I’m a Mormon (still)
I’m a Mormon. I was born to Mormon parents who are descended from pioneer stock. They crossed the plains in wagons or pushing handcarts. When they arrived in Salt Lake, they were sent on yet another trek to southern Utah or what is now Idaho. The men served multiple missions, leaving their wives and children on farms in lonely settlements, traveling to Europe by boat, and returning months or even years later.
My great-great-great-great grandfather, John Pidding Jones, was at least the fourth in a line of violinists. One night he played his violin for the second Mormon prophet, Brigham Young, who was staying at his home in Enoch. His son John Lee Jones also played the violin. One night, he was returning from playing for a dance when his horse spooked and threw him. He landed on the violin he had been given by his father. He survived, but the violin did not.
Several generations later, I learned to play some of their songs on my own violin.
At my great-grandmother’s funeral, her wrinkled body lay in the casket, dressed in her white temple dress and a green apron. Her descendants crowded together in the Relief Society room, some sitting on cushioned folding chairs, others standing by the walls. Several toddlers played on the floor. Before the casket was closed, her veil was placed on her head. After the prayer at the graveside service, my family returned to the church building for a meal prepared by the local Relief Society sisters. I sat at a table in the gym with my cousins as we ate the food. Homemade rolls with butter. Warm honeyed ham. An iceberg lettuce salad. And the ubiquitous Mormon comfort dishes, jello and funeral potatoes.
One summer my family dressed up in costumes we had made. Dresses with poofy sleeves and yards of calico in the skirts for the girls. Loose button-up shirts and jeans for the boys. We wore straw hats or bonnets to protect our faces from the sun as we pushed and pulled a handcart up hills and around rocks. We gasped the muggy air, laughed at jokes, and sang hymns.
That night mom threw up, heaving her dinner onto the ground by our tent. The next morning we removed our belongings from the handcart and watched the others leave without us. Unlike the early Mormon pioneers, we could simply go home when someone was sick.
Four mornings a week for four years, I gave up much needed sleep to attend early morning seminary. Each year, a friend and I had a competition to see who could memorize all the scripture mastery first.
One morning in seminary our instructor, Sister Nelson, referenced a talk by President Gordon B. Hinkley about the word “Mormon.” He explained that Mormon means “more good.” More good faith in Christ, more good families, more good tolerance and respect for others’ beliefs, more good service. That morning I felt proud to be a Mormon and eager to add more good to the world.
Nearly every summer we’d cram six kids, two adults, several days of clothing, a few sleeping bags, a picnic lunch, and drive four hours from our home in Kingman to Ivins, Utah. Grandpa Scholl would regale us with stories of our ancestors. He’d tell us about the poetry his mother (and my namesake) wrote, about his uncle Dan who served in World War I, and about how he joined the Church when he was eleven. Grandma Scholl tickled and teased us. She and Grandpa told us crazy stories from when they were younger, like the time they drove several hours to toilet paper her sister’s house in the middle of the night and the time they schemed with several other couples in their ward to feed the missionaries the same “secret family recipes” for an entire week. The missionaries were confused when they were fed the same “secret family recipes” by unrelated families several nights in a row. On the last night, all the families joined the missionaries for desert and admitted the prank.
Then we’d cross the street to Great-Grandpa Jones’ house. My younger sister, Margret would ask for permission to look at Grandma Jones’ paintings, which were hung up around the house. In between admiring each painting, she would race back to Grandpa Jones and eagerly ask, “Can I look at another one, please?”
Grandpa Jones captivated us with stories about being in the army during WWII. He’d give us cooking tips: buy a few fresh eggs to mix in the powdered eggs — shells and all — and put some lemon seeds in the powdered lemonade to convince your men they were fresh. Once a high-ranking United States officer visited their camp. The other cooks hurriedly made coffee and tea, trying to impress the general. Grandpa watched them, then made lemonade. While the other cooks’ offers of coffee and tea were refused, Grandpa’s offer of lemonade was accepted. “How’d you know?” the cooks asked him. “I’m a Mormon,” he replied, “and so is the officer.”
If we visited at the end of the summer, we’d pick apricots and walnuts and pomegranates off the plants in Grandpa Jones’ yard. When we got home, we’d use the fruit in our family’s traditional pomegranate salad and crack the nuts to put in our breakfast cereal.
Every week my family would gather on Monday night for Family Home Evening. As a young child, Monday was my favorite day of the week. I’d loudly sing “family home evening, family home evening, family home evening” over and over and over again. Sometimes we’d make treats — cutting cookies out of thin dough, then icing them as they cooled. We’d place them on plates, and then drive around our neighborhood, placing them on someone’s doorstep, ringing the doorbell, and then rapidly scurrying away. Other times we’d walk down the block and around the corner to play at the park. Sometimes in the spring we’d gather in the back yard with shovels and gloves and seeds. Dust covered our hands and shoes as we dug in the soil and planted our yearly garden.
As a student at Brigham Young University, I took a class from Dr. Eric Eliason on Mormon folklore. We told each other three Nephite and mission stories, talked about the specific words and phrases commonly used in fast and testimony meeting, discussed early Mormon women giving healing blessings, practiced divining for water, and laughed as we gave examples of the extremely creative and sometimes comical ways Mormon youth invite each other on dates. Through these conversations, I realized that I am culturally and ethnically a Mormon. Mormon culture has shaped my life since I was a tiny baby being blessed by my father in church. Mormon is who I am.
Last summer I sat at my kitchen table scrolling through my news feed until “Mormon News Channel” caught my eye. Curiously I clicked on the link and began reading the article. As I read through the article about the new style guide, questions swirled around. Then I felt sadness, grief at the verbal erasure of a core part of my identity by the few words “avoid using the nickname Mormon.” Soon hot, angry tears rolled down my cheeks. I called my mom and read her a sentence of the new style guide. “When describing the combination of doctrine, culture and lifestyle unique to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the term ‘the restored gospel of Jesus Christ’ is accurate and preferred.” I repeated the sentence again. Then, tears still wetting my face, I brokenly explained “The gospel of Jesus Christ is faith, repentance, baptism, the gift of the Holy Ghost, and enduring to the end with love for God and humankind. Trek is not the restored Gospel of Jesus Christ. Jello and funeral potatoes are not the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Family Home Evening is not the gospel of Jesus Christ. These are Mormon. They are my culture. My heritage. My family traditions. They are me. I can’t refer to them as the restored gospel of Jesus Christ when I know they aren’t. But what word other than “Mormon” do I have to name them?”
Mom acknowledge that I was right, the gospel and the culture are two different things. She suggested that perhaps additional clarification would be given at General Conference.
The next few weeks I watched others celebrate the announcement asking members to use the full name of the church and not use “Mormon.” I waited the rest of the summer, hesitant to admit my pain to others who were so full of joy about the new style guide.
In October I sat on the green basement couch with my husband and watched General Conference. I cuddled up next to my husband as President Nelson began speaking, hoping for a clarification about the culture versus the gospel. I was curious when he immediately referenced the study guide. First he rebuked those who had questioned the new style guide. Did that rebuke include my sincere questions? Then he stated, “if we allow nicknames to be used or adopt or even sponsor those nicknames ourselves, He is offended.” I felt confused. The Christ I know is not easily offended. He is loving and kind and considerate and empathetic and merciful.
President Nelson continued, “When it comes to nicknames of the Church, such as the “LDS Church,” the “Mormon Church,” or the “Church of the Latter-day Saints,” the most important thing in those names is the absence of the Savior’s name. To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan.”
The words “victory for Satan” kept repeating in my mind.
Was he saying that if I choose not to call the “doctrine, culture and lifestyle” of members of my church “the restored gospel of Jesus Christ,” but call the culture “Mormon” that would be a “victory for Satan”? I wasn’t sure.
When my husband and I discussed my questions later, he agreed that according to President Nelson’s talk and the style guide, calling my culture “Mormon” would probably be considered a “victory for Satan.”
Over a year after the new style guide was announced, I still have complicated feelings about President Nelson’s focus on not using the word “Mormon.” I understand that using “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints” puts emphasis on Christ, and I’m willing to use the full name of the Church.
But Mormonism is not my religion; it’s my culture, my family heritage, and tradition. I’m culturally a Mormon, and as a Mormon I’ll continue to create more good in the world. I’ll continue gathering with other young adults for an informal family home evening once a month to discuss Christ and the gospel and how we are learning to live it. We’ll promote more good faith in Christ. With my husband I’ll create a strong, happy family filled with laughter, and someday, eventually, some kids. We’ll make more good as a family. I’ll send the op-ed I wrote during my final semester at BYU about encouraging tolerance and compassion to the newspaper. I’ll support more good tolerance and respect. When I run for office in a few years, I’ll focus on serving with integrity and civility. I’ll give more good service to my community.
Like that morning in seminary, I’m still proud to be a Mormon and eager to add more good to the world.
