Two stories to frame something I want to write about.
A long time ago I heard of the Tabernacle Choir giving a unique performance on a Sunday. It was in the Salt Lake Temple. No one was there. They dressed in white, and sang in the upper assembly room. They wanted to sing, for once, with no audience except One.
When I was young I made the mistake of saying to a respected member of the ward that I was “performing on Sunday.” “Performing?” he asked. I said yes. “You mean you are giving a musical number?” I said yes—I was to sing. He then kindly explained that one does not perform in sacrament meeting. We may sing, but it is not a performance.
I am paid to speak. That is my job, essentially. When I was a younger kid, my grandfather described me as 7 going on 45—and I suspect it was mostly my gift for gab that got me the designation. I’ve always been outgoing. My grandmother—with somewhat less fondness—explained to a girlfriend once that I have “always been a chatterbox.”
As such, I always find myself a little uncomfortable when there are voluntary oppotunities to speak—like Sunday school or fast and testimony meeting.
There is very little difference, at this point, between speaking and performing for me. This is my art and my craft. I am lucky to have an abnormal amount of charisma (my dentist told me so). I want to speak—I enjoy it, and I find that others do too. But I was raised by equally loquacious parents who insisted that we never become too enamored of our own voices. There’s something tacky and gauche about sharing too often, and I’d rather err on the side of keeping quiet.
Today was a double challenge.
I mentioned in my previous post that President Oaks was visiting. I was also in my home ward, but I was still a guest. I wanted to be very careful not to take time from others whose right it was, and I also felt a double desire not to do a song or dance for an important presiding authority.
I made only one comment the whole day. I told my wife this, proud of myself. (Bless her, she immediately let me know that it was a rather long comment—perhaps something to think about next time.)
Despite this, four people came to me after the meeting to thank me for my “insightful comments.”
I prefer to write this off as a warm ward being polite and friendly. The alternative is quite frightening to me: that people feel holiness in my words—even more, sometimes, than I feel it myself.
Anyway, my point in all this is that I collected a number of thoughts that I wanted to share but opted not to. Just a collection of things that had come to my mind. A private performance of my own, so to speak.
A God of Friendship. My sweet niece described a time in elementary school in which she was physically bullied regularly. She prayed. The next day, the special needs teacher invited her to her room for recess. A deaf boy approached right away, signing excitedly. “He says he’s excited you’re here. We all are. We’re glad you are here.” I had two thoughts. One, that it seems to be those who are a little different who always seem to be the most capable of love. I wonder why that is. Second, I can stand on this principle myself. I once prayed for a friend, and God gave me one. I believe in a God of friendship—a God who loves us enough to send an awkward 15 year old a buddy.
Conviction. Our testimony meeting was special. There was one testimony that was a touch political, but as a result, others seemed to want to ensure that their testimonies were doubly on-point. The theme quickly materialized in my mind: conviction. What do we know? What must we do because of what we know? I wanted to share a couple of things in a would-have-been testimony, but opted not to.
I once wrote an essay. It was scary. It was controversial. I told my editor that I’d like to be anonymous. He listened, but urged me to keep my name on it. “You’ve written something really beautiful here. You should stand by it.” I did, despite my nerves. He asked “how do you feel?” I was still scared. “Call me in a few days.” I did. “How do you feel now?” I answered, “I’ve never felt this free.” We change, as people, when we stand up for what we believe. I have preached to my BYU-Idaho students. I have come up with great speeches and emotional barrages meant to inspire and excite. Nothing, however, has been as effective at building my student’s convictions than inviting them to write about a topic they believe in.
Hugh Nibley once wrote a life-changing talk called “zeal without knowledge.” I love that talk. It changed my life. In short, we must aim for the highest things—we must look for the light, and learn to worship with the mind as well as the heart. He critiqued, in my view, the many members who have a burning testimony of a book they haven’t quite gotten around to reading. I love that talk. Someday, if I can, I would like to write a response—not out of criticism, but as an homage. The talk would simply be the reverse: “knowledge without zeal.” I am concerned that we are beginning to believe that we can get spiritual truth from empirical, academic research. God is wiser than that. He has given all of us emotion and spiritual attunement. God will speak to the lowest saint as easily as the most educated, and it won’t be in ANOVA tables or regression outputs. He speaks to us in the mind and the heart, and when we decide to forgo our convictions until we have perfect knowledge, we make it impossible to ever reach perfect knowledge. Conviction is a part of learning to the next level.
There is a hierarchy of testimony, I think. At the lowest level, there are the things I merely hope for. Then, the things I believe. Then, the things I know. So far, so Mormon. But the next level is where I tend to try to spend my time: the things I know that would be treasonous for me not to stand and defend. I know a great many things. They are not part of my life’s mission to talk about. Rather, there are some things that I need to bear witness of (no matter the cost) or face God’s judgment. Cost against cost? That is where conviction lives.
Home. I love that ward of mine. I am the man I am today because of Merrill Wilson and LaRae; Roger and Lousie Bohman; and Lonn and Diana Litchfield/Grant. I love that place.
Arouse your faculties. My sister made a comment that made my mind spin. When Alma speaks of “arousing your faculties,” it implies faculties in the first place. We have faculties that are in need of arousing—and in her comment, these faculties include the mind, the heart, the emotion. I love this thought.
The seed requires time. One of the games I play with students is to ask what a seed requires to grow. They consistently respond with “soil” and “water” and “sun” and the consistently miss that one key answer is “time.” Testimonies, too. You can create the right environment. You cannot force spiritual things.
The seed requires weeding. Another thought: the seed needs protection. My wife, insightfully, asked about those who leave despite trying their best. I believe there are many who do just so. I do not have any clear answers for those, and I will not pretend to. They are dear to me, and I want to be generous in the way I consider them. There are people who—like Kohihor—have sinned against the light. There are others who have lived as honestly as they know how and have found themselves leaving the faith.
As I consider these folks, however, I wonder if some amount of the answer is that the weeds choke the seed. (This is not, I hope it is clear, an original idea of mine.) The ideologies of the world choke even the best saints’ testimonies. As just a few examples: there are some who believe that knowledge comes before action. As mentioned, this quickly morphs into intellectual perfectionism: I will not live up to my belief until I know it 100%. It also becomes fundamentally intellectual rather than convicted: it is about what I know, not about who I am becoming. Another: the many good saints who have found themselves leaving the gospel in the same moment that they have embraced social justice or right-wing resentment politics. This is not a complete or perfect answer, and it may not apply in all cases. But I know it applies in some.
I made but one comment, and I’ll explain that in another post, as someone has asked me for it.