows God to extend mercy to other peace-departed souls who never had the chance to receive the Good Word.) But the point that I'm driving at here is that there's a lot of definition on what to do here and a lot less about what we're going to do there. There are different answers with different levels of official authority behind them. The safest one is that "We're with our loved ones again!" When I asked the question of what one does in Heaven, a student of mine--many years ago, now--answered that he'd be with his parents and grandparents. I asked him why, and he said because they loved him and that's why. "What about your great-grandparents?" I asked. "Um, yeah, I guess." "Great-great-grandparents?" "No, not them." "Why?" "I don't know them." "Wouldn't they want to be with their kids and grandkids?" He didn't have an answer to that, which I think is part of the lack of imagination when we're talking about Heaven, or whatever. In some Christian traditions, Heaven is defined as peace and adoration of God--that is, floating on clouds (I guess) whilst playing the harp (I've heard) for eternity (a long time, I daresay). But if that's the case, it sounds...mightily boring. (And there could be arguments about how we'll be changed into these new beings and that sort of thing will be pleasurable, but that sounds like sublimation at best and a distorting of scripture at worst.) So what does God do with His dead and resurrected? Mormonism insists that we'll inherit God's domain--that is, we'll be, like God, involved in the ever evolving process of creation, that we get what God has...namely, everything. And that certainly opens up more interesting avenues of purpose, and also helps gesture toward answers of profound and perennial theological consequence. How did God become God? Maybe through a process of practice, learning line upon line. With infinite time to become better, couldn't one eventually attain the level of Godhood? Orson Scott Card dismissed this idea in an article I can't find, essentially arguing that God is already infinitely "ahead" of us in terms of understanding, perfection, and experience. There's no amount of work that we can do that will "catch us up" to where He is. That makes sense on one level, though when we're dealing with a concept like infinity, it gets weird. In fact, I think I may disagree with Card (and not just because he's Orson Scott Card and I'm not a big fan of him and his writings--no, not even Ender's Game) in the idea that an infinite head-start is tantamount to a measurable head-start. As infinity is only a concept rather than a number, and infinity plus infinity is larger than infinity, I think there's enough elasticity in the comparison to break it down. Nevertheless, the idea of what one does in Heaven--being perpetually content, creating worlds, singing praises to God for eternity--are all strange when taken out of context. Being with those we love and those whom we love is a wonderful idea, but what if they don't want to be around us? What if it isn't Heaven for me if Shakespeare isn't there, but Shakespeare isn't interested in hanging out with me? That's a pretty sad thought, and I don't know how you can get out of it without fundamentally changing people--and I don't like the idea that God forces a change on us that undoes what we've established for ourselves whilst here. That seems like putting us on earth is a wasted effort. In the end, I don't know what God's dead do. But I'd like to think it's something beautiful. |
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