My Thoughts on the Kerfuffle Surrounding Ordain Women

As I begin this post, I should warn my friends of other faiths that this post deals with a Mormon topic--so I hope you will forgive me if I don't provide as much context as I could and refer to the members of my church as "we" and "our."  I, nonetheless, welcome your ideas and comments as always--even though you might find it strange that this is such a big deal for us.

Here goes:

I've seen lots of posts flying around on my Facebook newsfeed about the controversy surrounding Ordain Women.  For some background I've posted a news story here.  It seems like everyone is picking sides and hollering at each other and I've seen lots of words being tossed like grenades: "apostasy," "bitter," "disrespected," and "exclusion."

As I have considered this issue I find myself thinking again and again of . . . . ballroom dance.  And no, it is not because of the traditional gender roles that ballroom dance embraces and how they relate to feminism--it is because of everything I have learned over the past few months watching a group of dancers that I love struggle with how to deal with questions.

Let me tell you a story.  

I work as the Executive Director of a non-profit arts education organization that teaches ballroom dance to youth.  One of the things we do every year is put together competitive medleys that are a compilation of 5 latin or ballroom dances combined into one artistic piece. We then take these medleys and compete at the United States Ballroom/Latin Formation Championships, which happens to be held at one of the meccas of ballroom dance in the United States: Brigham Young University.  

The ballroom medley thing sounds simple enough. But let me assure you that getting 16 people to unify their minds, hearts, and bodies in a way that they can each dance their individual part in harmony with a partner and the collective group is no easy task.  It takes months and months of dedicated practice to produce 4 minutes of synergy on the dance floor.  It is a process that stretches not only the dancers, but also the coaches to their limits. You become intimately familiar with your own physical and emotional strengths and weaknesses--as well as those of the entire group.  It is an enormous exercise in communication as everyone tries to understand and produce their part of the choreography with exactness.  

And so there are questions.  Lots and lots of questions.  The dancers ask things like:  "Do I step with my right foot or my left?"  "Where do our arms go?" "Should my focus be up or down?"  And the coaches ask things like: "Is that clear?"  "Can I see it again?" "Should I demonstrate it one more time?"  "Are you able to get to your spot?"  

The questions are essential to the success of the group and to the unification of the whole.  Questions facilitate communication and understanding.  But it is easy to get impatient with questions. You get annoyed when someone asks a question that you already know the answer to, or when someone repeatedly brings up a problem that isn't a problem for you. You just want to move on.  It seems to slow things down.  You roll your eyes.  The coach gets frustrated.  

Our Youth Latin team had an especially difficult time this year with questions.  They had suffered a huge disappointment the year before when they did not make the top division of their event for the first time since our Studio began entering this competition.  Throughout the year it was difficult for  some of them to believe in themselves and to trust their coach.  While the majority of their questions were productive and sincere, it was not uncommon for the questions to degenerate into a place of self-doubt and fear.  A tough place to be.    

So what is the point of all of this and how does it relate to Ordain Women?  First, I believe that as members of this Church we are all one "team"--no matter how we label ourselves or each other.  So whether you are conservative or liberal or orthodox or feminist or gay or Molly or Jack--we are all in this together.  As it says in 1 Corinthians 12:12: "For as the body is one, and hath many members, and all the members of that one body, being many, are one body." Like our dance team, the goal is to create a synergistic unit that moves together in harmony. 

To do that we MUST ask questions.

Questions are the only way that we will eventually get to a place of understanding and oneness.  We need to be patient with questions.  We need to respect other people's struggles.  If someone on our dance team is repeatedly tripping over their feet getting to their spot or if someone is troubled about an all-male priesthood even if we are not, we still need to stop and consider the issue because it affects all of us--and it needs to be done in a way that doesn't shame.  We need to recognize that even though the status quo may be very comfortable for us, sometimes change is required to get to the next level--to grow closer to God.  

Our dance team hated changes.  They would just get comfortable with something and then somebody would ask a question and often this would lead to the coach changing things.  More questions.  Any change--even a small change--just seemed uncomfortable and unnecessary.  It was hard for them to see how much better it looked and how imperative both the large and the small changes were to the overall picture.

I am very grateful to members of the Church who ask unorthodox questions and challenge the status quo.  My hope is that we will move to a place where it doesn't take so much courage to ask hard questions at Church.  And that those who are seeking answers to questions that are important to them--even if it is a question that isn't important to us--will be given a safe space within our walls and not outside our gates while we explore our faith together.  

 Many years ago I heard this story, which I think of often.  I call it the Parable of the Ham:

A young woman was preparing a ham dinner. After she cut off the end of the ham, she placed it in a pan for baking. 


Her friend asked her, "Why did you cut off the end of the ham?"


And she replied, "I really don't know but my mother always did, so I thought you were supposed to." 


Later when talking to her mother she asked her why she cut off the end of the ham before baking it, and her mother replied, "I really don't know, but that's the way my mom always did it." 


A few weeks later while visiting her grandmother, the young woman asked, "Grandma, why is it that you cut off the end of a ham before you bake it?" 


Her grandmother replied, "Well dear, otherwise it would never fit into my baking pan."

I find this story to be very applicable to many habits in our Mormon culture, even though it often seems to be very taboo to be the one bold enough to ask why we cut off the end of the ham.

The Ordain Women movement has made me much more aware of instances of institutionalized sexism in the Church.  A small example:  As I attend the courts of honor for my friends' sons when they receive their Eagle Scout awards and I see an entire event put together in their honor, and sit through slide shows with all of the photos of their projects, and eat the cake and the goodies and celebrate with 50+ people--it doesn't feel right as a mother of 3 beautiful daughters and a Young Women's leader that the girls are not recognized for their achievements in a way that is equivalent to the hoopla that we make over their male peers.  I think it needs to be re-examined, and I don't know that I would have really thought about it without taking some time to listen to the feminists in my life (my husband is probably the loudest feminist I have in my life currently).  As I have read the perspectives of women who are active with the Ordain Women movement, I do not find them to be bitter and faithless--on the contrary I find their words to be thoughtful and faith promoting.

Now comes the part where I will balance everything I just said about questions with additional thoughts about questions.  And maybe you will be confused because you thought I was on one side and now you are going to think I'm on the other side.  But that's just my point.  There are no sides.  There is only WE.     

As beautiful and necessary and important as questions are, if we are not careful, they can also cripple us.  Someone once told me that our strengths and weaknesses are the same things, and that the key is finding the balance between them.  I have found this to be absolutely difficult and absolutely true in my life.  Don't ask me or anyone else to tell you where your balance is--like a skilled dancer, you must find it for yourself through patience and practice.  

So back to the dance team and the questions--the questions that, even if they were frustrating, were absolutely essential to their success.  They facilitated the learning and the growth and the synergy.

However, on the night of the final performance at their final warm up, in their nervousness the dancers started asking frantic questions.  Questions that were full of fear and doubt. The collective energy of the group started spiraling downward and it was as if they had forgotten all that they did know, how far they had come together, and how very, very strong they were.

When questions stop helping you grow and start causing you to shrink, you have lost your balance.

It was in that moment that we told them that the time had come to stop asking questions.  The time had come to trust.  They had to let go of their doubts and their fears and believe in all that their leaders had taught them.  They had to believe in themselves and the things they did know, even when there were things that they felt they still didn't understand.  They had to believe in each other and that their collective strength would overcome their collective weaknesses.  The time had come for faith.

And you know what?

They were SPECTACULAR.

If you would like to take a moment to watch--here is their video.  When you watch it you might be surprised to know that several of these kids stepped out onto this floor with serious doubts about this routine and their abilities to execute it.  They still had dozens of unanswered questions.  There were tears and kids throwing up in the bathroom just 90 minutes before this moment.  Some of the choreography is so new that this is only the third time it was performed.  But nonetheless, they were still able to make a decision to trust each other and their coach enough to surrender their minds and hearts and become ONE BODY, working together in harmony.  What you are seeing is faith. It is not perfect, but it is nonetheless beautiful and electrifying--and everyone in that arena felt it.

I am so grateful for the unorthodox members who ask bold and colorful questions.  They stretch me and make me think. They make me better because they challenge me to explore hard questions and never be complacent.  They will make all of us better if we let them.

And I am so grateful for our leaders who teach me and who anchor me with their examples and their testimonies of Jesus Christ.  Their words infuse my life with hope and faith and have given me light in some of my darkest hours.  Even though I recognize that they are very human, I have a deep respect for and testimony of who they are and what they have been called to do in this life.

We are one.  And we are, all of us, a formidable team. 

  

Prayer, Love, and Homosexuality

I have a lot of thoughts swirling around in my head that need to come out.  And these thoughts are about what has become a highly sensitive and volatile issue in our society and especially in my Church--homosexuality and morality and human rights and how these things intermingle.  This is a topic that I have pondered quietly in my heart for years, but I have only discussed it in safe spaces with my closest friends and family members.  But I feel compelled to write about it now and to "step up to the microphone" in a public way.

Much of what is prompting my words at this time is a Facebook exchange my husband had earlier this week with a fellow Mormon.  In response to all of the commotion in Arizona over the "right to discriminate" bill (which was thankfully and, to us, unexpectedly vetoed by the Governor) Matt posted this as his status:  "Wait. Jan Brewer doing the right thing? What strange new world is this? Did she get abducted by aliens and undergo a brain transplant?"

Although Matt's comments weren't intended to be about homosexuality but rather about the bill in question and Jan Brewer, nonetheless, the discussion went there right away when this comment was made:

"Matt.  I am in disbelief at your comments here.  Sex outside of marriage is wrong.  God commanded Adam and Eve to multiply and replenish the earth.  If everyone were gay it would destroy Gods plan.  Cities have been destroyed by God for the sins that you appear to be a chearleader(sic) for."

There is much more, but our fellow Mormon ended with this:  

"Your possition(sic) on this is beyond disgusting. You know better."

We were getting ready for bed when this exchange occurred.  Matt never did share his position about homosexuality, or much about anything beyond his initial comment, mostly because he was too busy asking our friend not to condescendingly put words in his mouth.  We were both shocked by the lack of respect in his tone and words.  When it turned ugly I encouraged Matt to take the high road and bow out, which he did.

My husband climbed into bed with me and put his arms around me and asked, "Do you think I am a 'beyond disgusting cheerleader for sin'?"  

I said, "Of course not."  And in the darkness we talked about many things because that is what we do and that is why I know his heart and why he knows mine.   

All of this has inspired me to share my own spiritual journey with this issue of homosexuality.

About a decade ago I was pregnant with our second daughter, Sydney.  This was my first pregnancy in the Seattle area, and so we asked a family member who works in the medical field if she could recommend a good doctor.  She asked around and soon I was referred to Dr. Cedar Finkle-Weaver at the Three Tree Women's Clinic at Highline Medical Center.

After seeing Dr. Finkle-Weaver several times I was extremely happy with her.  I found her to be very professional, sensitive, and personable, and I was very satisfied with the care I was receiving.  It was a few months in to my pregnancy that I also found out that Dr. Finkle-Weaver was gay.

Many people might find this to be strange, but growing up as a Mormon girl in Idaho and then going to BYU for school, I had never had a meaningful relationship with a gay person before Dr. Finkle-Weaver.  Or if I had, I didn't know it because they weren't openly gay.  So for me, this was new territory and brought up new and interesting questions to which I felt I needed answers.

I had always been taught that homosexuality was wrong.  There was really no nuance to it--and I had never asked for nuance.  But suddenly I found myself in a situation where my doctor was gay, and because of everything I had been taught growing up, I wondered whether or not I should continue to see her.  

To be clear, I was never concerned about whether or not her being gay would affect her ability to be professional as a doctor.  Certainly not.  Even though I found myself to be the recipient of some inappropriate comments by family members who were trying to be funny--comments that I don't think would be made now, even just a decade later. 

I was concerned about her being gay because I believed that we "vote with our dollars" and that by choosing her as my doctor I was choosing to support a lifestyle that I had been taught was morally wrong.  

And so, I did what I had been taught to do all of my life when facing a difficult question:  I prayed.

I fully expected that God would validate my feelings of moral superiority and that I would need to find a new doctor.  And I was prepared to do it because I was prepared to do the right thing.  

I believe that God answers prayers.  I know He does.  And I am very grateful that I was just humble enough a decade ago that I heard an answer that was much different than the answer I expected.

As I prayed and pondered over this issue over many days, the answer came quietly, but powerfully, that I should continue to see Dr. Finkle-Weaver.  The thought also entered my mind and my heart that if I would stop being so judgmental, there were things for me to learn from her.  

So I went back, and the next time I was in her office I noticed things I had never noticed before.  There were beautiful poems on the wall.  There were lovely and happy crayon drawings.  There were pictures of smiling children.  As I looked around I saw evidence of great love. Yes, there were things for me to learn from her indeed.

A few years later I was pregnant again.  I was 16 weeks into my pregnancy when I went in for a checkup and Dr. Finkle-Weaver couldn't find the baby's heartbeat.  We were all hopeful that the baby was just in a strange position, so we called Matt and to come and she sent me down to the ER so that they could do an ultrasound and know for sure. 

Sadly, the ultrasound confirmed our worst fears.  I was emotionally devastated and overcome by a sudden and profound grief.  I found myself being wrapped in blankets by nurses and wheeled around in a wheelchair.  Many nurses came to try to say things to comfort me, but it seemed the more people talked at me, the more sad I became.  Matt held my hand and we cried together.  

By that time it was well after office hours, but when Dr. Finkle-Weaver was notified, she came anyway.  And I still remember that when I heard her voice in the hallway I was immediately comforted.  I don't know why, but she was the only one, other than Matt, who could calm me that day.  She walked me through everything that would need to happen, and she was there for me every step of the way.  

And she was there for me again when the same thing happened six months later.  To this day I am so grateful to her for the love she showed to me as she helped me through two consecutive and devastating miscarriages. I am also thankful that I didn't let my limited judgement about the kind of person she was get in the way finding out who she actually was.  

Over the next few years I continued to ponder the issue of homosexuality in my heart as things like Proposition 8 happened and as old friends and even missionaries I had served with came out as being gay.  When an elder from my mission came out as being gay I approached him on Facebook saying, "Help me understand . . . " and I admire him for being brave enough to share his experiences and his faith with me.

Around that time I found myself praying for more clarity.  Because of my Mormon faith there are so many questions.  Questions to which I still do not have answers.  But long ago I accepted that we don't always need to have ALL of the answers--that there is a realm of the unknown that we can honor and respect as we patiently grow in wisdom and knowledge.

I believe that God answered one of my prayers in a profound and direct way, and that answer guides and informs all my other beliefs and actions surrounding this issue.  For now, this one answer is enough for me.

I was praying one day about something that I had read when I felt an overwhelming love enter my heart. I remember the thought coming clearly into my mind that "God loves His gay children" and I felt the Spirit of God testifying profoundly that this was true.  I know in that moment that I felt a small portion of that love, and it was one of the most powerful things I have ever felt.  I have felt this again and again as I remember this experience and as I have been privileged to develop meaningful relationships with gay friends, both in and out of my church.   

I do not have all the answers, but this I do know--God loves his gay children and there is a place for them in His plan.  The Gospel of Jesus Christ is for all of us or it is for none of us.  When Christ was on the earth He set a profound example for us by reaching out to the groups of people who were outcasts at the time--lepers, Samaritans, adulterers and all kinds of people who were seen by the "righteous" people as unworthy.  I believe this is a pattern that has application here.

I am distressed by the venom surrounding this issue.  At how often and how quickly it turns ugly, as in the Facebook exchange my husband experienced this week.  

I keep waiting to hear about someone else's spiritual journey--about unexpected answers to prayers, about their mind being enlightened, about love entering their heart.  I believe this is happening for people--but that they are too afraid to share these tender experiences because they are sacred and personal, because they don't want them to be trivialized by other people's political agendas, and because no one wants to be labeled as a "beyond disgusting cheerleader for sin."

But this week, I again felt that quiet voice in my heart, this time whispering to me that it is time to stop being afraid.  

It is possible that I have it all wrong.  As I said, there is a lot I don't yet know and don't yet understand.  But if I am going to err on this issue, I am going to err on the side of love and compassion.  I'm going to do the best I can with the knowledge that I have received as a result of my own experiences and trust answers to sincere prayers--because I care more about what God thinks of me than what other people might think of me.

Today I invite you to share your faith experiences in the comments section either at the end of this blog or on Facebook, especially as they relate to learning to love someone who is different than you.  I hope that this will be a safe space where we can learn from each other.  

  

 

My Dad and the Pit Bull

So I need to tell the story about what happened at the park with my dad and the pit bull.  And in order to tell this story properly, and it must be told properly, I might need to use a few swear words.  Consider yourselves warned.

I recently returned home from a week of family reunions.  Whether you like it or not, you can learn a lot about yourself at these kinds of gatherings.  You come together with people who share your blood and your history, who might share your eyes and your laugh, and you have some turkey and potato salad.  You contemplate who you are and where you came from.

I like Malcolm Gladwell and I have read all of his books. In Outliers he talks about cultural legacies that are passed down--and not just one or two generations--but over many generations, and that these legacies have a strange and powerful effect on us.  I have come to believe that this is true.  I agree that the traditions and attitudes of our fore-bearers cast long shadows in our lives.  I think that most of the time we don't even realize it.

Sometimes our cultural legacies come exploding out of us whether we like it or not and we find ourselves kicking the crap out of a pit bull at the park while our children and grandchildren watch in amazement.  I'll get to that in a minute.

My dad recently wrote a memoir about his childhood.  I absolutely loved it and came to know him and his family in ways that I never had before.  He describes a rough and tumble life in the small town of Victor, Idaho--a tiny and beautiful town that sits on the edge of what is still wild in this world.  But the story of how the Jones family came to settle here is a actually an unlikely and winding tale--and the version that I will briefly tell here I have pieced together thanks to the help of the extensive Mormon genealogical resources, church history, my dad's narrative, and my own creative imagination.

If you trace the Jones family history, it goes back a long long way, all the way back to Charlemagne and beyond.  If you don't know who Charlemagne is, I suggest you consult wikipedia, but to sum up, he was the first Holy Roman Emporer and is often called the father of Europe.  Lots of people can trace their lineage back to Charlemagne, so I don't think that this is particularly unique, but I do find it interesting how we get from Charlemagne to the Joneses of Victor, Idaho.  If you follow Charlemagne down through William the Conqueror and then down through King Edward I of England, also known as Longshanks and who you will fondly remember as the terrible king from the movie Braveheart--you start to head towards the Joneses.  After Longshanks there are no more kings in this particular branch of the family history. I guess we didn't like England anymore since we weren't running the joint because as soon as we could we set off for the New World and a few generations after that we ended up Mormon.

I don't know what you picture when you picture Mormon pioneers, but I usually think of long dresses and bonnets and faithful people singing hymns as they walked and walked and walked across the plains.  As Mormons, we make bronze statues to honor these kinds of pioneers and put them up all around Salt Lake City.  Most of the pioneers were a faithful, peaceful, long suffering people--my ancestors included.  Well, at least the ones on my mom's side of the family.

My dad's side of the family?  They were all bad asses.

You know the stories that the Mormons don't like to talk about in Sunday school?  Yeah, that was us. I figure that as much as the Lord needed the good, soft, gentle, spiritual people, he also needed the mean and ill-tempered ones, otherwise the Mormons were never going to survive to make it to Utah.  You want to burn down one of our farms?  Well we were sure as hell going to burn down two of yours.  And let your cows loose just for spite.

In his manuscript, my dad lovingly, and I'm guessing accurately, refers to our progenitors as "surly bastards."  They were gritty and tough and smart and resourceful.

My ancestors were close to the prophet Joseph Smith, and fiercely loyal to him and to the Mormon faith.  As fervently as others worked to kill Joseph Smith, my ancestors worked to protect him and keep him safe from harm.

Eventually we ended up in Utah with the rest of the Mormons.  When the leaders of our Church asked members to go settle other areas of Utah and Idaho, mine chose the frozen and ruggedly beautiful Teton Valley, probably so all the other Mormons would leave them the hell alone.  When they arrived they promptly started "cleaning out the grizzlies."  I guess there isn't enough room in one valley for grizzly bears and grizzly people all at once.

My dad's family wasn't particularly churchy.  Meaning, they never went.  But somewhere along the way the legacy of faith that he had inherited from my ancestors caught fire in my father's heart.  And so he put down his beer and his cigarettes and went on a mission, married my mother in the Idaho Falls temple, and made sure his four daughters made it to church every week.

While my mom, my sisters, and I have tried very hard to domesticate my father, he is still Jones to the core, and if you get in his business his gut instinct is to take care of it by kicking your ass.

And so last week we found ourselves at Julia Davis park in Boise.  My sister Katie had brought along her golden retriever puppy, Winston.  The adults were seated along the sides watching the children. I was next to Katie and Winston. Nearby was a rough looking group of people, the tattooed, wife-beater- wearing, smokin' some cigs kind of people.  They had a pit bull.  I had first noticed the dog because of the way he was sitting back on his haunches.  He was sitting in a way that he backside didn't fully touch the ground and I found it to be funny and thought it would make a great Snapchat photo.  I love a good snap.  But I thought better of attempting to covertly capture the snap, but now I really wish I would have just gone for it.

Eventually the people got up to leave and came towards us.  A teenage boy was managing the leash, and for some reason he thought it would be a good idea to bring his dog over to meet ours.  You know how people who own pit bulls always insist that they are just the sweetest dogs ever?  Don't believe them.

As they approached my sister sat up a bit and asked the boy, "Is he a nice dog?"  And of course the answer was yes.  What is he going to say? "No he's a killer, but let's make friends."  Before this conversation had really finished the dogs started sniffing each other's backsides and the leashes wrapped around each other and went tight.  And when the leash went tight, the pit bull got aggressive.  He started snarling and biting Winston, going for the throat.  I had heard of legends about pit bulls and how strong their jaws are, but this was the first time I had ever seen one in action.  I thought we were going to watch it tear Winston apart in front of the kids.  Katie was screaming and kicking it with her little flip flopped foot.  She may as well have been kicking a boulder.  Those things are tanks.  I was down in there too with my hands very unsuccessfully trying to pry them apart.  And then suddenly my dad was there and grabbed the pit bull and threw it like it was a bale of hay.  As it landed he was there and kicked it smack in the chest, lifting it in the air and moving it back a couple feet.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.

Now I don't know if my dad was the kicker for his high school football team, but if he wasn't that coach really missed out on some talent.  I think he would have kept going indefinitely but I was starting to feel for the poor pooch and so I yelled, "Dad!  Enough!"  My dad is not afraid of many things, but I think he was slightly afraid of getting a long lecture from his daughters over dinner, and so he stopped and walked back to us and folded his arms in submission. The dog's owners were of course very unhappy with this turn of events and the profanity was flying.  They were threatening my dad with all sort of things and getting up in his business.  One guy was really getting in his face and my dad had that look in his eye--that calm, focused stare that meant, "I am going to rip your head off."  And as the guy got closer I could tell he had no idea who he was dealing with.  All he saw was a white haired old guy. He didn't know that my dad has ruthless instincts inherited from the Crusader turned Conquer turned pilgrim turned Mormon mercenary turned grizzly hunter.  You don't pick a fight with that.

And so I stepped in between them, put my cute little wedge down, a forearm on each of their chests and  said, "NO." They backed off.

The pit bull people left and my dad came and sat down with us.  We had caused quite the scene.  Everyone was staring.  I am not used to getting into brawls at the park.  It was a bit awkward.   A few bystanders came and thanked and congratulated my dad for doing the right thing.  Other people glared at him.

And then I saw the pit bull people regrouping and coming back.  I could tell that they were wanting to get into it with dad, and so my sisters and I decided suddenly that swimming was sounding really good.  And so we left.

On the way to the pool I put my arm around my dad and thanked him for saving Winston.  I think he still wasn't sure if he was going to get in trouble with his daughters or not.  I winked at him and said, "Dad, you know your surly bastard is showing."  He laughed and felt better about things.  He loves being a surly bastard.

When we got to the pool my dad relaxed into his grandpa routine.  Katie and I put him in charge of fetching floaties while we worked on our tans.

I'm still not sure what all of this means for me, or how this cultural legacy will present itself in my life.  I am grateful for the grit and determination that I have inherited.  I guess I should start warning people not to get on my bad side.  I just might kick your ass.