People, religious people mostly, like to know where I belong. Saying that I’m an unorthodox Mormon makes no sense to many and tends to upset most of those in my faith who are orthodox. I guess they like to call me ‘lukewarm’ or a ‘fence sitter’. Though I usually run hot and tend to speed walk every where I go.  It has been a challenge to realize that while I don’t participate in most of the “church” duties of my religion, I still am happy and proud to be a Mormon.

It’s been an envious realization that most of my friends in other faiths have the option of the level of activity in their faith. Yet, they also have no qualms in actually claiming that faith–even if they haven’t been to church in five years. Most of my Jewish friends are unorthodox and that is just fine. Their roots, their identity, is still solid in Judaism, without them having to wear a prayer shawl. And they don’t have a fear of ever being kicked out of the Jewish faith. Once a Jew, always a Jew. This goes for most of my Catholic friends as well. They attend church twice a year, use birth control, live with someone before they marry them (if they ever marry), and the like.  Most people my age do many things not authorized in their religion. However, never, but never, would they ever say they were not Catholic. It’s their foundation. It’s who they are.

It’s a little different if you are a Mormon. You don’t really hold that power. If you do not qualify to attend the temple, you do not pay tithing, you like the occasional glass of red wine,  you live with your boyfriend, and you are a little too outspoken about Prop 8.  Well, then, they could very well just give you the boot and tell you that you are no longer one of them. I find this simply unfathomable. I find it crazy that some panel of men could look at me and say, “You are no longer one of us.”

I’ve jokingly said, in a few passing conversations, that I’m trying to create a world where orthodox and unorthodox Mormons can all just get along. But why does it always sound like a funny joke when I say it? The terms that we tend to use are ‘active’ and ‘inactive’ (and the middle ground of ‘less active’). I do not subscribe to these terms and I do not appreciate all the stereotypes that come to mind from a simple label. I actually wish we didn’t have to be as obsessed by levels of activity in the religion as we typically tend to be. My level of activity still comes up at every single family event and it has been over three years now. Every time you meet with a Bishop–he questions you more on your sexual thoughts than on your actual passions and intents for your life’s path. He wants to know your “worthiness”…and yet, what does that word even mean in this context?

Many many things on my path do not subscribe to orthodox Mormonism. Yet, my very foundation of being raised Mormon is something I love, cherish, honor, and would never want stripped away. It’s at the core of who I am and it’s at the core of who I am becoming. The fact that I did not grow up to become an orthodox Mormon is not something that should be pitied or changed or solved or discussed or worried about or prayed over or be the reason for my parents to fast. The truth is, I AM a Mormon.

But, I am an unorthodox Mormon. I do things my own way. I will not apologize if I do not fit in the box that you need me to fit in. I will be me. Sounds simple…but it took me a long time to get here and I don’t take that simplicity lightly.

It first landed on Jezebel.com, the feminist media blog (with the kind of audience that would easily love to hate on the Mormons - but Jezebel LOVED it).  http://jezebel.com/5595473/welcome-to-jane-austens-fight-club

And, a commenter aptly noted it was made by a bunch of Mormon girls in LA - http://jezebel.com/comment/26484995/ , which prompted discussion.

Also, the same commenter submitted the video to Boing Boing, and they straight up mentioned the Mormon angle - http://www.boingboing.net/2010/07/24/jane-austen-fight-cl.html

Some discussion went on about how this video represented a “cry for help” by repressed Mormon women. “Oh dear” indeed…

And now Time Magazine’s website has it, and they directly mention the ward, that Mormon girls made it, and everything - http://newsfeed.time.com/2010/07/27/jane-austens-heroines-kick-butt-literally/

How we come to terms with our own not-enoughness.

What it feels like to be a Republican deep in the heart of Utah County fearlessly campaigning for a Democrat in the upcoming election.

Funny things I observe or overhear while serving in my new calling in the Primary.

How I don’t so much care about having it all, but I really wouldn’t mind being able to get it all done.

What does it mean that all my girlfriends have huge crushes on Angelina Jolie’s character in SALT? (I’m serious about this one. I almost feel compelled to write an entire essay exploring women’s not-so-secret fascinations with ridiculously strong and überheroic women and why they secretly want to be those women.)

How I was green before it was trendy or there was a color assigned to it.

What I wish I were doing this summer instead of working and not going on any vacations–staycation (nope, still can’t bring myself to say it) or otherwise.

How it’s about time: Häagen-Dazs five

Johnna’s theory that if you live long enough, you will, in some way or another, become everything you hated when you were growing up.

How watching a bunch of neatly dressed teenagers quietly moving about in the dark at 5:40am this morning, leaving to go do baptisms for the dead, gives me hope for the future.

What I love and really don’t love about cub scouts. (Do not get me started.)

How now when tears well up unbidden I can’t quite tell if they are tears of sadness because I am really missing my second-born, who left just over a month ago to serve a mission in England–or tears of joy–in anticipation of a sweet reunion with my firstborn, who returns from serving in England three weeks from today!

What you are getting from me today:

What’s on my nightstand at the moment

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

The Book Thief

Shades of Grey

The Host (but only because we’re reading it for Book Group and I’m making on honest effort to at least attempt to read the books on our to-read list)

Bird by Bird

I would include our own Angela Hallstrom’s Bound on Earth, but technically it’s not on my nightstand anymore because one, I finished it and two, I’ve been passing it around from friend to friend so they can read it and discuss it with me.

Well and of course Dance With Them.

(Justine kicked this off in May, but school starts (here) in about three weeks (Yikes!), so I’m checking in to see how it’s going and find out if there is anything new I won’t be able to put down.)

What are you reading right now?

What’s the worst book you’ve read this summer (or, if like me, you’re having a difficult time squeezing in time to read this crazy summer, this year)?

The best?

Most profound?

Funniest?

Where is your favorite place to curl up with a good book?

Oh, and if you want to discuss any of the above-listed topics I didn’t write about today, feel free. I’m always up for a good discussion.

Go!

Related posts:

1. Summer’s Here and the Reading is easy
2. With a Lot of Lying Down Comes This
3. I Had to Have Cornbeef on Rye

by Anonymous

It happened on an evening in which I had discovered that my husband had volunteered to make phone calls urging people to vote yes on Prop 8. This was an unexpected blow to me, since I had remembered him commenting during the similar Prop 22 campaign that he wouldn’t feel comfortable getting involved.

I was furious when he told me. I felt betrayed, and I felt sickened. Most of all, I felt scared. What kind of future did we have as a couple if we differed on something that was to me such a fundamental indicator of the way people look at the world?   What did it mean if we were mobilizing on opposite sides of this?

Out of fear and anger, I ripped into him and questioned his kindness and the validity of his motivations. Then I locked myself in the bathroom for a half hour and I tried to calm down and stop crying. I finally came out and I was still upset at him, but I was also upset at myself for acting like that. I’m usually pretty even keeled and not the type of person that blows up at people.

After thinking about it for a couple of days I came to the conclusion that I need to let him have his journey. He lets me have my journey and goodness knows I do things that he does not like or approve of. But he doesn’t get in my face. He gives me space to follow my conscience and to do what I think is right. I realized that I needed to give him space to follow his conscience and do what he thinks is right.

I’m not very interested in debating the merits of Prop 8 here. I’m just using this story as an example of those moments in life that lead to important realizations, realizations that change the course of a relationship or that give peace when peace was not expected.

Please share your life changing moments.

I brought my two primary-age daughters to an activity at the temple this weekend. They were asked to bring a story of an ancestor to share.  We tossed a few ideas around and decided en route to call Mimi—the family’s history enthusiast. Thank goodness for cell phones!  And for living in an area rich with history vital to who we are; oral tradition is alive and well.  She vivaciously told us the story* of 11-year-old Patience; niece to the well-known Anne Hutchinson, friend and peer to Roger Williams and our great-grandmother, several generations removed.

Patience’s older sister Mary was engaged to be married to a young man named Christopher Holder, who, as a defender of religious freedom was expelled from Boston for being “a common opposer of all authority.”  When he came to Boston again in 1657, he and two other young men had their right ears cut off in prison for not listening. 

My modern-day church leaders often counsel me with words of wisdom that I have been guilty of not listening to… [and I continue to treat myself to jumbo bags of m&m’s and redbox movies]. 

Christopher’s future mother-in-law (Patience’s mother) Katherine Scott traveled to Boston to encourage him in his suffering.  For her kindness she was publicly whipped with “ten cruel stripes with a threefold corded knotted whip” and thrown into prison.  Patience’s father was also outspoken regarding religious matters and had been placed on house arrest by his local government.  Because he was home with his children, he taught them from the scriptures, and they were well-educated in an era when girls and women were encouraged to be silent and unquestioning. 

With her mother in prison and her father on house arrest; what was a girl to do?  At the tender age of eleven, Patience Scott walked the 40 miles to Boston to stand before the governor and challenge government officials “to bear witness against their persecuting Spirit.”

Eleven!  And I groan and mumble when I have to make two trips to church in the same day.  In an air conditioned vehicle.  I want to shrink when I sense that another opportunity has presented itself for me to stand out from the crowd—to explain why I won’t be attending the town fair on Sunday, or to decline an offer to have drinks with the ladies.  Young Patience, after journeying to gain an audience with city officials, “spoke with the Spirit of Truth and confounded them” leaving grown men to record that although they had many children who had been well educated, it would have been well if they could have said half as much for God as Patience Scott, who “was moved of the Lord to go to Boston to bear witness against the rulers.”  She was imprisoned for about three months, and then released to her Uncle.  Patience and her family eventually left the Massachusetts Bay Colony for Rhode Island, where they continually endured many more hardships.

The energy of young Patience’s story filled the car. When we hung up the phone, there wasn’t a lot to say. There was much more to think about. My eleven year old daughter looked at me. We understood, with a shared glance, that we could and should be so much more that is good without having to sacrifice so much.

How much easier, today, to bear witness for what we know to be truth.  To stand up and testify of Christ and have no need to fear what others might think.  (Or to fear having body parts lopped off.)  God bless Patience and the numberless others like her, whose stories have laid the foundation for the lifestyles that we so thoughtlessly take for granted.  May these experiences not have been in vain; and may they give me the backbone to be the emissary I know I can be.

*Bellingham, MA town history, pp.61-67.

Related posts:

1. Witnessing of God
2. The Onion of Age
3. Carried by Faith

So, out of curiousity, why is Jesus ALWAYS depicted as white? He was born in israel and anyone who comes Israel now or then does not usually come to be of a lighter complexion. Or is He depicted as white because He wasn’t born from His mother and father genetics but from the Lords? The more I come across photos of the Lord, the more it provokes me to wonder, why is He depicted this way?

I have to say, I was not that precocious as a 16-year old. I lived in a mostly white world, and it never occurred to me that there was something wildly disingenuous about a blue-eyed Jesus, or a blonde-haired woman at the well. Exhibit A:

I really never thought about the cultural meaning behind pictures of Jesus until I was directly prompted to do so while teaching a seminary class a couple of years ago. The class I was teaching was probably about 65% African, 20% African-American, and 10% white. I was teaching in our RS room, about some topic from the New Testament, when one young man, a visitor to our class, and a West African immigrant, raised his hand to ask a completely unrelated question.

“See that picture of Jesus behind you? Well, sometimes I see pictures of Jesus and he’s Black. Why does he look different in his different pictures?”

Taken a little by surprise, I muttered a quick reply:

“Well, Jesus was actually Jewish, so he probably looked just….. Jewish. [embarrassed pause] Anyway, that’s not what we’re talking about right now.”

Utter teaching fail, I know.

Anyway, later that very week, I happened to be introduced to this video, a lecture at the Harvard Divinity School by James H. Cone. Cone is the father of Black Liberation Theology in America, a movement inspired by the liberation theology movement in Latin America.

Liberation theology is, quite possibly, the worldview that most closely matches my own of all that I have ever come across. It is an argument that God is not neutral in history - God is on the side of the poor and the oppressed, against the wealthy, powerful oppressors. In order to be with God, and to build up his/her kingdom, you must also be with the poor. Zion cannot exist without justice and equality.

There are many different branches of liberation theology now, including feminist (!) and queer liberation theology. But the one introduced to me the week after I blew off a student’s question is the one that I have found most compelling so far: Black liberation theology.

Cone describes how Jesus was downtrodden and oppressed during his mortal ministry. He details how Christ was persecuted, misunderstood, and hunted, until finally his oppressors tortured him and hung him to a tree.

And then he talks about the lynching tree in America.

And how Black Americans could be hunted down and caught for any perceived offense. And how their oppressors, while filled with righteous indignation and claiming God as their backer, would burn them at the stake, or string them up in a tree.

But Jesus is not with the people doing the lynching. He is up, in the tree, being hung.

Jesus is Black.

I went to my seminary class the following week, hoping the same young man would be visiting, so that I could amend my answer. Sadly, he was not there, so I just reminded the class of his question, said that I had been thinking about it all week and that it was really important, and offered my new answer (amidst much incredulous eye-raising from my much more Orthodox co-teacher), which basically followed what I roughly outlined above.

Since then, I’ve read a book by James H. Cone, called God of the Oppressed. He talks about a few different manifestations of Jesus.

There’s the historical Jesus, or who he was. There’s the present-day, resurrected and exalted Jesus, or who he is. And there’s the future Jesus, coming in glory to bring liberation to all, or who he will be.

Historically, Jesus was Jewish. And, as Cone argues, that was no accident. Members of the kingdom of Israel were oppressed and/or enslaved for centuries. They were subject to foreign rule. That the liberator of humanity would be born to these people, desperately seeking their own liberation, is a beautiful lesson of history.

Now, as then, there are innumerable groups of oppressed peoples. There are innumerable people fighting in solidarity to end that oppression and bring about the Kingdom of God. And in an American context, few groups can claim the mantle of Christlike persecution as those of African descent.

I have struggled with the culture of the church, insofar as it is a culture of achievement. I struggle with the portrayal of wealthy, privileged, powerful people as the truest followers of Christ. The Jesus I know is poor and ragged. He is long-suffering and humble. He is powerful, but his power comes from love, from his commitment to putting his body with those who suffer.

In our popular cultural representations of Jesus today, he is often portrayed as white, muscular, and somewhat handsome. The Jesus in these pictures came to atone for your sins and to sit on the board of Wal-Mart. His clothing is nice. His hair is combed. His cheekbones are chiseled. These pictures do more than pay homage to divinity - they reinforce cultural mores. More troubling, they take a symbol as powerful as Jesus, and co-opt it to look and act like European/Western ideas of nobility and power. The ubiquity of a blue-eyed Jesus is condemnatory evidence of our widespread cultural imperialism. Jesus is not one of the powerful and the privileged.

Who is Jesus today?

He doesn’t understand our suffering just because he underwent it in history, but because he is going through it with us NOW. That means Jesus is Queer. He is disabled. Divorced. Homeless.

Jesus today is Black.

“Welcome to Splendid Isolation,” says the large wooden sign posted over the dock. As our boat slows to a stop, I get my first up-close look at Hinchinbrook, the island just a couple of miles away from the Great Barrier Reef where my husband, our four children, and I will be spending the next five days. It’s just like the pictures on the Internet: moon-curved, pearl-colored beach fringed by lush rainforest, waves lapping the shore, green hills rising up beyond the trees. I congratulate myself on having found the perfect place—billed as a family-friendly eco resort—to end our long anticipated dream vacation to Australia. Sure, we’ve had cold, wet, miserable weather our entire trip so far, but here, in paradise—in our own, reasonably priced beach cabin, no less—we’re sure to have better luck. I can already see myself sipping passion fruit juice by the pool, frolicking in the surf with my children, hiking through the rainforest, and, of course, snorkeling and diving on the Reef.

Day One, Ten Hours Later

We’re trekking back to our cabin after dinner. Turns out that “eco resort” means no paved roads, no TVs, no heated pool, no telephones, one finicky generator powering the entire compound, and an overflowing septic tank next to the restaurant, which, due to the odor wafting through the dining room, my children have named “the poop deck.” Oh, and our “beach cabin” is actually a 70s-era trailer—complete with a rusty corrugated tin roof, a stained shag carpet, yellowed curtains, paneled walls, giant white ants crawling on the inside of the kids’ bedroom window, and saggy, sand-filled beds—surrounded by rainforest, a quarter-mile’s walk from the main lodge. Splendid isolation, indeed.

It started to drizzle as soon as we got off the boat, then the drizzle turned to rain as we slogged our way down the long, dirt road to our cabin. After being bitten by sand flies and rained on at the beach, we spent the rest of the day in the lodge’s loft, where we huddled together and played cards and watched the island’s only TV, then tromped downstairs to the deserted open-air restaurant, where we ate a lukewarm, greasy dinner while the wind gusted around us and the rain poured down in sheets. Now we’re making our way to our cabin in the dark, tripping over tree roots and stepping over puddles and huge fat frogs while my eight-year-old clings to me and whimpers and I try not to think about the death adders, giant goannas, and pythons lurking in the bush. Waves are crashing on the beach and the bush is full of strange night noises, and raindrops slide off of the trees and slither down our necks.

Back at our cabin, we discover a frog in our toilet; he scoots up under the toilet rim when we turn on the light and no amount of poking or flushing coaxes him out. I somehow manage to get my eight-year-old, whose bladder is about to explode, to squat over the toilet while she holds onto me, crying, and then the rest of us take turns squatting in terror, as well. When I close the curtains on our windows, the curtain and curtain rod fall on my head—not once, but three times. And when my husband and I finally crawl into our tiny double bed, the bed is so saggy that our hips practically touch the floor.

As I listen to the rain pattering on the roof and try to ignore the certainty that something is biting my legs, I remind myself that we have four more days to go, and, gritting my teeth, will myself to fall asleep.

Day Two

The rain pounding on our roof signals the beginning of another dreary, wet day on Ghetto Island (as my seventeen-year-old has affectionately dubbed it). It’s so humid that our pajamas are damp and cold and our hair is plastered to our heads and the windows are covered with condensation. My eleven-year-old has woken up with seventeen mosquito bites (I just hope they’re mosquito bites) and he stomps around the bedroom, whining and complaining and asking to go home until he bumps his head on one of the bunk beds, setting off another round of wailing.

After breakfast we head up to the lodge, where we spend the day reading, emailing, and playing Phase 10 and Scrabble while it rains and pours and eventually drizzles all day. Since we’re wearing shorts (thinking longingly of those winter clothes that we left in our rental car back on the mainland), we wrap towels around our legs and sip peppermint tea to keep warm. At 6:00 we go downstairs to the poop deck for another mediocre dinner (what is that greasy stuff they keep putting on our garlic bread anyway?), after which we return to the loft to play Phase 10 until bedtime.

Back at our trailer (let’s face it: this is no cabin), my husband turns on the bathroom light to see our little frog friend scooting up under the toilet rim. We decide to name him Timmy.

Day Three

Rain, drizzle, rain, and another day spent in the lodge playing card games and watching The Parent Trap for the fifth time (one of the lodge’s three DVDs). Tomorrow is our last full day on the island, and we’ve yet to visit the Reef because no boats will run in this weather. Although I grew up in Australia, I never visited the Great Barrier Reef as a child, so I’m as desperate to see it as my husband and the kids are. But toward late afternoon, when we learn that the weather will still be too rough for boating tomorrow, my husband and I sit in silence as we realize that though we’ve come halfway around the world and are staying mere miles away from the one of the world’s natural wonders, we won’t get to actually see it. I try to come up with a contingency plan—perhaps we could go back to Cairns a day early and take a boat to the Reef from there. But my husband reminds me that it’s raining in Cairns, too, and besides, we have nowhere to stay in Cairns. It looks like we’re stuck on this wretched island for another two days. Hinchinbrook, we wish we knew how to quit you.

There is one bright spot in this day, however: tonight we’re eating in. Back at the trailer, I heat water in a pan that I borrowed from the restaurant kitchen, then cook spaghetti noodles on the little two-burner stove in our tiny kitchen. The kids have congregated in their bunk room to play cards and talk and I can hear them telling jokes and laughing while I fix dinner and my husband runs up the road to the resort’s sole ancient laundry room. As I putter about the kitchen, my eight-year-old pops in to get a drink, and says, her eyes bright, “It’s not so bad staying here after all; it’s actually kind of fun.” We eat plates of spaghetti and cheese as we sit on our beds, then we turn out all the lights and gather in the bunk room to tell stories by flashlight while the rain drums on the roof.

Later, as I drift into sleep, I snuggle against my husband and listen to the waves caressing the shore. Somewhere in the darkness, a lone whip bird whistles.

Day Four

Still raining.

Alas, tragedy strikes this morning when my fifteen-year-old flushes the toilet and, too late, sees Timmy swirling down the drain. We have a moment of silence in Timmy’s honor.

We’re tired of being cooped up in the lodge, so after lunch we decide to hike through the rainforest, rain be damned. We set out for Shepherd Beach, following the trail through groves of ghost gums and paperbacks until we enter a dense, shadowy forest thick with liana vines and huge ferns and palms, tall Blue Quandong trees with their buttressed roots, and moss-covered logs sprouting cream and orange toadstools, iridescent in the dim forest. The only sounds we hear are the patter of rain on the canopy overhead and the occasional bird call.

We arrive at a long, deserted stretch of creamy sand left smooth and flat by the outgoing tide and covered with thousands of tiny bubbles created by small, opaque, ghost crabs. It’s stopped raining, though it’s still cloudy, and a brisk breeze is blowing. We’re the only ones on the beach. We explore tide pools, scramble over boulders, and run up and down the beach, arms outstretched. It’s just us and a mile of pale, smooth sand; the gray ocean, stretching out forever; and the sky, luminous as a pearl.

Later, we eat our last dinner on the poop deck. As usual, our steaks are mostly fat, the mashed potatoes are too garlicky, the bread is greasy, and the desserts are bland, while the septic tank fumes wash over us in waves so thick we can taste them. Yet, somehow, tonight we don’t mind.

Day Five

Of course, today the rain slows to a drizzle and then eventually stops, and the clouds are breaking up—looks like it’s clearing up at last. No doubt there’ll be a boat out to the Reef tomorrow. I try not to think about it as I wash our breakfast dishes in the little kitchen sink.

After lunch, the Hinchinbrook ferry arrives and idles in the little cove. Long before the boat is due to leave, my fifteen-year-old runs to get on the boat, calling for the rest of us to hurry. No chance this boy is going to be left behind.

After we board and the boat pulls out, I snap a final picture of the “Splendid Isolation” sign. When we head out to sea—now smooth as satin—we can see the Reef, just barely out of reach. I sigh. My eight-year-old leans her head on my shoulder and, with complete seriousness, says, “That was my favorite place to stay of our whole trip. Can we come back someday?”

I choke back a laugh. “Maybe,” I say, when what I really mean is, “Not a chance.” Still, as we skim over the ocean toward the mainland—and decent meals and hot baths and crisp clean sheets—I look back one more time at Hinchinbrook, at its green hills rising up out of a silvery sea. And I smile.

Tell us about your most memorable vacation. Have you ever had a trip that didn’t go as planned (or, any that did go as planned)? What were some of those unexpected moments and how did they enrich your experience?

Related posts:

1. Beach Baby
2. Living in a fishbowl
3. Passing the Bridge of Sighs

January: The last bud of the season.

Spring 2009.  I awoke one morning to a future that seemed frighteningly uncertain and months of prayers that seemed unanswered. Limbs achy with anxiety.  I’m sure you know the feeling . . .

That morning, as I left for work, a bush at the base of our steps met me with an explosion of color; a dozen or more petite roses in full bloom. I had not known this was a rose bush.  I had not noticed the buds forming. The bush had not bloomed the year before.  I tearfully plucked one flower and pressed it in my wallet.

At least one rose kept constant vigil until the mid-January snowstorms finally pushed it into hibernation. This past April, on a day that seemed particularly bright, with an unexpected opportunity unfolding, the bush became enflamed once more.

Sign-seeking is dangerous business (sign-seekers in the scriptures don’t end particularly well . . . ).  And aren’t signs usually created in retrospect? The rainbow on the blind date that led to marriage – a sign! The other rainbows on all those other afternoons are forgotten, with no outcomes to secure their place in our emotional narratives.

Sign is the wrong word for my roses.  They were not pointing to an outcome, not even to a bend in the road.  They provided no epiphany.  Instead, they offered beauty, with such vivacity that I couldn’t look away.  Each afternoon, well into the cold of winter, I stopped before entering the house, stooped and . . . well . . . smelled the roses.

Sign might be the wrong word, but these flowers did feel like a spiritual gift of serendipitous timing.  I don’t think my prayers made the flowers grow.  But perhaps those hours of petitions attuned me to look for manna in my wilderness.  The flowers were a natural offering that I chose to make a symbol of hope.  I chose to accept the gift.

Here’s another way of looking at it: It often seems that when I’m seeking, I find more moments of grace. Moments that might have occurred regardless, but moments I might have missed.  Perhaps prayer opens me to gifts that are already there for the taking. The unexpected email from a friend, the perfect song on the radio, and the still lizard on my windowsill: moments of grace.

And it makes me want to be that moment of grace for someone else — to write the note, send the flower, or offer the smile that might keep another soul tethered to hope just a little bit longer, at least until this storm lets up.

Oh, and when we went house-hunting a few months ago, we walked into an empty kitchen and saw single rose in a blue vase.  I like to think I would have chosen this house anyway . . . !

P.S.  Do you believe in signs?

So when the evolution/ intelligent design debates pop up, I don’t feel terribly invested in the whole thing.  I guess if I were to summarize my take on the situation it would be much the same way I feel about the nature/nurture debate, namely, it’s both.  Little bit ‘o nature, little bit ‘o nurture,  little bit ‘evolution designed by little bit ‘o intelligence.  Maybe.

But for all that I do think that God created (in God’s mind-bendingly awesome beyond my comprehension way) the Earth and the creatures that creep upon it.  I’ve never felt that a purely scientific, purely evolutionary explanation in any way conflicts or threatens this belief.  It doesn’t seem to me that understanding the mechanisms of evolution necessitates the next conclusion to be: therefore, there is no God.

It seems to me that Science is about facts, and God is about faith.  I think it would be a mistake to pray instead of studying your binary math (if that’s your thing), and I think it is a mistake to think studying equations will bring you peace or teach you the meaning of life.  Surely the two can inform each other to some degree, and together they make our lives richer, but neither can replace or cast out nor really supersede the other (in their own spheres, go ahead and try to create a telescope using only information found in the Bible, try it!).

So then for book club we read this book called “Death by Black Hole” which I found to be a an engaging and accessible collection of sciency essays, many with the ongoing theme of the many ways the universe is trying to kills us (there are lots and lots and lots).  Anyhow, the author, Dr. Tyson wrote one essay with his agnostic view of how God and Science interact. His argument was basically that whenever our scientific understanding fails, we step in and insert God as an explanation, into the gaps in our understanding.

One example Tyson gave was Sir Issac Newton, after he figured out the whole gravity thing, it was pretty simple (if you’re a genius) to do the math for two giant objects attracted to each other (like say the Earth and the Sun) but as soon as you add just one more object (let alone ten, twenty, thirty more) the math gets too complicated for anything but a super-duper computer to calculate (and then there’s always the pesky chaos problem).  So Newton erroniously concluded that it was impossible for all those objects acting and reacting upon each other to come to a (semi)-stable solar system type balance.  Therefore, Newton decided, God must step in sometimes and set things right, nudge things into back into the proper place to keep the whole thing in working order.

With that, and many similar examples, Tyson concludes that  that every time we make new scientific discoveries, expand our understanding, prove a theory so many times it becomes fact,  God’s role gets smaller and smaller.  God no longer has to nudge the planets back into place because our math is now sophisticated enough to prove they keep the balance all by themselves.

While I have no problem believing that math (as done by a super-duper computer) can perfectly well explain the current planetary forces of our solar system, without God getting involved and I’m also pretty sure that Galileo was right after all about the Earth moving ‘n stuff (and why is it? do you suppose that the biblical literalists aren’t up in arms about that heliocentric crap along with the evolution crap?)

I also don’t see why God couldn’t create a solar system that didn’t need him to show up at regular intervals and nudge it back into working order.  I mean, can’t God have a super duper uper computer too?  I mean it is God after all. Maybe I just don’t really understand Tyson’s arguement, but my God isn’t just a God of the gaps, just because we can understand how something works, just because its workings are less mysterious, that doesn’t automatically make it any less awesome or Godly, does it?

Anyhow, those are just my non-intellectual, non-sciencey, Monday morning musings.  Onward to the shower!

Related posts:

1. Scary Teachers, Scary Parents
2. The Ugliest Time of the Year
3. Breaking up is hard to do

Of the nine plays I (originally) found that met my criteria, I think it’s no accident that almost half of them have premiered since 2008. Whatever the tensions were between the LDS Church and the gay and lesbian community before that year, the heated battle over California’s Proposition 8 has increased them exponentially. Whether or not any of these plays was written specifically because of or in response to those events, the environment of anger and resentment must have been on the minds of anyone with ties to either community, let alone to both.

Little Happy Secrets, by Melissa Leilani Larson

Melissa Leilani Larson’s plays have covered subjects ranging from the court of King Louis XIV to a Filipina mail-order bride with supernatural powers. She doesn’t typically write plays about Mormon characters, but at least two of her plays have Mormon protagonists: the short play A Burning in the Bosom and Little Happy Secrets.

When I first became familiar with Little Happy Secrets, I was struck by how different it was from other plays about homosexual Mormons I’d come across. It was the only play that was about a lesbian Mormon instead of a gay Mormon, the only play whose main character was still expressly committed to her faith at the end of the story, and, along with Facing East, one of only two plays by a female playwright. (I’ve since had the chance to read the script for Be Normal, which is similar to Little Happy Secrets in a number of ways.)

Little Happy Secrets is the story of Claire, a young faithful Mormon woman—a returned missionary, no less—coming to terms with the fact that she is not attracted to men. In fact, she’s in love with Brennan, her best friend and roommate. In contrast with the men of Ranging, who are aching for some sort of emotional connection with other men, the closeted Claire has the opposite problem, since Brennan tends to be physically affectionate towards her roommate, not knowing that Claire is attracted to her. (Molly, the main character in Be Normal, has a similar problem with one of her roommates. As an aside, I find this a very interesting commentary on platonic relationships in male and female cultures. While I’m very aware of many social advantages that men have, reading Ranging reminded me of the female social advantages that I tend to take for granted.)

As the play progresses, Brennan meets a guy, starts dating him, and, in rather stereotypical Mormon fashion, the dating turns into “serious” dating and then to talk of marriage. The fact that this relationship is so stereotypical is part of the point. Brennan isn’t sure if this is what she really wants, or if it’s just a cultural expectation. Claire, outside the relationship, sees someone taking away the woman she loves, and realizes that there is no “stereotypical Mormon” path for her.

Little Happy Secrets is a very intimate story. It’s a one-act play with only four characters, and the main character, Claire, switches off between acting out the scenes of her life and turning to the audience to comment on them. The device makes the play even more personal; it’s as if we’re reliving these events by reading Claire’s diary. I think this is what Gideon Burton meant when he said “This is not the Mormon lesbian play” (emphasis added). The play is not epic or grandiose or spectacular. It is the story of one woman’s life and decisions, no less, no more.

(As a reminder, this play can be downloaded as a free audio podcast from iTunes and the playwright is looking to raise money for a production in Salt Lake City next year.)

The Passion of Sister Dottie S. Dixon, by Charles Lynn Frost and Troy Williams

Dottie Dixon started out in 2006 as a guest on a radio show called “Now Queer This.” Troy Williams, the show’s host, had asked his friend Charles Lynn Frost to draw on his theater background and create a humorous character for the show. Frost ended up creating a character based on his mother: A happily married, faithful Mormon, Spanish Fork native with a gay son.

Williams eventually convinced Frost that they should expand Dottie’s short radio spots to a full-length play, which premiered in May 2009. Dottie is committed to her faith but she also loves her son and she believes that it is her mission to bring together the Mormon and LGBT communities. If Facing East is about uniting communities through grief and loss, The Passion of Sister Dottie S. Dixon is about uniting communities through humor and compassion (perhaps in the hope of averting such grief and loss).

In addition to being an advocate for gay rights, Sister Dottie is an advocate for women’s rights within the LDS Church. Steven Fales also expresses solidarity with Mormon women as he waits for his Church court to begin: “I always felt I needed to win some leader’s approval. I wanted desperately to be like them, for them to like me—to be noticed. I was invisible. No matter what I did or how well I did it, I felt I was never appreciated or accepted for who I was. I felt I knew what it must be like to be a woman in this Church.”

It seems like an unlikely pairing—gay ex-Mormons fighting for straight Mormon women to have a greater voice within the LDS Church—but perhaps not. After all, gay ex-Mormons find themselves positioned in opposition to the patriarchal Church hierarchy and to traditional masculine ideals, and Mormon women find themselves defined in opposition to those things, as well.

I had hoped, but never thought I’d be one of those people who traveled to exciting places in the world.  I grew up in Los Angeles, traveled the west coast and saw most of what there was to see in California.  I’ve been to all but seven states (driving from California to Boston added some in “the middle” that I probably never would have visited otherwise).  My mom took us to Mexico when we were kids and I went to Canada as a chaperone on a youth Temple trip.

I lucked out with two business trips to Europe while working for a start-up software company.  I had been responsible for running the office (making copies, phone calls, power point slides, etc.) in a window-less hotel room in Boston twice a year for our member meetings.  Then they asked me if I wanted to run the office–in Munich!  Two years later they asked about Brussels!  Both trips lasted two weeks with four days of work and exploring with coworkers and on my own.  I wasn’t sure I was ever going to get to Europe again so I took advantage and saw as much as I could.  From the Sound of Music tour to Neuschwanstein Castle, Hallstatt, Austria, driving on the autobahn, seeing Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower, buying lace in Bruges, riding trains, visiting friends in St. Die, France, seeing the Mona Lisa, eating croissants and wiener schnitzel, drinking soda from a beer mug at the Hofbrauhaus and visiting Olympic villages—both trips were great adventures!

In 1999 my friend Jennifer called and asked if I had always wanted to go to China.  In my dreams. She invited me to be her guest and travel with six other families for two weeks when they adopted baby girls from Nanning.  She invited me because she said I was (1) good in groups and (2) I wouldn’t tell her what to do with the baby.  We flew from Boston to Detroit (I crossed Michigan off my list of states I hadn’t been to!) to Beijing.  The Detroit to Beijing leg of the trip was 13 ½ hours.   I can’t even remember how many meals and snacks we had on that long, long flight.

China was fascinating– the Great Wall, Beijing, Nanning, Guilin, the Li River, Guangzhou and Hong Kong; and being there when the seven families met their new daughters.  It was a trip filled with emotion, energy, and excitement.  It was memorable being there when the elevator door opened and three orphanage workers, each holding a baby girl, handed them to three of the families.  We toured the Mother’s Love Orphanage in Nanning.  One orphanage worker was feeding two babies in her arms and rocking two more with her feet.  I enjoyed meeting the loving couple who ran the orphanage.  We were not allowed to tour the city orphanage but I did get to attend the meeting where the families paid $3,000 (in brand new one hundred dollar bills) for the adoptions.  We had a national guide with us the entire trip.  Her name was Chen Chen (I called her “Sister Chen”) and a local guide in each city.  All twenty of us traveled in a mini-bus.  We climbed the Great Wall, toured a jade factory, explored museums, parks, and statues.  We shopped in outdoor markets, at tourist stops, and in department stores.  While at the Nanning Department Store the sales clerk used an abacus to calculate my purchase.  We ate course after course of delicious Chinese food (though one of our last meals was at the Hard Rock Café).   I was very careful about (not) drinking the water and only had to use a squat toilet (hole in the ground) a few times (hooray for conventional toilets around the world). I had a stash of pepto-bismol with me and took it every morning.   While in Guilin we went on a boat ride along the Li River.  The scenery was breathtaking.  People were living on the river so you can imagine my surprise when they washed the dishes in which our lunch was cooked in the Li River.  I almost threw up–and thought for sure we would all get sick, but no one did.

A few of the baby girls had been in foster homes so some of us had the chance to visit the homes and meet the foster families.  I was asked to go along to take photographs.  It was intense and emotional.  One of my favorite pictures is of Julia with her foster parents; there is a lot of love in that photo.  The oldest girl (who was about two and a half) had lived in a very primitive foster home.  It was dark, sparse, and had a chicken in a coop inside the house.

Everyone that adopts a child in China goes to Ghangzhou for the babies to get a medical check-up, a passport and a visa.  While the families took care of business, I flew to Hong Kong and reconnected with a friend living there.  I went to Stanley Market, saw the Hong Kong Temple, enjoyed a boat ride, walked all over the city, and tried Peking Duck for the first time.

Traveling in China was an amazing experience that I captured on 45 rolls of film.  I loved walking on the Great Wall.  I loved all the sights and smells and seeing how people lived.  I loved seeing people riding bikes loaded with bundles and dead chickens.  I loved trying new food, meeting new people, experiencing a new place.  I bought a travel journal before I went.  Each day I wrote and glued things in it.  The cover says: I AM NOT THE SAME HAVING SEEN THE MOON SHINE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD.

Related posts:

1. Singular Opportunities
2. Absence and Fond Hearts
3. China, Centerpieces, and Red Satin Sheets

Exhibitionism
modeled after “When I am Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple”

When I am a goddess I shall wear nothing
with ivory-peach skin and free toes which pad and don’t clatter.
And I shall spend my hours whirling
in the thin air of alpine meadows
(like Julie Andrews but less nun-like)
and raising goose-flesh on
bare arms at the grocery,
snatching cream pie and Breyers
and say I’ve no need for control top.

And I shall hold my shoulders straight,
ride the luggage return belt at celestial airports
and learn to whistle.

And then I shall fill a four-foot deep
tup with Calgon,
read Ovid and Ibsen,
lie like a cat in the sunshine
without apologies
for dimples and roundness.

And I shall burn barbies and
let my children dance at the flaming;
I shall cradle my guitar at my belly
like an italian lover,
suckle babies at my breasts
and tear those who hurt them.
I shall rename constallations,
ban calculus,
paint my toenails dandelion orange and
sing Tosca on the escalator
between bedding and housewares.

But now I must sort laundry,
match socks and let my nylons squeeze me like pythons.
I will skip double-dutch and braid thistle.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now
so people who don’t know me
are not aghast or offended
when I am a goddess and shed clothes like snakeskin.

These copies really show off the vibrant artwork of Tessa Lindsey, Sharon Furner, Alice B. Hemming, and Cassandra Barney (to name a few!), and I find it’s just so lovely to curl up with the Exponent II magazine on my couch, rather than reading the PDF on my computer.

Click here to purchase your copy.

I got a laugh out of the smart mudflap girl with her book. I wonder where she keeps her library card.

In retrospect, I realize that reading for pleasure was curtailed in college when text books necessarily replaced my escapist novels. I was too busy studying for the test to read for my own enjoyment. Then graduate school came with more text books, followed by a new marriage, then a career that had me commuting down the 405 freeway everyday. The arrival of two kids in less than two years put a stop to my reading altogether. An exuberant little boy was followed by a profoundly handicapped and very needy daughter. Those years were a blur of the usual busy mom stuff mixed with a healthy dose of therapy appointments, caregiving and the worry that accompanies a disabled and fragile child.

One day I realized that a decade had passed and I’d hardly touched a book. How had that happened? Life happens I suppose. I found my role as a new mom to be all consuming. Somewhere along the way, I lost an important part of myself, the bookish kid part. Well, my children are older now (we even added a third) and I like to think I’ve achieved some balance and perspective. I’m reading again and it’s sublime! I’ve read a lot of classics, some lovely memoirs and biographies, and some delectable novels. Until recently I was a member of not one but two book groups. I’m not a little sad to know that I missed out on ten years worth of great books. I don’t think I had to relinquish my library card in order to be a devoted young mother. In fact, I think it would have helped me get through those difficult years to escape into a good novel from time to time. I wish someone had sat me down when I was twenty-five and told me to keep on reading no matter what. Now my “to read” list is long and it’s constantly being added to. I’ll never get to the end of it but it will be fun trying!

So I’m curious. Have any of you had this experience of suppressing something that was fundamental to your personality? I suspect it’s a fairly common phenomenon. If so, I hope most of you didn’t let it go on for a decade. Oh, and any great book suggestions are appreciated! Here’s a list of a few books I’ve particularly enjoyed.

The House at Sugar Beach by Helene Cooper

The Pleasure of My Company by Steve Martin

The Memory Keeper’s Daughter by Kim Edwards

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Buddhism Without Beliefs by Stephen Batchelor

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Sugar Daddy and Blue-Eyed Devil by Lisa Kleypas

Lowell L. Bennion: Teacher, Counselor, Humanitarian by Mary Bradford

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

Is it just me, or do you find the Old Testament alternately horrifying and hilarious too?

Although there are serious spiritual lessons to be gleaned from the Old Testament—I’m not saying there aren’t—I’ve been shocked and surprised by my Gospel Doctrine lesson almost every week. For example, I was surprised by the story about the female judge of Israel, Deborah, which I didn’t know, and the way the story ends—with another woman named Jael driving a tent stake through the head of Canaan’s military leader—was a teensy bit shocking.

But what I shouldn’t be surprised by is the way God is portrayed in the Old Testament. Even without serious study, I know many of the Old Testament stories about a vengeful God: floods, plagues, entire populations slaughtered. After all, these stories are taught in Primary, albeit with the emphasis on the rainbow rather than on the flood. But I can’t help it. Week after week, I come away from Gospel Doctrine feeling a little off-kilter after listening to other class members try and justify why the God we love and worship condones and even encourages wiping out entire populations, including innocent children. (When talking about Sodom, one man in my GD class raised his hand and said, “Even the children in Sodom were too sinful to be saved,” which, 1. I’m not sure how he can know that for certain, at least unless the flux capacitor in fact has been invented and he spent some one on one time with the irredeemably wicked 4-year-old Sodomites, and 2. Doesn’t that contradict our doctrine? Which we should be emphasizing? In Gospel Doctrine? Helpfully, nobody said anything in response, myself included, mainly because I’ve been trying not to be “that person” in Gospel Doctrine. I’m thinking maybe I should have in this case, though. Serving in Primary is certainly more straightforward, isn’t it?)

At any rate, I’ve decided that one of the reasons I find Old Testament study a little uncomfortable is that its portrayal of God seems alien to me. I’m not very afraid of God. I never have been. My conception of God is of a Father who loves me, a Being who will put up with quite a bit, in fact, just as long as I’m trying and willing to repent. In fact, my conception of God is of a Father who loves all his children, even when we AREN’T trying and willing to repent, because he’s God. He’s our Father. He sees the beginning from the end, and nothing I do can surprise or even “disappoint” Him, because my past and my future are continually before Him, and he knows me as an eternal soul.

Much like my dynamic in my relationship with my own parents, I don’t want to offend God, but not because I’m afraid He’ll punish me. Because I love Him and know that if I’m on His team, I’ll be happier and will have the opportunity to progress. I think most of us will agree that this sort of relationship with God is a healthy one—after all, the Bible does say that perfect love casteth out all fear—but sometimes I wonder if I ought to be a little more afraid. I have friends who are more motivated by the thought of falling out of favor with God than I am, and these friends are often better at obedience than me: they read their scriptures more regularly, keep their food storage rotated, never fail in holding Family Home Evening. I would do well to follow their example and be more exacting in keeping the commandments.

But, the truth is, I don’t want to be afraid of God. Fear of God seems to interfere with my ability to worship him. But as a believing Mormon, I have to acknowledge that the events of the Old Testament did, in fact, happen (even if the way they’re presented have been skewed by time, translation, and cultural interpretation) and that we’re studying them for a reason. And maybe one of those reasons is that we ought to be afraid. At least a little.

What have you gleaned from your study of the Old Testament? What are your feelings about approaching God with fear and trembling? And am I going to be struck by lightning?

Related posts:

1. I Know. Do You?
2. Stop Murmur. Learn Doctrine. Do Crafts (if you want.)
3. Cultured Pearls

RAH, has been lurking on FMH, along with his wife (EAH), for about a year. He has been an adult member of wards in Paris, Wyoming, and now Boston where his wife and 4 kids hopes he will finish his PhD soon.

____________________________

This post draws directly on the concept of the “Tempered Radical”, developed by Debra Meyerson and Maurine Scully two organizational scholars and feminists in their article “Tempered Radicalism and the Politics of Ambivalence and Change” (Organization Science, Sept-Oct, 1995) This concept also overlaps with the “faithful dissident” perspective that was a point of discussion on the blog a year so ago.

***

A very real dilemma faces individuals who are members of the LDS church and also deeply self-identify as feminists. Following this blog for a few days attests to the deep tensions and uncertainty we feel on a daily basis while trying to live in a way that reconciles these two identities. Meyerson and Scully argue that there are many ways to respond to the uncomfortable tension this creates - “some (individuals) leave the mainstream and some surrender their identities. However, separatism and surrender are not the only options. While frustration can be inevitable, individuals can affect change, and still enjoy authentic membership.” (595)

What is a Tempered Radical?

“Tempered Radicals are individuals who identify with and are committed to their organizations, and are also committed to a cause, community, or ideology that is fundamentally different from, and possibly at odds with the dominant culture of their organizations.” (595)

“These people are tempered in that they seek moderation. In the language of physics, they become tougher because they have been heated up and cooled down. They are tempered in the sense that they have a temper: they are angered by the incongruities between their own values and beliefs about social justice and the values and beliefs they see enacted in their organizations. Temper can mean both and ‘outburst of rage’ and ‘equanimity, composure,’ seemingly incongruous traits required by tempered radicals.” (586)

Tempered Radicalism is a hard path and does not suit everyone, nor should it. It requires living with true ambivalence. Ambivalence is usually associated with confusion, reluctance or being “lukewarm”. However, ambivalence can also be associated with strength - holding together two strong values that sometimes conflict but without trying to compromise either. It is this strong dualism that provides tempered radicals with not only special challenges and emotional burdens but also with creativity, openness, and unique opportunities to affect change.

The Price Tempered Radicals Pay

Charges of hypocrisy…. from both sides. For TR in the Church this means living in trepidation that expressing our feminism in our local wards will lead to ostracism, suspicion and marginalization while also often be considered suspect by other feminists who might scoff at our dedication to the Church. When you sincerely identify with either of these groups being targeted by such accusations and attitudes can hurt deeply.

Isolation. Tempered radicals can often feel very isolated within the Church. It is often difficult to find one another because the nature of tempered radicals is to be very careful and judicious in revealing their feminist identities. FMH and other parts of the Bloggernacle can help alleviate some of this isolation by helping us find each other to openly discuss our experiences, seek advice, and provide support in a forum that does not risk our standing within our local organization. Importantly it allows us to interact with people who understand and accept as valid the difficult ambivalence we live with. Unfortunately, the nature of the blogsphere is that we are attacked even here from time to time from both sides. So I hope this post helps more radical feminists understand that those of us who choose the tempered radical route have a role to play to in the fight for women’s equality. Let us play it. To those hear who continue to think that being a feminist means we can’t care deeply and authentically about the Church and it’s a mission - we can and do. We are simply…..complicated……not wolves in sheep’s clothing.

Temptation to abandon one or the other of our identities. “Ambivalence generates anger plus a variety of powerful and unpleasant emotions, which also contribute to the difficulty of sustaining this posture. Among other feelings a tempered radical’s ambivalence may result in guilt and self doubt which arise when people cannot live up to their own ideals.” (597) Living with these types of feelings day to day or in a reoccurring cycle can wear you down.

What Tempered Radicals Can Do

One key to being a tempered radical is to show a true commitment and care deeply about the church. It is by being considered as central, legitimate members of our local congregations that we can credibly work for changes in cultural practices emanating from or reinforcing gender inequality. While there is definitely a role for more radical voices (Joseph Smith was simply a radical after all), their style tends to marginalize them from where current decisions are being made and in the short-term might actually increase resistance to change. It is in carefully balancing the how, when, where, and with whom the tempered radical advocates or critiques that she can affect change when other approaches would fail. This often means that to be successful tempered radicals must maintain an ambiguous identity difficult for those around them to fully categorize.

Here are three ways that tempered radicals often bring about change:

Small Wins. Many blog posts and comments on FMH speak to the power that the accumulation of small wins can have in furthering the place of women in the Church. Not only are small wins most likely prerequisites to the acceptance of larger changes, they can also provide the feeling that progress is and can be made. While such small improvements can also invoke frustration, they can also give us hope. When I read stories here of women and men successfully changing wrong-headed YW programs, innovating callings to expand the role of women in the ward, opening the eyes of well-meaning but gender-insensitive leaders I often imagine tempered radicals at work. The small wins usually come from tempered radicals working strategically, but subtly by emphasizing their authentic organizational membership rather than their radical identities.

Local, Spontaneous, Authentic Action. In contrast, tempered radicals can also make an impact by revealing their more radical identity spontaneously, and authentically when faced with obvious injustice. The surprise that someone seen as so aligned and committed to the Church can also be a ‘gasp’ feminist can help people challenge the rigid categories in their heads and re-evaluate their own positions. If the tempered radical’s position is particularly strong in the local congregation they can then model new types of behaviors and bring credibility to new ways of seeing things.

Language Styles. Finally, for tempered radicals one of the most effective tools is to simply hold the Church to its own (current) language and rhetoric. Because we know how to speak both the language of the Church and the language of feminism we can help translate ideas from one world to the other. For all the careful wording in the Proclamation on the Family, it provides legitimacy to insisting on equality between men and women. It allows us to problemetize in a legitimate way practices that are simply unequal. If men and women are spiritual equals why are all the SS teachers men? Why does YM look like a leadership program and YW look like a craft club? How do we square “equality” with “preside”? These are language games played often here at FMH. The tempered radical perspective would say that is a very good thing.

When I first read this article I instantly recognized the position I find myself. I am deeply committed to the Church and yet feminism, a version of which also I believe in deeply, is fundamentally at odds with the dominant culture of our organization. More importantly, I find that the tempered radical concept articulates an identity and a role I feel I can embrace as an active Mormon feminist. The FMH mission statement seems to fit the tempered radical definition to a T. This is what attracted me to the site.

What do you think?

Does the Tempered Radicalism strike a chord for you personally? Or do you find it problematic?
Do any FMH readers have experience where revealing their feminist identities surprised people for positive effect? How about with small wins or using language to good effect? Are there other strategies you would put in the tempered radical tool kit?

How do other “tempered radicals” out there deal with the emotional and spiritual burdens it entails? How can we support one another to continue the fight for Zion?