I first encountered this phenomenon when I first read the Book of Mormon. I would read, for example, the account of Korihor and find that I agreed with most things he said—that he was making a good argument. Then Alma/Amulek would come in and counter the argument using circular reasoning, making sure to add the caveat: anyone who thought like Korihor had surely been tricked by the devil. Alma/Amulek’s arguments were decidedly worse than Korihor’s, and didn’t answer any of his questions, but they had the circle on their side—they did not argue against Korihor, they condemned him—delegitimized his argument by questioning his character. In the end, Korihor would admit to everything, the chapter would end with “thus we see,” and people like me would feel awful, wondering why it was that our line of thinking always ended up as the caricature of evil.
I have felt this way innumerable times since I was young, and each time it feels worse. Every time I believe I have found an honest, fair way of thinking about something, I need only to go to church or watch General Conference to find it not only discredited, but annihilated by an argument that cannot possibly be wrong and assures that its detractors cannot possibly be right. Reading the histories of BYU made that old anger and loneliness come back in waves. To see a person stand up and say: “Blacks should be equal and our arguments against them are sacralized bigotry,” and then to see the Church not only disagree with them but to include a caveat in their virtues list that made these people voiceless—and absolved others of having to listen—merely because they disagreed. When an ideology includes a virtue that condemns questioning or correcting the ideology, it has become dangerous and destructive.
I bring this up in conjunction with minorities because the situation I am describing is not unique to dangerous ideologies, but to the problem of being a minority itself. The whole time I was presenting at Sunstone, I kept thinking—and this is not intended as a self-aggrandizing analogy—about civil rights leaders, immigrants, and homosexuals. Specifically, I thought of the psychological wear that comes with having to fit your big idea into the small discourse around you—to know that you are making a basic moral argument but to have to defer to arguments that are insane and immoral but backed by mere virtue of being institutionalized. It is disgusting to be trying to say nothing more than that you should be treated like a human, but to have to hold it all inside while the majority gets the benefit of assuming their ideas are self-evident. I think it can destroy a person to be part of an indecent culture that is so powerful that the idea of its injustice does not even come up. This kind of situation can easily lead to a person trying to interject their ideas (since they will never simply come up), being silenced by a flippant counter-comment (that does not have to argue its own assumptions but merely reject the intrusion of a new idea), try again, be silenced again (by the majority demanding things—like hundreds of sources or reasons for anger—that they do not demand of themselves), try again, be subject to epithets and hypocrisy (the majority questioning the minority’s sanity or character and smugly applying requirements of peacefulness and forgiveness to keep the minority from making a structural argument), feel angry, lose legitimacy for being angry, and, giving up, prove all the built-in majority arguments about them being motivated by all the wrong reasons and not tough enough to face the truth. It is a no-win situation, particularly because the whole rhetorical discourse is rigged against a minority ever simply wailing, expressing a profound anger or pathos at injustice.
The problem is this: should a minority fighting against an immoral or impermeable majority be allowed to do and say things that the majority should not be allowed to do and say? For example, should Mexican-American author Gloria Anzaldua be able to say, in one of her post-colonial novels, that she hates the white man? Many would tidily term this reverse racism, but—while I can understand their concern—I think that minorities are routinely denied their psychological fury at having to live in an unjust world that, furthermore, does not recognize or care to address its injustices. I believe that minorities are justified in doing certain things that they are arguing that the majority should not be able to do—that the majority does without any compunction but is shocked when the minority dares to do.
A few more examples from the Sunstone experience. For one of the panels, I had arranged a mediation between parents, young people, and church leaders so that they could discuss their differences openly and try to understand each other better. In the dialogue, the mediator told us several times that it was important to be honest about how we were actually feeling, to allow conflict so that we could move toward a real conversation. I had tried so hard to peacefully explain what I thought some problems were in the Church, but the second night—after reading the BYU histories—I tried to take the mediator’s advice seriously and admitted that I was very angry and sad about the way faith was defined in the Church and the injustices that definition sponsored. I gave what I thought was a very calm but honest explanation of the problem and asked if anyone felt differently. Later, one of my friend’s parents—who had participated in the discussion—told my friend: “I think Ashley is a very angry and bitter person.” As my friend pointed out, all my effort to organize a peaceful discussion, all my intelligent and calm articulation, had been delegitimized precisely because I had tried to follow the dialogue rules in good faith and admit that I was angry. (I hadn’t even acted angry; I had simply said that I was!) Also, the inherent anger in making blacks, women, and homosexuals into second-class citizens was, apparently, not anger simply because the anger was diffused within an institution.
Later, in one of my talks on dissent at Sunstone, I brought up the case of Reverend Jeremiah Wright and the grief he had gotten for simply applying scriptural commandments to the United States. Because he had dared to wed the personal and political and actually be angry about the rampant injustices perpetrated by the United States (instead of allowing them in the name of being a political realist or because they were institutionalized), he was emotionally crucified. I could hardly find a single comment in all the millions of youtube inanities that could even imagine that what he was saying was true and that, if true, was cause for anger and indignation. I finished the talk with a defense of righteous anger and of dissent in general, saying that dissent was necessary to separate religion from dangerous culture.
In the Q and A session later, I was asked if it was difficult for me to go to church and not feel like I could speak my opinion. I decided to break with arm’s length analysis and admitted, feelingly, that it was so difficult that I rarely felt up to going.
After I was done, lots of well-meaning people approached me and said the same stuff as always. “The Church needs you,” they said. “You’ve got to stay.” Instead of smiling and accepting something I had heard a million times before, I continued my structural critique and said, honestly, “If the Church needed people like me it would treat us better.” They did not like that. They said I should forgive the weaknesses in the Church and do as much good as I could. I replied that I was happy to forgive the Church if that forgiveness was not exploited to get me to stop issuing structural critiques of real problems. I said that the request for forgiveness has historically been used for precisely that purpose, so that, for example, millions of slaves forgive their masters in a true Christian manner but are prevented, in the process, from questioning the structure of slavery itself. I said that this kind of ‘forgiveness’ created a hierarchy of peoples, which required the perpetual forgiveness of the powerful at the expense of the weak, and that I would not support that kind of false forgiveness.
One person standing nearby said, archly, that I seemed very disheartened. It was clear from his tone that he meant this as a criticism, that being disheartened was yet another strike against my character. I said yes, I was very disheartened, and that I couldn’t understand why it was an epithet to be disheartened at great injustices, or to apply a critique consistently even if it travelled into hallowed territory.
Ashley,
I dont know if I was the person who said you were disheartened but I certainly did not mean it as an epithet. There are many things that should dishearten and depress.
I certainly agree with your comments on Reverend Wright and have taken flak for defending him in other forums. I dont agree with all of Wright’s ideas but I certainly agree that America has been what MLK Jr. described as the greatest purveyor of violence in the world. Its a fine American tradition in my mind to God Damn America. William James, Mark Twain, and the anti-imperialist league come to mind.
As to the church, I have never thought they have much need of any of us. I can only say that I need the church in my life and not because I feel my salvation hinges on some manageable, organizational, outward manifestations of spirituality. Should the church treat certain people better. Of course. I think structural critiques are good but I am also pragmatist enough to realize I will never get the church organization to change. I have become more content with hoping to influence the small group of people I come in contact with weekly. Much of the reason I go is to be able to say in Sunday School that the US is not chosen by God, that Capt Moroni is a better type for the Iraqi’s than us, and that we should worship Christ, lay down our weapons, and start treating the “other” like family. I also go because I know I need to learn how to have charity, one of my own faults along with pride and arrogance.
All that aside, I wonder what you would like to see happen in the church. Is it dialogue, institutional change, etc. I think it is the nature of all organizations born radical to become orthodox. There was a time when orthodox was a bad word among LDS. Maybe we need a Samuel the Lamanite or one of our brethren to the South or overseas to shake up our complacency. Then again we would problem kill him or at best label him wicked.
One last thought on Korihor. I dont agree with him perhaps as much as you do but I think what happened to him was a tragedy. Here we have a prophet who sought to destroy the church and was given the very sign Korihor asked for. One would think he would learn some compassion but instead Korihor is scapegoated, vilified, and trampled to death. I tend to think his death was done ritually by the people in the righteous zeal to purify their community. I long for the day when we will actually act like Christians.
I like this one in the dissident series the best so far. I actually just earlier today re-read Eugene England’s classic “Why the Church is as True as the Gospel.” I’m sure you’ve already read it, but I was thinking it would be marvelous to hear your response to it because it sounds like you disagree with England on a lot of his arguments. Though perhaps joshua’s comment above about the church not needing us but rather vice versa could be a way for you and England to come to some agreement? Either way, I’d love to hear you expand more on this theme, and keep up the good work.
I guess the heart of the question is what is the best way to change an organization, Is it agitation, violence, protest, etc or is it patience, guidance, kindness, gentleness, love unfeigned etc. It’s really kind of a Malcolm X vs. Martin Luther King jr. kind of argument.
What you describe is maddening to be sure. It is also omnipresent in human activity. Many a revolutionary has railed against the system, destroyed it, and replaced it with more of the same. What is your criteria for when speaking up and stirring to anger is effective as opposed to more patient, subtle, and perhaps ineffective methods? It seems to me what you are describing is defensiveness that is shutting down communication. How do you get a point through that defensiveness, sneak it in or blast it through? It’s a tough question.
I’m going to say as well that “the Church needs you,” but perhaps not in the same context as the people that went up to you after your presentation. I often feel like a dissident myself (hence the name), but I realize and accept that I have no power or authority to change anything or anyone in the Church except myself. It takes a strong person to not give up when you’re told over and over again that either you’re wrong or you’re just not being obedient enough. One’s conscience is a very powerful thing and I believe that God gave us all one for a reason. If we humble ourselves and focus on our personal relationship with God, not fellow members or the Church as an organization, then I think our conscience becomes a very reliable source. Whether we are correct in the things that we believe in, which make us “dissidents” in the eyes of fellow Mormons, I cannot say. I can only do what I believe to be right, according to the dictates of my conscience, and let God be the judge. However, whenever I feel like I should just cave in to conformity just to make everyone happy, I am reminded by the case of George Romney back in the 1960’s when he was under pressure from General Authorities to change his stance on civil rights for blacks. If he had conformed in that regard, it would have been a shame. I don’t demonize Church leaders of the time for their beliefs, despite the fact that I am still hurt and angry that this dark chapter in Mormon history ever occurred in the first place. However, “dissidents” such as George Romney were one of the few bright spots in that dark chapter and because of that, the Church “needed” him, just as it needs people like you and me.
ash, as is the latest trend, I don’t disagree with you at all. But I find myself agreeing with the above comments as well–and I don’t think the ideas are mutually exclusive.
I am often frustrated, and yes angry, at the church and church leaders. That anger often reaches new heights on Sunday mornings (our experience with the prop 8 literature in CA is the most recent example). Yet at least as often, when I attend church I find myself contemplating my own weaknesses and gaining insights on how I can be better.
Furthermore, I cannot in good conscience, pretend that the church (not just the gospel, but the actual organization) has not made me a much better person. I have learned so much from leaders who have taken hours, days and weeks out of their lives to help me complete merit badge requirements, hike kings peak, and navigate the wiles of adolescence. I myself have been at my best while on my mission, or working on humanitarian service projects, or even in my latest calling: as scoutmaster for young men. Maybe those who helped me would have done just as much good without the church in their lives, maybe I would have–clearly a great number of people live incredible lives without the church. but I cannot argue with intellectual honesty that I would have lived my life as well as I have without the structure of the church. I am not saying the church has led me to live better than other people, but it has led me to live better than I would have lived (which of course is still a life riddled with sin and imperfection). Moreover, I don’t think that the leaders who spent so much time with me, would have done so but for the organization of the church. Of course I cannot prove that the people who have helped me were really influenced by the organization of the church, but that is my sincere perception.
I guess I am saying this because I want you in church. Not because I think it is necessary for your salvation, but because it might be necessary for somebody else’s–or even for the survival of the church itself. And I think that for as frustrating as it might be (frustration is probably not a harsh enough word) the church does more good than bad. I believe the same about BYU.
Doesn’t it say something about the value of the organization that it is worth saving? Are family home evening, gospel doctrine, BYU, preisthood, relief society, so damaging in the problems they perpetuate that they ought to be abandoned? Destroyed? I just don’t believe that, because I have seen them do too much good. No question Church leaders and church organizations have flaws, some of which are deeply disturbing. But so do my parents, my wife, my siblings, my best friends. And yet I need them all.
Ash,
I appreciate your expression of real pain (not to say that I relish it. It is painful to hear, to hear that I am part of an oppressive organization that could make one of its brightest lights feel not just marginalized but outcast without any pain of its own). I appreciate your structural critiques. It is hard for me to know how to participate in them without renouncing the organization of the Church, which I belong to. But what I appreciate so much about your critiques is that you are saying that the Church which requires people to belong to it should also belong to its members, which it decidedly does not to certain well-chosen minorities that don’t fit into its tidy cosmology.
Please read this expression of real pain by a woman considering taking out her endowments but who is distraught by the sexist hierarchy the language of the endowment creates. People respond in ways similar to the ones you describe, but she persists in asking her hard questions. Honestly, it broke my heart to read, but I honestly had no answer for her. http://www.juvenileinstructor.org/and-this-time-there-will-be-no-angel/.
I wish I had answers for you. I’m sorry I so readily use the gospel vs. church argument. It is the only one I can use to keep from entering that realm of anger and bitterness and disillusionment that you have (and I don’t say that in a censuring way, you know that).