Friday, April 05, 2019

One More Mormon, Pt 3: Making Sense of It

In the wake of stepping away from the Church, I inevitably told my parents. I remember telling them that me attending and not feeling anything was cheapening the experience for everyone else there that was invested and feeling the Spirit. I think my mom called me out and told me it was a load of crap, and in retrospect she was absolutely correct. What I was trying to do was alleviate some of the guilt I had by rationalizing it as a way to benefit other people. It was a weak conclusion, but I was desperate to find a reason, any reason, that I wasn't wholly flawed.

After those first few months of being an 'inactive member' (as active members like to say), I pretty much labelled this corner of my mind with a huge 'THIS IS SLIGHTLY UNCOMFORTABLE' sticker and promptly walked away from it. Over the last couple years I've been finding myself slowly going back to blow off the dust and start sifting through the remains.

I've now come to realize just how absurd the whole thing is. I mean, hey, I'm cool with religion. One of my favourite parts of the the Church of Latter Day Saints is the eleventh Article of Faith, which states:
We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship how, where, or what they may.
That's pretty dope. I'm all for letting people believe what they want, as long as it isn't causing harm or preventing anyone's search for happiness. More power to the Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and everyone else between that finds meaning in their faith and tries to make the world a better place. Live and let live, yo.

I guess I skew fairly agnostic, but at this point I'm confident that the Mormon doctrine in particular isn't the path for me. As I've done more research I've discovered more and more problems with this church that gives me pause.

The doctrine is the first obvious red flag. I will freely admit that I am not, and never really was, a scholar of the scriptures and church teachings. If you are, I'd invite you to read the CES Letter. It provides some pretty damning black-and-white evidence that the scripture and tenants the LDS Church was founded on aren't all they seem to be. And that the indefatigable Joseph Smith wasn't exactly an upstanding guy. I was certainly never taught he was polygamous, never mind the fact that he married underage and already married girls.

Oddly, though, it isn't the black-and-white stuff that's the biggest hangup for my trepidation. No, that goes to decisions the LDS prophets and leadership have made that contradict a lifetime of teachings that told us Christ was a person of infinite compassion and grace.

Thing 1: Why did it take the Church so long to not only allow black individuals hold the priesthood, but for their families to get sealed in the temple? I asked about this once way back in the 'Mission Preparation' class, and was told that the Church is a product of its time, and couldn't 'rock the boat' in a society that wasn't ready for it.

Really? Seriously? We were taught time and again that God's standards never change. That the Prophet was the direct conduit for the Lord's will, to guide His church to be closer to Him. And yet, for some reason, salvation and covenants were withheld based solely on skin colour. For some reason, the God did a better job of speaking to the Quakers in the 1800's, and it somehow took a hundred years for the 'One True Church of God' to get on the same page.

Then you read about the history of overt racism in the LDS leadership and things start to make sense. Some say that the leaders were just human, and flawed products of their time. But what about "The Lord will never permit me or any other man who stands as President of this Church to lead you astray."? If these men claim to be infallible and speak on God's behalf, and yet are influenced by societies' standards, what the hell is even the point?

Thing 2: Similarly, the church hates gays (and Ls and Bs and Ts and all the other letters). A lot of the above reasoning about African Americans can be filled in here, and I'm sure that as criticism grows, the church's stance will mysteriously change over time (as it has today, even). But here's where they've lost me: can anyone seriously say that Christ, who expressed ultimate compassion and love to individuals from all walks of life, would look at a gay couple and say, "THAT'S JUST WRONG, YOU'RE GOING TO HELL." I don't know if I'm a Christian any more or not, but I know in my heart that the Christ I was taught about would never turn his back on two people finding love and happiness just because of their genitals. I find that an insult to everything I was taught Jesus was supposed to embody. If God exists, if Christ exists, the policies the LDS leadership have put in place are nothing short of a perversion.

If you can't tell, those things really burn me up.

Another thing, less of a burn and more of an uncomfortable heat, is the secrecy. I'm a financially-minded kinda guy, so it gets on my nerves that the church demands 10% of all its members' income and yet doesn't disclose how all the money is spent. You could argue that the real estate and shopping malls are all serving the material needs of the saints and are just good business sense. The fact that so much of the finances are obscured, though, causes me to raise my eyebrows. Why is it a sin to not pay a full tithe, and yet you're not allowed to find out how the money is used? It strikes me as shady at best.

That isn't to say, though, that the church doesn't put that money to positive use. During a couple particularly tough years, my family benefited from paying a full tithe; we were given access to the Bishop's Storehouse, which supplied us with essential groceries for a period where my folks were having a tough time making ends meet. The secrecy still kinda rubs me the wrong way, but I can appreciate that some portion of the income goes to help the members who need it most.

A final sticking point for me is how it was hammered into us from a very early age to be wary of any criticism of the Church. We were told to only consult official LDS resources for answers to questions, and to stay well away from any third parties who were only Satan's tools to 'lead you astray'. Anti-Church literature plants a seed that's difficult to stop from growing, apparently.

Then President Oaks said, "I suggest that research is not the answer" in regards to Church history and doctrinal issues. Then a member of the Seventy counselled that, “Truth can be discovered by doing.” Seems like they're not a fan of people looking into things. It's a far cry from what J. Reuben Clark said in the 1960's when information was a bit easier to control: "If we have the truth, it cannot be harmed by investigation. If we have not the truth, it ought to be harmed."

It took my many years after leaving the Church to become comfortable with even the idea of reading non-pro-Mormon sources. I'd often turn away from it on instinct and it took a while to override that impulse. I was conditioned so thoroughly that it's frightening.

The most painful areas of my parting with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints involved one of its one of most central teachings: that obedient and worthy families would be reunited after death, and continue to be together for all time and eternity. Maybe if I was part of a different family with more internal friction this wouldn't have been a big problem. The thing is, though, that my family is pretty dope. I'd be totally down to spend eternity with them doing whatever it is you do after your days of death and taxes are over. I love my siblings, and although we've all gone our different ways, I know we'll get along really well whenever our paths cross. And I love my parents, too. Sometimes our circumstances growing up were pretty awful, but I know they care for me unconditionally and will support me however I need it.

So look at things this way: becoming an ex-Mormon, or apostate, or whatever, doesn't just mean that I've rejected the values that my parents hold dear and have based a large part of their lives around. It also means that I'm depriving them of a son in their eternal afterlife. And when I think about my other siblings that are no longer practicing members it breaks my heart. So much love in the here and now, but as far as my parents are concerned, they'll spend eternity separated from their children. I can only imagine how deep that has to cut, and how they might feel like they've let down their family when the stakes were highest. It hurts to think about, and is the only enticing reason for me to return.

Why has it taken me so long to write all this out? Guilt and shame by the heapful. As anonymous-ish as I try to keep this blog, I'm worried that it'll float back to my parents and cause them further grief. That's the last thing I want to do. For those of my family that are still involved with the Church, I'm cool with them doing their thang. If it brings them happiness and meaning, who am I to argue?

I still feel like a failure sometimes for not being able to make it work in the Church. Like I did something wrong and screwed up. At other times, I feel betrayed by the leadership for some level of deception. Some days I feel cheated out of my faith. Other days I feel liberated from it.

This'll probably conclude my writings on the matter. It had been building up over the last couple years to the point where I've found myself hoping that someone would ask me about it. Then I'd finally be able to burst like a dam, but who the hell would want to listen to all that? Stories like mine are a dime a dozen and have been told many times over. Maybe if you're on the fence or trying to deal with the aftermath of leaving your faith this will be of some solace. Mostly though, I had to just get it out of myself. I had to process and straighten my story and understand my own emotions on the subject.

Perhaps I might even find some resolution and closure. Just maybe.
-Cril

Wednesday, April 03, 2019

Lady of the Chicken

Let's set the scene: It's my second year at art school, and the flesh is falling off my bones due to a disease called curriculum. Every Wednesday? Thursday? night I spend a couple hours at the drop-in tutor session, helping miscellaneous apathetic students with grammar, thesises, and dreaded MLA citations. For the last few weeks I've helped out this old Chinese lady in her late 50's, called Eran. She's a painting major, and has absolutely zero idea about how the concept of a formal writing style is supposed to work. Those sessions with her are a bit tedious; whereas most of the other international students benefit from having an elastic, young mind, this older lady was, well, old. There's a certain saying about dogs and tricks that applies here.

After a few weeks, she brings me some candy. Next time it's some fries. The time after that, some potato wedges and chicken strips. Then two cartons of pineapple juice, because I had mentioned it was my favourite fruit. I was a physically and socially malnourished art student, so the gesture was absolutely appreciated.

We'd been in the middle of working on a hefty art history paper that was creeping up on its due date. The next time I lock eyes on this asian lady at the drop in session, she's CARRYING AN ENTIRE ROAST CHICKEN. You know, the kind you get from a grocery store in a plastic container that you keep because you think it'll be handy, despite never actually reusing it. She hands me the chicken: no buns, napkins, forks, drinks, nuttin'. Just one. Roast. Chicken. She knew I'd be staying late on campus, as I usually do, without any benefits of cutlery. But, goddamn it, she wanted to show me her appreciation.

And thus began a 8 year relationship with who I'd affectionately refer to my friends as The Chicken Lady. Over the course of our schooling, she'd come to me for help her with her essays. She'd call me every once in a while to bemoan the behaviour of her 'godson' (who was clearly taking advantage of her for the money), and I'd on occasion run over to her house to help set up a wifi router or new printer. Sometimes she paid me, sometimes not (I never really asked to be), but she'd always take me for lunch after.

It went like this: we'd show up at a very Chinese restaurant. You know the ones that have actual Chinese writing on the menu, with wonky English captions in some bizarre font. Tables were set with chopsticks (no forks/knives unless you asked for it), there was a huge clear plastic slab over the table cloth to make for easy cleaning, and it was assumed you wanted a green tea to start the meal. We'd sit down at the table, look at a menu, and she'd ask what I like. Then she'd bark at the waiter in Mandarin and place an order. For both of us. In Mandarin. I had no idea what was about to happen. Eventually, though, a massive plate of sweet and sour pork or beef with broccoli would appear (as I indicated was my favourite). Sometimes there'd be an extra soup or dumplings or egg rolls, if that's what Eran decided I'd enjoy. Over the years she'd stop asking me what I wanted and just order, all in Mandarin. She knew my tastes, and I just had to trust her. I think she was quite chuffed that I, a mere white boy, would enjoy Chinese food so much.

And things would roll on, just like that. Sometimes I wouldn't hear from her for months and then she'd call every couple days when something was on her mind. She'd ask for advice about her relationship with her godson, which I'd give and she'd promptly ignore. She had her own way of doing things, you see. Very self-oriented and driven. Most conversations are a two-way street, but Eran was on a one-lane divided highway, going wherever she wanted. You had to be ready to pounce if her road ever intersected with yours.

While I was away in New York she called me a couple times. I mentioned how stressed I was and how expensive things were. She ended up sending me a bit of money online to help out - she said I could consider it a graduation gift. I hadn't even asked her for help or even done anything for her over the course of the year. But she had a one-track mind and insisted. It was a heartwarming surprise.

At one point she began developing heart problems. I didn't have many specifics, but it may have included an actual heart attack (or two). Around the same time, she started having a dispute with the condo board of a property she owned. They were suing her because she refused to pay for repairs they had conducted on her behalf, when they hadn't been able to prove that it was actually her fault. I told her to get a lawyer to help take care of it, but she wasn't interested. Lawyers are expensive and scumbags, apparently. So she went to court and represented herself. She even filed a counter-suit. The condo's lawyer filed for a delay, but Eran refused. They tried to settle out of court. Eran refused. She stood her ground, they went to court, and the judge found in her favour. I had kept telling her to get a lawyer, but she kept refusing. She stayed on course like a freaking freight train in face of a (cardiac) derailment, and triumphed. It still blows my mind today.

Then things really started spiraling downward. She wouldn't commit to treatment for her heart, so her physical condition deteriorated. She bounced in and out of a few different hospitals. During this time I'd show up with my trusty laptop to help her deposit some e-transfers for her various rental properties. Then I helped pay some bills and pick up things she needed. Then she made me her emergency contact at the hospital.

She is/was an absolute pain in the ass. She'd call me every day at all hours of the day, 10-15 times a day were not uncommon. She'd leave me messages accusing me of abandoning her. She'd tell me there was an emergency, and when I called, she just said that I needed to inquire about paying a particular bill. She wanted everything now, now, now. Anything else was a personal betrayal.

One day she told me that she was flying to Hong Kong the very next day to get some medical treatment, and she told me to manage her affairs while she was gone. She'd pay me once she got back, she said. So being a good Samaritan and friend and general chump for helping people in need, I agreed. It was a busy eight months.

She called one cold February day and said she was at the Hong Kong airport and wanted to fly back to Calgary right away. I was actually elbows-deep in my uncle's old Honda, trying to pull out a transmission, when she instructed me to drop what I was doing and get her a plane ticket home. So I did.

The next day I picked up a thin, wrinkled, wheelchair-bound impressionistic sketch of the Eran I knew. I spent the next few days helping her get around - doing some banking, getting a phone, going to ER for medications, etc etc. She was definitely having a rough time, and I was the only one in the city willing (and stupid enough) to help out. And from there it all just... fell apart. A trip to the ER turned into an inpatient stay. An inpatient stay turned into a code and visit to the ICU.

So here we are. Organ failure and an expected handful of hours to live. She's semi-conscious at best, but otherwise just seems to be sleeping. I don't know when it'll happen, but it should be soon. She's burned every bridge between her and her family, who's in Hong Kong. I have a handful of her tenants who are trusting me to keep their electricity and heat on. I don't have a single blood or legal connection to this woman, but I'm sitting here watching her die. Just seems like the decent thing to do.

When I arrived this morning, seeing her in this state, I finally told her that I call her the Chicken Lady. I just kinda unloaded my anxieties and guilt about our relationship. And I also told her how I admired her spunk and determination. Yesterday morning I visited with her for three hours before I left. She begged me to stay longer, but I refused. That's the last thing she said to me, actually. "Chris! Stay..." Kinda sucks. Though earlier that morning I mentioned that I was thinking of applying to teach at the art school where we me. She just looked at me and smiled. I think that's what I'd prefer to remember as our last interaction.

I was typing all of the above to the steady rhythm of her breathing. It had been oscillating between relaxed and raspy all morning, but it was always constant. All of the sudden it abruptly stopped. I paused for a moment and there was a shallow gasp. The pause between these gasps continued to lengthen, so I got up, stood by her side, and held her hand.

I told her that I was there with her and wouldn't leave. She didn't need to struggle or fight any more, and she could finally rest. Everything would be taken care of, she didn't need to worry. Relax. I said her mom, dad, and her darling cat would see her soon. Go to them, Eran, they're waiting for you. It's okay. It's okay. You're okay.

Her eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly. A single, half-tear collected in the corner, and before it could become a full one, she was gone. That was it.

As stupid and cliche as it sounds, within about thirty seconds of me telling her it was okay to go, she went. Just like those stupid Hollywood movies and second-rate daytime dramas. Those tears worry me, though. Was it fear? Relief? I'm hoping it was joy. In that moment she let go of my hand to cross through the veil.

I went outside, told the nurses, and signed for her belongings. While I was waiting for some paperwork, I leaned against the wall. Two people walked by, one of them laughing about the vacation they were excited to be leaving for later that day.

Life spins on. Beautifully onward.
-Cril

Sun's up, mhmm, looks okay
The world survives into another day
And I'm thinking about eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

I had another dream about lions at the door
They weren't half as frightening as they were before
But I'm thinking about eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

Walls windows trees, waves coming through
You be in me and I'll be in you
Together in eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me

Up among the furs where it smells so sweet
Or down in the valley where the river used to be
I got my mind on eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me
And I'm wondering where the lions are
I'm wondering where the lions are

Bruce Cockburn - Wondering Where the Lions Are