Evolving Mormon Thought on Evolution

Evolution was not a big deal in my Utah education of the 1950s. We studied the ancient geology of Utah in elementary school and learned about rocks and fossils millions of years old. The subject might have come up in seminary, but I spent class time passing notes to friends and pretty much ignored Brother Devowt’s instruction. Somewhere I heard the line, “Science tells you how, religion tells you who” about the creation of the earth and that satisfied me.

When I transferred to BYU from a state college, I noticed that on Day 1 of each science class, the prof gave a prepared spiel about evolution being a useful theory for the study of chemistry, bacteriology, or whatever—but that using the term in class did not mean the instructor lacked faith in God or accepted the theory of evolution as an absolute truth.

I began reading the Improvement Era in the ‘60s and noticed strong anti-evolutionary views. The Era ran articles “proving” the earth was created in 6000 years. It suggested that the deluge at approximately 1800 BC and earthquakes and volcanoes at the time of the crucifixion accounted for the changes that scientists attributed to eons of time. I bought a copy of Joseph Fielding Smith’s Man, His Origin and Destiny. My faith in an apostle of my church and my lack of sophistication at evaluating an author’s relevant credentials caused me to accept everything Smith wrote as truth from God.  I finished the book convinced that all skeletons of prehistoric man were potential Piltdown hoaxes.

Several years later, a recent BYU graduate was giving the obligatory “new move-in” speech in our ward in Renton, Washington and chose to speak on evolution—this was in the day before topics and resources were assigned to speakers. Brother Newcomer outlined the history of the LDS position on evolution—B.H. Roberts vs. Joseph Fielding Smith with David O. McKay in the middle. I was surprised to learn that the only official First Presidency statement on evolution was from Joseph F. Smith’s presidency, affirming Adam as the “primal parent of our race,” but leaving  the question of geological and non-human biological evolution open.

LDS official discourse has been relatively quiet about evolution for many years although that has not prevented members from expounding their own beliefs. A high school student in my Sunday School class once gave an unprompted testimony that even the thought of evolution—of humans descending from apes—made him sick to his stomach. Probably the kid was quoting a seminary teacher since neither parent exhibited much interest in either Church doctrine or science. I left class glad our own kids had skipped seminary frequently. At least their science grades didn’t suffer.

I suspect Church teachings on evolution in most wards have swung to the right in the past decade. The Ensign even reprinted the 1909 First Presidency Statement in 2002.  In science as well as on many social issues, Latter-day Saints seem hell bent on following the evangelical model. A couple of years ago, my visiting teacher informed me that carbon-dating was unreliable science.

The Roman Catholic Church survived Galileo’s discoveries. Latter-day Saints could take a lesson—focus on positives of LDS philosophy without denigrating modern science research that creates paradox. The leadership for this focus, of course, must come from the top. Hopefully, we’ll evolve in that direction.

 

 

 

Black Friday

Thanksgiving doesn’t even officially end before Black Friday begins this year. Wal-Mart is staying open on Thursday in hopes of preventing shoppers from crushing each other to death as they storm through the doors on Friday morning.  The adrenaline rush of beating other shoppers to the one-day-a-year bargains must be addictive. A couple we know spend Thanksgiving with an aunt in southern California each year. Their family tradition includes dividing into teams and spending Friday dashing from mall to mall pursuing hot sales. Auntie peruses the newspaper ads, makes an assignment list for each team, checks to see that gas tanks are full, and awakens everyone a few hours after midnight to start the predawn marathon.

When we had a large family and small budget, I joined the post-Thanksgiving crowd and enjoyed the competition. Shopping for grandkids still satisfies my materialist instinct, but shopping for adults who have discretionary income is about as much fun as giving a cat a pedicure. Anything our kids want or need, that we can afford, they already have. And money and gift certificates are so impersonal. I covet the talents of handy people who create thoughtful, handmade gifts. My cousin Krafti made quilts for each member of her extended family last Christmas. She started in September and made 26—including one for a daughter’s significant other that she wishes would drop dead.

Nobody wants a gift I might stitch up. Even a fancy, computerized sewing machine would not help. I’d probably just stitch my thumb to my index finger and go around with my middle finger sticking straight up.

My biggest gift problem is my sister-in-law, Kato, who makes and sells jewelry for a living. I love receiving original silver earrings for gifts, but how to reciprocate? To add to the misery, her and my brother’s birthdays are in December. I have to think up two gifts for each of them in the same month. Two weeks ago I sent them an e-mail suggesting that we forego Christmas gift giving this year and donate to the needy instead. I have received no answer. Maybe my problem is solved.

This year I’ve decided to forget about trying to please people who have everything and buy what I enjoy. I love buying books, plants and groceries. They come in every size and I don’t have to try them on. Now, plants and groceries don’t really work as Christmas gifts but books are fun to buy— and I’m supporting the hard-pressed publishing industry.  My Christmas shopping dilemma is solved—unless Santa fills stockings with Kindles this year.

Thanksgiving Nostalgia

Turkey was not a Thanksgiving tradition during my early childhood. A roasted hen served our small family quite well. We didn’t spend Thanksgiving with either grandmother although we all lived in the same town. Since my brothers and I didn’t grow up with the family reunion kind of Thanksgiving, we didn’t miss it. Our family dined in elegant simplicity, setting the gate-leg dining table in the living room with a linen table cloth, china, and crystal stemware. I actually enjoyed washing the once-a-year dishes after our dinner. Crisply browned chicken skin, fruit salad and black olives were my favorite parts of the holiday meal.

After my mother’s death, Aunt Dutie invited our family to join theirs for Thanksgiving. Aunt Dutie had seven children, baked everything from scratch, and set a plentiful table despite Uncle Grump’s relatively small salary. Children were not welcomed in Aunt Dutie’s kitchen. No chance to snitch a piece of turkey skin before dinner.  What a disappointment when the platter of turkey was passed around—dry white meat with not one scrap of browned skin. Where did Aunt Dutie put the good stuff? And no olives—they would have been an extravagance for that many diners. Instead of my mother’s fruit salad made with marshmallows and thickened juice folded into the whipped cream dressing, Aunt Dutie served red Jello with fruit cocktail and bananas. At least the mashed potatoes and gravy were familiar. I took a second helping of mashed potatoes, poured gravy over the top, took a big mouthful, and nearly gagged. The bowl contained mashed parsnips, not potatoes. That Thanksgiving was not the same as our mother’s, but it was definitely better than what our dad would have served up. We were grateful for Aunt Dutie’s invitation each year.

When my dad remarried, we spent Thanksgiving with my step-grandmother—a white-haired, storybook grandmother who loved feeding her gathered family—even when it grew to more than 30 members and strained the seams of her house. Male relatives created a table stretching across the entire living room while the women cooked vats of food. We were crammed shoulder to shoulder, but everyone had a place at the table. Grandma had beautiful dishes in her china cupboard, but Thanksgiving was not the occasion for their use.

This year our own nuclear family has grown to 16 members and they will all be coming for Thanksgiving. Like Grandma, I won’t be using good china. The dishwasher is hard on gold rimmed plates and I don’t have a set of 16 of anything. We will enjoy our Thanksgiving feast using turkey-themed paper plates, napkins and tablecloths. Not traditional, not environmental, but nobody wants to spend unnecessary time in the kitchen when we’re all together.

Talking to God

I found an interesting suggestion for prayer recently. A minister recommends the following four steps:

• Thanks
• Gimme—asking for needs and wants
• Oops—admitting mistakes.
•  Wow—praise and adoration.

The first two steps are common prayer ingredients, but the third and fourth stirred new thoughts in my mind about talking to God as a parent.

I suspect for most people, “Oops!” for mistakes is more relevant than repentance for transgression. Violating an arbitrary set of rules does not equal sin in my book. Sin is intentionally harming others—I could expand that to intentionally harming any of God’s creations, though I do recognize a hierarchy. As Ken Wilbur says, it’s better to kick a rock than an ape, better to eat a carrot than a cow.

Normal people do not intentionally sin, yet all of us unintentionally cause harm on occasion. We hurt feelings with harsh or critical words—usually to gratify our own egos. We neglect saying kind words or doing kind deeds that might help a person struggling with problems—I’m not talking about failing to offer service beyond the realm of our capability. We all have finite amounts of strength, means, and time. I am talking about acting upon our own self-interest while ignoring or even trampling the needs and rights of others.

Buddhism calls negative behaviors “unskillful” rather than “sinful.” Labeling ourselves as sinners and beating ourselves up is as likely to make us defend our  unskillful actions as to actually improve our behavior. But when we realize we’ve behaved selfishly to any of God’s creations, we owe him an “Oops!”

The fourth step of prayer, “Wow!”,most intrigues me. The minister defined “Wow!” as praise. I have a problem with that. If I were God, I wouldn’t want to be praised. Praise embarrasses me—especially if it’s obligatory. I suspect God is free from the human need for ego food. While gratitude is always appropriate, God undoubtedly knows of his own goodness. But I do like the idea of “Wow!”—expressing excitement and enthusiasm for small miracles of the day—for gold, pink and coral clouds mounding into a perfect sunset, for an unsought flash of insight, for the softness of a child nestled on my lap, for the warmth of an unexpected hug—for friends, family, love, beauty—all that makes life a wondrous experience.

 “Wow!” is more than thanks. “Wow!” is an instantaneous expression of joy for a moment of being. And what better way to please a parent? I delight in an unexpected phone call from a daughter who wants to share the joy of watching her kids coasting on new fallen snow. Or from a son calling to say three frisky goats have just been delivered to his backyard, hopefully to eat his crop of pernicious bamboo. If God is anything like earthly parents, I’m sure he gets a celestial kick when we take joy in the wonders of life, great or small, and direct thanks to the source of all goodness.

Pivotal Books

The best thing about bad weather is the time it offers for curling up with a good book.  An English teacher I know rereads Macbeth every November. Perfect timing! November is so like Macbeth—you know things are going to keep getting worse! I came across a list of favorite novels yesterday and started thinking of my own favorites. My son-in-law often asks what my favorite books are and I never know how to answer. How to choose just one or two or even five? Usually, the best I can come up with is my favorite for this year. But what about all-time favorites? The books I’d choose to take to a desert island. Probably I should take the books I revisit frequently. In recent years I’ve opened Sophie’s World by Norwegian author Jostein Gaardner most often. Although the protagonist is a 15-year-old girl, this novel-within-a-novel is much more than a teen read. As the plot unfolds, a mysterious professor teaches Sophie the complete philosophy of Western Civilization. These summaries are the parts I return to when I need a succinct refresher on the thoughts of philosophers and scholars from Socrates to Freud.

And I should include books that have stirred my curiosity of the wide world. My 8^th grade English teacher introduced me to Richard Halliburton. His Royal Road to Romance convinced me to explore the world beyond my birthplace. I couldn’t find Halliburton’s travelogues for my own children, but some have been reprinted and are on my list for my grandchildren.

Memoir is the genre that most allows me to participate in lives more exotic than my own. Some favorites are: Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston, a Chinese-American girl growing up in California with immigrant parents. Warriors Don’t Cry by Melba Patillo Beals, one of the “Little Rock Seven” who integrated an all-white Arkansas high school in 1957—the year I was a junior at all-white Pleasant Grove High with no idea what was happening to African-American teens in the South. The Road to Mecca by Muhammed Asad, a European Jew who traveled to Arabia as a journalist and converted to Islam in 1926. Asad later became Pakistan’s UN ambassador. And Dust Tracks on the Road, Zora Neale Hurston’s account of growing up in an all-black Florida community in the early 20^th century.

Good fiction, like memoir, allows us to experience vicarious lives. Foreign authors teach us how much we have in common with people of different countries, religions and races. Nervous Condition by Tsitsi Dangarembga tells the story of a strained relationship between an African mother and daughter. In “The Bats” from Arranged Marriage by Indian author, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, a child narrates the story of life with a mother who keeps returning to an abusive marriage.

I read few LDS authors because I prefer visiting less familiar cultures. Two novels which provide surprising insights into their LDS characters are Maureen Whipple’s The Giant Joshua and Levi Peterson’s Aspen Marooney. Clory, the young plural wife in Joshua, struggles with grinding poverty, sharing a husband, loss of children, and abandonment without the divine intervention and blessings bestowed in traditional pioneer stories. Aspen and her old high school flame ignite sparks at their 40^th high school reunion. Though both are active LDS, Church values play little or no part in their decisions.

The wind whips and the temperature drops. What do I care? November was made for good books and a cozy recliner.

Easing Mormonism

My LDS faith and associations have supplied some of the polish my mother would have given me had she lived longer. Church has introduced me to uplifting women who mentored me in faith, service, and social graces.  LDS teachings and programs have lifted me to a higher level of commitment, service and devotion. I have even gained a modicum of competency at tasks I dislike—speaking in front of a group—badgering people to do things they’d rather not.

For years I enjoyed Sacrament Meeting and Gospel Doctrine and Relief Society classes—the camaraderie with ward members and the thoughtful, spiritual lessons. I lapped up gems of wisdom from Stake and General Conferences. As I read each General Conference address, I copied choice passages into a notebook. I saved each month’s wrinkled, dog-eared, underlined Ensign and devoured the scriptures assigned for Gospel Doctrine class. The peace of temple attendance drew me back twice a month. I fasted and prayed for my brothers who were not active church members. I wanted them to enjoy the blessings I received from church activity.

After about 25 years of dedicated gospel living, my enthusiasm for church meetings waned—beginning with Relief Society. Reading the lesson before class became pointless. I could recite the whole lesson including comments from the audience as soon as I knew the topic. I began sitting near the door for opening exercises then slipping out to avoid the tedium of the lessons. At about the same time, the Gospel Doctrine curriculum telescoped the study of both the Old and New Testaments into one year each and assigned selected verses rather than complete chapters for study. Not learning anything there, I also gave up the second hour of the block. General Conference talks developed a ring of familiarity. I found fewer and fewer passages to underline and copy. Sacrament Meeting talks deadened the senses as speakers reiterated General Conference addresses for our enlightenment.

At the time, I believed the loss of meaningful experience with church meetings was the “milk before meat” approach to instruction. I wanted the church to change, to meet my needs. I tried correcting historical misinformation and sharing new ideas in church classes, but found my efforts unappreciated, even annoying to ward members. Oddly enough, the status quo satisfied most of my church associates.

It’s true the church changed somewhat, but I had changed more. I had gleaned most of what my birth faith offered and needed further spiritual food. My brother had married a Zen Buddhist. My dad sent the missionaries to teach her and I wondered what benefit the LDS Church could give Kato or my brother? Kato’s peace and compassion exceeds that of most LDS women I know. My brother has gained much peace from joining her meditation and yoga practice. What would the LDS Church add to their lives besides increased time and money commitments?

Inspired by my sister-in-law’s example, I began yoga practice and joined a meditation group. I find  answers to my current needs in Buddhist philosophy. For me the concepts of nonattachment and mindfulness work better than trying to keep everybody on board for an eternal Family Home Evening. I value the contribution Mormonism has made to my life, but have eased my relationship with the institutional church. Just as easing myself into a yoga pose allows my muscles to stretch, easing my commitments to Mormonism allows me time and energy to exercise my agency, seeking further light and knowledge.    Spiritual development is a process. A particular religion or organization can facilitate growth only to a certain level. When that level has been reached, wisdom says, “Move on.”

Charity Begins with the Poor

Dr. Toby Ord, an Oxford academic, has pledged to donate the bulk of his lifetime earnings to fight world poverty. He calculates that for each £15,000 (approx. $22,500) donated to effective charities, 55 lives are saved. His website estimates that if the typical US citizen gave 10% of their income to the right NGOs, each year, 1900 cases of malaria could be prevented, 170 people could be cured of TB, and 1100 additional years of school attendance could be provided.

Now donating 10% of income is routine for active Mormons. For years George and I cheerfully wrote checks for 10% of our gross income—even though our kids went without things they really needed. We believed we were obeying the Lord’s will in furthering the work of the Church and that all the world’s problems would be resolved once everybody was converted and the Savior arrived. I did not believe this obedience would unlatch the Windows of Heaven to rain greenbacks upon our family. Experience had proven otherwise. Still, I felt our family sacrifice was making the world a better place. George agreed. Our children did not.

Eventually, I realized that most of our tithing dollars were going for temples, missionary work and CES. Fast offering was an extra donation to relieve the suffering of the poor. I upped that after a General Conference address promised that increasing our fast offerings would increase our blessings, not realizing that “our” referred to the church as a whole rather than to our family in particular.

I cut back on fast offerings about 10 years ago when I learned that nearly all of my donations were going to help Americans who actually have access to government welfare programs rather than to starving Latter-day Saints in developing countries. Church welfare to countries outside the US has increased since that time, but I suspect the bulk of fast offerings collected in the US still remain in this country. Yes, it’s nice to help people in the current economic system with house payments. But to my mind, that lacks the urgency of providing aid to members in countries like Ecuador and Guatemala where children risk brain damage and stunted growth because of severe malnutrition.

I appreciate the assistance LDS Humanities and PEF provide to the poor in other countries. Donations to those funds, however, are in addition to the 10% tithing required by all members who want to maintain worthiness for temple recommends and leadership positions in their wards and stakes. True believers will continue to make tithing their primary or only charitable donation.

C.S. Lewis observed that if we aren’t giving up something we would really like to have, we aren’t giving enough to the poor. But how much is enough? No one else can answer that question for us. And money isn’t the only thing we can contribute. We can donate our time to help others. We can also change our lifestyles so we are not consuming more than our share of the world’s finite resources.

The scriptures are replete with admonitions to remember the poor and to avoid greed. If Dr. Toby Ord keeps his vow to donate the bulk of his lifetime earnings to save the poor, I suspect the Lord has reserved a top spot for him in the Celestial Kingdom regardless of his religious beliefs. I’m less sure of my own placement.

I Never Learned to Dress Myself

A posted photo of an invitation to a recent Provo area stake fireside for women caught my eye. The cover art of busty, leggy women in provocative poses was a curious choice for a program titled “LDS Image Integrity”— with the stated purpose of showing sisters the effect their clothing choices have on achieving “earthly and eternal goals.” But if I still lived in the Provo area, I think I would have attended. I’m not sure my poor sense of fashion will affect my eternal life, but it’s certainly impacted this life.

I learned not to trust my own taste in clothes the first day of seventh grade. My mother had died the year before, and I was left to outfit myself for junior high alone. My dad, totally unknowledgeable about shopping and prices, provided $20 for the occasion. I ventured downtown alone and returned with serviceable brown loafers, a bright Kelly green jersey sweater with angora trim on the collar and a blue silk pleated neck scarf complete with fake fox head slide to cinch around my neck. Aunt Betsy Ross made me a bright purple corduroy skirt for the first day of school. Unfortunately, Aunt Betsy didn’t know that skirts for junior high girls had to be long and full enough for multiple layers of petticoats to poof them out. I didn’t know about the length and breadth requirements for junior high skirts either and thought I looked like Debbie Reynolds as I set off to conquer Dixon Junior High, waving to my cousin Buffy on her way to Provo High.

Buffy swooped down on me with fifteen-year-old vengeance when she returned from school. What was the grand idea of my disgracing the family by wearing a purple skirt, green sweater, blue scarf, yellow sox (the top ones in my drawer) and brown shoes to school? I wilted under Buffy’s attack, but it did prepare me for the fact that the adolescent world I was so eager to enter promised more pain than pleasure.

In the fifties in Utah, homemade clothes were much more fashionable than off-the-rack clothing—not to mention less expensive. My aunts and grandmother all breathed a sigh of relief when I began the required sewing class the second semester of seventh grade. At last my wardrobe dilemma would be resolved. I would learn to sew my own clothes and save my dad money. Unfortunately, I had no aptitude for sewing. No one understood why I had such a difficult time. My aunts tried to help me, but finally decided my problem was stubbornness. Not until Howard Gardner came up with his list of multiple intelligences did I understand my difficulty. My lack of spatial intelligence prevents me from comprehending how a flat piece of fabric can be cut and stitched into a three-dimensional garment.

Nowadays students in beginning sewing make simple things like wind socks and drawstring bags. Not so in the fifties. Our first project was a gathered skirt. I pulled and broke strings until I finally gave up and put a waist band on to fit the skirt, not my waist. Aunt Charity took pity on me and made the buttonhole so I could turn in a completed project. The next project was a blouse to go with the skirt. Making a blouse to go with a skirt eight inches too big around defeated me from day one. Putting the sleeves in was a nightmare. My home ec teacher finally gave up having me make a wearable garment and gave me a C for conscientious effort.

All eighth grade girls were required to take a second year of home ec in the era before ERA. Second year students were expected to make a dress combining the skills we learned in seventh grade. No alternative was offered to girls who hadn’t learned any skills in seventh grade. I knew I couldn’t put sleeves in, so I picked a halter-top pattern. Trying on the completed dress revealed my bra straps. Going without a bra was not an option in the fifties, even for a skinny thirteen-year-old, so I bought a strapless bra which refused to stay up. Modeling our dresses in the spring fashion show was a class requirement. I still have occasional nightmares about walking out on a lunch-table runway wearing a halter-top dress with a padded strapless bra around my midriff.

On second thought, I would not attend the Image Integrity Fireside even if I lived in that stake. I have enough self-image problems without learning that the effects of my mismatched wardrobe may reach beyond this life.

Follow Your Leaders

Obedience may be the first law of the gospel, but it’s never been popular in our family where we apparently have a genetic predisposition to believe we’re capable of making our own decisions. Humility R not Us. I’ve never understood the biblical symbolism of sheep and goats. Why are sheep the good example? They have to be led to food and water. Even rocks are smarter than sheep bleating obediently into the slaughterhouse. Independent and resourceful, goats are less easily led and less likely to starve if a herder doesn’t take them to food and water. Isn’t goatlike intelligence more essential for eternal progression than sheeplike obedience?

George served long enough in the military to despise arbitrary rules. Nor did growing up with five older siblings endear him to the idea of being told what to do. George loved being a temple worker until the TP ruled that all brethren with facial hair must shave clean or resign. That edict did not include elderly female workers which seemed unfair.

My dad’s side of the family disagreed with the practice of polygamy because my grandfather’s family suffered so greatly from great-grandpa’s marital excesses. Interestingly enough, neither my grandfather nor grandmother resented the handcart episode of church history although each had a parent or grandparent who suffered intensely from the poor advice that led to the tragedy of the Willie Handcart Company. The notion that we will be blessed for obeying our leaders even if they’re wrong probably didn’t comfort my ancestors freezing and starving near the banks of the Sweetwater. Mountain Meadows is another example of obedience gone wrong.

Now, I don’t mean to suggest that we’re a family of anarchists or criminals. We pay our taxes and wait our turn at stop lights. We know that laws which promote the common good sometimes conflict with our individual convenience. But we also know that rules sometimes promote the good of an organization without necessarily benefiting the overall common good of the national or world community. Most American Catholics seem to be quietly in this position regarding their church’s stance on birth control. And many Mormons feel this way about our church’s support of Prop. 8.

Leaders who can’t explain the reasons for the positions they take also make obedience challenging. I am still waiting for someone to show me the revelation that says blacks can’t hold the priesthood. And it’s hard to respect leaders who condescend. Our youngest son, Techie, launched his stand-up comic career at age eight doing impersonations of Sister Sweettones, the Primary president: “Now boys and girls, can you say ‘Reverence’? That’s such a big word. I’m proud of you.” I’m glad Techie doesn’t watch General Conference now. The words are different, but a level of condescension often flows from the Conference Center pulpit to my living room TV.

Part of the problem members of our family have with the “Follow the Leaders” edict might be the unrealistic emphasis Mormon culture places on the leaders’ direct access to God. If our youngest daughter, Aroo, ever had faith in the doctrine of the bishop’s power of discernment, it was disabused the time her best friend passed a temple recommend interview six months after asking Aroo to buy a pregnancy test for her.

Maybe my philosophy is: Follow your leaders when their advice coincides with the best information you can learn about the situation. Beware if they can’t support their recommendations with hard evidence. And run like hell if they pressure you to add a sister wife to the family or to waylay a caravan of immigrants moving through the territory.

Loosening the Faith

Why do Latter-day Saints leave the faith? Active Mormons tend to think members lose testimony because they: a) weren’t keeping the commandments and allowed Satan to deceive them, or b) had their feelings hurt. A more interesting theory is that apostates suffer from ADD which makes them delve into Church History and note the contradictions between the facts and what they’ve been taught at church. But how do you account for historians such as Richard Bushman who have extensively researched Church History and still kept their faith? Perhaps historians without ADD lack the questioning gene that triggers disbelief.

My favorite explanation for why historical research shatters faith for some people but not others, comes from John-Charles Duffy.  He theorizes that beliefs in the historicity of the BOM are influenced more by social than by intellectual environment. In essence—if the LDS Church fulfills our social needs, if our closest relationships are with believing members—we will likely find a way to reconcile contradictory information about the BOM, Church History and doctrines.

Duffy’s theory fits our family to a T.  I don’t need to tell anybody that families with inactive or nonmember fathers inhabit the lower rungs of the ward social ladder. Our oldest son, Wort, was 12 before the light of LDS conformity drew George into the circle. Wort was a good kid and it hurt him that he was never called to be a class president in the YM organization. His social needs were met at school, not at church.

Our oldest two daughters, mentored by wonderful YW leaders, served as YW class presidents repeatedly. Both served missions and married in the temple. Jaycee’s temple marriage was a disaster which finally left her too depressed to attend church. When her husband left, her LDS friends responsed with, “Have you been going to church?” Only non-LDS, divorced associates from work empathized. Jaycee changed friends and church affiliation the same day.

Our youngest daughter told me she had never believed anything she’d heard at church. I don’t know if she was precociously intellectual or if she simply never fit with the kids in her ward age group. The fourth child in a family often gets lost in the shuffle. Our youngest son never fit in at church because his goal in life has always been to piss people off. This limited his acceptance at church as well as most other places.

School, not church, reinforced our kids’ self-esteem. None of them enjoyed seminary. They complained that seminary teachers favored the front row kids who sang hymns with gusto and beamed approval over each breath of wisdom puffed from the teacher’s lips—the “choir queers.” I know our kids’ choice of epithets was wildly inappropriate, but I was too busy telling them to put the toilet seat down and to stop sticking their heads out the car windows screaming, “You look mah-velous!” at passersby to teach them the finer points of civilized behavior.

By the time our kids ceased being cute little tykes who brought their mother self-esteem at church, I was teaching full time and my peer group became my work colleagues rather than ward members. As I participated in  out-of-state seminars and workshops, I met wonderful non-Mormons, several of whom shared spiritual experiences from within their own faith. Their testimonies of God’s love opened my eyes to the possibility that God does not reserve blessings to baptized Latter-day Saints.

George was a temple worker while I underwent my crisis of faith. I tried to save my testimony. I attended the temple regularly, prayed, read the scriptures, but the more I studied, the more inconsistencies I found. Possibly if my peer group had been limited to my ward, I could have found a way to rationalize the problems I encountered. Thankfully that was not the case. My horizons have expanded to include people of many faiths and no faith. I am not an apostate—one who works against the church.   I value what I have gained from my LDS background. I respect the differences in religious points of view of each member of our family. If only they weren’t so damned vocal about sharing their chosen brand of religion when we get together!