The season of the ward Christmas program.

The annual ward Christmas sacrament meeting is a one and ten, sometimes at the same time. Some inspire with the stirring carols of Christmas or a new take on the Christmas story. Some are painful, like the third year in a row the bishop’s 11-year-old daughter squeaks out Silent Night on her violin. Sometimes the programs make us feel more a part of Christendom, with a poignant message about Christ. Other times we hear a mind-numbing talk on tithing, and the only mention of Christmas is when the congregation sings O Little Town of Bethlehem in a tempo that would put a four-year-old to sleep on Christmas Eve.

I’ve had experiences with all those kinds of Christmas programs. I’ve felt the joy of sitting in a warm chapel filled with bright red poinsettias, watching the snow fall outside while we sing O Come All Ye Faithful. And I’ve felt the misery of listening to dismal music and boring talks and wondering why our celebration is so humdrum.

The Christmas program that stands out most for me is when I was a teen-ager. A young woman was singing O Holy Night. She was about 20 and her life had not been easy. A couple in our ward – both social workers – had taken her in and made her one of their own. The young woman, a beautiful soprano, started to cry while she was performing. At first, she tried to sing through her tears, but after a few phrases, she just stood on the stand and wept, while the pianist valiantly continued to play. Her foster mother sat on the front row, white-knuckled and nervous as the drama unfolded. After a few uncomfortable moments, she started to sing. Her lusty soprano rang out, “Truly he taught us to love one another …” She stayed in her seat and sang. By the end of the song the two sang together. The memory stays with me to this day … and helps blunt the tithing talks and scratchy violin solos and struggling ward choirs.

How do you feel about the annual ward Christmas program? Love it or hate it? Or, do you skip it altogether and go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve? Tell your stories and thoughts, highlights and low lights. Then go join your ward choir. I guarantee they need you for the Christmas program.

]]> http://mormonmatters.org/2008/12/12/that-time-of-year/feed/ 11 http://mormonmatters.org/2008/08/01/is-one-date-enough/ http://mormonmatters.org/2008/08/01/is-one-date-enough/#comments Fri, 01 Aug 2008 21:48:28 +0000 Lisa Ray Turner http://mormonmatters.org/?p=885 I’m thinking about weddings a lot recently. Probably because I’ve been going to lots of them. Many friends and family members are getting married, announcing engagements, and thinking about marriage. ‘Tis the season.

It’s led me to think a lot about the peculiar way we “peculiar people” find and marry our mates. Here are some things I’ve noticed (in a totally non-scientific, non-sociological, strictly-observational way):

• · Courtships are fast. Couples who barely know each other get engaged.

• · Young girls (say, around 18-19 years old) think a lot about marriage, way more than girls of this age who aren’t LDS.

• · Most Mormons have no problem with 19-year-old girls getting married.

• Young Mormon males are considered ready to get married after a mission. Schooling is usually not really taken into consideration.

• · Lots of young Mormons (especially girls) have a fairy tale view of marriage. One young woman I talked to discussed with zeal her love for the Disney princesses, then proceeded to carry on a spirited debate about how many children she would have when she married (five). She just turned 18.

• · Returned missionaries aren’t told to get married six months after they come home, like they were twenty years ago, but they still clearly understand that marriage is the next step in life.

• · Young married couples no longer are having babies within the first year of marriage. Some do, of course, but it’s acceptable to wait a year or two.

• · Spiritual attributes are highly prized when searching for a mate. A family member broke up with an otherwise promising guy because he didn’t read his scriptures enough.

• · BYU is still the happy hunting ground.

• · The decision to marry is often made abruptly. A friend’s daughter is marrying her “best friend.” They’ve known each other for many years, but had never dated … except for one date — before  deciding to marry. My friend’s question to me is the title of this post. “Is one date enough?”

• · Mormon couples are quite savvy about sex. Much more than they used to be. (I’m not saying they’re doing it before they get married, but they know a lot about it … and want it. Blushing brides and shy grooms are the exception, rather than the rule.)

I talked recently with a marriage and family therapist who said she considers the Mormon method of marriage to be a system of arranged marriage. And if you think she has a problem with that, you’d be wrong. She says she’s worked with so many clients who shun commitment, slide into cohabitation instead of marriage, hang out instead of date and hook up instead of have real relationships, that the marriage-centered culture is a great thing. Mormon marriages, have a lot to offer, despite the quirks and problems.

I’m wondering whether my observations align with yours. What have you noticed about Mormon marriages, engagements, and the world of the in-love? And if you’ve been married a while, how have things changed?

For the record, my son is “active” in the Church. At least if that means someone who goes to church regularly, attends Institute classes, and has a calling or two. I’m not sure why the bishop asked him so pointedly whether he was still active, and what answer he expected. Did he wonder because my son hasn’t yet gone on a mission? Do people assume if someone doesn’t go at 19 there’s some problem with their testimony or worthiness? Did he wonder because my son has a beard? Did he wonder because my son generally favors red or blue shirts to white? (And in Ethan’s student ward at the University of Colorado in Boulder, white shirts are as rare as Republicans.)

Whatever the reason, it was curious that the bishop wasn’t a bit more subtle. He could have easily learned my son’s activity status in many different ways. He’s a good man, and well-intentioned. Bishops have a tough job and I don’t want to judge him. However, it leads me to ask a lot of questions. What exactly does it mean to be active in the church? Is there a magic number of times you have to actually attend? I know people who pop into church every other month but still feel like they are thoroughly active in the church. Does activity constitute being busy with callings, going to social events, and hanging out with members of the ward? Are you still active if you skip stake conference every time it occurs? How about if you consider general conference a vacation day from church?

Can you be active in the church if you attend but don’t believe any of the doctrine? How about if you’re a “dry Mormon” who hasn’t been baptized but you show up every week? Does mere attendance make you active?

What do you think? What does being active in the church mean to you?

I wonder how much they get out of it. Early-morning seminary students pretty much snooze through class. I did, and my boys tell me things haven’t changed much. In fact, if there’s any change, I would imagine high school students are more tired than they’ve ever been before. They’re more over-extended. They have more homework. Their classes are harder and there’s more pressure to take higher-level classes and get better grades. Adding seminary to the mix is tough and I admire kids who do it.

Why do they do it? Do they have a sincere desire to study the gospel and learn more about the scriptures? Do they want to please their parents? Do they want to impress the hot girl who sits next to them? Or do they do it because it’s on the checklist of things every good Mormon kid does?

As much as I admire kids who go to seminary – and their parents – I only have one word to express the feeling of finishing up the early-morning seminary stage of my life as a parent. Hallelujuh!

Did you go to early-morning seminary? Did you learn anything? How about your kids?

This is a uniquely Mormon issue, from what I’ve seen. I have sung in lots of other churches, been a choir director for another congregation for several years, and attended meetings at many churches of many denominations. At all of these churches, the members come to the meeting and quietly sit in the sanctuary. They do not talk with their friends. They do not high-five each other (yes, I’ve seen this in our ward). They do not run around the chapel doing last-minute preparation for lessons. They don’t slap each other on the backs or call to someone across the room. They don’t laugh loudly or walk up and down the aisle shaking hands. They just sit and listen to the prelude music. Though I can’t know what’s in their minds, I assume they’re feeling the spirit of the Sabbath, meditating or getting in the mood for worship.

Why don’t we do the same? Are we naturally a more gregarious and social bunch? Do we love each other so much we’re overjoyed to see our friends? Are we starved for socialization that we use the ten minutes before the meeting? Are we simply rude? Do we have lousy organists whose music isn’t worth listening to? Is it because we’re irreverent and disrespectful? What’s up with this awful habit?

Whatever the reason, it seems a losing battle. I’ve been in meetings where the stake president or bishop has stood up and asked people to be quiet. There’s a hush … for about 45 seconds. My son attended a fireside where Elder Bednar finally stood and asked the congregation to be quiet – after two admonitions by the other general authority in attendance. I’ve been in meetings where the organist has made the organ quieter, or louder, or stopped altogether, to demand the audience’s attention. No deal.

I feel bad for organists who practice every week, only to provide religious elevator music. Our behavior seems particularly rude towards them. One time my husband, who’s an organist, played the theme song of Mickey Mouse, just to see if anybody would notice. Nobody did.

I also feel sorry for anybody who’s trying to prepare themselves for meaningful worship. The hand-shakers, back-slappers, and greeters will come welcome them, often loudly. Neighbors will sit down and chat with them, often loudly. A Sunday School or priesthood teacher may come and ask them to prepare a scripture or story for the lesson an hour or two later. And all of these episodes will be accompanied by the ever-present din of laughter, chitchat … and the occasional high-five.

This is our most significant gathering of the week, the time for our holiest ordinance. Is it too much to ask to enjoy a few moments of peace at the beginning of the meeting?

Everyone is aware that the Church “raised the bar” on missionaries. The Church wants better prepared and more committed missionaries. However, when I chatted recently with my sister-in-law whose husband is in a branch presidency at the Missionary Training Center she stated emphatically that the bar hadn’t been raised enough. The things she’s seen!

We all know stories of missionaries who struggle, sometimes desperately. Some I’ve heard: the missionary who was so eager to go home he went to the doctor every week, convinced he had yet another terminal disease. The missionary who slept with her mother’s sweater every night because she was so homesick. The missionary whose doctor doubled his dose of anxiety medication but still suffered so severely, he left the MTC after three days. The missionary who called his father after six months in the mission field and said, “Dad, it’s not for me. I’m just not a salesman.” The missionary (my son’s companion) who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia and created all kinds of havoc throughout the mission.

There are still ill-prepared missionaries. There are still missionaries with significant mental health problems. There are still missionaries who get very sick. There are still missionaries who don’t want to be there, for any number of reasons. There are missionaries who lie to their bishops so they go and some who go under duress or because their parents will buy them a car when they come home. There are some who don’t follow the mission rules and some who can’t handle the pressure and some who realize they’re not sure of their own testimonies. Some of these young men and women stay and finish their missions. Some of them come home, after a few weeks or months.

This brings up many issues for families, wards, and individuals. My husband, sister, and good friend are all therapists. They’ve dealt with the fall-out when a missionary comes home ahead of schedule. They’ve dealt with good people who are suffering from anger, crises of faith, and feelings of failure. They’ve worked with parents who are embarrassed and disappointed, who don’t know what to tell ward members. They’ve worked with missionaries who are disillusioned and depressed. Often, the friends and families of these folks are helpful. Too often, though, there is judgment. Unfortunately, the stigma that follows these missionaries is alive and well.

Why is there still a stigma? Perhaps all those retellings of inspiring missionary stories make our expectations too high. Or we’ve sung “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission” one too many times. Maybe it isn’t possible to really prepare someone for what a mission is like, and it’d be better to acknowledge that it’s not for everybody, and ease up on the whole issue.

Whatever the reasons, it’s sad to see the pain these families and ex-missionaries suffer. There are no easy answers for them because every situation is complex and highly individual. I just know it’s important to love these families and missionaries and be kinder to them, regardless of the reason for the early homecoming. We need to stop judging, gossiping and making assumptions. Maybe when you get down to it, the answer is not to raise the bar on our missionaries, but on the church members as a whole.

I’m stretching a bit. But just a little.

Let me say up front, I don’t mind dressing nicely for church and I do feel it shows a certain respect for the sacred. I dress in “appropriate” clothes except at choir practice. But when I saw the passion surrounding this topic, it gave me pause. One woman related an “inspirational” story about her rebellious 13-year-old granddaughter who came to sacrament meeting, angry and wearing (gasp!) pants. The grandmother sat in the foyer with the granddaughter because of her attire. Another woman reported how upset she was when seminary students spoke in sacrament meeting and all the young women wore flip flops and tight t-shirts that barely met the top of too-short skirts. A past temple matron talked about how skirts were kept at the temple to offer to women who showed up at the temple in pants.

The stories were heartfelt, but I was vaguely disturbed as I listened to them and uncomfortable about such a strong emphasis on externals. I thought we should welcome everyone to sacrament meeting regardless of what they wear, especially rebellious 13-year-olds. I questioned whether it was worth embarrassing somebody by offering alternate clothing and reflected on stories I’d heard of people who’d been offended when this happened. And, I wondered why dress is such a big deal to mainstream Mormons.

Or is it? The previous week I’d attended sacrament meeting in a ward in Manhattan. About a fourth of the women were wearing pants and nobody gave them a second glance. There were no flip-flops in sight but I suspect that was a fashion decision and not a moral one. Blue and yellow shirts were speckled throughout the men in the congregation, and a pink-shirted priesthood holder passed the sacrament. I briefly wondered whether that ward was an anomaly or whether the culture was changing. The lesson in my ward indicated that nothing has changed, at least in my Colorado ward.

There’s probably a balance between becoming Pharisees about dress and showing respect through our dress for our worship and our God. While I was in New York, I also attended a service at a Baptist Church in Harlem. I admired the congregants’ beautiful spring dresses, immaculate suits, and fanciful hats. Their Sunday best seemed to say something about their attitude toward worship. And maybe our floral skirts, pantyhose, and white shirts do the same.

Still, I’m not sure the answer lies in delineating the smallest details of clothing. Instead, the answer may lie in our hearts and minds, not on our bodies.

Even when the music is poorly done — which all too often it is — it has power to inspire, teach, and heal.

That said, I would like some changes to the music section of the handbook. If I were in charge, here are the rules I’d implement:

• Hymns must be sung at a decent speed. Listless tempos are absolutely forbidden.
• Music directors who drag the hymns will be beaten with a conductor’s baton
• People must sing. No free agency here – singing is required!
• Love at Home cannot be sung on Mother’s Day. Ever. If sung, a ward will run the risk of mothers running screaming from the chapel during the guilt-provoking line about roses blooming beneath their feet. (I, for one, have always felt roses blooming beneath my feet would be painful, given the thorns.)
• Tremolo needs to be turned off on the organ. Save the vibrato for sopranos over the age of 75.
• O My Father must be sung at least once a quarter, since it is the most acceptable way to address one of Mormonism’s unique doctrines, that of Mother in Heaven.
• One song per meeting must be about Christ. The sacrament song doesn’t count.
• If the organ has chimes, they must be used when I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day is sung.
• All voices are loved and welcomed, even those that are loud, ugly, operatic, nasal, breathy, or absolutely out of tune on every note.
• Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing will be put back in the hymnbook.
• Hymns need not be limited to the requisite opening, sacrament, and closing. Nobody would die if a meeting included four or five hymns.
• Testimony meetings can contain musical numbers.
• Hymns should be accompanied on occasion by trumpets, french horns, saxophones, guitars, and other instruments usually deemed unholy and inappropriate.
• All verses of the hymns will be sung. Yes, all of them, even those verses written at the bottom of the page which are usually ignored.
• Amazing Grace, the most beloved of all Christian hymns, will be added immediately to the hymnbook.
• People who talk loudly during the prelude music will be assigned to scrub all the toilets in the building after the three-hour block.
• All of the 29 official sacrament songs in the hymnbook should be sung, even the mostly ignored O Savior, Thou Who Wearest a Crown (one of the best of the bunch).· Music-only sacrament meetings are not only allowed, they are highly encouraged.
• All the hymns in the book should be sung, not just the old chestnuts. The only possible exception is The World Has Need of Willing Men, which never needs to be sung again.
• If the choir director sees fit, and has a choir that can do it, motets by Mozart, Palestrina, or other great composers can be sung in church – in Latin. (Gasp!)
• And last, let’s stand up when we sing.

Those are a few of my new rules for church music. What are yours?

That’s all changed. This year, I am a political junkie. I watch all the debates and follow the polls the same way the wealthy follow stock prices. I have strong opinions on the merits of the major candidates and I know the dates for the state primary elections. This is what happens when you write a book on politics. I expected to become something of a political freak when I signed on to co-author a book about Mitt Romney. What I didn’t plan on is that I’d be put into the position of defender of the faith, in a way I never have before.

Of course as a lifer in the Church, I’ve had my share of explaining the Church and even defending it. I remember one of the first times. It was in eighth grade. During history class, a friend leaned over and whispered, “Do you guys really think you’re the only ones going to heaven?”

Did we think that? Did I think that? I was pretty sure I didn’t, but wasn’t sure what the official reply to that question would be. I told her I’d get back to her with an answer.

“That’s what your guy said on TV yesterday,” she said. Apparently, she’d caught a bit of general conference the day before.

Oops. I must have dozed off during that part. I was grateful when our teacher, boring Mr. Waddel, told us to stop talking.

Fast forward about fifteen years, when I learned that a lot of people thought I would be going to hell because of my Mormonism. One was my boss, while I was working as a music teacher. He pulled me aside one day and warned me, in a voice so sincere it would rival any concerned bishop’s, that I was on the wrong path and it would have dire consequences for my salvation.

All members of the Church have these experiences. The hackles rise and you learn to deal with accusations, answer questions, and assure concerned friends. However, when I started doing research about the 2008 election with my co-author, an evangelical Christian, those hackles rose to a whole new level. Through the process, I’ve been amazed by the vitriol published about us, the rumors spread, the ignorance and nastiness. Don’t people know we’re nice, casserole-toting people? Downright boring, actually, a few oddities and historical quirks aside.

Now that the book has been on the shelves for a few months, my religion is front and center. It says on the back cover that I am a Mormon. People I’ve never met send me nasty letters about Mormonism. I’ve never hidden my religion, but it’s odd when it’s one of the first identifiers about me. At book signings, it comes up immediately. “Which one of you is the Mormon?” people ask.

At one, a young man came and pointed a skinny finger accusingly at me and asked the familiar question. This time, though, it was slightly creepy. He seemed angry and anxious. He looked like he was dressed in a disguise, with a hat pulled down to his eyebrows, huge sunglasses, and oversized clothing. We all squirmed in our seats and wondered what he was all about.

“I’m the Mormon,” I admitted.

He proceeded to ask probing questions about Romney’s positions and interject his own scathing political and religious commentary. After a few assorted rants, he again pointed his skeletal finger at me and proclaimed, “And you! You’re missing conference!” Then he stormed off.

Everyone at the signing breathed a sigh of relief as he walked away, shrugged their shoulders and asked, “What was that all about?”

When these things happen, and when I read the ridiculous things said about Mormons, I want to reassure people, persuade them that we’re basically normal, that the aims of the Church are good. Admittedly, we can be overbearing and we sometimes suffer from tunnel vision. But we’re decent.

My co-author has come to believe these things. “You guys aren’t as weird as I thought!” she told me a couple months ago. This was good to hear, since people in her church were praying for her because she was working with me and when we discussed interfaith presentations she said the title for hers would have to be, “I Worked With a Mormon and Survived.”

We laugh about it. The funny thing is, she’s a defender of the faith too – hers and now mine. She says she’s been horrified by the anti-Mormon bigotry that still exists. Whether it’s bigotry or ignorance is something political watchers like to debate. The 2008 elections have certainly brought to the forefront the uneasy alliance of religion and politics. For me, it’s best to sit back and enjoy the ride … and nitpick Huckabee’s record, interpret Hillary’s poll numbers, marvel at Obama’s oratory, admire John Edwards’ boyish good looks, decide whether Fred Thompson is alive, chuckle at Giuliani’s humor, educate myself on McCain’s immigration policies, and see how Romney does on Super Tuesday. It’s an election year, after all.

Oh, it’s not what you might think. I didn’t love snack time because I could snitch a stray goldfish cracker or vanilla wafer, although those were attractive benefits, especially on fast Sunday. But I liked nursery snack time because it gave me something to do. Something official and concrete. A noble purpose and goal.

During snack time, I took the shiny silver pitcher and plodded to the drinking fountain. If I timed it right, and walked really slowly, that could last a good three or four minutes. If I was lucky, I saw adults who were skipping Sunday School and I got to chat with them. It was a blessed relief to interact with people who were wearing panty hose or three-piece suits. And no diapers, unless you counted folks with bladder problems. After a couple cheery conversations with loitering adults, it was time to head back to the nursery. But the fun time wasn’t over. It was time to dispense the junk-food snacks and pour the water into tiny Dixie cups. I performed those functions with the precision of a neurosurgeon. I matched up the piles of snacks on each placemat, to make sure they got equal amounts of salty crackers and sweet cookies. I gave extra treats to the child who was almost four (the one who was always hungry), and distributed a disproportionate stack of Fruit Loops to one little boy who loved Fruit Loops more than he loved his mommy.

I knew exactly what to do, what my function was. Unlike the rest of my time in the nursery when I had absolutely no clue.

When I was called to the nursery, my first response was, “Me? I’m not comfortable around little kids. Are you sure you don’t want someone who knows what to do with two-year-olds?”

The bishopric member was taken aback by my honesty. “Well, Sister Turner, we’ve prayed about it and we feel that you should be in the nursery. We feel there’s something you can learn in the nursery.”

Well, he was right on one count. I did learn something immediately. The bishop knew absolutely nothing about me. I told him yes, not because I felt it was the perfect calling for me, but out of a desire to serve willingly – and because I was grateful for the people who’d served their time in the nursery when my three sons were in there.

Yes, I have children. But it had been a long time since the nursery years. My oldest was twenty-one; my youngest fifteen. I was well entrenched in the panicky how-are-we-going-to-pay-for-this mission and college years. Long past diapers and Duplo blocks. So it was hard to remember what to do with toddlers.

Fact is, I wasn’t sure then. I was never one of those teenage girls who swooned over babies. I wasn’t a young mother who ran a day care in my home. When I babysat my friend’s children (in a strict exchange), I desperately hoped the child would not need a diaper change on my watch. To be truthful, children always scared me a bit. They were adorable from a distance, with their soft cheeks, downy hair, and huge eyes. But up close and personal … well, I didn’t get too close, except with my own. My own were different somehow. They were … well, mine.

As the years passed and my boys grew into teenagers, I never looked back. I never yearned to breathe that milky baby breath or rock a moist little bundle until he fell asleep. I was happy to see my boys turn into young men who could exchange ideas about presidential elections and compare Mozart to Bach.

Still, those boys were off on a mission, college and the teacher’s quorum . . . and I was in the ward nursery.

My first week terrified me. What was I supposed to do with all that time? One hour and forty-five minutes, unless sacrament meeting went overtime (and I started actually enjoying it when Brother Garrett got up to bear his testimony during the overtime minutes or we had a long-winded high council speaker). If the kids played happily, that was fine. But what if they needed something? What if they cried? And what about that lesson time? Just how did one give a lesson to two-year-olds? My first lesson assignment was on the sacrament. I laughed at the thought. Explaining the sacrament is tough enough to an adult. But a two-year-old? I watched the other women in the nursery with awe. They knew exactly what to do. They poked the little boys in their tummies until they laughed uproariously, but not so much that they threw up. They comforted the little girl who cried every week, with such compassion that I felt sheer envy at their nurturing. They did the Hokey Pokey with all the right motions, unlike me who couldn’t remember when to smack my thighs and when to clap.

My role in the nursery became clear one day when a child had a dirty diaper. “Someone’s got stinky pants!” one of the Nice Nursery Leaders crowed. Immediately, she and the other Nice Nursery Leaders began going from child to child trying to discern from which child eau de dirty diaper emanated. While they were sniffing the child’s bottoms, I raced to the window, vowing to open it as far as possible to get some fresh air into the room. As I cranked open the window – and not a minute too soon – I knew I was not cut out for this calling, despite my desire to give service. But what could I do? I had to make myself useful.

That’s when I discovered the joy of snack time. No lesson to teach. No clapping when everyone else was smacking. No fake falling down on Ring Around the Rosey. No visual aids. Nothing but official duties. And for a full twenty minutes! What’s more, the children were happy during snack time. Delirious, actually. Some got treats they never got at home. And their little bodies needed a burst of glucose after wiggling through a long sacrament meeting, then fighting over toys during the first forty minutes of nursery. They needed food. And I needed something to do. Welcome, welcome, glorious snack time.

I didn’t last long in the nursery. Six months and the bishop let me go. I don’t think he’ll be calling me back. I have no illusions of turning into one of those perky women or the occasional ex-bishop who gushes, “Nursery! The best calling in the church!” Just not going to happen. But I did pick up a few skills. I can still turn that trip to the drinking fountain into six minutes.