The Name Vivian Means Alive

When you were, you were full of life, clapping your hands when we got together, holding my little arms and dancing ragtime across the floor. You passed food around the room with authority, with the experienced motion of a well oiled machine. You arranged us into places; you gathered us, crammed us into your living room that was more than a living room. When I was a child, you felt like a womb, and when I sat there on your lap and had you read about Strawberry Shortcake and Huckleberry Pie, your breath was warm in my ear. You were all velveteen and lotion. When you put my own children on your ninety year old lap and bounced them up and down the way the lady rides, I remembered that. They all fell asleep in your arms while you hummed, rocked them gently as if your whole body were music.

The resistance you displayed when we cajoled you to sit down on the organ bench was a necessary act of humility. You sniffed before you played, reached your feet down to the foot pedals as though putting on your most comfortable shoes, and leaned back. Your fingers flipped the stops effortlessly and at last settled on the keys. You looked over at us and smiled. And then you played.

In the end, it was organ failure. A cruel joke, I thought. The infection spread through your mortal circuits and flipped off the switches of your melody, one by one. The rushing of air out of you was like a pipe organ being powered down. When I touched your hand as you lay dying in the hospital, it was not your hand. It was not your instrument anymore.

When we buried you, it was right next to the Organ family in the cemetery. I didn't even know that Organ was a surname and I almost wondered if they were put there as props. We poked each other through our winter coats and pointed to the snowcapped tombstones when we saw them there, and smiled our wan little smiles. Then I stepped forward, stood by your body, bowed my head, and dedicated a rectangular piece of ground to you, promising you that it would not stay closed forever, that you would rise in the morning of the first resurrection.

I was hardly your most musical grandchild by far, but I was the one who got your organ. I chuckled to call you my "organ donor." After we carried it into my home I sat down on the bench and cried when I realized the cover over your keyboard was locked, and I had lost the key in the move. For several weeks it sat there like a vacuum, like an aggravating weight, heavy in the silence. In desperation, I succeeded in picking the lock. I lifted the lid and started to play it surreptitiously, feeling like a bandit, looking behind me occasionally because I could never play it the way you did, and I thought you might be watching. Besides, it was still yours somehow without the key.

When we were pregnant again, you had been gone two years. It was a hard pregnancy for my wife. The valley of death for a mother can be in the mind, too. Depression is a thief. But with every little flutter of our child inside her, I knew there was hope still. There was a spirit fighting for life in there, and it would only grow stronger and more viable in time. At last, my wife became the mother of all living once again. It was a role, Nana, you had mastered by the end.

We named her Vivian, after you, and just before she was born, we found the key. Your old organ key. It was buried in a potted plant, of all places. My five year old scoundrel must have wedged it in there without thinking, the way little boys do mindless mischief when they wander bored through a room. I held it up and thought to myself, grasping for a metaphor, "This organ key was buried the same way you are." It was certainly rusted a bit, but it still fit the lock, and when I turned it this time, I knew it was with your permission. 

You are playing your music somewhere up there, and I have to believe you are still alive to share it with me.

The Holes in the Stone

"Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all England."

The Sword in the Stone is a great story. A sword, the classic symbol of kingship, is stuck tight and immovable within a stone, and only the chosen one, a young, inexperienced, but pure-hearted Arthur can remove it.

All who aspire to be king, to fulfill their own interests, no matter how hard they try, cannot "stir the sword nor move it." According to Sir Thomas Mallory, the right one "is not here that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not God will make him known."

Well, He did.

It is useful to compare the Arthurian legend to the Restoration. The sword, the authority and power of Christ, was sealed away in stone for many centuries until Joseph Smith was called to restore the kingdom again on the earth. The stone is obviously Christ, the source of all priesthood authority. He is a "stone of stumbling and a rock of offense" to those who would very much like to wield that authority and establish their own kingdoms here on earth, but they will never be able to wield the sword of Christ's priesthood for their own personal gain.

But the story of the Restoration is not really about Joseph Smith. It is not even about the sword, the authority of the priesthood.

The story of the Restoration is a story about the Stone.

When I was young, I was scrawny and not very smart, and looked a lot like "Wart" in Disney's The Sword in the Stone. (One could even argue that I haven't changed much.) I wore hand-me-down clothes that were too big and a tie that was too long. Like Arthur, I had my Merlins in my life, primary teachers and parents and the words of prophets to teach me my spiritual ABCs. They helped prepare me to one day receive my sword.

I was introduced to the Stone early. As a family, we went to visit it often in the churchyard. I recognized its importance, but sitting in the pews and staring at it, I can't say that I really understood my relationship to that Stone.

Then when I was 12, I was presented with the sword of priesthood power. They placed hands on my head and authorized me to use it. But the power was still wedged tightly inside the stone to me, and the idea of removing it seemed impossible at that time, and I was not particularly interested in removing it anyway. "Maybe someday when I am stronger, or when I am more grown up," I thought.

However, as I grew, going through the motions, I began to pay more attention to that Stone. I noticed that the Stone was not just a container for the sword, but that it was actually wounded by it. The primary reason I noticed this was because at about that time, I started to realize that I was wounded and full of holes. Maybe I was projecting, but the rock became more relatable to me as I realized my own wounded condition was reflected by the Stone. For me it was the wounds of being an insecure teenager, isolated and afraid and uncertain about my future. But it was a myriad of other things as well. I realized that on my own, no matter how I measured myself, I always came out wrong.

My interest in the stone grew slowly. I wondered what would happen if I tried to actually pull out that sword. I started to feel bad to think that the Stone was eternally pierced by that sword for me, and I hadn't even tried to remove it yet and use it. There was nothing I could do to undo what had happened to that Stone. The Stone was already pierced by it, and He did it for me, that I might be armed against the things I was up against.

Taking that sword out was somewhat anticlimactic. There was no heavenly choir, at least not to my ears. In fact, I felt even more clumsy and weak as I realized that the sword was far too heavy for my scrawny little arms, and it probably always would be.

But this story is not really about me, anyway.

Again, this story is about the Stone. The Stone did not just pass me the sword and then sit there, inert and glistening in the faraway churchyard. The Stone became an active part of my life, the main character in my Arthurian legend, because my sword will always be His. It is Him that gives me strength to perform my own role, however small, in the Kingdom Joseph Smith helped to restore. And he wasn't perfect wielding that sword, either.

All members of the church, male and female, have been authorized to wield the sword in the stone, the power of Christ. As has been clarified by apostles, priesthood power is available to all in this church, both men and women. But first, we must get to know the Stone. We have to see and feel of the Stone's woundedness, and recognize how He reflects and fills in for our own mortal gaps, our holes and our wounds. We have to reach for the gift He offers us, to pull out of Him his grace and His power, and wield His sword the way He showed.

Born Blind

 

Jesus Christ passed by a man who was blind from birth. His disciples asked, "Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?" (John 9)

As usual, we all wonder sometimes about this fallen world and try to lay blame. Whose fault is it? Who caused all these trials, the disabilities, the injustice? Or in a similar way, we ask, "Why me? What did I do to deserve this?" Surely it must be someone's fault.

The question surrounding the man born blind reminds me of questions I have heard regarding same-sex attraction. In the debate regarding SSA, there is an oft repeated question: Is it nature, or nurture? Is it some inherent genetics of the individual, or was it the upbringing of the child, the social situation, etc.? Was it because of a distant father, or an overbearing mother? Was it because of abuse? Did this person choose to be gay?

As latter-day saints who understand that homosexuality is contrary to the plan, we sometimes focus on these questions, which all relate to the disciples' question of who "sinned," the individual or his parents.

Jesus Christ re-frames and revolutionizes the whole argument: "Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest."

Then Christ proceeds to do His miracle, healing the man with His own spit and a bit of clay.

I have seen some parents of a gay child who are full of guilt that they may have done something wrong. I have seen individuals, including myself at times, full of shame, blaming their same-sex attraction on themselves for not being good enough. Others resign themselves that this is just a part of life. There is no purpose for it at all—being gay is just the random chances of a fallen world—and so they set themselves up to "white knuckle it" until they can somehow be "fixed" in the next life. 

But Jesus Christ doesn't see it this way. He gives purpose to our trials. They exist, purposefully, as a way to manifest the works of God in our lives.

"I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them." (Ether 12:27)

Why do we need weakness? It seems like something I would rather do without.

However, who can appreciate sight more than the blind man? Likewise, who can appreciate Christ, the light of the world, more than the individual who has gone through spiritual darkness? The self-righteous Pharisees who had no interest or use for this miracle-worker—they could not understand him. The healed blind man, who explained repeatedly the miracle to the incredulous audience, was surprised at their lack of understanding, saying, "Herein is a marvelous thing, that ye know not from whence he is, and yet he hath opened mine eyes!" In other words, it takes a blind man to see who Christ is, while the Pharisees with their perfect little 20/20 eyeballs couldn't seem to see Him at all.

The works of God have been manifest in my life, and in the lives of many other gay latter-day saints, over and over. But what about healing? Are we ever really healed? What does healing look like for a gay latter-day saint?

Well, maybe not quite as you might think. Same-sex attraction is not removed, or "healed." Our sexual attractions tend to stay a part of who we are. Perhaps this is because being gay is not quite like blindness. Perhaps because SSA can actually be a kind of sight. For me, being gay has helped me to see things I otherwise could not see: my own suffering reflected in the struggles of others; and above all, to see more clearly the Savior, and how much I need Him. In my moments of blindness, same-sex attraction has given me eyes to see the light, which is Christ. Perhaps the miracle of healing is not about removing sexual attraction, but that through my faith in Christ spiritual sight can be restored.

As Christ said to the pharisees who continued to pooh-pooh Christ's miracles, "If ye were blind, ye should have no sin: but now ye say, We see; therefore your sin remaineth." Recognizing our own individual blindness, to be humble as explained in Ether 12:27, is the only way to see Christ properly.

Christ's process of healing has been as intimate an experience for me as feeling the Savior's spit and clay pressed onto my eyes. Though I still am required to walk by faith in this life, and not by sight, I know enough to believe that a perfect understanding of my trial awaits, in that day when I stand blinking in the sudden light of the resurrection. Then I will see Christ, my Savior, standing before me with absolute love and understanding. I will see that He really got his hands dirty with spit and clay for me this time, and that He really worked hard to heal me and to bring me home, ultimately giving His life to make me whole. 

I will see that He still has proof of it in His hands.

Wild Roses Are Out

Wild roses are out.

The colors flash out my window, like they did when I was young and I wanted to know what each species was. Its name. What is your name! When I was thirteen, biking through my thirsty summers, I wanted to pluck off blossoms, press them in a book, and mispronounce Latin.

In my car, I pull over suddenly, kicking up dust. Now, twenty years later, I want to see. I want to see! And now, at last, I am alone in the driver’s seat.

The grass rises up to my knees, and the hill is steep. I step, pioneer-like, into unknown territory. The water has flowed down from the mountains in canals engineered by my ancestors. It has filled up the bottom of the coulees.

Behold!

“I know thee now.” Your names, I mean. The knowledge has kicked in finally, and it kicked me in my head, too. Sticky geraniums, lupins, sage, chicory, carpet phlox, blanket flower.

The sky opens itself up wide to God. It comforts me here. I belong. There are blackbirds, too. Some with yellow heads. Others with red on their wings. They warble and rasp their song at everything. At the world. At blue skies. At me, their lanky intruder.

God is involved here. It helps me to know this, especially now. Even if I do not know if He is involved in my life right now---the horrible tangled messy web I live in---I know he exists out here, miles away from my little room where I languish at a desk.

He is here. Under the sun, in the ripples of the water, in the buzz of the birds, in the sheen of a blackbird’s wing, and in the thorns of the wild rose.

Roasted Lamb

I heard something really interesting yesterday and I liked it. It was in the context of how we interpret the Old Testament, and at one point he specifically mentioned the Passover.

At Passover, the Israelites killed a lamb and used its blood to mark their doors. The symbolism for the blood of the Lamb, which would be Jesus Christ, is apparent there, for sure. After they used the blood to mark their houses, the Israelites were specifically instructed to roast the lamb and eat it--all of it. It was not to be boiled. It had to be roasted with fire. Also, they could not leave any piece uneaten before morning.

The scholar points out that the symbolism here is that we must "partake of the gospel of Jesus Christ with the Spirit. The Spirit is symbolized in the Old Testament by fire." The symbolism for eating all of it is that we must partake of all of the gospel, not a piece here and piece there. So the lesson is that we must partake of the gospel with the Spirit, and we must eat it all.

This fits in nicely with the revelation given to Joseph Smith in D&C 50:19-20:

"He that receiveth the word of truth, doth he receive it by the Spirit of truth or some other way? If it be some other way it is not of God."

It made me think of all the ways we (myself included) try to live/teach the gospel without the Spirit. All the ways we present the Lamb boiled, microwaved, pickled, or basically any other way except roasted by the Spirit.

Some examples of boiled, unfinished mutton:

1. We rely on our own talents of persuasion or speaking to teach the gospel.
2. We rely strictly on our own understanding and knowledge.
3. We seek to entertain or excite either ourselves or others.
4. We seek out deep, speculative questions that the Spirit does not reveal the answers to yet.
5. We accept the gospel only as it fits into our own beliefs and understanding.
6. We think of the gospel as mere facts that must be learned.
7. We rely on traditions, precedent, or mindless standardized answers.
8. We engage in contentious debates.
9. We teach or live the gospel for the praise of others.
10. We accept the parts of the gospel we like, and reject the parts we don't.

I am sure there are more I could come up with.

Last Sunday, I taught a lesson to the youth on the Holy Ghost. I had some things to talk about that I thought were really great ideas. I had a great plan. About ten minutes into the lesson, things were not going well. I didn't feel right, and I could tell I wasn't reaching my students. As I got to the end of the lesson, I knew I had lost them. That's when I realized with great embarrassment that I had not prayed at all asking for the Spirit, neither when I got the lesson ready, nor before giving it. I realized I was relying on my own understanding to impress the youth. The hypocrisy was rich. There I was, trying to teach about how important the Holy Ghost is in everything we do, without even taking the time to seek it in my lesson. I am trying to repent for that.

What good is the gospel without the Spirit? It is like boiled lamb at Passover. The fire of the Holy Ghost is missing. There is no testimony, no witness, no comfort, and certainly no conversion.

This can be a hard lesson to learn.


(From Paul Hoskisson, Symbolism and the Flood in the Old Testament, http://www.ldsperspectives.com/2018/01/17/noah-flood-symbolism-bible/)

Christmas and the Sacrament

Christmas was a little rough. I went into the month determined to be focused on the real meaning of Christmas, to be still, to not be swept up in the busyness. Well, Heavenly Father must have thought I needed some extra help, because on the 21 I was laid out with the flu and definitely had time to be still over the holidays, though not in the way I wanted.

On Christmas Eve, a Sunday, I was too sick to go to church. I couldn't sing in the quartet that I was supposed to. I just laid there in bed, a little grumpy, and a little sad that I didn't have a chance to take the sacrament and worship my Savior on Christmas. My four year old came home and jumped on my bed for a few painful minutes, then he gave me his sacrament cup that he had neglected to put back in the tray. As I was lying there looking at it in my hand and thinking about Christmas, I realized something I had never thought about before.

When Jesus was born, he was laid in a manger. A manger is a place where animals eat. In French, it literally means to eat. Why a manger? The symbolism I see there is quite striking, and perhaps a little odd: He was born to be food for us and our animal tendencies. Jesus said, "Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you." (John 6) He is "the bread of life." So in a way, when we come to the sacrament table, we are coming to the manger.

This experience changed the way I think about sacrament meeting. I think it works to think of the sacrament meeting like a kind of nativity scene. There we all are, gathered around the wondrous gift, the body of Christ laid out and broken for us to eat and drink. We call it a sacrament table, a place where we would sit and eat, the same way a manger would be for the animals. Like the Christ-child wrapped in swaddling clothes, the tokens of his body and blood are covered in a linen sheet.

Then there are the supporting actors in the scene. We all play a role. Some Sundays I am mere animal, maybe a donkey or a cow; another day I may be a shepherd making haste, inviting my friends, and coming with enthusiasm. On rare days, maybe if I am assigned a talk or something, I may be a wise man bringing a gift (sometimes gold, but probably more like a low quality myrrh.)

Interestingly, the Aaronic Priesthood holders could be thought to represent Mary. They are the ones who prepare and break and unveil the body of Christ and deliver it to the congregation. Many of our priesthood ordinances, though performed by men, have a kind of feminine symbolism; like a birthing process (most notably, baptism.) As we come each Sunday to renew our covenants, to be reborn, we do so because of our Savior who was born by Mary and laid in a manger, and in turn, because of his perfect atonement, He bears us (See Elder Holland's talk, Behold Thy Mother). Such could be said of those priesthood holders, like the young men in our wards, who exercise the priesthood to deliver Christ every week for us.

"How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given!" Like the familiar stable scene, which was largely unnoticed and apart from the bustle of the world, the sacrament meeting becomes a test of whether we will leave the world behind and come and be present at the humble manger scene, to partake of Christ's grace, to eat the tokens of his body and blood, and accept his love which is offered freely and weekly for each of us.

Matter Unorganized

Pillars of Creation, taken from Hubble Telescope

This summer has been chaotic. The laws of entropy have been in full force, and its evidence can be seen in my kitchen, in the awful sleeping schedules of my children, in my failing routines of family prayer and scripture study, and in myself in general. However, slowly I am gathering myself together to face September, which for me is a return to structure and reorganizing as our family falls back into school schedules, and being able to organize our house again after the messy freedoms that summer brings.

As I gather myself for the upcoming week, I started thinking about the wild doctrine we Latter-day Saints have, that we can become like God in eternity. This doctrine has gotten some backlash by critics who claim we debase God by saying we are actually his children with potential to actually become like Him, but to me it is a crazy beautiful and inspiring teaching, that we can become co-creators with our Heavenly Father, that I am a disciple in training trying to practice divine principles, and that my actions can make a difference in eternity.

One latter-day Saint thinker says it this way:

“Several prophets have taught that we are “gods in embryo,” and in Mormon theology the work of Godhood is a work of creation and order—of organizing intelligences, or of bringing order to disordered or chaotic elements in the universe to form new worlds. The call of authentic, imaginative, and generative spirituality is to identify opportunities to actively engage in this creative work of godhood every day, whether through managing emotions, ordering distorted thought patterns, bridling passions, educating desires, growing souls or organizing families. Godhood isn’t about seeking to live according to what is natural but to take natural element and shape it, organize it, build it, channel it, bridle it, and nurture it toward something transcendent—whether that be the element of our bodies or the element of the cosmos.”[1]

I love this idea.

In the Genesis creation, Latter-day Saints put a unique twist on the creation story. We claim that God did not create heaven and earth ex nihilo, but that God in fact took pre-existing materials and formed them into an earth, creating life through an unknown but definite process of organization, rather than magical conjuring from nothing.[2]

In the beginning, God said, “Look, yonder is matter unorganized.” In the book of Abraham, we learn that God said to those that were with him, “We will go down, for there is space there, and we will take of these materials, and we will make an earth whereon these may dwell.”[3] For God, creation is a process of organization of raw materials that seems to involve time, space, patience, knowledge of natural laws and science, power, and lots of work. Interestingly, we have the suggestion that God used helpers to assist him in his work of creation.

Today, we are called as helpers to assist God in his perpetual work of creation, “to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.”[4] In our own lives, there are many opportunities to participate in this work of creation because it is obvious that “matter unorganized” abounds in this fallen world. Mortal life is the perfect testing ground for learning how to be co-creators with God.

What are some examples of “matter unorganized” that we encounter? 

I can stand in my pyjamas in the kitchen and point out to myself the piles of dishes in a sink, the rice crispies dried on the floor, the milk spilled on the table and say to myself rather drily, “Look, yonder is matter unorganized.” In the evening, there is unmade food in the fridge that I am expected to “create” into a meal for my picky children, and I can mutter under my breath, “More matter unorganized.” While raising my children, when I see my son hitting and biting his brother, I can say yet again, “yonder is matter unorganized” and teach him (hopefully with great love and patience, but not usually) to channel his energies, passions, and enthusiasm in appropriate ways. Often our work of organizing is done in "ways that look small to the understanding of men" [5] Family life is a great place to create order by teaching and learning simultaneously about the organizing attributes of love, kindness, forgiveness, obedience, and discipline; to take those chaotic, painful, raw, and frustrating parts of life and exalt them into a heavenly state. To some it may sound almost sacrilege to use God’s mighty words of earth’s creation in such banal ways, and to me there is some humor in comparing the grandeur of earth’s creation to doing dishes, but I believe that in a very real way the drudgery of everyday life, especially home life, is the same work.

As mortal beings with all the messy mortal baggage we carry, we are each of us “matter unorganized.” In my own life, this is painfully apparent. In our doctrine, we are taught that we are to be “agents to act, not be acted upon.”[6]  God once took of the unorganized elements of this earth to form a body for me so I could come down from heaven into mortality, but to organize me spiritually, God requires my will. He will not interfere with my agency, because that is not how the process works. I can’t passively be formed to become like God. I must act in order to become. In a process parallel to the creation story, sometimes this process of becoming like God involves separating the light from the darkness in my life. Sometimes it is planting seeds of faith to spring up into a later harvest. Sometimes it is causing dry land to appear in an ocean of the impossible. For some it involves the process of creating and raising miniature men and women in the image of God. But always the organizing process takes time and effort.

Family history and temple work is another way we participate in the work of creation—we take matter unorganized, like names on a parish register, and organize them into family units and seal them together in the temple as families. Developing talents is another example. We take ideas and the chaotic creative thoughts of the mind and make them into organized music, poetry, art, carpentry, baking, storytelling, or any other variety of abilities. Controlling words, thoughts, and behaviors to more closely follow Christ’s example is another. Each of us in our own sphere has opportunities to take matter unorganized and bridle it, develop it, change it, mold it, work with it, love it, serve it, or any other action word we can think of that will take that specific “matter unorganized” and help it “fulfill the measure of its creation.”

As usual, the greatest organizing power this world knows is charity, the pure love of Christ. When we work with that influence, we are creators. We are invited to use our time and energies to cultivate diligence, faith, virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, godliness, brotherly kindness, and charity so that we can be fruitful creators with Christ.[7] Daily we come in contact with a spouse, a child, a friend, a co-worker, perfect strangers—someone—that is a definite piece of “matter unorganized.” With love, we know what to do. Agency is always a part of the process, but when we are working together with the master creator and organizer, Jesus Christ, miracles happen and the laws of entropy are reversed, people change, including ourselves, and order in the universe is restored. Sometimes we have to be broken down in painful ways in order to reorganize ourselves into something better, but always we can be reorganized. This is possible because Jesus Christ not only created this earth and all things in it, but through the atonement has the power to heal us all and put us back together when His creation--us--inevitably breaks down. 

As I renew myself this September, I am making goals to be an organizer—a creator in the Latter-day Saint definition of the term—to take matter unorganized both in myself and in the world around me, and to help make it into something better. I don’t expect to do anything grand, and I will fail often, because I am a work in progress, another prime example of “matter unorganized.” But I will keep on trying. Collectively as disciples of Christ all around the world, with persistence and love, we can form beauty and order out of the broken and damaged, and with our help the day will come when God will once again look upon creation and call it “very good.”

---

[1] Ty Mansfield, “A Reason for Faith:  Homosexuality and the Gospel.” Deseret Book.

[2] Parley P. Pratt said, “Man, moulded from the earth, as a brick! A Woman, manufactured from a rib! ...O man! When wilt thou cease to be a child in knowledge. Man, as we have said, is the offspring of Deity.” And Brigham Young said, “When you tell me that father Adam was made as we make adobes from the earth, you tell me what I deem an idle tale. When you tell me that the beasts of the field were produced in that manner, you are speaking idle worlds devoid of meaning. There is no such thing in all the eternities where the Gods dwell.”

[3] Abraham 3:24

[4] Moses 1:39
[5] Ether 3:5

[6] 2 Nephi 2

[7]2 Peter 1:5-8