In this post, I wrote that I was really happy for the older relative of mine who wanted to work in the temple.

And in the comments to this post, Jonathan compared baptism for the dead to flag desecration, which I agree with.  I think his comparison has merit.

So here we have a contradiction (on the same blog, no less). On the one hand I’m happy for my relative, but on the other hand, I disagree on a philosophical level about what she might be doing (baptisms for the dead). It reminds me of the line in the musical “Fiddler on the Roof” where Teyve says “They can’t both be right!”.

I believe there are contradictions inherent in modern everyday life.  I try to be the best person I can be.  I try not to make decisions that will negatively impact other people. I try to not purchase clothing made in sweat shops.  I try to consume locally grown food.  I serve jury duty and encourage non registered friends to register and vote.

But with that said, modern life is not simple.  There are times when I’m not able to live up to these standards.  If my clothing is made here in the United States, the fabric (or dye) might be made in a different country.  It’s difficult to live a life of integrity – and from my experience, even more difficult to live a life full of integrity with little ones.

The best any of us can do is to try and be the best person possible, and to take self-inventories on a regular basis.

I have lots of friends with many different beliefs.  They may also be members of many different organizations.  I may disagree with their organizations.  As an example, I’ll take the ACLU.  The ACLU defends many people who wouldn’t have a voice otherwise, but they defend some groups I disagree with.  I may disagree with some of those groups (the neo-nazis come to mind) but I realize why someone has to defend them.

There are all sorts of groups and organizations that I may disagree with the premise of.  Those groups may take actions that I disagree with strongly.

And I can still support and care about my loved ones who may be involved in groups or organizations.  Some may be as harmless as the local PTA (parent teacher association).  Others are not so harmless.

In the end, my opinion is just my opinion.  I believe each person has to live by the dictates of their own conscience, and I want to give others that freedom.

I don’t think that I arrogantly have to tell a relative of mine NOT to light a candle for me in a Roman Catholic church because I disagree with it.  I’ll spend my time and energy on something I can actually change or impact.

A close relative of mine wrote me the other day about the various things she’s doing in her life.

She is gardening and hanging out with the great grandchildren who live near her.  Then she mentioned that she’s excited to try and work at the LDS temple near her home.

Honestly?  I’m really happy for her.

This particular relative has had a lot of suffering in her life, including the loss of a child.

She has accepted that I’m no longer LDS and been fairly open and tolerant (as people her age usually go).

I’m not sure exactly what she’ll do if she works in the temple. It is true that there might be other things that she could do that would better serve humanity.  But, there are other things that I could be doing that would better serve humanity.  I think if this is something that will make her happy, then I support her in it.

She and I may disagree about our beliefs, or even some of our activities.  But we can find common ground because of mutual respect.

Do LDS Missionaries who died while serving missions deserve a memorial? Samuel the Utahnite thinks they do, and, in fact, has created a web page remembering those who have died in the service of the LDS church since 1999. He reports that he has gotten numerous complaints from faithful Mormons about the page — almost certainly because he can hardly claim he’s sincerely honoring their sacrifice by putting their names on a page that calls Mormonism “a complete lie and total fraud!!” in the sidebar. Yet he raises an interesting question: Why doesn’t the LDS church have a memorial to remember those Elders and Sisters who made the ultimate sacrifice?

Bonus question: Is remembering them (by name) on an “anti-Mormon” site as respectful/disrespectful as baptism for the dead?

Then Abiogenesis brings another post-memorial-day question: What about memorializing one group while ignoring other similar groups? Here’s his reaction to the National Museum of the United States Air Force on Wright-Patterson Air Force Base near Dayton, OH:

It is truly appalling and disgusting that the U.S. Air Force honors one ethnic group who lost six million people and ignores tens of millions of civilians who were slaughtered in equally heinous manners. What is driving this glaring and disgusting oversight? How did these other people not even receive a footnote? It is disturbing that the tens of millions who have been ignored are all from Asia which seems to indicate a not so subtle Xenophobia.

Do you agree?

The other day, I wrote on my blog about how I continue to find that even as intellectually and ideologically, I’m moving farther (bad typo; I wish I could move my father past the church) past the church, I realize from a practical standpoint, I’ve still got a lot of Mormonism in me yet. But I mean, I was not too concerned about a lot of it…after all, just because you don’t believe in the spiritual underpinnings of Mormonism doesn’t mean you somehow immediately become a dramatically different person. Mormonism doesn’t have the market cornered on abstinence, being an embarrassingly sheltered and naive prude, and tee-totalism.

So, I’ve wanted to say that it’s just a part of my unique cultural Mormonism. I can’t escape that I was raised LDS and that is a part of my culture.

But…as Kuri called me out on…and as I called myself on just a few moments after publishing the post…I seem to be paying way too much deference to Mormon frameworks of virtue and morality. What is up with that? I find myself looking at some of the things I said as if I were cleaning up my room, finding some strange underwear. Wait a minute…those aren’t my boxer-briefs!

Kuri had said:

I think you have deeply absorbed Mormon values. It’s pretty clear that you consider not having sex, not drinking, and not using drugs to be “virtuous choices” on your part rather than considering them, say, risks you don’t want to take or morally neutral actions that you simply aren’t interested in pursuing. It’s interesting how much a part of you that “worldview” is even though you don’t believe in the religious aspects.

And I was conflicted. No, I do not believe all of these things to be “virtuous” choices or “moral” choices, because I don’t believe in that moral framework anymore (and, to be honest, when I was a member, I didn’t really take that moral framework). But where I’m conflicted specifically is that I must admit that yes, I’ve been caught red-handed using the language that would be conducive to such thoughts. I am using the language of acquiescence to Mormon moral normativity.

I’ve been trying to get past this, too. But it’s a struggle too…as I tried to write my original article, I wanted to be careful to distance myself from the language I was using. So, I used rather awkward phrases…the “appearance” of virtue. What a faithful member might see as virtuous. So, I tried to distance it away from myself and instead to the community I came from.

Because, quite frankly…I don’t think I’m more moral or virtuous for not drinking or doing all of those things. And I don’t think others are immoral or unvirtuous for doing those things. Instead, my point was that I recognize that to others, I must appear rather virtuous or moral (ex: to my parents or to people from my ward, who despite their displeasure with knowing I don’t believe would have to recognize that I’m pretty “clean”.) I think it’s because moral wrongs demand a certain outrage…and pine for retribution to make things better…but I do not have such an outrage or pining for such retribution.

Rather, at this point, I think I view it in terms of a kind of prudence…With imprudent actions, you aren’t outraged…rather, imprudent actions bring about a harm to the self that makes one think, “That was stupid and silly. I ought not to do that.” One possibly takes pity on someone who commits an imprudent action, but one wouldn’t want to bring more harm (in the form of retribution) onto someone who has been imprudent, because they have already harmed themselves.

And I think I’ve done, in many cases…a great job of viewing things less in terms of Mormon morality/immorality (I’m crafting a post on amoralism and moral error theory for one of these days) and more in terms of prudence/imprudence. For example, we had a go around about baptism for the dead. And one of the things this got me seeing is the difference…for me, baptisms for the dead simply seem rather imprudent for Mormons to do, and I think I phrased that: to me, at best, I feel like they are doing something silly that harms the self (because it is a waste of time)…but others would take a different stance, noting there is moral outrage at the idea because of a harm to others (disrespect for the dead’s beliefs).

And even when I do see things in terms of morality/immorality, it is distinctly of a non-Mormon flavor. Outrage for me is for people who are against marriage equality. But I can’t say I got that from Mormon upbringing when the church is precisely one of those offending groups.

So…I dunno…I guess I got rambly again…but the thing I’m trying to say is…I’m rather conflicted. Even as I think I’m out, I find strange parts that are back in. Yet, it’s not like I’m so entrenched in Mormonism and Mormon values. It is an enigma.

Do you ever have similar issues sometimes?

The buzz this week was all about how President Obama’s dead mom has been let out of spirit prison (or something like that). I ought to be dutifully rounding up every single post on the subject, but — no offense — everybody said exactly the same things they say every time this subject comes up. I’ll give you the short version: A: “But you don’t understand how deeply offensive and disrespectful it is to the deceased’s beliefs!” B: “What? One religion offended and disrespected another? No. Way. Glad the news crews are on it. </sarcasm>” C: Joke proxy excommunication is offered. If you’re dying for a round-up, Andrew collected some of the interesting ones. Also, JulieAnn’s send up is amusing. Or read this short-story about the proxy baptism of Marilyn Monroe.

Now, on to what’s up with the living:

G is coming out to family about her unbelief and deciding how to self-identify. Andee’s friend had a bit of a negative visit from the Mormons; by contrast Mr. FOB had a lovely time camping out with the Elders’ Quorum. Oliver has come up with his own ideas about the nature of God. Becky is excited to be going back to college. And Jana is thrilled to be active in her favorite new sport — a joyous recovery!

And now for the funnies. Sabayon shares her favorite Chinglish (though the Canadianism is actually even funnier), and Living With Mormons shares a “Let’s talk about Jesus” cartoon. Oh, and some are shocked by what you can get fired for these days. Not a joke, but The Cerebral Owl offers some amusing pics of the annual Procession of Species. Philly Chief thinks that countering the “National Day of Prayer” with a “National Day of Reason” is a bit of a Pollyanna thing to do — let’s cut to the chase and have a National Day of Masturbation instead. Hmm, I guess there’s a certain logic to it. Oh, and Jesus’ General applied for a job as a sniper in a private militia, and the guy seriously considered his application! Poe’s Law strikes again!!!

I caught this story in an Idaho paper about the Catholic Church banning Mormons from getting a hold of their registries. Apparently they aren’t too keen of Mormons baptizing them posthumously either. Maybe it’s time for the LDS religion to give up on this completely inane practice and put their membership to use doing more useful things – like feeding the hungry.

I was talking to a couple of students last night about a project we are working on together when the idea of baptisms for the dead came up. Both students are very secular and were basically dumbfounded by the description I gave of the practice. They asked all the right questions:

• So, they are getting baptized for people to get them out of spirit prison, right? Yep.
• How do they know if they accepted it? They don’t.
• So, they get baptized for everyone who ever lived? Yep.
• Including Holocaust victims? Yep.
• What about all the people who they can’t find geneologically? They claim it will be revealed to them one day, but that’s kind of funny since it would just make more sense to wait for the revelations and just dunk people then.
• Will they baptize me when I’m gone? Yep.
• Who wouldn’t accept a baptism in spirit prison when it’s obvious that you’re being visited by Mormon missionaries? I have no idea.
• Bizarre. (not a question, but I still answered) Yep.

I say turn the temples into homeless shelters!

by Dawn Houghton

My mom claims Marilyn Monroe is the Mary Magdalene of her generation, misunderstood and angelic, so my mom goes about thinking of ways to save Marilyn’s soul.

Instead of a usual Monday “Family Night” where we talk about charity or honesty, we wait until the weekend and we watch Marilyn movies, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, How to Marry a Millionaire, Some Like it Hot, Bus Stop, and The Misfits at the Avalon theater on State Street using our first-of-the-month check each time. It is the 15-year anniversary of Marilyn’s death. My mom says Seven Year Itch doesn’t have good moral values because it’s about the temptation of affairs and because of the scene where Marilyn’s dress blows up in the air, plus it’s one Marilyn’s ex-husband, Joe DiMaggio, didn’t approve of, so we don’t watch that one.

My mom starts going crazy doing genealogy. She makes each of us our own “Book of Remembrance” with our names on the front and a drawing of our family tree on the first page. She says that on Sundays, doing genealogy is a way of keeping the Sabbath holy.

The family tree in my Book of Remembrance says that my dad is Charles Derrick; my mom says it isn’t anybody’s business who my real dad is. “What’s legal is what counts,” she says. Besides my mom, step dad, Moroni, Rachel, Grace and our grandparents, uncles and aunt, there isn’t anyone else on the family tree.

My mom discovers that Marilyn’s real name was Norma Jeane Mortensen at birth and then Baker and that Monroe was Marilyn’s grandfather’s name which went all the way back to James Monroe, the fifth president of the United States.

We have pictures of Marilyn, cut from magazines and collected by my mom’s best friend Sister Sylvester, the pictures are from the Enquirer and Hollywood Yesterday and Today. One is of Marilyn as a child with Easter clothes on and there’s another where she’s an adult, wearing a flower dress standing in front of a swimming pool for her last movie Something’s Got to Give. My mom pastes them in her own “Book of Remembrance” with captions that read, “Norma Jeane, face of a distraught child,” and “Marilyn, shortly before her untimely death. Note: movie never completed.”

My mom tells us things about Marilyn, like that she was sensitive and intelligent; and that Arthur Miller wouldn’t have married a knucklehead. Even though my mom says Arthur Miller was a real catch, she says her favorite husband of Marilyn’s was Joe DiMaggio, a man who was caring as any, the proof of which is an item she cut out of a Ripley’s Believe it or Not paperback. She pastes the unbelievable item alongside a photo of Marilyn drinking Coke from a bottle; it says that Mr. DiMaggio faithfully put roses on Marilyn’s grave once a week.

My mom’s number one goal is to make Marilyn a Mormon, but she’s been told that only a relative can request that. Once, when a woman claimed she was Marilyn’s daughter in Star magazine, my mom wrote and asked for permission to have Marilyn’s temple work done, meaning make Marilyn a Mormon through baptism and so forth. The daughter actually wrote back but with the answer no and to leave her family alone because they’d been through enough already.

But somehow my mom proves to the deciders high up in the church that we are related to Marilyn as distant cousins. She does it by finding a Monroe in our family tree and adding as many other Monroe names in the middle until it comes to her own dad, my Grandpa Graneau, whose third cousin married a Munro.

The day my mom gets the letter with her name typed on the front from the church office building in Salt Lake City, she won’t open it until she pulls out her Book of Remembrance and looks at one of Marilyn’s pictures glued toward the front. In the photo Marilyn has brown hair and freckles on her nose and she’s wearing a blouse with long sleeves and a high collar. My mom reads the letter under her breath but when she gets to the part saying she can do the temple work, she reads it out loud and slowly and then reads it again but this time even louder and slower.

I have never seen my mom so happy as that day. Her neck is pink and she is walking on tiptoes around our living room. She is giggling. She puts Marilyn’s baby picture–that she cut out of a magazine from the dentist’s office and glued to a piece of cardboard–on the piano and starts singing the song “Come, Come Ye Saints.”

“Though hard to you this journey may appear. . . All is well, all is well,” she sings. It is one of her favorite church hymns; it is about the pioneers making their way to Utah. We sing it, too, all of us except my sister Rachel who never sings anything. Marilyn’s baby picture falls off of the piano and lands on my mom’s lap. Then my mom says a thank-you prayer.

On Sunday, before sacrament meeting, my mom tells a few Sisters and Brethren about the possibility of Marilyn becoming a Mormon. We are in the foyer, I am passing out programs and getting pats on the head for it. Grace is standing close to my mom; Moroni and Rachel are sitting and sliding on the back pew. I see two of the brethren raise their eyebrows and smirk like they’ve just heard a nasty joke.

“Do you think she’ll accept it?” one of the sisters asks, meaning accept being Mormon.

“She won’t accept it, not with her morals,” Sister Edwards whispers.

“Marilyn was a beautiful person,” my mom says to Sister Edwards.

Sister Edwards makes a sound to let my mom know that she thinks we’re nuts; she walks away and loses her shoe, but instead of putting it back on, she picks it up and keeps walking right by me and into the chapel without taking a program. I follow Sister Edwards to the front of the chapel and put a program next to her when she sits down.

“You’re sweet,” she says and takes a deep breath.

My mom checks out books on Marilyn’s life from the library. My favorite book about Marilyn is one with a pink cover and Marilyn making a kissing face; inside, in the middle, there’s a picture of Marilyn with her hand behind her head, and she’s naked. I look at the picture a lot. My mom says it’s too bad that Marilyn had to start out having pictures taken in such a vulnerable way. She also says Marilyn has a perfect body.

I’m old enough to do baptisms for the dead in the temple, the rule is to be at least twelve; my mom wants me to do Marilyn’s baptism: she says it’s something I’ll remember and be proud of my whole life. I like Marilyn. I memorize a poem she wrote about a willow tree and imitate her soft voice from the movie Bus Stop. And I like the kind of funny, daring person she was in Some Like it Hot.
On the day we go to the Salt Lake temple to do Marilyn’s baptism, the bus driver compliments both my mom and I on our dresses when we put our change in the meter. I think of how he doesn’t know I’m about to do something important. And how he’s important for taking us downtown. I’m missing school for this, but it’s a good reason.

“Marilyn could be watching us right now. Imagine how excited she is,” my mom says during the bus ride. After she says that I feel a little scared and wonder if Marilyn’s ghost will haunt me.

We get off of the bus by the main post office downtown and walk two blocks. Around the outside of the temple is a tall, stone wall. There are places to enter temple square as a visitor; to look at flowers or go inside the Tabernacle and hear the Mormon Tabernacle Choir practice their songs, or go inside the Visitors Center and look at pictures of Jesus and his apostles and lions with lambs. Inside the Visitors Center on the second floor there’s a big, white statue of Jesus, taller than a house, and Jesus’ arms are out and all around him are stars and planets and in his hands are the scars from the nails used to put him on the cross. It’s the statue that Vincent’s brother Ron threw the rock at when he went crazy.

The temple looks like a castle, gray and pointy, made of granite, and on top is the tall gold statue of the angel Moroni who my brother is named after.

“Forty years to build” my mom says.

“I know” I answer.

“I’m just saying. Can you believe it? Forty years. I’m not even forty years.”

I don’t answer because we are at the side door to the temple and people are quietly entering.

My mom points down a hallway and lets me walk in front of her to a desk where a man in white clothing waits to look at my temple recommend, a small piece of paper signed by the bishop. We walk down a hall that feels like a tunnel but with lights and the kind of tile floors schools have. A gray-haired woman, also in white clothing, greets us. She’s not wearing a ring or a necklace. We are inside now, there are white walls and high ceilings and carpet; it is quiet and clean. The woman takes us to the ladies dressing room where there are benches and lockers. She asks me if I’m on my period. I say no and my mom tells her that I hadn’t even started for the first time yet and the woman shakes her head and smiles at me and I wish my mom hadn’t said that.

I go inside a dressing stall and hang my blue corduroy jumper and yellow cowl-neck blouse up in a locker. I put on a white jumpsuit and my mom, who is now dressed in white too, helps zip up the back.

“Mari is named after Marilyn; Mari with an “i”. That makes it all the more special,” my mom tells the woman in white who stands smiling with her hands clasped in front of her.

“Yes,” the woman says softly.

Two other women, both wearing white dresses and white pantyhose, walk me to the baptismal font. The font is held up by sculptures of big gold oxen, standing in a half circle. I walk up the painted-white metal stairs. Three other people in white clothing, two men, rush to the top of the platform once I step down into the water. I hear a murmur of voices; I hear Marilyn’s name. The people on the platform want to watch Marilyn’s baptism. They smile at me like they’re my grandparents.

After the man, who stands in the water with me, says a prayer and says the name Norma Jeane Baker, because that’s Marilyn’s official name growing up, the man dunks me all the way under the water. I pop up to the sounds of soft claps and some people even have both hands to their mouths as if my coming back up is a miracle.

Once my mom told me that if a person is really happy that you’ve done their temple work, they’ll show their appreciation by making your face change to look like theirs for a split second, so I say, “Do I look like Marilyn now?” and the people on the platform laugh and my mom stands at the top of the steps and smiles and nods her head yes. Her eyes are puffy and pink and she holds a tissue up to one side of her nose.

I dry my hair in the locker room and change back into my jumper and cowl neck. We go to the Walgreen’s restaurant just down the street, to share a grilled cheese sandwich and a Sprite at the counter.

While we eat, my mom tells me she thinks that Marilyn accepted it and that she’ll thank me in heaven for what I did. She also says that we’ll probably all be friends someday. When the check comes, I wonder if my mom has enough money.

Back at our trailer, my mom says she has to pick the kids up from Mrs. Yang’s. I like it with just the two of us so I say, “Listen to one thing?” and she says she will but just one thing. Then she walks around the house drying dishes and crying to Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” album, borrowed from Linda Mercer’s brother’s collection. I play the song “Candle in the Wind” because it’s about Marilyn. For a while my mom leans in the kitchen doorway with the dish towel at her hip and listens to the song. She makes a soft pouty face with her eyelids half closed and her lips pushed out when Elton John sings how Norma Jeane never knew who to cling to when the rain set in. Then my mom stares in the same hopeless way Marilyn did in The Misfits when Clark Gable went a little crazy with the horses, sort of sad and lost, with nothing left to look forward to.

Art by Freckle Face Girl