Confrontation with my Mormon Authority
Winter 2004
I briskly marched up to the concrete walkway with my hard soled loafers making a clean "clack clack clack" sound that echoed off the masonry comprising the south side of the chapel walls. It was such a cold night. I noted how my breath billowed out of my mouth as I climbed the stairs that led me past the chapel and up to the standard issue, black-metal framed double doors that served to welcome all who did not question. These doors were also housed in masonry walls. The walls had been secure and unquestioned emblems of fortitude for me all these years... it's a bit strange to have to try to mentally reassign them as walls of a sort of prison now. What was loyally perceived as a stronghold of safety and certainty was now a precariously collapsable house of cards. My breath was heavy and I was annoyed that I had given up my chance to ride my mountain bike in the hills for this. I saw him getting out of his volvo. He looked my way for half a moment but made no gesture. Seeing my breath, He probably assumed I was smoking. He did have that pained expression of "Well, this is awkward" written across his face. Whatever. I knew he would instinctively do a S.O.P. worthiness tobacco sniff test and be satisfied. Not that it mattered anyhow.
So it was that I had once again been summoned by the powers that be for the, seemingly, now quarterly confrontation with said powers. The inquisition. The gut check. The subtle yet dexterous reminder that I was to submit to his authority. I could almost set my watch by the summons. That awkward, out of the blue phone call from him, the weirdness of the chit chat, the poignant reminders that we should talk and in fact would next Tuesday fit in my schedule? I never see this man other than our visits. I had imagined my name was carefully placed in this man's black Franklin planner 120 days sequentially and systematically throughout his year. It couldn't be this synchronously timed otherwise. I could also imagine my name etched in the color coded pencil that he also used for scripture marking but my name was assigned a color likely to stand as a sentinel, "problematic, must deal with". No doubt he used the same color for my name as he uses to annotate all of God's scriptural warnings to the heathens. I wondered if he anxiously pressed hard when he wrote my name into his book of life.
I was bothered by the fact that I was the reason his wife and kids would not see him tonight. I wondered if he dreaded our meetings as much as I did.
This man feigned concern over my condition so well I almost believed him. Almost. Anyhow, such pictorial editing in my mind amused me and set my mind at ease for what was about to ensue.
"Well, here we are..." He started.
"Yes, we are here" I replied, thoughtlessly.
"I am glad we have met tonight, I ... ah... would like to just let you know that... uh....I mean what I would like to begin with is... ah.... I should ask you a few questions."
Obviously, he is in a stupor of thought, I thought to myself, At least we aren't starting this one out with a word of prayer to his God.
Probing, he asked in an almost upbeat tone, "Any progression since we last spoke?".
I played along, "You mean with my testimony?"
**pause**
Hesitating, he offered, "Yes, uh... we last spoke about Joseph's sexual ... uh... relations with women outside of Emma..."
I said without enthusiasm, "...And you concurred that you believed Joseph did indeed have sex outside of Emma..."
All in one breath and with an odd smile he quipped, "Mike, I said that Joseph restored the Gospel of Jesus Christ to earth and if his sexual actions are found outside the bounds that the Lord has set, then in the next life, he will have to answer for those sins. I also said that his having sex outside of his wife, Emma, does not preclude the fact that he restored the True and Everlasting Gospel to the earth."
I responded quickly to give the air that I was almost ignoring his explanations, " I guess I have progressed then. I have taken your affirmation and boldly used it as fuel to fire up the passion to find if Smith was deceitful in other ways."
**pause**
I could see that was the not the answer he was looking for.
**awkward pause**
"Hmmm...", he doled out thoughtfully.
"Hmmmm...." as if vocally pausing would salvage the situation.
Finally he asked, "Well then, where are you with all of this?"
Careful now Mike, caution.... caution, you are entering the "self-incrimination" zone. One wrong sentance and you could jeopardize it all.
I answered, "Well, I have to say that I am caught between the church, my wife, my kids, everyone's future, and a moral imperative that says I should be true when truth emerges. You see... others have been braver than I in the past and have sacrificed their lives for truth. What I am being asked to risk pales in comparison. But the founding fathers of this country set in motion the events that would ensure I would be able to think, do and be how I see fit. I can pursue life liberty and happiness based upon logical conclusions that all facts tell me... while not having to lap up some presented dogmatic approach to living handed down to me from my parents and perpetuated by peers of the same like minded tribe"
Hell. That sounded too rehearsed. Shit. What did he expect me to do? Blast at him from the hip with nothing prepared?
He surprised me with a outright chuckle, I felt the mood change to one where he was now a playful uncle who loved nothing less than to give me noogies on the top of my head. He blurted out, "...Mike, Mike, Mike! How is The Spirit ever going to get through that thick skull of yours if you are always resisting it like this?"
Was it an attempt to get on my level? Did he feel like he had to stoop? What was that?
I cringed. Out came the quad. 20 bucks says he goes for Galations. He did not bother to ask me where mine was this time. Last time he acted so shocked that I had failed to bring my scriptures to a private meeting with him. I had hedged in defense with how I was unaware that it was disrespectful to not carry my scriptures with me to meetings with him. Sure enough though, he flipped open to the first battalion of artillery to start the night off. Galations. The fruits of the spirit.
My heart quickened. I knew what needed to be done. Now or never! Geez us. Was I really going to do this? I found strength. I am sure my eyes dilated and I felt my breathing increase slightly...blood rushed into my head and my temples pounded just slightly.
He paused when he saw me fishing around for my wallet in my back pocket. I did not appreciate the pause as it created an unatural focus on what I was doing. I had seen it in my mind's eye more inconspicous and fluid than this. The cushioned relief society chair squeaked under my weight shifting torso as I sent my fingers on the daunting task of producing the lynch pin that held all the ultimatums presently in front of me at bay. I found access into my back pocket. That's strange, why had I buttoned it? I never button it. I produced the small rectangle piece of paper. This rectangular declaration once held by me as a sacred emblem of my willingness to submit all of my wills, desires, passions, beliefs to the god or godlessness who produced it now served only as a hollow reminder that I still belonged to some thing I did not believe in anymore... and that practically no one knew it but myself. I noted a tremble in my fingers as I brought it to light. It hadn't been used for a temple session in over three years. I had told half truths to get it nine months prior. And the man in front of me was the recipient of my misdirection. Oddly, I felt afraid of relinquishing it. I thought I was past all this. How could I just give it up? I had sworn and sealed my swearing with the life blood of my mortal existance that I would uphold what this rectangle represented. I had done so over 50 times in the last 15 years.
Confronting the finality of the situation, I placed it on his 4 foot by 8 foot faux mahogany desk and sent it sliding quickly across towards him. It flipped up and over acrobatically displaying playfulness as it flew in his direction landing squarely between his hand and his well marked book of scripture. I stifled a smile as I processed a quick mental note that went something to the effect that the unannounced flip meant I had turned some corner in my life. Turning over a new leaf?
There was a moment of silence that I found also fitting for the moment. I fancied we were giving respect for the dead. A funeral for the moment gave way to the realization that I was forevermore done with dogma. There was no turning back now. I had crossed over. The silence was engulfed, however, in an annoyingly loud buzzing hum of the overhead fluorescent lights. How had I missed that noise the last three times in this office? It was deafening.
Walking out of that office I noticed that the texture in the carpet was the same as the scratchy yet durable kid proof fabric covering on the walls. Everything was a shade of drab brown. The popcorn ceiling blended into the sameness as did the bumps and randomness in the bricks. It was all so obviously and overwhelmingly... the same. No deviations. No accenting colors. No focal points. No punch. No pizaz. No flair. Barely any art on the walls. Just one, no frills, meshing, sameness of fabric texture and pattern. How symbolic. I noticed for the first time that the picture of Jesus was half the size as the first presidency's photo on the wall outside his office. I also noted that there was a 1" gap between the hard commercial grade carpet and the bottom of the door. This meant that the three persons waiting for their turn to speak with this man tonight had likely heard our entire discussion. I hoped they took notes.
I walked into the chapel for what I fantasized would be the very last time. I almost wished for some shaking or shocking visitational outpouring to warn me of the error of my ways. Perhaps that would ring out to me Alma the Younger-esque. Gid sure set that guy straight. But I knew, intuitively now, that it would not come. I sat down. I took it all in. Imagine that... just over three cognicent decades of my life spent in weekly attendance here. This was the factory. The machinery that ran this place and produced the feelings that led me down the paths towards my habits of thought inbreeding... was broken now. Strange how it could break for me yet run flawlessly for hundreds of others who showed up to feed it, oil it, prop it up and polish it every week. I noted how the chapel took on a different persona being empty like this. I am used to being surrounded when I am here. I feel out of place now. Where are all those same people talking the same, acting the same, dressing the same, being the same, charting the same undeviatingly devoted same course, even sitting in the same place week after week? with the same food storage and the same monthly editorials delivered to their doorsteps? Where were they? It was as if the level of sameness between them, this building and the factory had grown so absurdly evolved that the four walls of this factory consumed them entirely. They were here. I could feel them. Yet they were not.
I allowed my thoughts to wander.
No new converts ever broke into the sameness of this machine. Or if they tried, they were spit out and simultaneously rejected. They were not the same. Sure, the more headstrong ones lasted a couple of years, but they eventually quit trying to break in. Admittedly, a few made it over the hump but were exceptions to the rule. Over the years, I gathered it was the quirky comments they offered up in classes, wearing the wrong clothes, or obvious lack of proper breeding that did it in for them. Nevertheless, I had to hand it to them now for following some sort of heartfelt conviction. Admirable. Misguided, but admirable. Sitting there alone, without the propaganda machine spinning the hits... the oldies but goldies, I paused to see what would come to me.... if anything.
Stale cheerios.....
Apple Juice...
I picked up a hymnal. Nice. Some mother had allowed her child to use it as a coloring book.
Anything else come? Yes. A powerful loathing for this place that had tricked me into giving up some of the best years of my existence for a sham cause call to arms. A pungent recognition that I had now become vastly different than everything in this factory washed over me.
I wanted to scream. Instead I stood up, stood tall, and turned my back. I walked away from the machine... the factory. I let it spit me out.
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Abner Doon wrote:
Great story, Noggin. My brother frequently expresses to me similar feelings about the drab monotony of the Mormon church. I was never terribly excited about church -- it was all so familiar to me, and I never really thought it could be other than what it was -- but church was always torture for him. He has a way of picking up on the passion (or lack thereof) of people and places. Many Mormons seem like they're just barely alive, spiritually. For them, the Morg really has become a morgue, a place where spontaneity, freedom of thought and individuality go to die.
Whenever I attend church nowadays (as infrequently as possible, you can be sure) it always feels like a visit to grade school. It seems smaller somehow, and somewhat stifling. It almost surprises me that people my own age and older are still going to this place. Didn't we get beyond this? Isn't this something we remember with some fondness - a place where we learned some of our first lessons in life - but a place that holds no further value for us? It's a safe place (unless you're gay or an apostate, of course) but how can we reach beyond our grasp in the face of such monochromatic, oppresive security? It's almost as if there are two separate chapters though. The confrontation with the Bish and the reflection in the chapel. A third scene would balance this short story?
A friend wrote:
He franklin-planner penciled you in black…
Black, like your mortal soul. Black, like outer darkeness. Black is also colour of the night sky, where it is uninterupted by stars. Black is the colour of peace. It is the colour of endlessness, of eternity. It might also be the colour of freedom.
Why I wrote “Confrontations with a Stake President
(Just opening up the bottle to let some of the pressure off me is all.)
