Food is one of my love languages. So forgive me if that’s the metaphor that comes to mind.

When I meet people, I almost instinctively invite them over for dinner. If someone, anyone, comes to our house, to share a meal, they will get our best effort. When planning the dinner we will take into consideration whether or not our guest(s) have small children, whether or not they require gluten free options, or if they are vegetarian, whether or not they are adventurous with spicy foods or if they like to play it safe. Do they prefer cakes or pies? These are all things we as the hosts can control. Whether or not the guests have a good experience, is more or less dependent on them. Not every one appreciates my elk meat Uzbek Plov, and I get that. But it won't be for lack of effort. When people are in my home, we will work very hard to make them comfortable, to be decent and respectful hosts. Anyone who has ever come over to the house will agree that the food will be amazing.

At one point in my life I would have considered these longings to be a better version of myself, to break bread with and get to know and earn trust of a wide variety of my fellow humans, to treat them with respect and consideration, I would have considered these impulses that make me tick, and I would have proudly attributed these aspects of my personality to my lived experiences within the Mormon faith.

However, after seeing the news from the institution yesterday, I am not so sure that my personal efforts to connect with my fellow humans, gay, lesbian or otherwise, to meet them were they are rather than ask them to change and adopt my cultural standards has developed not because of, but in spite of the efforts of the institution to keep us in separate corners.

I cannot accept a policy that so negatively impacts the most colorful and talented and beautiful souls in our faith community. To take them from where they were, on the margins of our wards and stakes, and then to knowingly cut them completely off, would be going back in time. It doesn't work that way. I can't unbreak that bread. I can't unshare those meals. I can't fall out of love with those young people. My heart has forever been changed.

Going forward, I am going to continue to work on the things that are under my control. I am going to continue to build bridges with people from all walks of life. I will continue to take time to listen to peoples' stories, to share a meal with them, to bend down low to look their children in the eye as my equals, these are the things that help me make sense of my humanity. These are the experiences that I live for. This is what makes up my DNA. If being myself makes people around me uncomfortable, then, well, that is more or less up to them.

Perpendicular to the Universe

I recently enjoyed a week with best friends in the desert southwest. Time passed delightfully slowly on the sparkling waters of the Colorado River. The rush of a typical daily schedule, slowed to a near standstill. Watches were abandoned below deck, only to be replaced with the original metronome of the sun. 1 cycle per day. The canyon walls, carved out by millions of years of warfare with hydro-logic forces, are still standing proudly taking their positions as the sun dials by which the passage of time can be noted. Shadows passed across the face of the mountains, offering a place of respite from the otherworldly intense summer heat. The week (d)evolved into an exercise of simultaneously both seeking, as well as hiding from the rays of the sun. It occurred to me, that to spend time in a high elevation desert, just this side of the summer solstice, is perhaps the simplest way in which we can truly understand what it means to be fully exposed. To stand in the heat of the noon-day summer sun, with no Ray Bans, no hat, no shoes, no spf anything, to be completely laid bare, is to be truly exposed.  The parts of your skin that begin to complain first are those that are 90 degrees to the sun. The shoulders. The tops of the feet. The nose. For me, my exposed head. After stepping into the sun, each of these body parts seem to be independently aware that it is just minutes away from being miserably burnt. The pain of a sunburn will last for a couple of days. But it will be real pain. And somehow my feet know this and begin to complain. 

What am I doing here? I left my air conditioned home and comfortable surrounding to chase the sun? To experience this level of austerity? In search of what? How is it we can participate in this paradox? Both simultaneously seeking and desperately afraid of The Sun. The Truth. The Universe.  

The sun, this ultimate source of light for my earth-bound body, has the potential to sizzle me into oblivion, burn my retinas beyond repair, bombard me with cancer causing UV rays, suck every ounce of life-giving water from my body, leave me as jerky for the crows. Knowing all of this, I stand there at the water's edge and let it wall wash over me. After a few brief minutes of truth, standing in the presence of this paradoxical source of death and life, I slowly and knowingly reached for my hat, my spf 50, my sun glasses, my t-shirt. Simultaneously sustained and protected from the smothering and blinding heat and the life-giving truth that is the Light. With this protection, I move back into the realm of my fellow humans. The intensity diminished considerably. It was a welcome relief. But also a sad acceptance of my limitations. 

Ultimately I left the desert feeling recharged. Knowing that that if I need to plug back in to that universe, it will be there waiting for me. It felt good to stand out there. On my own. Just me and the sun.








Photography credit to two of my aforementioned best friends. Milo (10), Alexandra (11).

A Human Story

http://abc7chicago.com/news/woman-killed-in-michigan-avenue-bus-crash-idd/763762/

 I spent yesterday walking through Chicago. Happy to be bathing in the man-made urbanity of a bustling city. The whole experience was intensely visceral and made me feel alive from head to toe. It was thrilling to be a part of the ambient energy of the tens of thousands of Chicagoan human pedestrians on the move. It felt like maybe summer was finally in full swing. It was delightful to just let the momentum of these humans carry me around town. I was alone, but not. I was perfectly content spending time in the presence of strangers, occasionally taking photos of architecture and oddities. I had overheard conversations in no less than 10 language. The time passed quickly and it was now 5:30. The rush-hour frenzy was well underway. Thousands of humans had exited their massive glass buildings and were streaming onto the streets. Like the tide rushing in, an ocean consisting of individual drops of humans had completely enveloped me. This living wave of humankind had spilled out onto the streets. Each drop, each human individual had distinct value. Each of us, the center of our own universe. I was so content among this sea of faces. Fellow humans - living, loving, moving, commuting, communing.  

As I approached Michigan Ave, the Google Map bot spat into my single ear bud. “Approaching Lake Street. Turn right in 100 feet”.  My eyes tracked up to scan Lake Street. Something out of my peripheral vision struck a discord. The flow of cross traffic moving left to right at the intersection had shifted. It was barely perceptible, but the forward momentum of the group I was in slowed a slight half-step and took in a collective deep breath. 100 feet in front of me, my fellow humans were meeting a dinosaur-sized vehicle head on. Chicago Transit Authority had lost a bus. It was out of control, and had just careened into what surely was a mass of ‘us’. I was too close to see the cause. The bus had erased the evidence from view. I hung suspended in the instant between the speed of light and the speed of sound. I knew people were under that bus. Then the wall of sound hit me. A single scream. Metal on metal. The unforgettable thumpity, thumpity of heavy rubber tires running over obstacles. The monster finally met something it could not run over and hurked to a stop, smashing into a stepped plaza with shops and outdoor dining.

A reverential hush fell over the crowd.  In a crescendo, that empty space was then filled. First with a chorus of screams. Then prayers mixed with expletives. I guess you could say that in a prayer? I never have, but who’s to say that up there, they don’t exactly care what sort of language we use, just so long as we stay close. It took a few seconds, but now each of us humans understood exactly what had happened. The bus was too big for any one of us to have an idea of the full extent of the damage.  Those who had just barely thrown themselves clear of the bus, now were looking at their own hands, checking them over to make sure they were still real.  This is a universal sign for “holy shit, am I dead? I can’t believe I’m not seriously hurt.” We all knew that there were too many of us in that space that the bus now occupied for there not to be one or two or an entire family, God forbid, underneath the dinosaur carcass.

People instinctively started to climb back under the bus to confirm what we all knew. A human was not there. An empty shell was. The bus had come to rest on one of us. Human bodies have their limitations. Even the full ocean of human drops would not be enough to lift this dinosaur. The intrepid souls reported back that it was a human woman whose heart and lungs and brain had all stopped functioning. This human certainly had value. Each of us immediately considered our own value. I wondered what languages she spoke. The loudest of the cries came from a street corner man. One of those special slightly eccentric humans who are perfectly comfortable standing on street corners. He knew this corner. He loved this corner. This is where is chose to stand and tap into the daily rush-hour energy.   

“She’s gone. She was just walking along and now she’s fucking gone.” 

I lifted my 50mm lens to snap a photo. The carnage. The focus. The framing. The lighting. The street corner man and his scream/prayer. The depth of field. Everything about the photo was perfect. This would surely make the front of the Chicago Sun-Times. I hesitated. The moment passed. It was just too raw to document. Too human for me to claim.  

I let the moment carry me across Michigan Ave onto Lake Street. Walking again felt like the only thing I could do. I was left with only questions. What just happened? What about the driver? When’s Father’s Day? Are humans unique in putting a premium on life not-yet lived? Are we the only species capable of hope? Am I doing what I want to be doing should this be my final walkabout? What corner would I stand on? What corner is she standing on?

Unfinished Humans

They were just like you and me. The small group of people who met together to break bread in 1830. It was April, on a farm. Flies were probably buzzing in the windows as the spring sun was doing what it does in bringing things back to life. This energetic group of unfinished Christians was self-selected from a few local families in the surrounding counties.

Some were there because they had witnessed amazing things in their life and this group represented the only people with whom they felt like they could share their stories with.

Some had been cold-shouldered out of other congregations for being more fluid in their interpretation of the “canon”.

Some had come looking for a community that provided a safe place to explore ideas that were still swirling in their hearts and minds. They hadn’t actually shared these thoughts with anyone – yet. However, certain novel and spontaneous thoughts had over time seemingly and independently bubbled up inside them. And although these ideas were hard to express, when listening to Joseph speak, there was something like a flicker of a candle in their hearts that connected what had previously begun to surface in their own consciousness with his experience.

Still others in the group were on hand to see what money could be made from a group of people naïve enough to be honest.

Some were nervous about what it would mean for their families if their involvement in these meetings was made public.

Some were just curious and were willing to hitch their wagons to anything that looked to have some momentum.

These unpolished saints’ imaginations were active. Their hearts were connected in an inexplicable and unseen counter-culturalism. Where most humans were (and still are) wont to fight over access to resources, for this group the Universe was alive and generous. Church and Religion and Spirituality and Life were about exploring our connection to the universal source and creating ways to share that bounty with others.

The series of events around 1830 were the beginning of a new adventure. I’d like to think that these saints understood the possibility that things could get messy. And that they were OK with rolling up their sleeves.

They were just like you and me.

Many of these proto Mormons would certainly have been struggling with the emotional baggage and personal costs often associated with the growing pains of expanding your faith. The religious environment was intense and any shift away from the established norms would be seen by others as weakness. When in fact just the opposite was taking place. To exert one’s will opposite to the trends of the establishment is to call attention to oneself. That can be extremely challenging. There is a certain easy path of anonymity when you are affiliated with the critical mass of a “legitimate” organization. Anonymity can offer a break from reasoning. The agency associated with reasoning can often be paralyzing. It would have been far easier to ignore those impulses to change the way one sees the world. Being a proto Mormon would have been messy.

Really, to be a proto-anything is a messy undertaking. To exist in this unproven liminal space between the now and the foreseen is uncomfortable. It’s like trying to grow tomatoes in zero gravity. The universe is suddenly a chaos of swirling soil, seeds, some good – some bad, worms, and growing media – no up and no down. The seeds are only catching glimpses of a potential light source shining through the disaster. The world you used to know is spinning out of control. This spiritual vertigo is beyond nauseating. Being an untethered single point in the cosmos is to be alone. Having at least one other fixed point to triangulate from is sometimes all one needs to establish a bearing. Moving from lost to found can be as simple as identifying a stationary point in the cosmos. Ancient sailors, lost on the high seas could instantly get their bearings if the clouds were to part just long enough to get a glimpse of Polaris in the northern skies. Who/What will be that fixture for us? Who/What will be that source of light?

Finding your way to something authentic is messy. In a fake-it-till-you-make-it world, the questions seem to far outnumber good answers. Sometimes it feels like we don’t even know what questions to ask. It must have been the same back in 1830. It’s likely that they weren’t sure what direction to take things, until they ran across ideas in the Book of Mormon that rocked their paradigm. Today, we too face issues that are capable of upending our personal tables. The ultimate outcome of this disorder really depends on what we make of it. When our world is spinning apart, from what points will we get our bearings? Should we trust people who are vested in keeping an institution in tact? Or someone who has nothing to lose? Will we arrange the overturned tables of our faith exactly the way they were before? Or walk away and start all over again. There are no easy answers. The black and white of yesterday makes room for a spectrum of colors and viewpoints and ways to see this mortal experience. Every one of us is entirely unique. And we yearn to contribute to this creation without being required to ask permission.

The evidence would suggest that religious institutions in any era don’t do well with outliers. Within a group that values homogeneity, to have an alternative viewpoint, is to create separation. The natural impulse to categorize other humans is strong. You and them. Them and you. A gap between our hearts and minds is opened up. That gap between the hearts and minds of humans is what we’ve been asked to go back into the chaos and bridge. In previous generations this gap was referred to as enmity. Think about that for a minute. What would a society look like where human beings supported each other, while they worked out their demons with their own God? As compared to a society where it’s my god vs your god. My stuff vs your stuff. Cheap answers offered in response to heavy questions. What if things were different? What if we started to use our imaginations again? What if we rolled up our sleeves and supported each other while each created something unique? It wouldn't be like raising barns or clearing farm land for each other like our predecessors. This would be far different from any evangelizing efforts we may have been a part of in the past. This would not look anything like multilevel marketing. We would not to be personally invested in the results of our outreach efforts.

Each of our efforts to connect with the Divine could potentially take every single one of us on an individual and unique path. Are we OK with that? These efforts will certainly not funnel everyone into an identical two-pant suit. With the understanding that we are all just people in transition, working diligently to get our bearings, any advice offered to each other would be carefully considered and deliberately weighed against the golden rule. Each of us would need to work to find unique ways of making ourselves available. I have a dear friend who dyes his hair blue for church. He does this so that anyone frustrated with homogeneity and simplistic answers, can take one look at him and see that he could be someone they could sit by and possibly get some straight talk. We’ll have to be more comfortable with straight talk. When you are seemingly lost, to have one other human extend their hand, bridge that gap and tell you that “you are not crazy and you are not alone” can be the difference maker. That’s straight talk. To eliminate the enmity that exists between us humans is the work of healing, even salvation – whatever that means. To know and connect with and empathize with others along the full spectrum of humanity is to know and connect with The Divine. It was Eve, the mother of all living, who in her Wisdom, was the first in the primal partnership to recognize that to support her children she needed to break an existing pattern. She needed to take that brave step back into the disorder.

Could it be that we don’t need to go off to exotic places in the world to make a distinctive
contribution? What if we worked to make ourselves available right where we are? For so many of us the internet has provided that chance to open ourselves up to unique connections. I would submit that Joseph was on to something when he talked about the keys to the ministering of angels being associated with a preparatory priesthood. To participate in this cosmic effort to connect with other untethered souls, is to take up company with the angels. I have no idea what this even means, but I still believe in the concept of angels.

What if that group was stirred to action by the same unseen forces that is stirring our hearts today? The proto-Mormons saw something was off and felt a calling to engage in the work – to “go and do”. What if this group of humans, who were just like you and me, happened to be self-selected from a community that idolized itinerant preachers? That’s what people did back then. They cleared land, planted farms and in their free time they stood on street corners and preached. And it seems like these particular proto-Mormons were perfectly selected for and got really good at preaching and baptizing. 14 million is a heckuva down line. Well, what if those same angels are again stirring in the hearts of humans. Humans with imaginations who are looking for something more. This time the group isn’t really keen on preaching. And we happen to see most institutions as essentially self-serving.

What if those same timeless forces of the unseen are again stirring us to action? Encouraging us to stop pretending and to work towards something authentic. What if we took a break from idealizing the painfully pious, puritanical, starched-collar types? And instead we take a page from JD Salinger’s ever-questioning gadfly protagonist Holden Caulfield. It might look a little crazy, but anything is going to look asymmetric when compared to the empire of sameness of the current model. What if we gave each other some space to explore? To create? What would that look like? What if being a member of this order of priesthood means that we empower each other to be difference makers in the lives of other humans. Wherever that takes us. Helping each other make sense of our unique experience.

Our own personal callings could manifest as social activism, or as an impulse to work to restore dignity for other humans who are down on their luck, or to create art or literature that serves to bind our human spirits together. What if the cosmic model is flat rather than vertical? In this current era of global connectedness, exclusivity would make way for a borderless inclusive outreach. And the thing is, this is already happening. There are so many people who are difference makers. Let us tie in to that, wherever it takes us. Then let us reach out and find each other again and share those stories. Let us make safe places where we can share the amazing stories of our own transformations. Let us make room for each to determine our own canon and write our own stories. Whatever that looks like. It will never be a world dominating institution. It will be small and nimble and portable. Successful in spite of the institution. Let us spend some time as small groups of unfinished humans, enjoying the energy of the sun doing what it does in bringing things back to life. There’s a lot to live for.