I asked one of my brothers to read a draft of the book I'm working on, tentatively titled Trial of Faith, and recently he's begun to give me some long awaited feedback on the manuscript I sent him.
The second chapter of the book deals with my relationship with the Church and also with members of my family. It describes a time -- shortly after my near suicide and then after my departure from the Church -- when my relationship with my family, and particularly with this brother, hit a low point. So I have to admit, I was just a tad nervous about revisiting some of these painful moments with my brother, with someone who experienced them as intimately as I did. I also wondered how his memory of these events might be different from my own, and I was anxious to confirm my own recollection of certain events through comparison with his memories.
What is interesting to me is how my own memory of this time in my life has changed in recent years. After the spiritual experience I had in August 2005 prompting me to return to the Church, I struggled for a time. Eventually, I had a kind of conversion moment in January 2006 in which I began to pray again. And at that moment I realized that there was a huge obstacle that had been blocking me from praying to God with sincerity. It was my anger. There was no way I could progress spiritually without acknowledging and seeking forgiveness for my anger.
Now this is the interesting thing. Until that moment, I probably would have denied that I harbored any anger, bitterness or resentment toward the Church, my family, or God. Had someone asked me 5 years ago whether I was angry, I almost certainly would have denied it. But after that moment of spiritual truth in early 2006, I realized that anger -- acknowledged or unacknowledged anger -- was possibly the predominant emotion of those years. It was my greatest sin, the source of so many of my other problems, and what I most desperately needed to come to terms with if I was going to progress.
What is interesting to me is that acknowledging my anger has since allowed me to access and understand what was going on with me during those years far better than I understood at the time. What is even more interesting is that acknowledging -- and seeking forgiveness for -- my anger allowed my memory of those years to converge with the memories of my brother. Because that is his predominant memory of me during those years -- that I was very angry.
He reminded me of the ways in which I was "very angry, hostile, and as a result often deliberately provocative to those of us in the family who remained in the church." He gave me a few specific examples. He reminded me of a family reunion where I insisted on ordering Irish coffee at a restaurant in the morning. At one family event, in a conversation with a sister, I was vocally criticizing the Church in very harsh terms -- loud enough so that other members of the family could overhear and be hurt by some of the things I said. He also reminded me of a conversation in which I made a kind of ultimatum, telling him that if he really loved me, he had to leave the Church.
I honestly have no specific recollection of those events, though when he described them, they definitely sounded like things that I would have done. My blotting out of those memories tells me as much about those years as what I have remembered. I suspect I didn't remember these behaviors because so much of my behavior in relation to the Church in those years was impulsive, thoughtless and reactionary. It came from the lower, "reptile brain," at its root a reaction of fear or self-defense. Furthermore, I was expressing my anger in indirect, passive-aggressive ways because I didn't fully understand it myself. I was angry, but I was also in denial about my anger.
Discussing this with my brother has brought back this period of my life with vividness. Even now, remembering that time has aroused feelings of shame, pain and anxiety. I've found myself wrestling with those feelings a good part of the day. I've found myself reaching out to God in prayer about it, sometimes with just a sense of profound sadness and desperation. And in answer to my prayer, I've received quiet comfort.
I understand now that at the root of the anger was something even more basic: a failure to trust. At that time in my life, I had numerous remarkable, very powerful spiritual experiences in which God communicated very clearly to me his love for me, reassuring me of my fundamental goodness and wholeness, and telling me that I had nothing to fear in regard to my gayness.
I think that part of my problem was, given what I had been taught to believe about homosexuality, it was difficult for me to accept those moments of clarity as genuine revelation. I was also pretty certain that none of my family or friends in the Church would believe me. I was still tormented by doubt. And ultimately, that was what fueled a lot of my fear and anger in relation to the Church.
I'm trying to be gentle with myself now, as I work through these memories. I'm trying to forgive myself. (That's so much harder than one thinks it ought to be!) It's not that I was a terrible person -- though I behaved terribly.
It took time for me to grow and mature sufficiently, I think, to actually be able to accept the reassurances God gave me at the time (and has given me since). Perhaps that is why I experienced a new revelation when I did, only as late as 2005. God knew I was finally ready to try breaking through to me again.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Explaining the Sacrament
In my American Religious Histories class, I have a requirement that my students attend worship in a religious community with which they are unfamiliar. Yesterday, in fulfillment of that requirement, one of my students attended Church with me. Others of my students have done this before, but this student was the first to stay for all three meetings, for which I was grateful. I've always felt that often some of the most significant things that happen at Church happen in the intimacy of Sunday School, Priesthood, and Relief Society class discussions.
Whenever I have students come to Church with me, I always take a moment before entering the chapel to explain that Mormons have what the rest of the Christian world calls a "closed communion" (i.e., non-members are not allowed to partake of the Sacrament). This is necessary because many liberal Protestants are accustomed to worshiping in communities where all who have faith in Jesus Christ are invited to partake.
After Sacrament Meeting, we walked down the hall and found the Gospel Essentials classroom. We were the first to arrive, and while we were waiting, I asked her if she had any questions. There had been some ward business involving releases and new callings, and she was curious about the "sustaining" ritual, which I explained by pointing out that in my entire life I've never seen a single negative vote; but that that was not the general purpose of the sustaining vote anyway. I pointed out that this was an opportunity for members of the ward to commit to support the individuals called in any way they could.
She then asked me about the Sacrament. She noted the use of water instead of wine or even grape juice. She wanted to know how Mormons viewed the Sacrament. Was it merely symbolic, or did Mormons believe in some kind of "real presence" of Christ in the elements like Lutherans, or a transformation of the elements like Catholics? I explained that, no, for Mormons the Sacrament was understood to be a memorial of Christ's sacrifice -- no mystical notions like consubstantiation or transubstantiation. Mormons, I explained, see the Sacrament as a renewal of their baptismal covenants -- which explains why non-members do not partake.
She then noted that I had not partaken of the Sacrament even though I identify this Church as mine. "This is because you're excommunicated, isn't it?" she clarified.
I nodded yes.
She asked me if Mormons do this every week (some Protestants have much more infrequent communion -- once a month or even less frequently). When I explained that, yes, the Sacrament is a weekly occurrence for Latter-day Saints, she then asked, "Is that boring for you?"
I thought the question was very interesting -- particularly that she'd assume I might be bored. I suppose in some ways, boredom represents a refusal to participate in something. I've actually seen instances of boredom that are actually kind of passive aggressive. To assert boredom implies one's belief in the irrelevance of what is transpiring, along with a desire to escape. Nothing could be further from how I experience the Sacrament than that.
"That's actually my favorite part of the morning," I explained. I described to her how some of the most comforting, most reassuring, most powerful and precious moments of spiritual communion I've ever experienced have been in those moments of silence after the Sacrament has been blessed and is being passed. I told her how I cannot partake of the bread and water, but I actively listen to the prayers, and in my heart I make those promises, and commit myself to live them the rest of the week. I told her how grateful I am for the opportunity even just to do that.
After Sunday School, I found a sister who was willing to accompany my student/friend to Relief Society, while I attended Priesthood Meeting. I've been thinking a lot about the experience I described in last week's post. As he arrived at Priesthood Meeting, my bishop greeted me. I smiled and waved back, and my heart was just overflowing with joy.
Folks, I'm OK. No, I can't participate as fully as I'd like, in so many ways. But that time is coming. One way or another, I will someday stand among the Saints and bear my testimony. It is as inevitable as that the dawn follows the night. And when it happens, what a testimony that will be!
Whenever I have students come to Church with me, I always take a moment before entering the chapel to explain that Mormons have what the rest of the Christian world calls a "closed communion" (i.e., non-members are not allowed to partake of the Sacrament). This is necessary because many liberal Protestants are accustomed to worshiping in communities where all who have faith in Jesus Christ are invited to partake.
After Sacrament Meeting, we walked down the hall and found the Gospel Essentials classroom. We were the first to arrive, and while we were waiting, I asked her if she had any questions. There had been some ward business involving releases and new callings, and she was curious about the "sustaining" ritual, which I explained by pointing out that in my entire life I've never seen a single negative vote; but that that was not the general purpose of the sustaining vote anyway. I pointed out that this was an opportunity for members of the ward to commit to support the individuals called in any way they could.
She then asked me about the Sacrament. She noted the use of water instead of wine or even grape juice. She wanted to know how Mormons viewed the Sacrament. Was it merely symbolic, or did Mormons believe in some kind of "real presence" of Christ in the elements like Lutherans, or a transformation of the elements like Catholics? I explained that, no, for Mormons the Sacrament was understood to be a memorial of Christ's sacrifice -- no mystical notions like consubstantiation or transubstantiation. Mormons, I explained, see the Sacrament as a renewal of their baptismal covenants -- which explains why non-members do not partake.
She then noted that I had not partaken of the Sacrament even though I identify this Church as mine. "This is because you're excommunicated, isn't it?" she clarified.
I nodded yes.
She asked me if Mormons do this every week (some Protestants have much more infrequent communion -- once a month or even less frequently). When I explained that, yes, the Sacrament is a weekly occurrence for Latter-day Saints, she then asked, "Is that boring for you?"
I thought the question was very interesting -- particularly that she'd assume I might be bored. I suppose in some ways, boredom represents a refusal to participate in something. I've actually seen instances of boredom that are actually kind of passive aggressive. To assert boredom implies one's belief in the irrelevance of what is transpiring, along with a desire to escape. Nothing could be further from how I experience the Sacrament than that.
"That's actually my favorite part of the morning," I explained. I described to her how some of the most comforting, most reassuring, most powerful and precious moments of spiritual communion I've ever experienced have been in those moments of silence after the Sacrament has been blessed and is being passed. I told her how I cannot partake of the bread and water, but I actively listen to the prayers, and in my heart I make those promises, and commit myself to live them the rest of the week. I told her how grateful I am for the opportunity even just to do that.
After Sunday School, I found a sister who was willing to accompany my student/friend to Relief Society, while I attended Priesthood Meeting. I've been thinking a lot about the experience I described in last week's post. As he arrived at Priesthood Meeting, my bishop greeted me. I smiled and waved back, and my heart was just overflowing with joy.
Folks, I'm OK. No, I can't participate as fully as I'd like, in so many ways. But that time is coming. One way or another, I will someday stand among the Saints and bear my testimony. It is as inevitable as that the dawn follows the night. And when it happens, what a testimony that will be!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
