I think my first memories of Mormonism, or church, or religion in general was having a sacrament ceremony in the living room of our home in a remote fishing village. I remember how we'd sing songs from small, brown, worn hymn books before my dad would take out special table cloths. He'd break bread and prepare water in a bunch of small disposable and plastic cups. They were maybe an inch tall, and the size of a quarter across. He'd cover the bread and tiny cups with another special cloth, and recite a prayer.
For some reason, I have it in my head that we'd usually close the curtains during our Sunday 'meeting'. I don't know if that's routed in fact, or shaded by the emotional colours of an intimate and isolated experience. Either way, it certainly felt special.
I don't know how long it took me to realize that performing a sacrament in our home just for our family was a Strange Thing. I don't think I thought it was one of those things everyone did behind closed doors, but I didn't understand until many years later how uncommon it was to get permission to perform that ceremony within a home.
Towards the end of our time in that village, we started attending a United Christian Church, even though it wasn't my family's specific faith. I never felt comfortable in that big church with stained glass windows, but you can't deny that a sense of belonging and socialization is a big part of having faith.
We moved away to a more populated area, and started attending a proper Latter Day Saint ward, with many more people. We had visited proper congregations before, so I wasn't totally thrown for a loop.
Because we had been so isolated, I hadn't had the chance to be baptized when I turned eight. Now at the age of ten, I remember being told that I was technically going to be a convert and had to be interviewed by a pair of sister missionaries as part of the baptism process. I can't remember if I liked getting the specialized attention during a time of change, or if I was a bit miffed that I didn't quite qualify the same as my sister and brother. I was regardless a bit frustrated when the missionaries had me identify biblical figures from a standard case of Mormon illustrations - I had gotten one of them wrong. I remember thinking how dumb it was that I had to identify these people when they were all old white men with beards, furrowed brows, and beards hiding frowns. I think I got Moses and Abraham mixed up or something. I still maintain that they all looked similar.
Alas, I got baptized. I picked a hymn to sing from the newer hymn books at the church (There is a Green Hill Far Away, which in retrospect I may have liked because it featured my favourite colour) and a small program was drafted for the event. My mom had me sign each one, and I think she has even kept one or two somewhere. My baptism faithfully followed the program, and by the end I was a certified, ratified Later Day Saint. As was family tradition, my parents got me my own set of brand-new scriptures.
The next few years followed, and outside of the odd, temporary friendship, I never really fit in socially at the church. There was a lot of activities - young men's meetings, men's meetings, scouts, youth activities... And they all just kinda grated on me. Every Tuesday was activity night with other youth, which I really started to loathe.
My testimony through this time waxed and waned. As pre-teen I had a pretty bad run-in with some depression, anxiety about my skin condition, and general loneliness. During these periods I remember getting up in front of the congregation and sharing my testimony with everyone - it was really helpful to have a spiritual outlet for my temporal woes. It was a means to believe that all my suffering was building towards something that would benefit me in the long run. I light to look forward to.
As I grew into a teenager, this didn't work the same. I became more introverted and started to internalize, rather than spiritualize, my problems. I'd speak in front of the congregation for assigned talks, but the last time I really got up to bear my testimony out of my own volition was when I was fourteen or so.
Then came Trek (and not of the Star variety, unfortunately). It was a big deal, a multi-day event where the youth (with select adults) emulate the journey of early LDS pioneers from the east coast to the promised land of Utah. We dressed in period-accurate-ish clothing, loaded up a giant handcart with belongings, and pushed it along a huge hike through back country roads. We ate bread and broth for meals and slept under tarps. Everyone in the church made it out to be some fantastical, spiritual experience. For me it was... an inconvenience? I was never a fan of outdoor activities (much to the chagrin, I think, of my Dad who was the Scoutmaster for many years), and was terrible at socializing. Everyone told us we'd grow closer to God and Christ, and feel the Holy Ghost burning in our bosom to give us undeniable proof of the one true church.
I remember during Trek we were all encouraged to take the afternoon for a quiet time of spiritual reflection. To feel the love of God. I took this opportunity to pray for the knowledge that the Book of Mormon was the word of God and that Joseph Smith was a true prophet to bring His church back to man. I prayed in earnest, with every ounce of my soul - I really wanted to know. For so long I was aware of a hole in my being, missing the feeling and confidence that everyone around me seemed to have. Where's the burning in my bosom? I laid out my heart before God and prayed in earnest. I was desperate to know.
I received nothing.
For the last few years of highschool, LDS youth are enrolled in a church-led course called seminary. It lasts four years, one for each of the Old Testament, New Testament, Book of Mormon, and Doctrine and Covenants. It's a class for studying the scriptures and church history, that takes places every day before school. That's right: a bunch of teenagers were getting up at 6am each weekday to study the word of God. We diligently tried our best to hoover up factoids and doctrine. We'd memorize important passages and race to find them as quickly as possible. I look back at that time as a grind as well. Waking up so early for something that I wasn't super passionate about wasn't fun. And our class took place in our home. There were some kids and a teacher that drove half an hour to attend. Oof.
A reoccurring theme in the church, especially for young men, is serving a mission. I remember singing I Hope They Call Me On A Mission as a kid, and listening to returned missionaries speak to youth about how awesome it all is. Ubiquitously attached to the concept of a mission, though, was the $10,000 price tag. I think that alone caused me to check-out on the whole concept from a young age. Growing up in a poor family where the $60 we got for our birthday was the most spending cash we'd get all year, ten grand was an unfathomable amount. When I voiced my doubts, members would chide me, "Oh don't worry, your parents will help you out!" When you have vivid memories of your mom crying over how $8 of strawberries wrecked the entire monthly budget... Let's just say I never entertained the notion of making my parents pay for something that wasn't essential.
I had moved away and worked for a year, bought a car, and came back home. And I felt damn proud of that - an embarrassing story my mom likes to tell of me is when she found a certain five-year-old sobbing late one night. I was in absolute tears because I would never have enough money to buy a car when I grow up. Looking back, I like to think I've made that little five year old proud. And I was proud of that first car I bought. A silver 1996 Honda Civic CX, if you're curious.
Anyways, it wasn't a suggestion but a sacred duty of a young man to serve a mission. When I returned, I was put in a 'mission prep' class at Sunday school. I think this was where they stuck all the young men who had yet to be called to serve, but were still eligible. They wanted to get us out the door, is my guess, and the class itself wasn't much different aside from the demographics. I remember it was taught by a returned missionary that had abruptly dumped my karate instructor (a lovely soul, and non-member) so that he could climb the social ladder within the church. Met, engaged, and married a nice Mormon girl within the span of six months, as returned missionaries tend to do. It made me a bit skeptical of the class from the get-go.
Months later the new Stake President (stakes consist of several wards) dropped by our congregation one Sunday and started interviewing all the young men. Once it was my turn, we made some brief chit-chat. I told him how proud I was that I had just moved away from home and bought my first car. He then blatantly called me to serve a mission on the spot, making some off-hand remark about how my car would be in the junk yard within a couple years. If I wanted to do something really worth while, I should be preaching the Word of God to others.
Aside from being insulted by the casual belittling of my recent accomplishments as a semi-independent adult, I did something I'd never done before in my people-pleasing existence of a human being: I stood my ground and said no. I told him flatly that my testimony wasn't strong enough for a mission. He invited me to serve anyways, ensuring me that I'd find it in the service of God. I told him I simply wasn't ready to commit. He was obviously disappointed, and shook my hand before I was dismissed. On my way out, I passed my brother and gave him heads-up before it was his turn.
I mean, seriously. As an introvert, I could not fathom a more unpleasant experience than a mission. Imagine living in an unsettled environment for two years where I have to share every waking moment with a companion I don't know, going door to door to speak with strangers, and doing everything I can to help every person I meet. Knowing how I'm socially wired, I can't think of something that'd make me more miserable.
That experience with the Stake President left a sour taste in my mouth. Up to that point, everyone I interacted with from the church were fairly well-meaning, pleasant individuals. That man, though, clearly saw me as one more bullet that could fit into the magazine of missionary work before being shot around the world. Pray and spray.
I moved out of the province shortly after for work and school.
-Cril.
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