That's the title of a book by Latayne Scott, and it's extremely appropriate. A mirage is something that looks very real, but it isn't real at all, and that's a good description of the foundations of the LDS church. Mrs. Scott would know. She was a well-trained fountain of knowledge as a member of the Mormon church, and she's an even better-informed one now that she's out of it. This book is just chock-full of information about the history, beliefs, and practices of the Mormon church--the best on the subject that I have seen.
The book begins with an introduction to Mrs. Scott's personal story, and then goes on to tell the story of Joseph Smith. It talks about the various scriptures that the LDS church uses and the problems inherent within them, describes the basic doctrines and how they have changed over the years (thanks to that convenient doctrine of continuing revelation), and spends some time describing some of the rituals. Part two addresses "Issues and challenges facing Mormonism in the 21st century" and gives more of her personal story. It's all very revealing stuff, and made my jaw drop as often as not.
My overwhelming visceral reaction to The Mormon Mirage was a combination of anger and frustration: anger at Joseph Smith and everyone else who helped perpetrate this heresy, and frustration at just how hard it is to convince a Mormon that they're being led down a thoroughly false path. Mormons and Christians have a great deal of what seems to be shared vocabulary, but even though we know many of the same words, like atonement, salvation, and eternal, these words don't have shared meanings. Communication, therefore, is problematic, and common ground is an illusion.
Mormons are, by and large, good people. Some of them are really wonderful people! Christians could really learn a thing or two from them about joy, devotion, and taking care of others. Mrs. Scott writes: "The Church's public image of clean-cut youngsters and responsible, productive, patriotic adults is based on fact. Faithful Mormons work very hard at authentically fulfilling that image, and their lifestyle attracts many converts". But still we need to spend designated time praying that their eyes will be opened and they will come to know God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit for who they really are. They may be wonderful, but they are still condemned. While it is a wrenching, painful thing to discover that you've spent your life following a false God, how much worse to never discover that until your life on earth is over? And pray also that those who do discover it turn then to the true God, instead of bitterly abandoning the possibility of salvation entirely.
Mrs. Scott ends with an appendix on evangelizing Mormons, and it has both hard truths and sound advice. Some of the best is this: "However, there is a single weapon that every devoted Christian possesses. It can be used effectively because of a misconception that Mormons have. When I was a Mormon, I believed that that only way to peace and joy was through Mormonism. When I knocked at the door of a Christian to invite him or her to church and that person slammed the door, or had a sour facial expression, or said something insulting, this just reinforced my belief--shared by every Mormon--that Christians are unhappy and incomplete without the Mormon gospel. So what is the tool? It is your ability to tell them that your relationship with a living Savior Jesus Christ, and the fellowship of your Christian brothers and sisters is completely satisfying to you. That the Bible is complete and enough. That you know Jesus, and love him, and know that he loves you".
I heartily recommend this book. It will shock you, anger you, and break your heart. But it will also prepare you, inform you, and encourage you to examine your own beliefs and "make a defense for the hope that is within you". I came away with a sense of deep gratitude for all those who helped me find the Jesus who truly is the way, the TRUTH, and the life, and that God placed me in a position to hear, understand, and believe. Let us pray that many others come out of the mirage, and into the light.
Love, Spud.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Love Letter to a Lady
I had a dream the other night that I was in Aunt Florence's kitchen, making doughnuts with her. It brought back memories of trips to her house up north, where there was always special food of some kind, and of the time she let me cut the middles out of the dough before we dropped them in the hot fat and watched them sizzle and bob.
Aunt Florence isn't really an aunt, but my dad's first cousin. He spent a great deal of his childhood living with his cousins, and since he only had one sibling himself they turned into a huge, close clan of children, who remained close their whole lives. I do believe that Dad and Aunt Florence are the only ones left now. He's in his eighties, and she is in her nineties, and still as close as ever. I loved our visits there--somehow, miraculously, the only car rides during which I failed to be car sick.
Aunt Florence had a wonderful house which she designed herself, perfectly logically laid out and efficient, but the highlight for me was the plenitude of book shelves and cabinets. Aunt Florence had been a public school librarian, and loved books as much as I did, and the joy of finding something to read at her house was one of those things that made me full of happy anticipation.
But the real joy of Aunt Florence's house was--Aunt Florence. There's nobody like her in the whole world, and if I could pick one person to be just like if and when I grow up, it would be she. There was no question you could not ask, and expect to be given the dignity of a reply, and every word that came out of her mouth was a masterpiece of wisdom and good humor. Even on the rare occasions that I was naughty, she could quell me with a word, but I didn't mind because that word was always just the right one. And even these days, old age has not reduced her ability to see every person and situation clearly, and address them with a twinkle in her eyes. Never did I see her at a loss, or sharp tempered. I once mentioned to Dad that Aunt Florence was unusually full of wisdom, and he replied, "She's earned it".
Aunt Florence divorced her husband at a time when you just didn't do that, but for good reasons, and raised her children single-handedly in an age when that was extremely rare. That can't have been easy. It isn't easy now, but back when the stigmas of society were strongly against her it must have been even harder. But she managed, and somehow raised equally good-humored children who are stable, intelligent, and long-married adults with grandchildren of their own.
How on earth did she do it? Well, in addition to her own innate intelligence, Aunt Florence is a woman of faith. If we were at her house on a Sunday, we went to her church with her, and while that doesn't necessarily mean anything in her case it did. The combination of a life of hardship and a good Lord to bear her up produced a diamond of the first water--strong and brilliant and beautiful in my eyes. Although I don't especially want the life of hardship that produced it, I do dearly want that kind of faith. Everybody needs a good role model, and she is mine.
So here's to you, Aunt Florence, and thanks for everything you've taught me, even though you probably never realized I was watching and listening and storing it all up.
Love, Spud.
Aunt Florence isn't really an aunt, but my dad's first cousin. He spent a great deal of his childhood living with his cousins, and since he only had one sibling himself they turned into a huge, close clan of children, who remained close their whole lives. I do believe that Dad and Aunt Florence are the only ones left now. He's in his eighties, and she is in her nineties, and still as close as ever. I loved our visits there--somehow, miraculously, the only car rides during which I failed to be car sick.
Aunt Florence had a wonderful house which she designed herself, perfectly logically laid out and efficient, but the highlight for me was the plenitude of book shelves and cabinets. Aunt Florence had been a public school librarian, and loved books as much as I did, and the joy of finding something to read at her house was one of those things that made me full of happy anticipation.
But the real joy of Aunt Florence's house was--Aunt Florence. There's nobody like her in the whole world, and if I could pick one person to be just like if and when I grow up, it would be she. There was no question you could not ask, and expect to be given the dignity of a reply, and every word that came out of her mouth was a masterpiece of wisdom and good humor. Even on the rare occasions that I was naughty, she could quell me with a word, but I didn't mind because that word was always just the right one. And even these days, old age has not reduced her ability to see every person and situation clearly, and address them with a twinkle in her eyes. Never did I see her at a loss, or sharp tempered. I once mentioned to Dad that Aunt Florence was unusually full of wisdom, and he replied, "She's earned it".
Aunt Florence divorced her husband at a time when you just didn't do that, but for good reasons, and raised her children single-handedly in an age when that was extremely rare. That can't have been easy. It isn't easy now, but back when the stigmas of society were strongly against her it must have been even harder. But she managed, and somehow raised equally good-humored children who are stable, intelligent, and long-married adults with grandchildren of their own.
How on earth did she do it? Well, in addition to her own innate intelligence, Aunt Florence is a woman of faith. If we were at her house on a Sunday, we went to her church with her, and while that doesn't necessarily mean anything in her case it did. The combination of a life of hardship and a good Lord to bear her up produced a diamond of the first water--strong and brilliant and beautiful in my eyes. Although I don't especially want the life of hardship that produced it, I do dearly want that kind of faith. Everybody needs a good role model, and she is mine.
So here's to you, Aunt Florence, and thanks for everything you've taught me, even though you probably never realized I was watching and listening and storing it all up.
Love, Spud.
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