One of the many divides between apologetics (defense of the faith through examination and articulation of theological perspectives) and the general population (anyone not inside the strange, tight little bubble of religious scholarship and academia in general) is that which can be defined by language---simply stated, arguments are lost on people due to the fact that they are not presented in the vernacular.
Case and point: if you have no idea what I just said, take heart! That is just one example of what I am trying to say, here. Oftentimes, the “academic language” of religious scholarship convolutes the meaning of its lived experience.
Or, in simpler terms---“big words” muddy the waters that attempt to describe the simple, lived experience that most religious persons root their conviction in. The Book of Mormon uses the analogy of Lehi’s Dream (1 Nephi 8) to simply describe the goodness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ; the Gospel, when lived, is like a delicious tasting fruit, easy to recognize, and easy to enjoy.
As I think on the lived experience of my religious upbringing, training, and discipleship, I wonder if the tension between orthodoxy (correct teachings), orthopraxy (correct practices), and the lived-experience is not unlike the tension Paul describes when trying to expound on the relation between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law in his Epistle to the Hebrews. The law, he teaches, is a burden when the intent of living the law is not a transformed life in Christ, one reflected in the reality of Jesus’ teachings that “all the law and the prophets” hang on these two end-goals: love of God and love of thy neighbor.
I wonder if perhaps our desire as Latter-day Saints for orthodoxy and orthopraxy gets in the way of the pure direction of the spirit in relation to our failed attempts at gospel living? This question is one that has been at the root of many scholarly debates. In Kostenberger and Kruger’s 2010 book, “The Heresy of Orthodoxy,” the arguments surrounding the relationship between revelation, cannon, and history (lived experience) in relation to Christianity’s “orthodoxy” are laid out. The conclusion? It’s complicated. Thus further reflecting on the reality that for the average practitioner of religion, that which “is good” (think back to Lehi’s dream) is often differentiated and understood by lived experience. The sweet, tangible emotions that fill one’s soul as one is active in Gospel living.
What to do, then, when one’s “lived experience” pushes back against orthodoxy/orthopraxy? Is there room in LDS practice for the nuance of spiritual witness and direction on this matter?
If I am losing you at this point in the essay, let me interject a confession---I broke the Word of Wisdom many times on my mission. Not only that, but I felt the spirit directing me to do it. Do I have your attention? Read on.
While serving in Palmyra, I had two transfers with Sister Shakespeare. We were kind of a famous companionship---“Berlin and Shakespeare”---it just sounds good, right? Sister Shakespeare was new to the mission, and I was her trainer. Needless to say, I failed miserably as a trainer. I was prideful, overly sure of myself, and quite simply, bossy. Sister Shakespeare had more to teach me than I her. That said, while our companionship had its rocky moments, we also had some incredible experiences while proselyting and teaching that will forever stay in my mind. If you were to ask her, I think she would agree, that our time spent ministering to the Rexhepi family was one of our most choice memories.
We “tracted into” (to use missionary language) this family one early Spring morning as we were handing out pamphlets on the restoration, Jesus’ image prominently displayed on the front of the tri-fold. After knocking on one particular door, a tired-looking small woman answered, squinting out at us through her entryway. We began with our usual approach, smiles and the typical “Hi! We’re missionaries with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints…” Honestly, I don’t remember the dialogue but it was quickly apparent that there was a language barrier. After our initial message, she simply shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, showing her confusion. Attempting to bridge the communication barrier, I held up the pamphlet we were carrying, and a bright smile spread across her face, a look of recognition in her eyes. “Jesus!” she exclaimed. Sister Shakespeare and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows and smiles---“yes!” my companion excitedly engaged, “Jesus!”
The woman hobbled closer, taking the pamphlet in her hand and embracing it, holding it close to her chest---” I LOVE Jesus! “ she replied, eyes closed with sincerity. Opening them, she then looked at us both, motioned us in, and shut the door.
Ushering us to the living room, we sat on a plastic-covered sofa, our eyes big as we took in the room around us with Eastern-European décor proudly and prominently displayed. “Albenita!” the woman yelled up the stairs as she shuffled into the kitchen, mumbling something in a Slavic-sounding language. I continued to take in our surroundings, trying to ascertain anything about this family that might help us understand who they are and where they were from. Tapestries with Islamic calligraphy on them hung on one of the walls, and I quickly realized this family must be Balkan.
Prior to my mission, my dad visited Serbia on church assignment while supervising a translation project. I knew a bit about Balkan history---that the area was war-torn and economically ravaged---and ascertained that this family were refugees. Coming back into the living room, the small woman set a tray before us with various nuts and dried fruits, some baklava-type pastry, and a small pot of steaming hot tea. Delicate glass cups with a metal handle were handed to us both, pieces of mint set inside them. “Please, please” she said, pouring the tea into our glasses. “Drink. Is fresh!” By this time, a man with large, dark eyes and a generous moustache had joined us, silently watching us with a curious and guarded expression.
Smiling nervously, we looked at each other, the hot tea in our hands. “Albenita!” the woman yelled again, her gaze shifting to the stairs. Grateful for the distraction, we set our tea down as a young woman with thick curly hair came down the stairs, a slightly confused smile on her face as she sat down to join us. “My daughter” the woman said, eyes proud as she gently patted Albenita’s leg. Shakespeare and I began nibbling on the nuts set before us, trying to make small-talk, avoiding the tea in our glasses. Having a better command of the language than her parents, we soon learned that indeed, this small family were Muslim refugees from Kosovo, a disputed territory between Serbia and Albania. While we continued to make small-talk with Albenita, the woman quietly left the room, coming back with a book in her hands, setting it on the table. Tapping it with her finger, she said with a smile and heavily accented English, “Jesus! I love Jesus. Mashallah!” With a glance it was clear the book was an Albanian language Book of Mormon. “Me? I Muslim. We love Jesus. Adam, Noah, Ibrahim, Moses, Jesus, Mohammed! Yes! All good. All teach God. Yes.” The man, who had introduced himself to us as her husband and Albenita’s father, was now smiling and nodding, saying in a quiet voice, “yes! Yes. Muslim. We? Islam. You? Jesus. Is good. Is good.”
Shakespeare picked up her tea, blowing on it, and set it back down. “Do you guys want to see pictures of Kosovo?” Albenita interjected. Pulling out a few photo albums and setting them in our laps, we began to turn the pages while Albenita translated for us what her parents were saying, describing the people and places we were seeing in the photographs. Slowly, the eager and happy smile on the old woman’s face melted away, replaced by a sad, distant look. The husband had also retreated, emotionally, a glazed look in his eyes. After turning another page in the album, it was clear why---graves. Image after image depicted open graves, dozens of simple white coffins with Arabic writing on green fabric draped over them. “Those are people from our village,” Albenita said. So many people died…”
The woman started to gently rock back and forth, wiping away a stray tear as she gently mumbled in Albanian. We continued to turn the pages, seeing destroyed houses, more graves, etc. Albenita let us know that nearly her entire extended family had died, including her brother.
“War,” she said--- “its so horrible. It takes everything from you.”
Wiping away another tear, the old woman pointed at the tea, placing the cups in our hands. “Please” she said. “Please.” The eyes of Albenita and both her parents were now on us, Albenita with raised eyebrows, “you don’t like it?” she posed, “my mom made it fresh for you. Please drink it. Please.” Looking at Shakespeare and her looking back at me, an unspoken communication passed between us as we both put the warm, sugary drink to our lips. Genuine smiles from our faces encouraged smiles on the three Rexhepi faces---it was obvious we liked the tea, and in all sincerity, Balkan tea with fresh mint is DELICIOUS. The old woman’s face lit up as she patted our knees, saying something in Albanian to her daughter, who translated, “she says you are her daughters. You made her happy today. She is so sad and lonely here, all her family is dead…she asks that you please come back and visit her? She would like to cook for you.”
And thus began the happy friendship between Sister Shakespeare, myself, and the Rexhepi family. It became clear early-on that actually “teaching” them the lessons was not going to happen. The cold New York spring and our short list of investigators proved a tough time, making the simple friendship with this family all the more special to us. We would visit, gorging ourselves on fresh pastries, both sweet and savory, laid out across the table (prepared just for us), and of course, that tasty black tea with the fresh mint leaves. Those calorie-filled caffeinated visits buoyed our souls, the old woman rambling on in Albanian as if we understood, us, sipping our tea, not understanding the worlds, but rather, the simple spirit of friendship and love that permeated the house during our visits.
Now, while “black tea” may not seem like a big deal, for me growing up in an uber-conservative LDS household where ANY caffeinated beverage was considered forbidden in the “true” spirit of the Word of Wisdom, it is indeed the BIGGEST of deals, and in all reality, partaking of it can keep one out of the temple according to current LDS policy. One could perhaps interpret the spirit of ministry (joy, love, peace, warmth) that attended us during those visits to be something by which the devil had deceived us---but it is here (and here where I will leave you) that we get into the tricky theology of the “spirit” vs “the letter” of the law.
When looked through the lens of LDS cannon and history, we can draw some contradictory and troubling conclusions---conclusions which may come to all of us through a variety of lived experiences---where orthodoxy clashes with the personal witness of the spirit (think LGBTQ issues, doctrinal approaches to polygamy, race and the priesthood, etc.).
Happy thinking all, and thank you for joining me down this rabbit hole of reflection.
I was wondering, and after reading this post I think I can guess - I might just have listened to Sister Shakespeare on Mormon Stories.
I wonder if perhaps our desire as Latter-day Saints for orthodoxy and orthopraxy gets in the way of the pure direction of the spirit in relation to our failed attempts at gospel living? I think the answer to this question in my lived experience is YES, YES! Living the LAW often causes us to reject or not receive the law Giver who says "I am the law," in our heart for us personally thus we miss partaking of the fruit and being immersed in His love even though we have been immersed in a physical ordinance of baptism.