My parents frequently told me, with a sense of pride, that one of my first words was “Jerusalem.” Early in their marriage, my parents’ trip to BYU’s Jerusalem Center is a highlight of their marriage---trinkets from their trip lined the shelves of my childhood homes, photo albums frequently pulled down and their pages turned with a whimsical reminiscing. My sister and I would often play dress-up in the items of clothing my parents had brought home; staging the Nativity was one of our favorites, with my dad playing the donkey, me being Mary (wearing a Kafiyeh which isn’t culturally accurate but sure seemed magical at the time), my sister playing Joseph. I was three when my dad went to the Middle East a second time to study advanced Hebrew, this time, leaving my mom, my sister and I, at home. Emotions were high as we dropped him off at the Portland international airport, my mom attempting to put on a brave face for her two young girls, my dad trying to be empathetic while also masking his excitement for his upcoming trip. I remember clearly his leather study bag which fit snugly over his shoulder---BYU would later publish a picture of him next to the Old City’s Western Wall, which is considered to be the last remaining portions of Solomon’s original temple having survived over the years. Sure enough, in the photograph, my dad is wearing his over-the shoulder study bag.
Driving home from the airport, we hit the infamous Portland rush-hour traffic, and realized at the same time that our car was nearly out of gas. Sitting in stand-still traffic, tears streamed down my mother’s face, her frustration coming out in watery trails lining her cheeks. I knew she wanted to be on that plane with my father, and I knew we were suddenly very much without my dad, and we were also very much out of gas. Frustratingly, she hit the steering wheel with her hand, merged over to the left side of the freeway and parked the car, turning it off while the hazards flashed.
“Girls,” she said as she wiped her tears, eyes still facing forward. “We are out of gas and we won’t make it home---we need a miracle. Mom needs you to pray, right now, with me. We need to pray that we can get home.” Mom had, from our infancy, taught us that we could always pray, unashamed, at any time, about anything, because Jesus was always listening. A convert to the Mormonism, my mom brought in her somewhat charismatic evangelical faith that was the product of her girlhood---church hopping with friends to various inner-city Ogden denominations, gleaning all that was good and soul-feeding. As a child, when I prayed, I never doubted that my prayers were being heard and, of course, would be answered. I look back on that time in my life with longing---such simple, uncomplicated faith.
Nothing of course up to that tender age in my life had ever challenged that paradigm, thus, my world functioned (as most children’s worlds do) in a very simple black and white mode of existence. My sister and I exchanged serious, worried glances (whenever mom cried, that was a big deal). Dutifully, Haley folded her arms, bowed her head, and squoze her eyes shut so hard I remember seeing the crinkles on the sides of her eyelids. I of course kept my eyes open, as I was in the habit of doing, and watched my mother as she bowed her head in prayer and began to vocalize her petition to God above. Her words were simple and confident, that much I remember, almost as if she was at a meat counter telling a butcher exactly what kind of meat she needed. I remember hearing her take a deep breath, wipe at hear tears, and turn the ignition on. The car rumbled to a start and with lucidity I can still remember exactly what I saw---the needle on the gas gauge went from below the “E” to just above a quarter of a tank. I stared at the dashboard in wonder---my mother, reaching back to us to give us an encouraging smile, squoze my knee with her hand, signaled her blinker, and got back onto the freeway.
That was my first memory of the miraculous. I always found it interesting while reflecting back on that memory that my dad’s second trip to the Middle East, somewhat securing his role as a teacher and scholar within our religious circle, also coincided with my witness of my mother’s incredible faith and power to work miracles. While in the years to come it would be my father who could wax eloquent on the inspirational miraculous nature of the scriptural text, it would, for the most part, be my mother who was the doer and holder of active miraculous power, despite her lack of Priesthood title or formal authority to do so.
Before going any further, it is also important to note that for the entirety of my life, my mother has been chronically ill. The frustrating experience of going from doctor to doctor in hopes of finding relief has been a consistent part of her mortal experience. Due to the nature of her illness, western medicine doesn’t always have a remedy for her sufferings, and as a result, my upbringing exposed me to various forms of alternative medicines and healing practices, many of which brought relief from time to time to my mother, and of course opened my eyes to the possibility that forms of healing outside of my cultural and religious teachings could in fact be efficacious.
Ironically, before the Church recently published the updates to the Handbook (regarding racism, prejudices, and discouraging any healing outside of qualified medical professionals, prayer, and Priesthood blessings)[1] my mind was caught up in the nuances of what the “Priesthood” does and doesn’t do. When it is required, and when it isn’t, in addition to the heavy cultural emphasis Mormons put on the power behind a Priesthood blessing.
Elder Oaks once said that “We are not accustomed to speaking of women having the authority of the priesthood in their Church callings, but what other authority can it be?”[2] It goes without saying that this authority extends to the most fundamental of church callings---ministry. Ministry need no formal calling for an individual to engage in it; it is at its essence the most Christlike action we can preform as we seek to connect with those around us, see their needs, and help fill whatever elements may be lacking in their life.
Having been raised from my youth and also trained academically in the scriptures, the reality that spiritual gifts are ours upon the asking for them is a precious truth for all believers. The gift of healing, specifically, is addressed in 1 Corinthians 12:9 and in its Greek form is actually plural (charismata iamaton) and is related to gifts of faith and miracles, which should come as no surprise. Christians generally see that “those who have this gift are compassionate toward the sick and pray over them regularly. They have great faith and trust that God can and will heal some and are not deterred when He chooses not to. They are motivated knowing that God’s revealed power will draw people to faith in Jesus. Their ultimate concern is the spiritual well-being of those being healed and their relationship with Jesus. They yearn for the day that there will be no more pain and suffering, and sin will no longer wreak havoc on the people of God.”[3]( See 1 Corinthians 12:9, 28, 30, James 5:13-16)
The reality that those who have the gift of healing often reflect characteristics of great compassion, service, intuition, and a desire for all individuals to thrive physically and spiritually is manifest not only in the greater Christian tradition, but also can be found among all the world’s religions, both revelatory and animistic. In my undergraduate studies, while delving into the texts of anthropology, my mind cracked wide open to the reality of shamanism, healers, people with “big medicine”---all these categories of people carry the same characteristics that those who are born with the gift of healing exhibit.
As a youth, when I began to travel globally, I remember feeling a sense of discomfort blended with awe when I would encounter indigenous traditions with their own way of doing things that were very different from my own society, and yet, seemingly, just as effective and just as real. Being immersed in the post-colonial, white tradition of being the “gazer, (as coined by Edward Said)” I did plenty of gazing. Looking at other ways of doing things, judging them for what I perceived as childish, dark, supernatural, etc. All of these descriptions seemed appropriate because certainly, what I was seeing/hearing couldn’t actually be real, right?
I can’t help but see a bit of that judgement going on with the wording of the Handbook updates. To cast suspicion on “energy work” and healing of a “miraculous nature,” unless it comes from a system that is our own (and Patriarchal), smacks of a controlling superiority complex. While I can appreciate the genuine concern to protect people from fraudulent practices, how do we ensure that the Priesthood holder we call upon to minister to us isn’t in fact acting fraudulently? In regards to the miraculous, isn’t that exactly the term we would use to describe a successful blessing of healing---miraculous?
The scriptures seem clear that as children of God, we are all born with certain talents/gifts. Are we going to interpret that reality so narrowly as to assume that only those within our own faith tradition are practicing those gifts correctly? Speaking specifically of energy healing (often referred to as Reiki in the Japanese tradition), while I myself have never had the opportunity to utilize it, I have close friends who have and are both practitioners and beneficiaries of that method; I hesitate to support casting suspicion on their experiences. Further, the idea of “laying on of hands” is something that did not originate with Latter-day Saints. This is a global practice and can be seen used in various capacities (blessing, anointing, ordaining, comforting, etc.) Indeed, is there anything more natural in ministry than to reach out and physically make contact with someone? Jesus himself modeled this many, many times. This act seems to harnesses the power of creation that is existent in each of us---perhaps we could call it the light of Christ---and is something that each of us utilize frequently whether we realize it or not.
To take the position that the only acceptable methods of healing outside of modern medicine are “praying in faith” or “blessing by a Priesthood holder” seems, to me, to promote suspicion rather than spiritual independence. Additionally, I have yet to have it explained to me what the difference is between a faithful prayer and a Priesthood blessing, which, given the church’s preference for one to call upon a Priesthood holder during times of distress, I can only assume is a push towards Patriarchal control of a very natural system that is meant to be administered organically, as prompted by the spirit, and not controlled through an ecclesiastic structure.
