We Have Never Been All Together

The premiere of season 7 of The Walking Dead is absurdly overwrought and cartoonishly violent. However, there is a scene at the end of the episode when all the main characters are gathered around a table heaped with food. They are smiling, laughing, and chatting, as close-knit and tightly bonded as any biological family could be. One could hardly imagine a more perfect heaven.

But two of the characters at the table had been brutally murdered just moments previously. The scene at the table is not real; it is an imagined vignette in the mind of Rick, the main protagonist in the series, a future memory that never was, that never will be. It is a vision likely to haunt him the rest of his life.

Continue reading


The Name, Unbound

The Name, Unbound
For Kelli, on the occasion of her re-naming

The end of our biology is not the death we are unprepared to kneel for.

Shadow-heavy, stagger-ready, our hurt always runs deeper than our reach.
Adam destroyed us.

He named, time began, the wheel turned

we took up our chains

and lurched toward that assigned horizon.

Our bodies weighted, wounded with that single name we drag through mud and blood rolling up

and compacting every mistake, every injury, every tired, stained and mundane scrap of bounded history

thrown to our wills, wheels of stories signed under a name used up,

thinned out, wrung with the sweat of undisclosed despair.

Every anxious silent gesture signals to our lovers: this name is not fully loved.

Nor are lovers anything but prematurely named.

If only we loved

ourselves enough to rename every organ, every cell, to be the Adams of our own gardens.

If only we loved

to die, again and again, to move on when we are used up, to become what is coming, what was always coming, that mewling howl of unwombed hope

that new birth

that chosen horizon

that new life

that desire to desire

that new name

that new name

that new name

To become funerary and sidereal, the dying suns in our own skies.

If only they would let us die, prepare the threshing floor for each new birth.

Then maybe we could remember our deaths with grace and name the world anew.

If only the stillborn were not what constantly staggers through this name-impoverished world.

This face, these scars, those well-worn shoes will never be enough.

And so we’ll continue to fall apart

Because there is no safe place we can go to die.

God the Mother in the Making: The Divine Poems of Rachel Hunt Steenblik’s “Mother’s Milk”


Mother’s Milk: Poems in search of Heavenly Mother

by Rachel Hunt Steenblik, with illustrations by Ashley Mae Hoiland

190 pages

©BCC Press, 2017










“At certain point in my life (after my mortal death), I was with him. I wasn’t with him for the first time—or even for the second or millionth time—it was more that I became aware that he had always been a presence within an absence—sometimes a little less absent, sometimes a little more present. I could make him out in vague outline, sometimes starkly explicit, sometimes blurry and inchoate. But what I could perceive I perceived with intimate familiarity, my perception precisely proportionate with the extent that I had come to know him and recognize him in life. (Mother was there, too, I felt certain. But I could not see her. Only later—much later—did I realize that this was because I did not know her.)”

Arrayed in Silence, I Gave Him Nothing: An Apologue of an Encounter with the Almighty God

Mormons often search for a female deity in much the same way that god-haunted, lapsed theists long for the once all-encompassing presence of the divine: the “evidence” for both appears slim to none when viewed through a certain lens, yet the longing is sure and wide.  Continue reading

The Protocol of Suffering and the Grace of Love


There’s a scene near the end of (the most recent version of) Battlestar Galactica where one of the main characters (Caprica) has a miscarriage. Overcome with grief, the father of the unborn child (Saul) goes to his friend (Bill Adama) to seek solace and comfort. “I know it’s not the same as Zak,” Saul admits to Adama. Zak was Adama’s son, who had died before the events of the series began. Adama, however, doesn’t respond with words. He simply embraces Saul and they weep together.  Continue reading

Unmournable Bodies, Unstoried People: On Why We Have Never Been All Together

The following is an adaptation and expansion of a paper I delivered at the 2017 Salt Lake Sunstone Symposium, originally titled, “Without Death We Cannot Mourn, Without Mourning We Cannot Be Saved: Mormonism’s Confrontation with It’s Haunted, Invisible Body.” As I adapted the paper for publication here it meandered off in a slightly different direction, so I’ve added a good deal more (the last section is largely new), removed some parts, and tightened the language overall. It also contains some sections that can be found in other essays throughout this blog, but most of the piece is new. 



Mainstream Mormonism (probably unbeknownst to most Mormons) has a rather complicated—to put it lightly—relationship with the New Testament, one that is perhaps similar in some ways to common Evangelical interpretations of scripture. There, Christ is God Supreme, a supernatural, foreknowing agent who condescended to come into the world in order to save us from ourselves. This is what Atonement is in modern Mormon theology, a mechanism as much as a divine gift, whereby each one of us becomes reconciled to themselves and to God through a third party—Christ—by obedience to practices centered in covenant promises that are assigned and ratified by authorized priests. We are split personalities, one personality being the sinful person we are, and the other the personality the one we see we must become but universally lack the will or the strength to do. Sin is the failed negotiation between these two personalities, the failed merging of reality with ideal, and atonement is the bridge, the “at-one-ment” between these, creating a whole, unitary individual with a single sinless identity in Christ.  Continue reading

To the Spaces of the Invisible and Forgotten



Truth isn’t the reward of free spirits, the child of protracted solitude, nor the privilege of those who have succeeded in liberating themselves.

–Michel Foucault

The primary problem is always with institutions. Foucault was right on this point. The relationship that modern Mormons have with truth is straightforwardly Platonic: the masses are imprisoned in a dark cave, mistaking the shadows dancing on the wall for the real world. What they need is an Enlightened One, he (almost always a “he” of course) who has been to the surface and has seen the the whole of the Truth. And there it sits, out in the open, simply waiting to be gazed upon and accepted. But upon re-entering the cave with this earth-shattering revelation, he finds that most of the masses reject the Real Light. They cannot conceive of a reality that is not the one before their eyes. Except, of course, for a chosen few, who follow the Enlightened One out of the cave and into the Truth. Now they will dedicate the rest of their lives to preaching the One Truth to those who sit in darkness, pulling as many out as they can, providing a safe space for these refugees of half-truths and lies.  Continue reading

Suffering and Time


There’s no guarantee that suffering will produce greater empathy and compassion, but suffering creates optimal conditions for these to take root because it arrests time–our experience of time–in a particular way. The very thing that makes suffering feel so interminable is also that which clears the space we need to notice details about the world (including the conditions other people are in) that we wouldn’t have otherwise paid any attention. We move and think more slowly when we are in pain. Of course, the source of our pain is initially all we can concentrate on. Everything fades into the background as all our senses combine to eradicate whatever is causing us intense discomfort.

But suffering is different. Suffering is pain indexed by time. Suffering is the relentlessness of physical or emotional degradation that tears at the innermost caverns of our being. Suffering tries to undo the intricate, focused weavings of time and space that constitute the essence of who we believe ourselves to be and how we believe the world is ordered. Suffering makes it feel precisely as if all of reality has fissured into chaos and disorder. Simone Weil put it this way:

When we strike the head of a nail with a hammer, all the shock received by the head of the nail passes through to the point in its entirety. If the hammer and the head of the nail were infinitely huge, all of this would still happen in the same way. The point of the nail would transmit an infinite shock through the point to that which it is nailed.

Extreme affliction, which is at the same time physical suffering, distress of the soul and social degradation, constitutes the nail. The point is applied to the very center of the soul. The head of the nail is all of necessity spread across the totality of space and time.

Time’s slow crawl in the midst of suffering is what allows us to be singularly attuned to others’ distress, if we can pay attention. The world looks different when we suffer. We move and speak differently. Suffering pulls and stretches our understanding, poking and prodding what we thought we knew to be true, making the possible impossible but also transforming the impossible into the possible. It takes a lot of effort (and often our strength fails us) but within this time displacement we can often find a way to sit with ideas and people in ways that before would have seemed foreclosed to us.

Mormonism, Purity, and the Conditions of Truth


Ecclesial Secularism, Fundamentalism, and Authoritarianism
In essence, secularists are those who advocate separation of state from religious institutions. In this sense, most religious Americans might be considered secularists. Even those who self-identify as secularist do not usually actively seek religion’s dissolution, nor are they of necessity temperamentally hostile to religion and religious peoples. They merely wish to be free from religious conceptual and institutional imposition. However, I’m more interested here in a more narrow and specific subset of secularism, what I have labeled “ecclesial secularism.” Ecclesial secularists see in secularism an all-embracing or universally encompassing worldview, the shape and contours—obviously not the content—of which look quasi-religious or ecclesiastical, whose adherents are devout, organized, and committed to not simply maintaining a separation between religions and states, but to actively promoting the erasure of religious institutions and ideas throughout all of human culture, not merely as they touch on political and otherwise non-religious institutions. Like many churches, ecclesial secularism:

  • claims ideological universality. Its ideas aren’t meant to only apply to certain regions or cultures or groups, but to everyone everywhere as the sole possessors of the “truth” of enlightenment and rationality.
  • accepts the legal reality of separation between church and state (in those areas of the world where such exists), but actively works to undermine and ghettoize religion where possible with the ultimate purpose of eliminating it from competition in the arena of ideas and loyalties. Likewise, churches historically sought to maintain religious monopolies in order to eliminate their competition.
  • attempts to be closely allied with cultural, academic, and political institutions in order to diversify and intensify the enforcement of its beliefs and ideas. Churches have also almost always tied themselves to state and/or secular powers for the same reasons.
  • attempts to gain converts through aggressive proselytizing.

Continue reading

Here We Will Sit Down and Weep When We Remember Zion

Any essay of mine published last year in an anthology, A Book of Mormons: Latter-day Saints on a Modern-Day Zion. 

Here’s a review of the book that also includes a short review of the essay.

Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together. Eugène Ionesco

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. Psalm 137:1

Could there be any ideal farther out of reach than Zion? For thousands of years various peoples have tried to build city-versions of it, only to have them captured or destroyed. Jewish and Christian communities have longed for it with such prolonged intensity that numerous locations both past and future have borne its designation: Zion was a ruined, once glorious city left behind in ages past; or it was a mountain, or a temple. Zion is simultaneously a future utopia, where the righteous will dwell in peace forever.

In the midst of seemingly eternal remembering and waiting, Mormons have found a place for Zion in the present: within the pure in heart, those who dwell together with one heart and mind. But who are the pure in heart? Where are those communities of people who willingly live side by side, who think and feel as one? Would any of us dare to number ourselves amongst these godlike beings, who dwell in the company of angels?

Seemingly the one place in scripture where Zion is a successEnoch’s legendary citywas taken by God to heaven without a trace. Yet we learn from Enoch that even (perhaps especially) such a paradisiacal association is not without its cost. Before God removes Zion from the world, he shows Enoch the immense suffering and evil among the peoples of the earth, and Enoch is filled with sorrow and bitterness. He would eventually receive a fullness of joy, but not before he was burdened with the sorrow and despair of the world.

Continue reading

Love Believes All Things

Activist and psychologist Kristy Money has a smart op-ed in the Salt Lake Tribunethat responds to a conference recently held at BYU regarding intellectualism and faith. She reports that there were frequent accusations of intellectual laziness and moral defectiveness among those who leave the LDS Church. Not only are these accusations untrue, she says, but they are completely ineffective. Trying to change someone else’s beliefs never works, and in fact only reinforces their worldview. Instead, unconditional love is the only thing that will preserve relationships, which is the putative purpose of the Gospel in the first place.

Are people who leave religion morally defective? Hardly. Usually, people who purposefully leave demanding religious institutions (as opposed to those who simply drift away over time) have an almost overdeveloped feeling of personal moral conviction. Of course moral positions themselves are always debatable, but rarely do you see a case of some kind of conscious ideological embrace of immorality. Intellectual laziness? Also quite the opposite (though intellectual activity is not of itself the same as being intellectually rigorous). Deceived by Satan? Sure, why not. Yet those who launch those accusations are hardly in an epistemic position to judge whether demonic influence is at play, any more than anyone is in a position to judge someone else’s spiritual convictions.

Of course most of us have probably encountered a healthy number of exited religionists who display precisely the same problematic intellectual and moral approaches they once did as religionists, only now obviously to different moral and intellectual objects. As should be frequently expected. We rarely adopt new cognitive tools for interpreting the world just because our fields of belief have changed. But again, this does not equate to moral defection or intellectual weakness.

As always–as much for our current political crisis as our more familiar religious crises–the primary battle hinges on what we mean by love and how we enact what is meant. We consider love to be so central to human relations, yet perhaps its near universally accepted importance is why it’s a surprisingly underdeveloped concept compared to other shared values. We think we know what it means to love intimately, and our inability to fully describe this process functions as a sign of how real and powerful it is to us. So love is in a sense a mystical transcendence, something we do not fully understand, are not fully in control of, and that comes upon us, something that’s not wholly generated from inside us, and whether we are theists or atheists it is in that sense our God, that which we ultimately worship because it is, to paraphrase Paul Tillich, the object of our ultimate concern. And as our ultimate concern, one of the main problems–particularly for religious communities–is that we want to separate love from belief. Ideally, we think, we should love people “in spite of” what they or we believe, or we believe what we believe “in spite of” who we think we should love. In either case, love is ultimately Supreme. When all is said and done, we collectively affirm that we should choose love above all else (though what this amounts to can be vastly different from one person to another). But in reality, usually what we end up doing is merely loving those who share our beliefs and believing those who demonstrate their love.

Kierkegaard has a fascinating take on what real love should be capable of. “Love believes all things—and yet is never deceived,” he wrote. Of course he’s echoing Paul, who wrote the same to the Corinthians. He contrasts this belief with mistrust, which believes nothing and yet is nevertheless deceived. People act upon knowledge, he says, but they do so out of either faith or mistrust. We might think, for example, that the religious act purely out of faith, but this is not the case. The religious will faithfully affirm certain religious propositions and enact faith in particular contexts, but they will usually act on general knowledge no differently than the non-religious do–with at least initial skepticism and mistrust. Because as human beings we live in a world of constant deception, illusion, and partial understanding. We cannot always even trust our own senses or intuitions.

Nevertheless, Kierkegaard insists, this move is deceptive because it assumes that from a cautious vantage point of safe and secure mistrust (and only from this vantage point) can one act upon knowledge. When faced with something new, something unknown or unfamiliar, something never seen or experienced before, our default orientation is mistrust and skepticism. Skepticism and mistrust are thus seen as essential in order to both appropriately know and to act on that knowledge. This transforms knowledge itself into mistrust, insisting that one can only know something through an initial stance of disbelief, through a kind of skeptical scientific experimentation and therefore that everyone must come to the same conclusions about our world based on this deceptive initial disbelief. In this sense communities initially form as much due to shared mistrust of the world as faith or belief in a set of shared values. The assumption, then, is that everyone mistrusts and therefore everyone learns knowledge (or truths) through this same process.  But, Kierkegaard argues, by virtue of love one can conclude the opposite based on the same knowledge, meaning that such knowledge need not be gained mistrustfully. This was simply the epistemic mode through which knowledge was originally acquired, but it needn’t be the only mode. Kierkegaard insists that love is just as knowledgeable as mistrust. True subjective living confronts you, tests you with these two possibilities–love or mistrust.  It forces you to choose, and in doing so you reveal yourself to yourself and to the world: “what dwells in you must be disclosed.” To live and love, then, is to become so disclosed. It is to constantly make judgments of yourself, and to judge others is to make a particular judgment on yourself. To choose an existential stance of belief through love allows one to believe all things without being deceived; even if one is lied to or encounters a deception (a falsity about the world) one is nevertheless not deceived because one loves and does not come by this knowledge through mistrust. Love is not naive; it knows what mistrust knows. But it simply loves, affirms, builds up. In this sense it is infinitely beyond all deception because of a certain orientation toward all things: that of honest self-disclosure.

Consequently, one who believes in and through love sees goodness where others cannot. She sees many things that the loveless, or the deceptively loving do not see. Indeed, one can be deceived that one is loving. False love blinds itself to the other, ignoring weakness and fault in order to project a fantastical image of itself on the blank screen that the other becomes. True love loves the other because the other is other, and valued for itself, not merely as a means to my personal advantage. The true believer (the one who believes all things through love) no longer sees opposition between appearance and reality, no longer encounters difference as a threat. As Slavoj Žižek wrote, trying to describe the fragile absolute of Christian love, “precisely in trusting appearances, the loving person sees the other the way she/he effectively is, and loves her for her very foibles, not in spite of them.”

Most importantly, the love that believes all things does not produce certainty. It does not make things easy; on the contrary, in an important sense it makes things more difficult. Love is not a blissful escape into the Romantic idealized universe. Christian charity, says Žižek, is “rare and fragile, to be fought for and regained again and again.” Both Kierkegaard and Zizek refer to love as the work of love. Zizek writes, “love is the work of love—the hard and arduous work of repeated ‘uncoupling’ in which, again and again, we have to disengage ourselves from the inertia that constrains us to identify with the particular order we were born into…Christian unplugging is not an inner contemplative stance, but the active work of love which necessarily leads to the creation of an alternative community.” Original Christianity, he argues, was the creation of an erotic community of lovers, where the social hierarchy was flattened and destroyed precisely by loving and elevating the lowest member of the community, instead of the sole maintenance an epistemic community of knowers.

Love and belief are not, therefore, separable. You cannot bracket what you believe in order to love another who does not share your belief. Your belief, in any case, is not volitional. It came upon you as a way of understanding the world, not as a menu option you consciously and rationally selected among other options. It remains with you, something you cannot simply dispose of at will. If your love is in conflict with your belief, it is because your love cannot see, not because your belief demands that you cannot love. And if your love cannot see, then it is not truly love. True love can believe all things without fear.