Choosing My Path

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a problem with authority.  It’s not that I mind rules, which I think are important, with one caveat…I have to buy in to the rule.  I have to believe in it.  A double yellow line might as well be a brick wall dividing lanes in the road.  I’ll never cross them.  But I’ll smuggle food and beverages of all types into a theater.  See, I respect the traffic rule.  I believe in it.  But I think $9 for popcorn that costs me $.50 to pop and smuggle is insulting.  I respect dress codes until they are enforced by authoritative d-bags, then I’ll push the envelope as hard as I can.  I just freaking hate being told what to do.

I grew up in the Latter Day Saint faith.  I don’t consider myself Mormon anymore.  I’ve debated whether or not to share my faith journey on some public level.  I’ve never really been one to publicly riff on my personal beliefs in any detail..  I don’t generally like social media debates.  They tend to be self-serving and rarely to the point.  But for some reason I feel that giving my faith journey life through writing will somehow complete it.  Or at least be an integral part in my continuing life saga.  And I partly want to repay those whose own stories have strengthened me personally.

I don’t remember being able to comfortably testify of the truthfulness of any religious principle.  I’m confident God, or something god-like, exists.  It’s the only thing that currently makes sense in my mind.  But beyond that I just don’t know.  And I really don’t care.  This doesn’t mean I haven’t testified of the truthfulness of LDS doctrine.  I certainly have.  But it always felt like it was a duty and not a self-guided action.  I chose to serve a mission.  I had life experiences that led me there.  I’m forever grateful for the mission experience.  But even there, surrounded by strangers, I never fully knew that what I was testifying of was actually true.  I’m embarrassed by this.  I’m embarrassed that I didn’t have the guts to accept my own self-awareness as reality.  And I’m embarrassed that I misled people by promising them fact when I didn’t really know.  But I was young.  My brain hadn’t fully formed yet.  And I was doing the best I could.  I was doing what everyone else around me was doing so passionately.  It was play ball or go home.  I chose to play.

I’ve come to understand that the most talented liars believe their own lies.  They believe they aren’t actually lying because they have forced their minds to be OK with untruth.  It’s some fundamental rationalization that I believe truly imaginative or hyper-focused humans can’t control.  It’s basic instinct.  Emotional survival. 

I started to become cognoscente of my own untruth shortly after my move to Austin.  I really liked the church here.  It felt far more real than any Utah ward environment I’d been in, with the exception of that beloved West Jordan ward.  People thought differently out here and were more accepting of fringe ideas and even faith crises.  I found through conversation that there were others like me that were starting to recognize the motions they were going through.  Robotic tradition.  I remember playing piano in primary and thinking “these kids won't think for themselves because we are implanting their thoughts and beliefs here and now.” 

I didn’t know how to confront it.  Where do I start?  This is scary territory.  The LDS faith is not easily abandoned and leaving has “eternal consequences” not just for you but for your family as well.  I wasn’t comfortable accepting terms like “fell away” when it came to my faith journey.  I wasn’t falling from anything.  I was finally moving forward.  My subconscious mind still hadn’t grown the balls to admit serious, basic doctrinal issues and church history that I secretly hated.  It went to the easy things.  Disgusting inexcusable polygamy.  Shameful barring of the blacks from the priesthood.  Aggressive action against gay marriage.  And finally the use of shame and guilt to manipulate young people into towing the moral line as interpreted by the church.  I took my four issues to the bishop in 2011.

That bishop is an amazing man.  We met frequently.  Weekly in his office.  We read from the scriptures.  We prayed.  I read and prayed on my own as well.  He assigned study topics that we later discussed.  And it was this bishop that helped me see that my core issues weren’t polygamy, priesthood racism, gay marriage, or shame.  My core issues were whether or not there was a GOD.  If Jesus was real.  If Joseph Smith was a hero or a cad.  My mind's ear heard the record scratch and we course corrected toward basic gospel principles.

We moved to the Dallas area in 2013.  What a soulless place that was.  The only bright spots of the move were our neighbors, the schools, and the bishop.  I continued conversations with this bishop almost immediately.  He’d come grab me out of whatever class we were in and we’d chill in his office.  He’d hang his suit coat up and sit in a normal chair.  No behind-the-desk positioning.  Just two dudes talking casually about existential stuff.  I kept praying.  I’d stopped reading scriptures by this point outside of family scripture time.  For 18 months we talked.  Worked through some insanely difficult personal issues and I never once felt judged or patronized by him.  What a great guy.

We moved back to Austin at the end of 2014 and immediately started working with another bishop.  Same issues, mixed in with personal and family difficulties.  I don’t envy that job.  I admire them for taking the job and doing their best.  I was called to teach the 14 and 15-year-old youth.  There were 26 of them in one class.  My “team teacher” hardly ever showed so I handled that mob on my own.  There were some great kids in there.  And there were three or four that will end up in prison because they suck as humans.  I don't care if that's unfair because they're young.  They're horrible people already.  As time passed I found myself less and less comfortable teaching gospel principles.  The pre-existence, resurrection(s), millennium, judgment, and kingdom placement just sounded so foreign and preposterous to me.  I’d been rationalizing teaching the youth from a “curriculum” that wasn’t my own.  I didn’t have to actually testify of anything, right?  I just had to deliver a curriculum to the class.  Should be easy.  Yet after several months I could no longer teach that class in good conscience so I asked to be released.  Concurrently I had experience with people that met the criteria for exaltation, i.e. ordinances, but proved to be wholly disgusting, vile, black-hearted people.  And I finally vocalized my #1 hang-up with Mormonism...the concept of a "checklist God."  I know too many incredible, giving, loving, beautiful people that hold different, myriad beliefs.  I can't imagine an eternity where they are barred from entry to God's presence because they failed to be baptized by the right guy, marry in the right building, and belong to the right church.  Yet people that have filthy, repulsive souls that manage to check those boxes while hiding behind facades of service and commitment get in.  Nope.  Not in my world.  If that's heaven then give me HELL.

I had a couple very close friends that were transitioning or had transitioned out of the church that were recommending resources for people like me.  This was the first time I’d heard of any “essays” or a “CES Letter” or “Mormon Stories.”  But at my core I was still resistant to any kind of authority steering me in any direction that I wasn’t choosing for myself.  My whole life I was told to only read certain things or accept certain ideas.  I wasn’t going to let any other agenda dictate the future of my mind and soul.  So I stuck to the things that I knew.  I tested the claims of the LDS church.  I put Moroni’s Promise to the test (which I’d shared countless times in the mission field) and you know what I got?  Nothing.  SILENCE.  It wasn’t because I didn’t study hard enough.  Or pray long enough.  It was because there was nothing on the other side confirming anything to me.  Period.  And at this point I decided to “leave” the church.

My wife and I talked about it for dozens of hours.  We discussed it with our therapist.  And finally came to a joint conclusion that leaving was the only authentic choice to make.  We gathered the kids and told them about my journey and my decision.  They each reacted differently.  There were tears from some and instant acceptance from others.  But at the end of the conversation, they all threw their arms around me and told me how much they loved me and that I was the BEST DAD EVER.

Navigating the transition has been hard at times and weird always.  All of a sudden there were rules that I’d subscribed to and, on some level, “bought in on” my entire life.  And magically they were no longer there.  I could drink bourbon and beer.  I could wear black undies.  I could shop on Sunday.  And it was all initially weird.  But Sherri was a rockstar and the kids were outstanding.  We navigated it all the best we could and we continue to do so.

I am proud of the way I transitioned.  I used my own brain and my own soul to put church practices to the test and came away confident in my decision.  With the exception of a handful of months, I was fully worthy to go to the temple.  I’m not proud of the time when I wasn’t, but I am proud that I ended in good standing.  My daughter turned eight during the middle of this journey.  I didn’t know how my journey was going to end with the church so, after discussing at length with the bishop and people I trust and admire, I decided to baptize her myself.  A temple recommend was needed to confirm her.  I was temple worthy but didn’t hold a recommend…and didn’t want one.  I wasn’t comfortable interviewing to enter the temple so spiritually conflicted, so I arranged to have her uncle fly in and confirm her.  And I’m proud of that.  I am happy that I didn’t let emotionally difficult scenarios influence my authenticity.  Instead I talked to my daughter as frankly and honestly as possible and she was totally fine.  She was ecstatic to have Uncle Derall come out and confirm her.

People I have loved for years have left the church.  One of my favorite mission companions on the planet was excommunicated for refusing to stop posting his views on same sex policy to social media that conflicted with official church stances.  His was the first Mormon Stories episode I watched.  I slowly started to inform myself with the church essays, CES Letter, and personal accounts of others that have transitioned.  I’m happy I waited.  My spark would have ignited into a brushfire if I’d gone there early on and I wouldn’t have so thoroughly tried.  Now they are simply supporting materials that validate some of my fundamental struggles.  What the church labeled as “anti-Mormon” literature is largely just information and opinion that differs from core teachings and doctrine.  There’s certainly some inflammatory and ugly stuff out there, which I categorically avoid.  But there’s also some incredibly intelligent, well-researched information.

I’m not angry at the church.  Some social and cultural policies drive me bat-shit crazy, but I don’t take it personally.  I’m not picketing conference or tongue-slapping church leadership.  I can genuinely look back on aspects of church membership fondly.  The community, for the most part, has been unreal.  I fully support my children being brought up in the church.  If they choose that path then I will support them and wish them happiness.  I sincerely hope they will examine their beliefs early in life instead of waiting until they are 33 years old and terrified, then choose whatever path works for them.  I still go to primary programs and church functions and have dear friends that are all in.  Two of my closest, most respected and intelligent friends are true believers.  I don’t think anything less of them for buying in and they don’t think less of me for choosing my own way.  Life is a series of decisions.  We all do the best we can with the information and instincts we have.

So what now?  I don’t know.  I don’t really care.  I’m happier for sure.  I’m in no rush to replace a lifelong religion with a new one.  I have work to do on myself.  Physical, emotional, maybe even spiritual.  I believe in The Cosmos.  It reciprocates what you put into it.  I believe in kindness and love and full acceptance of others.  And I have to believe that whatever God exists will appreciate that, smile, and welcome me home.  Or maybe blackness.  Either way I’m good.

A Certain Bromance

I’d always been mystified as to why combat veterans rarely talk about their experiences in war.  Veterans that had been psychologically affected by what they heard and saw should benefit by speaking about it, right?  Call it catharsis.  Those that weren’t adversely affected should love talking about the incredible, intense things they did and witnessed.  No?  NO.

With all due respect to veterans, I think I get it.  On a much smaller level I finally get it.

A number of months ago I made a lofty goal to run a half marathon.  13.1 miles.  It had been many years since I’d traded my sneakers for slippers and tennis balls for hot pockets.  The last time I did anything active I was 40 lbs lighter and George W edged Al Gore thanks to the hanging chad.  I was going from 0 to 60, but I was going dammit.  I was determined.  I talked my good friend Steve into running it with me and we started our training.

I was humbled quickly.  I didn’t have proper respect for the process and the process brought me to my knees.  I tried running two miles my first time out.  I walked the final three quarters and could hardly move for several days afterward.  But I quickly repented, invested in some gear, and started again.  Slowly.  Three weeks into training, a second friend decided to join Steve and me.  Jayd laced up.

My sister Ashley has always said “everyone that runs a marathon has a story.”  You don’t simply say, “Sure, I’ll run 13-26 miles.  Sounds like fun.”  Because it’s not..  Important, yes.  Invigorating, yes.  But fun?  No.  It hurts.  It’s exhausting.  Shins splint, toe nails turn black and fall off, blisters form, groins chafe, nipples bleed.  The process is punishing.  But the payoff is pure.  You learn things about yourself during training.  You push yourself beyond your perceived limits and find strength you never knew you had.  Some mornings you have to literally force yourself outside, just to hobble through three miles of hell.

When race day arrived we all felt ready.  We’d handled our final long run with ease, banging out 11.5 and feeling good afterward.  We weaved our way through the 35,000 people participating in the San Antonio Rock ‘n Roll events and found our corrals.  It was an odd morning…abnormally warm and balmy, but overcast.  The throng of people was overwhelming.  It was shoulder to shoulder as we waited for the gun.  And then we were OFF.

I was immediately frustrated by the sheer mass of runners, walkers, and waddlers.  Everyone was pacing dramatically slower than their corrals represented and I was constantly dodging slower runners.  There was a ton of lateral movement as I cut around, through, and sometimes over the cattle.  I ran up hills, on curbs, over sidewalks, on grass.  I bumped into people.  It was literally impossible to pick a lane and establish a rhythm.  There were just too many freaking people.

Jayd and I ran together (within 10 yards of one another) for the first eight miles.  I hydrated at mile five and dropped a few shot bloks at mile seven.  I saw Jayd grab some water at mile six.

At mile eight, Jayd started to pull away.  In training I was typically 15-30 seconds per mile faster than Jayd, so I maintained the pace that I was able to manage, figuring Jayd would eventually flame out.  He didn’t.  He continued to weave and dodge obstacles and limping fat people at an impressive pace and at mile 10 I decided I needed to kick it up a notch.  No way was I going to allow this guy to finish before me. 

I caught up to him at about 10.5 and made some snide comment like, “hey dude, I’ll give you $10 if you carry me the rest of the way.”  He didn’t respond.  Jayd was in a zone.  He was focused and he meant business.  After a few hundred yards of running together, Jayd pulled away yet again.  “No way” I thought to myself.  But I was really feeling it now in my legs and I had no ability to keep up with him.  I fell back and ran at my own pace.  At 11.75 I started to see bright bursts of light.  The sun had been out for 30 minutes and the combination of extreme fatigue, 97% humidity, and 80 degree temperature was besting my Spaniard.  I knew I was in trouble.  I stopped and rested against a metal fence separating the halfers from the marathoners.  When the bright lights stopped, I walked until mile 12 and started running again.  I was determined to finish this race running.  And I did!  I finished with a somewhat disappointing time of 2:19.

After I got my munchies and fluids I worked my way through the craziness to get my stuff at gear check.  There were a number of missed texts, one of which informing me that Jayd had collapsed just after 13.0 and was hauled off in a stretcher.

WHAT?!  No way.  With 1/10 of a mile left, Jayd went down.  He was rushed to the hospital.  And it was serious.

He was admitted with a temperature of 106 and a heart rate of 170.  He was not responding and had had seizures.  We got a call from his wife, Tauni, telling us to get to the hospital ASAP.  Jayd needed a blessing.

I am an elder in my church, and with that title comes certain responsibilities and authority.  One of which is to administer to the sick and afflicted through the laying on of hands, otherwise known as “a blessing.”  I sprinted from the parking lot to the ER

I’ll never forget what I saw when they drew that curtain.  There lay Jayd, stark naked minus a small towel to hide his junk, with wires and electrodes all over his body.  He was a sickly pale yellow color and his arms and legs were bound with leather restraints.  I was looking at someone that appeared to be on death’s door.  That is no exaggeration.  I was petrified.

I have a lot of respect for Jayd’s wife, Tauni.  She is a very “collected” person.  Quite analytical, never emotional, and very understated.  But she is intense.  Not in an overt, frightening way.  It’s subtle and small.  But very real.  When I looked at Tauni she was straight-faced and stoic.  She was somehow managing the situation with quiet grace, but her intensity was still there.  She told me she’d been asking doctor-after-doctor and nurse-after-nurse if he was going to be “ok.”  Naturally she got no straight answers…just “medispeak.”  I get it of course.  No medical professional is going to go out on a limb and say, “suuuuure honey, he’ll be just fine” when there’s a solid chance that he’s brain-dead at best. After a brief rundown of what was going on there was a moment of silence.  She looked at me and asked, “Ty, he’s going to be ok, right?” 

I didn’t know what to say.  The God’s truth is that I did not think he was going to be ok.  How could anyone think that pasty, yellow man hooked up to all the machines could possibly be ok?  But Tauni’s typically intense, smoldering eyes had a hint of panic in them.  So I said, “Yes Tauni.  He’s going to be ok.”  I didn’t believe it, but I felt I had to roll the dice and say it.  I could actually see a physical change in her posture and a softening in her face.  It was as if she just needed to hear it from someone….anyone.  She looked stronger.  I felt good.

I positioned myself behind Jayd’s bed and took a few deep breaths.  I was terrified.  It was hard to swallow.  Just as I was timidly placing my shaking hands on his head, a nurse walked in and looked at me like I was a mafia hit man about to ice an informant with a pillow.  Tauni assured her that I was going to give him a blessing.  After casting me a sideways glance she reluctantly left.

The circumstance was not ideal for performing a priesthood ordinance.  The ER was bustling with runners and other odd folk that day.  There was the sound of curtains being drawn/closed and loud voices.  Machines were blipping and beeping like an epic game of multiplayer Pac man.  But I was confident that I could filter out any distraction and blaze a trail for divine inspiration.  I was wrong.

When my hands met Jayd’s head I felt nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  I felt no inspiration.  I had no vibe…positive or negative.  The floodgates of Heaven were not opening….and I was scared.  I needed some time to gather my thoughts, so I took it.  My mind raced while I paused.  What do I do now?!  I didn’t want to put off any kind of negative energy.  That was the last thing Tauni needed at this point in time.  Finally I decided to start with simply citing the things I know about Jayd and building on those things.

I let Jayd know that his Father in Heaven loves him.  I know that’s true.  I believe that with all my heart.  I am confident that God loves all His children.  I told Jayd that his family loves him and needs him.  And they do.  He is a stellar father and a genuinely great person.  I confidently spoke to Jayd’s great faith and how that faith is what would make him whole.  If there’s one thing we know from the Bible it is that people were healed through a combination of Christ’s power and their faith.  Whatever Jayd’s spiritual shortcomings may be, faith is not one of them.  We’ve had many conversations over the past couple of years that have had religious undertones, and Jayd is legit.  He is a believer.  He is a man of faith.

Then it came time for me to flex my own paltry faith and go out on my own brittle limb.  Without any specific divine direction, I blessed Jayd with a peaceful mind and a still heart.  I asked God, and blessed Jayd, that he would wake up quickly.  I prayed for the doctors and nurses to perform their duties with inspiration and intelligence.  And finally I told Jayd that one day soon we would be able to look back on this experience and laugh.  Because that’s what Jayd and I do.  We banter and laugh.  Then I quietly ended my blessing and removed my hands.

I stayed in Jayd’s curtained space for about 15 minutes speaking with Tauni.  During that time he woke up a handful of times as we visited, but there was nothing behind his eyes.  I believe his basic primal instincts were taking over.  All he knew was that he was in a bad situation and his body was restrained.  Every ounce of energy he had was being routed to his need to get out of those restraints.  I was dumbfounded at how STRONG he was as Tauni and I tried to get him back onto the bed.  After a few of these fits I elected to go wait outside and leave the two of them alone.

The only place I could find to sit was in the hallway just outside the ER waiting area.  I was sitting, collecting my thoughts, analyzing what I’d just witnessed when a woman in her early fifties approached me with what appeared to be her husband and two grown children.  “Excuse me, could you tell me where I could get some information?” she asked.  “Information about what?”  “About one of the runners that would have been brought here from the marathon.”  “Oh, you can just go ask at the ER desk around the corner.”  She thanked me and they casually walked around the corner.  About two minutes later, a hospital staff member brought them back to where I was and knocked on the door directly in front of me.  The door opened and the family went inside.  And then came the screams.  I’ll never, ever forget the sound of those screams.  Their runner, a 32-year old super-fit military man, collapsed after he finished and was rushed to this hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival.  DEAD.

As we got the vans situated to get Tauni’s kids home so she could stay in San Antonio my cell phone rang.  It was Tauni.  “Jayd just woke up” she said.  WHAT?!  It had been less than an hour since the blessing and he was already awake.  She told me the first words that came out of his mouth were “I know who you are.”  The next words were “Did I finish the race?”

After myriad tests and scans and probes and who-knows-what, the mystified doctors discharged Jayd after four days in the hospital, two of which were spent in ICU.  He’s home now, with a new lease on life.

I think about this experience a lot.  Many times daily.  For a few solid days it haunted my thoughts, even while I slept.  Words cannot do justice to what I heard and saw in that San Antonio ER on November 13th, 2011.  And this is why I identify (on a microscopic level) with the combat vet.  It’s a useless story to tell to someone that wasn’t there.  You may get it on some level.  You might have even gone through a similarly traumatic experience in your life.  But you weren’t there.  It’s the ultimate “guess you had to be there” scenario.  You didn’t see the horrors or hear the screams.  It was a singularly unique experience to you and the people you fought with.  Those are the only people that truly “get it.”  I can see through the hollow nods and vacant “wow”s that I get from people I tell the story to.  It’s a story worth telling and it needs to be told, but I bloody-well hate telling it.

I’m very grateful.  The honest truth is that I don’t know what I would have done if something had happened to Jayd.  He’s a crucial friend that I value and admire tremendously.  Kind of like Art Garfunkel’s harmonies.  The world is better with him in it.  It’s a bromance.  I’m stoked to have him back. 

 My magic blessing worked you know.  His mind was calmed, his heart was stilled, he woke up quickly, and now we’re able to look back on the experience with some degree of whimsy.  No jokes yet.  But they’ll come.  It’s just a matter of time.  And that’s ok.  Time we have.

(Left to Right) Ty, Jayd, Steve

Big Love - No Big Thang

I typically avoid religion-themed pieces like the plague, but...

Most of the free world by now knows that the HBO series “Big Love”, a show about a fundamentalist polygamous “Mormon” family, aired scenes depicting highly sacred and allegedly secretive ceremonies that are performed within the walls of the temples of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (LDS.) The LDS community is wigging. I’m here to tell you not to. There’s no sense in it. As a fiercely proud and loyal active member of the LDS church, I find it comical that our ranks are calling for boycotts and shouting at the evil HBO network with skinny fists raised like antennas to heaven.

1) This is nothing new. The church has been persecuted since its inception. Have we forgotten that it was freaking legal to shoot and KILL Mormons in Missouri until only a few years ago? The spirits of our beloved late brethren and sisters that have been expelled from homes, tarred and feathered, publicly humiliated, spat upon, raped, and even murdered, are shaking their heads in disbelief that we are making such a fuss over a television show. How would Joseph Smith react to this unbearable debacle? He’d smile, wink, smack your shoulder, and tell you not to fret.

2) It is OUR responsibility to keep our beliefs sacred. We cannot control what other people do, say, think, or show on television. Just because it is known, does not make it less sacred and special. Maybe less secret; but certainly not less sacred.

3) Big Love relied upon information given from FORMER members of the LDS faith for their show. No temple-worthy, current member of the church would ever give specifics of temple ceremonies. The entire show is suspect and cannot be viewed as accurate. I used to be a boy scout. You don’t see me teaching knot-tying clinics. I pity the fool that would rely on one of my knots.

4) By many accounts from what I’ve read, and I’ve read a lot, the scenes from the temple ceremony added absolutely nothing to the plot of the show, essentially negating the producers’ claim that it was integral to the episode. Let’s use our brains here. A spade is a spade. This blatant disregard for and disrespect of sacred LDS temple rites is nothing more than a hate-filled act of vengeance for “the church’s” involvement in the passing of Proposition 8 in California. Both producers/creators of the show, Mark V. Olsen and Will Scheffer, are openly gay and likely have a bone to pick with those that supported Prop 8. That is fine. I have no problem with a response to those involved with the passing of the proposition. Unfortunately, they have decided to exact revenge by disquieting LDS folk globally, many of which (like me) don’t exactly share the general LDS opinion on gay marriage.

Mr. Olsen and Mr. Scheffer, I feel sorry for you. I feel pity and I feel compassion. Your lives must be full of sorrow and pain. I sincerely hope that you find some form of happiness in your lives. But please know that your desperate attempts to make us hurt as you hurt are fruitless. They are empty. They are feeble uppercuts to the mighty stone jaw of the happy, informed, secure membership of the LDS faith. Your kung fu is not strong. Your voodoo is powerless. Your bark has no bite and your smoke has no fire. Try as you may, you will not bring us down. You point the finger and wag the tongue, accusing the world of “hate” when it benefits you, but you are blind to your own hateful actions of intolerance.

I love the temple. I respect and revere it. Please know that there is nothing you can do to tarnish its spirit. You can tag its walls, infiltrate its halls, sacrifice farm animals, urinate on the couches, swing like monkeys from the chandeliers, finger paint lewd images on the carpet, flood the toilets, and tear it apart stone-by-stone and brick-by-brick. I’ll be bummed about it, but not hurt. So bring it on. Bring the pain. Because you’ve got nothing. You’ve brought a plastic butter knife to a bazooka battle. And I pity you both.

Two Thoughts at 4:20

Facebook has murdered the exclamation point. How many of those buggers do you think you need to slap onto the end of a sentence to make us understand that you REALLY mean what you are saying? Half the time it looks like a freaking bar code and I half expect to see a price at the end, i.e. “Josephine McSquiggly is having a super fun day!!!!iii!!!III!!!!!iiiI!, $19.95.” Sometimes there are several sentences on the wall post or status update that all end with an exclamation point. “Hey Tyler! Great to see you! You look so svelte!!! Are you working out?!!! Wicked beard! Facebook is so sweet!! Well, busy day! Gotta run!!! YAY!!!!” When I read that I picture that little squirrel from Over the Hedge that is so full of energy or caffeine that he can’t control himself. I see someone physically shaking and cutting himself, crying and laughing hysterically while he attempts to get his emotion onto the screen. Memo to Facebookers everywhere: There is no need to go postal with punctuation. Periods are fine. Commas are good. And a SINGLE exclamation point lets me know that your sentence means business.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I saw Gran Torino with a very good friend. It was likely one of the best 5 movies I’ve ever seen…lifetime, but that’s not really what I want to talk about. Nearly 1 minute before show time, a man and his wife quickly walk into the theater and sit down to watch the show. Incidentally this man is a public figure, an acquaintance of my friend, and holds a leadership position in their mutual LDS ward. Additionally this person is allegedly “preachy” and not terribly friendly. Big deal? No, not really. But the following day at the beginning of Sunday’s priesthood section, the guy stands up and says, “My wife and I went to a movie last night. We saw 'Marley and Me.' Pretty sad…the dog dies. But I’d recommend it.” Then sits down. Doubleyou-Tea-EFF.

To be fair I’ll list out the possibilities as I see them, followed with my own opinion:

1) Dude and wife go to Gran Torino. It’s not important whether they did or didn’t expect standard Clint Eastwood profanity and brilliance. At some point they walk out of the theater due to content and see Marley and Me instead.
2) Dude and wife go to Gran Torino. Even though we don’t notice it, they recognize my friend. They walk out of the picture at some point and see Marley and Me. Dude decides to make it known in church so my friend knows he didn’t sit through the entire picture and left on principle.
3) Dude and wife go to Gran Torino. They did or did not like it, but watched the whole thing. They never see my friend. Afterward, they decide to also see Marley and Me. Dude announces it in church because he genuinely enjoyed it and is recommending it.
4) Dude and wife go to Gran Torino, fully understanding what they were getting into. They never see my friend but possibly bump into other members of the flock. Or perhaps he makes a blanket statement in church because he doesn’t want anyone that may have seen him at Gateway to know he’d just seen a flawlessly awesome Eastwood movie replete with language and racial slurs.

My friend has his own opinion but also insists that I consider all possibilities. However, I heavily lean toward #4 due to the fact that Dude is “preachy”, unfriendly, and never ever talks about unchurchy things in church. The announcement was completely bizarre and totally out of his character. So why the lie? The encounter sparked a fascinating debate that I would like to touch on here and now.

Question: Why do people do the things they do in our local society/culture, and why do they feel they need to hide or lie about their behaviors or unpopular decisions? Does it come down to the individual’s choice, character, behavior, and history? Or is it a general societal pressure and guilt engrained by the culture itself?

Let’s take Dude as an example. He is married with a family. He is a public figure, easily recognizable by many people. He holds a leadership position in a religious organization that openly frowns on many activities and behaviors, including watching Gran Torino.

Assuming the worst for Dude, why does he feel that he needs to lie about going to the movie? Is it because as a public figure he feels that he needs to maintain a certain persona? Is it in his character to do one thing, and then hide it out of shame? Does the shame come from something particular within his self? Is dishonesty and sneakiness just part of his persona? Or was all of that learned and influenced by our strict, conservative, social system?

Let’s face it…there are many people in our Utah communities that are held to very specific and aggressive standards that, to the majority of the civilized world, are ridiculous and unreasonable. From very young ages we are taught to not do X X X X X and Y and Z and if any of those things are done then there is a very specific acknowledgment and penance process. The intent is to shape people to become obedient, worthy people full of principle and character. But once those people become adults, and start to make decisions as responsible grown-ups, shouldn’t the stigma surrounding choices and consequences change? Ultimately there is really only ONE person to answer to when all decisions are made and all is said and done. The judgments and opinions of others really don’t mean anything.

I don’t necessarily think those two options are mutually exclusive. But I can honestly say that I am so grateful to be comfortable in my skin and open with my decisions and actions. I am who I am. I do what I do and watch what I watch. I would have ZERO issue discussing Gran Torino with the bishop and I’d happily burn him my favorite Phish songs or pirated copy of Twilight. SHOULD I have watched the movie? Perhaps not. But it was an adult decision that I own and don’t hide from. I have no problem with folks telling me I shouldn’t have seen it…that’s their decision and their perspective and I highly respect it. I would hope for mutual acceptance and respect, but I don’t necessarily need it.

I can’t imagine living a life of lingering shame and constant secrecy.

Discuss…

Filthy Lucre

I know this post is not going to be a popular one, so feel free to click on that single star or roast me to dust in the comments. Or hate me in your mind and cast hexes from your living room. I’m fully aware that by criticizing a byproduct of the church, miniscule and unimportant as it may be, I’m eliciting strong emotional responses. I ask that you keep in mind that I am an intensely proud member of the LDS faith. I just happen to have a problem with parts of its culture.

Many of you may be familiar with Mormons Exposed, the controversial steamy calendar depicting former LDS missionaries in proselyting gear on one page, and then posing in their waist-up buffness on another. I use the term “former” simply because they are not CURRENT missionaries laboring in the field from 9 to 9 with occasional breaks for lunch, dinner, scripture study, and oiling up their abs for that evening’s photo shoot. I don’t mean to suggest that they are no longer members of the church in perfectly good standing. They’ve simply been released as missionaries.

The calendar is the brainchild of one Chad Hardy, a BYU student at the time of the calendar’s release. He was excommunicated from the church and also had his diploma put on hold from BYU until he is reinstated in good standing, all as a result of the calendar. He allegedly holds no ill will toward the church and feels they did what was best for everyone. He must have really felt strongly about what he was doing.

At this point you may be wondering how this calendar could possibly be considered a “byproduct” of the church. Clearly it’s not.

My own personal opinion is this. Mr. Hardy’s calendar filled with half-naked missionaries is not much of a stretch from Michael McLean’s latest CD on sale at Seagull Book and Tape. The ONLY thing, in my opinion, that makes Hardy’s calendar wrong is how it so closely relates the missionary to the boy toy. In all honesty, the pictures in the calendar are quite tastefully done. Long pants and shirtless…that’s all. I’m 99% positive that there are LDS models all over the world that do work in magazines, possibly swimsuit models. We’ve had Mormon Ms. Utah’s that compete on a national stage in a bathing suit. My studly younger brother has a friend at BYU that is the reigning Mr. Hong Kong. Michael’s parents are 1st generation Chinese and he himself served a mission in Hong Kong. He got to parade around in a Speedo and do choreographed dance steps and martial arts with his pecs and lats flanging for 2 billion raving Chinese folk. Why is that different than some LDS “models” posing for a calendar? In my not-so-humble opinion, IT IS NOT. Again, the only thing that makes the calendar filthy is the close tie to sacred things and the obvious attempt to advertise it as something pure becoming not-so-pure-anymore.

That said, I have a problem with it. I have a problem with ANYONE that abuses the LDS community to make a living. Yes, this is a capitalist country; a place where men are free to increase their wealth using their own wit and power. I believe in free enterprise. I also believe in having access to spiritually uplifting media. I enjoy The Forgotten Carols as much as the next guy. But I don’t think the CD should be sold at $18.00 a pop so Michael McLean can get rich off of my spiritual uplift.

Feed the flock of God which is among you, taking the oversight thereof, not by constraint, but willingly; not for filthy lucre, but of a ready mind; (1 Peter 5:2)

I interpret that passage on a personal level and I see it thus… If you have a talent, a skill, a story, or a thing that can benefit a soul then that talent, skill, story, or thing should be made available to society. I’m not saying that it should be GIVEN away, but it should be made available at low cost. No one should “get gain” from the transaction. Your mind should be ready to “feed the flock of God” which is clearly among us, and your mind should not be racing to figure out how to make a buck off of the flock.

My favorite band is Phish. Part of the magic behind Phish is that they are “taper friendly.” Anyone is encouraged to bring his audio equipment and record a Phish show. That taper can then transfer the data in a high quality digital format to a CD, then make the CD(s) available to the community. There are only two rules. 1) Do NOT encode the data to lossy formats such as MP3. Offenders will have the hands cut off at the wrist and will be shunned as pariahs wherever good music is heard. 2) DO NOT SELL FOR PROFIT. Phish doesn’t care if they make money on the show or not, as long as no one else does.

Something can be done about filthy lucre. The official church organization can easily get involved. There are 13 million members of the church, a good majority of which pays a 10% tithe. That’s a lot of freaking money. If Janice Kapp Perry has a new album that she thinks will spiritually edify, then she could submit the product to the church. The church could then contract with Janice to purchase the product and make it available to members of the church at close-to-cost prices through the church distribution centers. BAM. Instead of selling out Abravanel Hall at $45 per ticket, Kurt Bestor could submit his plan to the church who could then arrange for the show to be given at The Conference Center, free of charge or at $8 per ticket to cover operating costs. That, my friends, is tithing funds well spent.

I don’t know that there is a magic bullet. But I just don’t believe that the gospel message was intended to be sold. Joseph Smith didn’t sell first printings of the Book of Mormon for personal profit. He inflated cost for the sole purpose of growing the church and printing more books. I believe that if The Big Man himself were on the earth today, he would be saddened at the profit centers and weasels that take advantage of the oft-gullible LDS culture. If you have a talent that can improve people spirituality, share it. Don’t sell it. Or the next time my bishop asks me to play that joke of a Fisher Price keyboard in priesthood; I’m putting a Dixie cup on top for tips.

Lift Where You Stand

Before I begin...Lori, your comment made my day.

There have been three speeches given in the history of the world that have changed my life. The first, delivered to the Sorbonne in Paris in 1910, came from Theodore Roosevelt. The topic was citizenship in a republic and what it takes to be a good citizen. From this speech comes the oft-quoted selection, “The Man in the Arena:”

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

I will never forget that. While I may not always be the man IN the arena, I am always fully aware of where I stand in relation to the arena. Sometimes I’m a spectator. Other times I’m the imported albino tiger being repeatedly shield-bashed by the loincloth-clad gladiators. Maybe I’m the pickpocket outside or the dude selling various meats on a stick to the audience. And occasionally I really am the one IN the arena, striving, succeeding and erring.

The second was the last lecture given by Randy Pausch at Carnegie Mellon University, laying out a framework for following your childhood dreams. I’ve blogged about Professor Pausch before so I’ll refrain from beating dead horses. Here is the old post.

The third speech was given this past Saturday at the evening priesthood session of the general conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I purposely avoid church-related subject matter. Seriously So Blessed houses the holy grail of LDS-centered satire and standard mormoblog parody. I’ll happily let the monopoly rest there and do my own thing. But Dieter F. Uchtdorf delivered a talk entitled “Lift Where You Stand” that spoke to my soul.

He began the talk recounting an experience he had in moving a grand piano from one room to another. We’ve all had experience moving awkward and heavy furniture, oftentimes through openings that have no business allowing, say, a couch to pass by. The group actively moving the couch is always comprised of the same four guys. First, there’s the guy that owns the home. He’s just so happy to have help moving into the house that he refuses to offer suggestion for fear of offending the helpers. Then there’s the engineer…the guy that thinks he is smarter than the other three. “You know, given the dimensions of the available opening, minus the mass of the casing, the natural angle of the couch suggests a counter angle of 39 degrees blah blah blah.” Additionally there’s the muscle man. He’s the guy that knows that “engineer” is just another word for NERD. If you want this couch through the door, you just have to push really hard. And finally there’s the quiet guy that lets the nerd and the jock fight it out, softly snickering all along, then finally suggests taking the feet off the couch or the door off its hinges, which was clearly the right idea in the first place. Elder Uchtdorf’s experience was similar, involving a big heavy awkward object that was difficult to move. And finally, the quiet guy suggests, “brethren, just stand close together and lift where you stand.” The simplicity in this statement was beautiful.

He went on to talk about people in the church organization that are “seeking a crown, or a cave.” Too often there are people in the church that are upset with their current responsibility. There are those that see their job in the library as a complete waste of their ability. These are the crown-seekers…constantly trying to climb that hierarchical ladder. Then there are those that just want to be left the hell alone. They see their job in the library as a nuisance. Instead of welcoming opportunities to serve, they turn them down or do as little as possible to do the job well. These are the cave-seekers.

The aim of the talk was to inform church members that the grand piano cannot be successfully moved if everyone involved is either looking to lead or hide. The function of the church is dependent upon everyone accepting their assignments, and simply lifting where they stand.

But "Lift Where You Stand" can be applied to every aspect of life, not just church. If I look too intently on future opportunities and promotion in the workplace, I could lose focus on my current responsibilities and my performance would suffer. If I ignore the crown and lift where I stand, I will perform and naturally move toward the crown. Instead of looking at the successes and economic position of my friends, I should evaluate where I am in life and buckle down. The crown can wait. Hard work where I am will naturally lead to success, which in turn will put me on the path to the crown. Even something as simple as getting in shape applies. There is no sense in expecting Matthew McConaughey’s body. That’s a blindingly bright crown that could crush my girthy frame with its jeweled mass. If I just focus on swimming every other day and eating saltines instead of brownies, then eventually I’ll earn my crown. It might not be as ostentatious as Matt’s, but it’s still a crown. Besides, Matt talks funny and I could beat his ass at Guitar Hero. And Fool’s Gold SUCKED.

The three speeches that impacted me so deeply all have common threads. Don’t avoid life. Get involved. Work hard. Live in the now. I see the irony here….these are all things I struggle with. But I’m firmly committed to live my dreams, get in that arena, and lift where I stand.