Carest Thou Not That We Perish?

When I was a missionary, I experienced some anxiety.  Not just some anxiety, the worst anxiety of my life.  It got to the point where I was crying multiple times a day, terrified to leave the house where I was staying.  Through this time, I had an amazing companion who held me when I cried and reminded me how to breathe.  Her support was amazing, but I never got better.  I was just looking over a hymn I contemplated during that time, "Master the Tempest Is Raging."  Then and now I can relate to lot of the feelings attributed to the disciples of Jesus as they were tossed in the storm.  The tempest of covid, the rising wave, growing bigger, coming closer, "Carest thou not [Jason Kenney] that we perish? How canst thou lie asleep When each moment so madly is threat'ning A grave in the angry deep?" The song calls out, to some powerful other, to act, to change the situation, to speak and be obeyed.  The song trusts that the will of the almighty is peace and stillness.  And yet, the disciple, I, continue to cry out as if not heard over the raging storm.  "Master with anguish of spirit I bow in my grief today. The depths of my sad heart are troubled. Oh, waken and save I pray!  Torrents of sin and of anguish Sweep o'er my sinking soul, And I perish! I perish! dear Master. Oh hasten and take control!"  While  the song continues to a place of rest on a blissful shore, no matter how much I cried out, that promised shore remained a frail hope.  The third verse of the song too quickly turned positive that I couldn't quite believe it possible.  Though I wish now that those in charge would take stronger actions to prevent the third wave from rising ever higher and crashing down on us, I am left feeling insignificant.  Nobody is listening to me.  The peace and calm of a post covid world are beyond my grasp and past a daunting third wave.  I see only the wave.  It blocks both the sun and any hope from my view.  How long must I wait?  How much longer?  I thought 2021 was the year. 

As a missionary, I too waited for the end to come.  Then, after I'd been a missionary for about a year, my anxiety began to go away.  Never completely, but the impending doom was lifted, and the sunshine no longer obscured.  There were some situational changes that were beyond my control, but those weren't the reason I could see the sun.  At some point I realised that happiness was a choice, it was a mood I could choose, and I didn't have to wait for God to change the circumstances.  I didn't have to wait until I went home.  I could find happiness where I was.  It worked.  My attitude changed because I decided it would change.  I sang.  I sang happy songs, not song about some distant hope nor pie in the sky, but songs about goodness on earth, now.  I sang:

"In a world where sorrow

Ever will be known,

Where are found the needy

And the sad and lone,

How much joy and comfort

You can all bestow,

If you scatter sunshine

Ev’rywhere you go."

 Rather than waiting for happiness to find me, rather than trusting some other being to rid me of anxiety, I took that decision into my own hands.  I wonder if I can't do that today.  Sometimes I feel that I have a right be be upset.  I have a right to be anxious as I am often in close contact with others at work.  I have a right to blame to government for letting people die, for keeping my workplace open.  I have a right to worry about the health of those I love.  I have the right to be grumpy when I start work early.  I have the right to be miserable.  So, maybe I do, but what good does any of that do me, or those around me?  I may have a right to be anxious, but what if I can choose to be happy?  I know it isn't easy, but I've done it before, so I trust that it is possible.  With some counselling, with constant little choices to see good in the world around me, with a smile on my face and thanksgiving in my heart, it is possible.

"When the days are gloomy,

Sing some happy song;

Meet the world’s repining

With a courage strong.

Go with faith undaunted

Thru the ills of life;

Scatter smiles and sunshine

O’er its toil and strife."

* Master the Tempest Is Raging: Text: Mary Ann Baker

** Scatter Sunshine: Text: Lanta Wilson Smith 

That Girl Who Went to the Preston Missionary Training Centre.

That girl who went to the Preston MTC in England wanted to be friendly with everyone, but found herself shrinking away in groups, becoming almost invisible. She wasn’t sure if her roots could hold her, so often she hide. The girl who went to England, knew the way of the religion she was spreading, yet wasn’t sure if she believed it. She prayed to believe, she fasted and she accepted every twitch in her tummy as a declaration of truth. The girl who went to the Preston MTC was like a plant, her leaves longing for sunshine, yet she kept them in the shadows. She was gay, she knew she was gay, but she wasn’t sure what people would say if she mentioned it, so she kept it to herself. She wore skirts. That was the expectation. She offered prayers, she knew the kinds of words to say, but found it hard to be genuine when others were listening. That girl who went to the Preston MTC made the choice to believe in a male God. She chose to believe in living prophets who commanded those with same-sex attraction to stay single or marry the opposite sex. She desired to go on a mission, to teach, to serve her church, even if she knew it would mean wearing clothes that made her feel uncomfortable for a year and a half. When the girl went to the Preston MTC, she didn’t eat much. She wasn’t hungry. She knew there were vegetarian options, but rather than choose those, she avoided the meat and picked through whatever else was given her. Her tummy hurt. In the moment she was hungry, she was told she couldn’t eat. The classroom wasn’t the place. She wished to explain herself, but rather, she held back tears and submitted. Her leaves withered. One curled up and dropped off the plant. When the girl was in the Preston MTC, she flirted with the idea of coming out. She yearned for light. In front of a crowd, she proposed to a girl, but everyone knew it was a joke. She wanted people to know who she was and love her anyways. But she was told all gay and lesbian people should go live and die out on an island. She tried not to watch the other sisters change, she didn’t mean to admire the curves of their bodies, covered in white, shaped like angels. She didn’t want to be accused of being a 14 year-old boy, though she understood how they must feel. With her companion, she joked that she’d come out later. Before her companion could say a word, she carried on with the story she was telling. Her gay foliage battered the shadows, crying out to be seen. She wondered if she hid it long enough, if her gay branch would break off and die. The girl in the Preston MTC searched for truth in her religion. She was in so far that finding truth was the only answer. Though she had questions, she trusted there were solutions which she didn’t yet understand. In England, though she hated praying, her prayers were answered, signs were received, and she could believe in her message. The signs formed her witness, her testimony of truth. A testimony that she decided was more powerful than any doubt. This was the testimony she’d been hoping for. In the Preston MTC, that girl received three compliments. They breathed life into a twig of her being. If she hadn’t been insecure, perhaps they wouldn’t have mattered. The comments convinced her that she could be a fantastic missionary, that she could teach and touch hearts, and that she could share her thoughts and change lives. She clung to this encouragement, believing that she was where she needed to be.

Sometimes I am ashamed to say this. At times, I long to hide my past, but I was the girl who went to the Preston MTC. Though it was more than four years ago, that was me. I have changed; I am the same. Though I’m no longer a member of a specific religion, I still pray. I try to pray out of desire, but too often it come from a place of routine and obligation. In the MTC I understood why the church told us to pray. Now I am not sure I know the reasons why I address my thoughts to an unknown being. I hope, somehow he can strengthen my limbs and branches. It has been a long time since I have fasted. When I fast next, it will be medical, so the doctors can check out my tummy. The pain is different than it was before, and while I still don’t have much of an appetite, I am not losing weight like I did in the MTC. My roots have expanded and I absorb more nutrients. I’m still gay. Some branches never die, regardless of how long we deny them. I don’t try to change my orientation anymore. In the sunlight, this branch buds and blossoms, and I realise how much it is a part of me. I married the most compassionate and understanding woman I’ve ever met. And yet, at times I am afraid. I am scared to tell people that I am married, nervous to say that I have a wife. I still fear their rejection. My leaves, however, touched by the sun refuse to stay in the shadows for long. In the MTC my teaching skills were complimented and encouraged. Now, I continue to teach, though my message is no longer faith based. I am eager to learn how to be a better teacher, but slower to accept the advice I receive. I chose to think and reason for myself. I recognise that one person’s style of teaching might not be for me, and that is okay. I continue to thrive when I am watered with praise. Perhaps it was my joy of teaching that brought me to the MTC, that sustained me there and through my time in England. I knew if I was going to teach in England, I needed to believe my message, so I forced myself to find signs of its veracity. Teaching as a missionary meant denying my gay branch, wishing it would die. It meant teaching others that homosexuality was wrong. As I continue to teach, I teach independence. It is easy for me to believe my message. Yet, I am still concerned about my students knowing I’m gay. Though my message no long dictates what people ought to do in their bedrooms, I fear losing credibility if the students knew what I did in mine. Every day when I teach, my gay branch hides in the shadows. The leaves reach for the light coming through the crack. They want the sunlight. They want to be seen. Just as the girl in the MTC hoped to one day come out, so to do I wish to live without hiding any of my branches.

The Search

**5**

Invite Jesus into your heart, my Sunday school teacher says. I do. Over and over again I do, but if I never feel a change, how can I know it worked? What does it feel like to have a grown, bearded man, robed in blue and white, living inside my heart? Is he wearing a crown of thorns when he enters in?

**11**

Give your life to Jesus, the camp speaker says. Surrender all you are. Commit your life to him. I do. Over and over again, I pray, I read the Bible. I fast. I am baptised. What does it feel like to be dead to the natural man, alive in Christ? If I don’t feel different, am I doing it wrong?

**15**

I choose my story, the Christian author says, I choose what I want in my story, and I know what I don’t want. I don’t want sin. I don’t want attractions towards women. I don’t want to be gay. I make the choice solid. I commit fully to God’s plan, not my desires. I am happy, right? I may not know who I am. I write dark poetry about being alone. I think about hurting myself, a cry for attention, but surely God is attentive to me. I don’t need, nor deserve the attention of others. If God is with me, must I feel so alone?

**18**

I’ve been promised a personal relationship with God. I seek to know this being I follow. I plan to isolate myself from others. I don’t need human relationships, I need God. I imagine sitting on the floor, hiding beneath over-the-ear headphones on my first day of Bible college. I can’t afford the headphones that I imagine, so I settle for the earphones that come with the MP3 player I buy for this purpose. I sit and observe the other students. I am not here for them. I am here to know God. As the year passes, I do meet the other students, I write about the Trinity, but God never shows up. Where is he?

**19**

At Bible camp, I watch as parents show up with a cake for their son. No one knows it is my birthday too. No one celebrates me. Surely the God who formed me, who knit me together in my mother’s womb, surely he know. That ought to be enough. I can quote the scriptures, but I cry in the basement, alone. Does God see me? Can’t he send some one my way to cheer me up?

**20**

I head to Bible college again; different school, different city, new friends. I’m still seeking for that relationship with God. I still avoid getting too involved in social aspects, but I do enjoy community with my roommates. I attend a new church, but find only performance and noise. Is God in the textbooks? The hymnal? Can he really speak directly to me?

**23**

At work I share with youth this good news that I’ve been promised. There is a loving God who can help every youth overcome every challenge. God can help in all situations. In my secret thoughts I wonder why God helps some frantic wealthy woman find her car keys, when every day there are children dying of hunger in Chad. I wonder, if he doesn’t care about the children dying across the world, why would he care about my dad, dying of cancer? Why does God help others, but never me?

**24**

And why doesn’t God comfort me after my dad passes? Why do I try so hard to be righteous, but feel so alone? I’ve memorised scriptures, I’ve written papers, I’ve prayed, but it has made no difference. I wonder if I can find comfort somewhere else. I wonder if sinful living is the path to choose. Yet, as I list vices, none of them appeal much to me. I go through Christian motions, but my heart drifts from the hope it once held. God makes no difference in my life. My belief in him isn’t what makes me a good person, so why believe in him?

**25**

I’ve given up, and yet, I am drawn back by missionaries who once again promise a relational God. They are patient with my questions, sure in their answers. I want to believe. I want to believe in the hope they offer. I want to believe there is goodness and reason in the messiness of life. I desire again for evidence of this being, count every song that pops into my head as a sign. Get baptised, the missionaries say. I do. I participate in community. I accept who I am, a little bit. For the first time say the words, I’m gay. I wonder why God still wants me to marry a man. His plans seem to work great for everyone else, but are they really what is best for me? Why can’t God have a personal plan for me?

**27**

I go on a mission to put off thoughts of marriage. I go on a mission longing to connect with the spiritual, to hear God’s voice, to heed his direction. I go on a mission hoping my commitment to serve God will earn me a personal experience with him. I go on a mission believing that God, who has so often remained silent in my life, will speak into the lives of others. I learn again to hide my sexuality, to fake spirituality, to assume my thoughts are from God. I learn how dark anxiety feels. I remember how lonely I can feel in the presence of people. I don’t give up. The weight of responsibility presses on my shoulders, but I push against it. I choose to be joyful, I find life in music. At times I journey with others, at times I fight alone. Does God ever take my side, or does he just watch from the sideline? Why, after all my effort, don’t I see miracles?

**30**

I love her. I intend just to be her friend, but I love her. More importantly, she loves me. I feel that love. We could just be friends, but I know what I want. It is not the voice of my Sunday school teacher, the voice of the camp speaker, the voice of the missionaries, nor that of any other religious leader. It is a voice from within me. Our love is tangible, and I want to give my whole self to this woman. Do I love her more than I love God, my bishop asks me. Yes, and I’ve felt her love in ways I’ve never felt the love of God. We have a very personal relationship. She cares about me and validates me in ways I only hoped God would. The choice is easy. I abandon the religion which makes me choose, and we marry. Does God rejoice with me?

**31**

We don’t hate God, and we don’t hate religion, so we choose to explore churches willing to accept our relationship. Something within me always draws me back to churches. It isn’t the music nor the sermons. It isn’t the theology which I spent years studying. As I search for God, I asked, can a community be God to me? Can a church be Jesus? I had sought tirelessly for a relationship with God, but had I missed the point when I overlooked human relationships? Perhaps to feel love from God was to feel love from people. My wife and I searched for such a community until we found a place where I can believe that God is love, because it is a community of love. A place where I can believe that God cares, because they care. A place where I can believe that God accepts me, because they accept me. So, I have found the love, compassion and acceptance of God, without any certainty that there is a divine being. Perhaps I could have found this earlier, but it wasn’t what I’d been looking for. Promises of magical intervention, lofty visions, had my eyes focused away from the Christlike love of others. How can I spread this love?

How to Love My Mission Companions without Falling in Love

As I prepare to leave on my mission, this is something I certainly worry about.  I could pray for ugly companions, but rather, I desire to love my companions fully and completely.  My thoughts on this topic have been shaped by (Gay) Mormon Guy’s post Learning toLove.  He acknowledges that love is good; love is what we are called to do.  He further identifies different levels or depths of love.  The first level desires present happiness (for the other), the second level desires future happiness and the third level desires eternal happiness.  In true love, present happiness is sacrificed for eternal happiness.

I was at the thrift store the yesterday, a thrift store where one of the workers has previously flirted with me.  Ha, I flatter myself.  She probably has never flirted with me.  She is just friendly, and good at her job, and I choose to interpret her actions as coquettish.  I was at the thrift store, she was at the thrift store and how I longed for her to approach me, give me her attention, whisper sweet nothings in my ear.  I thought of what I could say to here, but mostly I was thinking about what I wanted her to say to me.  I tried to distance myself from the situation and figure out what I really wanted.  My actions were not out of a desire for the eternal happiness of the woman at the thrift store, I didn’t even desire her present happiness.  My thoughts were completely selfish.  I wanted her to make me feel special.  I have a long ways to go.

Alma 38:12 has a lot of missionary applications.  It says “Use boldness, but not overbearance; and also see that ye bridle all your passions, that ye may be filled with love; see that ye refrain from idleness.”  If I let my passions run wild, I will be anything but filled with love.  But, if I bridle my passions, if I desire for my companions, more than anything, their eternal happiness, my thoughts and my actions will reflect that.

When I start falling in love with my companions, the solution isn’t to stop loving them, but to love them completely, selflessly, to see them as Jesus Christ sees them.  The answer might be that simple.  The actual act of putting off the natural man will be more difficult, but with prayer and humility, through the atonement of Jesus Christ, it is possible.