Contemplation on a Return to Church

I think I'm going to go to church tomorrow. That is, attend Sunday sacrament services of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (you know, the Mormons).

This may come as a shock to those of you who know me and who are familiar with my views about the LDS Church. I haven't gone to church in a long time because I just don't believe in it anymore. I don't think that the Mormons generally and proactively spread evil from the pulpit (excluding the few months when the Church mobilized its members during religious services in support of Proposition 8 in California). The last time I went, I think I was mostly pissed off that whatever the speakers had been droning on about was (from my East-Coast-liberal-secular perspective) logically unsound, ideologically driven B.S. Actually, come to think of it, I can't even really remember the last time that I went to church. It might have been sometime in college; I know I've never gone since graduation. So it's been at least four to five years.

Intellectual disagreements aside, one of the biggest reasons why I haven't gone to church is because, since the passage of Proposition 8, I had made a vow to never again step foot inside another LDS building. There's no real logic behind this principle, I suppose. I don't give the Church money automatically by entering the chapel. I guess if crowds and crowds of people were watching, the sight of me entering the chapel might constitute a tacit endorsement of the Church's policies and practices. But given that the chapel of the my local congregation (the Mormons call it a "ward") is set back some distance from a quiet, residential street on a hill at the edge of town, there's really no chance of that happening. What motivated the vow, then, was probably mostly anger: I imagined that it would most affect and be a statement to my own family, especially on my mom's side, of whom about half are practicing Mormons. Should they choose to host their celebrations (especially weddings) in a Church building, I would simply decline to attend: they won't have to celebrate my potential union, and I won't celebrate theirs.

All I can say is that anger ebbs and flows.

But why, really, go to church tomorrow? There are a few plausible reasons:

1. I'm bored, and my mom has the car anyway.
2. I'm interested to see what the Church is teaching these days, not so much in the sacrament meetings which are mostly reduced to catering to the lowest common denominator, but in the adult Sunday School and priesthood quorum classes.
3. I have many family friends whom I enjoy seeing and whom I haven't seen in a while (and whom, to be honest, I might not get to see for much longer given their age). It's a part of my background, and I still feel at home in that environment.
4. I secretly like the idea of making people uncomfortable and awkward knowing that a gay man is mingling with them in their place of comfort.
5. Some part of me thinks that it could be a small act of covert activism. By now, most members of my old congregation probably know that I'm gay and no longer active in the Church (my mom has thankfully spared me the pain and anguish of having to personally execute this information process). Maybe there are a few (or even just one or two) kids who are questioning their sexuality, and their families have warned them about this dangerous alternative lifestyle and pointed to certain other examples of the wayward path from the congregation. Maybe I will have played some part in these cautionary tales, and the kid(s) will see me tomorrow in the flesh as a functional, self-reliant, and openly gay man who is comfortable walking around Mormon-folk and, more importantly, living my life in a way that seems fulfilling and happy. And maybe they'll derive some hope from that sight.

I realize that these are all completely selfish and even self-important reasons. But, hey, these people are all going to church with the hope of gaining eternal salvation as gods in their own right, so who's being more selfish and self-important?

In any case, I've ironed my button-down shirt and slacks (there are oddly colored stains in the crotch area of my pants from various lunch-related spills at work; I hope my blazer will cover them). Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and decide it's not worth the mental effort and the social charades to play nice for three (three!) hours.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Greetings from California!

Gosh, it's been a while since I've written. And no wonder: between the Divas concert in June, finishing work, and moving out of our place in Cambridge, it's a miracle we'restill standing. Rather than sit around on my ass in Wellesley, however, I decided that I would take the month of July to come out to California instead and see family before I recommit myself to another 5-year stint on the East Coast.

I arrived on Thursday night and was immediately reminded why I love this part of the country: evenings in the summer, after the sun goes down, are at most 65 degrees and crisp. I walked out in a polo shirt and shorts and actually had to put on my fleece vest to stay warm. I had, of course, just come from Boston which had been consistently hot and humid for the three previous days. It was a welcomed break.

My chief concern while I'm in California is that I will get restless while I'm at home. I know myself enough to know that if I sit around too much with family I'll get frustrated because of the independence and flexibility to which I've become accustomed in Boston. To counteract this risk, I spent parts of Friday and Saturday in San Francisco and Berkeley, respectively, exploring and catching up with friends. Here is a photo of me lounging on Memorial Glade across from Butler Library while reading The Time Traveler's Wife.

It was hard while lying in such glorious sunshine not to think about the what-if's of my graduate school choice. I could play tennis 365 days of the year here! But, alas, the choice is made, and I know that Columbia is the right place for me to start my career as an historian.

But still. Look at that vast expanse of green grass.

OK. Enough of that before I go crazy.

On Sunday afternoon, my mother and I drove down to Salinas, California. Salinas, as the more literary among you may remember, is the birthplace of John Steinbeck. Nowadays, it's a little strip-mall-cum-farm-town in the Central Valley that, frankly, I would never visit if were not for my family.

My brother, his wife, and his father-in-law live with two young children in a small, gated development in Salinas. The condo is a 2-level, 3-bedroom unit with a detached garage and small, enclosed patio. Even in the short 36 hours that I've been here, I'm reminded of the vast differences between his and my life. The obvious one are the children: while I love kids, I don't imagine for a second that I could somehow shoulder the responsibility of providing for two of my own in one year's time (I'm exactly one year and three weeks younger than my brother). Instead, I'll be gallivanting around one of the most expensive cities in the world, reading day and night, eating cheap ethnic food, waiting for student-rush tickets on Broadway, and stopping in on world-class museums on their once-monthly free days. By comparison, my life seems carefree and, well, almost selfish. What's funny to me is that, when we were growing up, my brother was always the one who broke the rules, while I was the one who followed them to a T. And now, he's the faithful husband, father, and small-businessowner with a mortgage while I live in sin with another man in Manhattan.

All this is to say that one can never tell: people change; priorities change. If history were any indication, I should be the one with the kids and the wife and the mortgage.

Thankfully, for everyone's sake, I'm not.