Theist's Risk

Theist’s Risk

To worship quick the faulted sound

The loud and calling voice

The empty vow of joy to find

In places boasting choice

While seems to lack a truth therein

Those dazzling hands bear lies

“Put out the thought of other means

Embrace what God designs”

In doing thus, lose more than self

Lose freedom, life and this

Becomes the mourner’s quiet knell

The theist’s awful risk

The Lesson

There was a classroom, not unlike any other. It had letters upon the walls, chalkboards with echoes of lessons past, rubbed halfheartedly away. There were desks, row after row that encompassed the heart of the room, each with a little chair tucked carefully beneath. And there were two windows, bright and cheery which gave a limited view of the world outside.

            But this classroom was special; it was only occupied by one teacher, and he gave the same lesson to every student year after year after year.  Today was the beginning of a new semester and he stood in the door way, scratching his thick bearded chin, wondering how he should begin.

            Carefully, he walked past the rows of desks to the front of the room, where the large black chalk board awaited. Picking up a small fragment of chalk that had been left over from his last class, he wrote in large, bold letters “It Begins”. A few moments later, students began to enter the room, each taking a seat wherever they wanted. The teacher chuckled to himself; it’s what they always did.

            Once each seat was filled, he tapped the chalkboard with his fist to quiet the chatter.

            “Hello,” he began. “Welcome to life.” The students were clearly puzzled, so he continued. “Here we will learn all of the tools we need to either succeed, or fail. Which, my friends, will depend entirely upon you. So, let us first begin by rearranging.” He moved through the classroom, randomly moving students to different seats, without any real rhyme or reason. And once he was satisfied, he returned to the chalkboard.

            “There,” he said. “That is much better. And so, it begins. You want to pay attention, at the end of the class, there will be a reward for the students who achieve an A.”

            He taught their first lesson that day. It wasn’t anything grand, merely a small lesson about a historical figure in a land far away. Each day, he would tell them the story again, and eventually, they could repeat it back. Sometimes they questioned why they were learning about this person, sometimes they zoned out. Anytime they argued, the teacher would add a little detail here and there, and they would discuss what could be learned from the man in the story.

            Finally, the last day of the semester came. The students had been anticipating the test since day one, and each of them felt adequately prepared. And just as they expected, the teach walked through the rows of desks handing out the final exam. Then, he went to the corner of the room, sat down in a chair with a magazine, and began to read. The students flipped open the test to page one, and there wasn’t a one that didn’t let out a confused murmur.

            One girl in the front row raised her hand. “Excuse me sir, I don’t remember learning about the French Revolution.” Another student gasped.

            “My test is on advanced calculus,” he said.

            “There must be a mistake, mine is basic sentence structure,” another boy in the back said. The teacher nodded.

            “Just do your best,” he said, and went back to reading. The students shrugged, groaned, grimaced, but attacked their tests anyway. Once the class period was nearly up, the teacher went back through the room and picked up all the tests, even the ones that weren’t finished. As he went back to the front of the room, one student made an angry outburst.

            “This isn’t fair. You didn’t prepare us for the tests you gave, and no one had the same test.” The teacher turned around to address him. There was a collection of affirming murmurs throughout the room, but the teacher held up his hand to silence them.

            “Yes, but you will all be graded on a curve. There were eight different tests. If you look on the back wall, you will see a sign that has your test number, please go stand under the test you took.”

            The students all got up from their desks and sorted themselves out to their corresponding numbers.

            “Now, how many of you felt like you were familiar with the material in the test you took?” the teacher asked. A few nodded, saying they knew a thing or two. “Please divide yourselves to two additional sections in your groups, those who were familiar and those who weren’t.” The students did as he asked.

            “Now, each test group will be graded on a separate curve. And each subgroup of each test will be graded on a curve again.”

            “That’s even worse!” a young woman shouted in anger. “That means someone who knew less than me could potentially get a higher grade than me! And we weren’t even tested on material we were taught in class! Some of us didn’t know a thing, and some of us got a test as simple as 2^nd grade addition. How can you possibly grade us in this way?”

            “That’s how this class has always been taught,” the teacher answered as-a-matter-of-factly. “Now, give me a moment to calculate your scores.” The students glared and grumbled, but waited. As soon as he was finished, the teacher approached them again.

            “All of the students on the front row get an extra 10 points added to their scores, just because, and the students in the very back right corner don’t benefit from the curve,” he said. There was another angry outburst. “But even still, it looks like only Jonathan and Bernard received A’s, not necessarily of their own merit, but because I wanted them to succeed. So they will be the only two students invited to attend the end-of-semester party after school in the auditorium.”

            The same young woman burst out again. “This is ridiculous!” she thundered. “You can’t possibly suggest that the rest of us get low scores simply because you assigned us to the wrong row or we had bad luck and got tested on material we didn’t know. Did those two boys even earn their A's, or did you decide that too? How can you in good conscious do this?”

            The teacher got a knowing smile on his face. “Yes, how can I possibly hand out tests that I know 99% of you will fail? And then how can I fairly grade you when I gave different tests to each student, knowing full well if you were familiar or not with the material? How can I give these students more points because they sat in a certain seat and I was the one to arrange it? How can I reward any of you, or punish any of you? It is incredibly unfair, isn’t it?” The room was silent. “Do you see what I mean?”

            The young woman touched the sacred emblem hanging around her neck, a sullen look spreading across her face. “I think I do sir,” she said, lowering her head in a defeated silence. Each of them left the room, considering more than they ever had before, as Jonathan and Bernard were the only two to enjoy the end of the semester party.

You see me differently now

You see me differently now.

I'm not the same. You used to have such high expectations. You used to have hopes and dreams for me. I could do anything you thought. I was kind. I was faithful. I had a special purpose.

You used to look at me differently. Talk to me differently. Your voice was full of happiness when we spoke. You used to laugh. You were excited to see me. You wanted to share things with me.

Things are different now.

You don't see me the way you used to. I'm damaged. I'm afraid. I gave up a part of myself. I lost my way.

You pity me. You feel bad for me. You think I've made bad choices. You think I've fallen away. You believe I have no morals, that my life is something to be feared. That you should distance yourself from me because I am a bad example, or that I send the spirit away.

You don't share things with me that you consider important. You won't share things you consider sacred. You speak to me in limited conversations, about shopping or the weather. Nothing truly important. You lament about me to people you know.

You don't call me anymore. And you don't call me back either. You are ashamed. You wonder, what did you do wrong? Is this punishment? Were you more faithful, would I have been spared? You think of me as a sign of the times, proof that there is a God and that there is a devil. You think I have been seduced by the world. You don't take pride in the things I do anymore, not the way you used to, because I do them without god.

You worry about me. You think I'm in constant danger because I am godless. You think I will succumb to the smallest of worldly temptations. You think I am a bad influence.

You wonder what horrible thing happened in my life to send me down this path. You wonder why I gave in instead of turning to god. You pray for me. But you avoid me. I'm not the same. You see me so differently now.

Because I left the Mormon church. Because I am now an atheist.

You are right. I am different. But I'm still me. I still have brown hair and brown eyes. I still get goosebumps every time I listen to music by James Horner. I still love to read Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. I still decorate my house with reindeer and garland at Christmas. I still love to take pictures of my kids. I still believe in being loyal to my husband. I still think smoking and illegal drugs are bad. I'm still me. You can still have hopes for me, you can still have expectations for my success. You can still take pride in my accomplishments, you can still think I'm a good person.

Don't push me away because I don't believe in your god anymore. And please don't pity me and wonder what went wrong. Because I don't see it that way. And it makes me so sad when I think you pity my life. I have a beautiful life. Its not perfect, but neither is yours. I live as authentically as I can. I don't hide my feelings, or my ideas. I don't suppress my questions anymore. I don't live a lie, which is what I was living before. I feel happy. I feel free. So don't feel sorry for me.

Please accept me, because I accept you. I don't agree with you, and I am sad when I see how religion is harmful to people I love, especially when it causes them to judge me for not living it anymore. But I don't want to push you away. I want to share my ideas the same way you want to share yours, and with just as much passion. And life is more valuable to me now because I don't think there is anything after we die. I want to make the most of the time I have with you now, rather than putting you aside until after death. Because I know that has crossed your mind. That I will know its all true when I'm dead and you can reconnect with me then. I know you've thought of it, because I once thought it too.

I am different. But I am still me. Love me for who I am, and I will love you for who you are. I don't love religion, but I love you. And that is more important to me than anyone who would tell me to keep my distance because we think differently.

When the fire is lit, it's hard to stop

I was cleaning out my basement after a run in with a vile little vermin that had pooped all over and chewed up my linens. The miserable little thing died in a 5 gallon buck in my garage because my husband and I both lacked the nerve to end it. But it did leave me with a big mess to clean.

While cleaning, I was sorting through things on the shelves to put in tupperware boxes, hopefully to keep further offenders off. And I found a sleeping bag bag with my husband's old temple clothes. I have a big green box for all of the church stuff, and got it out to put the temple clothes away. IN the box I found my old scriptures, letters from my mom and sister, magazines, pictures, and a letter I had written but never sent to President Eyring.

A lot of these items represented a very troubling time in my life. At this point I don't think I'd have any second thoughts to setting the box on fire. But when I began filling it, my superstitions were still very strong. My parents went into panic mode when they noticed, and I received letters, envelops and packages almost every other week containing church materials, apologetics, images, magazines, letters of encouragement for the faith.

I prayed every single night. I fasted. I plead with that unseen being for my eternal soul and the souls of my husband and children. I never received an answer, or comfort. And the more I sought, the guiltier I felt. There was clearly something wrong with me if god was ignoring me this way. I went to church and felt hopeless, it seemed like every other lesson was about the strong sisters of the church who's husbands had fallen away, yet they remained faithful. The other half was about ignoring the temptations of the intellectual world.

I was finally called to teach in relief society, about our troubled current times. I found myself confused by the things I read and was asked to teach on Sundays. It was strange to me how closely conference talked mirrors Facebook trending articles. Instead of thinking it was inspired, I wondered if it was merely a reaction and attempt to contain members.

The fact that my  husband was nearly all the way out of the church didn't help either. I was confused. I was lost. I was caught between upholding the religion of my parents and the fact that it simply didn't make any sense. I felt like if I left, or if I even considered material that might lead to me leaving, I would be betraying their love. It was a time of harrowing guilt. I kept clinging to the promise that god would eventually reveal the truth to me. I kept waiting and praying for that day. I read my patriarchal blessing every Sunday, and reread letters from Nick while he was on his mission. I became depressed.

Finally, I decided I needed to p rove to myself that the church was true, and I was going to have to do more involved research than just reading the Book of Mormon.

I started with lds.org. I read their essays on woman, polygamy, and the blacks and the priesthood. I read passages about Emma Smith's condemnation for not accepting Joseph's plural wives. I read about god's omnipotence and wondered about free agency with a deity who already is omniscient. It made no sense.

I found myself on fair mormon. I read about the Kinderhook plates, the Book of Abraham. I read about the seer stone, and translating out of a hat. I read about Fanny Alger, and the 14 year old child bride. I read about the relief society. Finally I found the CES letter. And it changed my life.

The day I read that letter, I confessed to my husband that I had been doing research for several months. He asked if I believed in god. I said no.

That was the third time in our marriage he brought me home flowers. Which lets you know what an enormous event it was.

A fire had been lit, and I was powerless to stop it. The more I tried to prove my religion, the more I discovered how malicious and false it actually was. The more I tried to strengthen my faith, the weaker it became. The more I prayed with no answers, the more I began to understand I was simply talking to myself. The more I read about my religion's history, the more disturbed by it I was. The more I contemplated morality, objectivism, ethics, and existence, the more I began to understand how a personal god is impossible.

As I began to see more of the world, and began to understand better, I saw things in a different light. One major event for me was the outbreak of Ebola. Millions of people died. One doctor who was abroad offering aid was infected, he was brought home and he prayed. He said he prayed day and night to be spared. God answered his prayers. Why then did god ignore the pleas of the suffering children? The mothers and fathers? The lonely beggars, all bleeding and dying from that horrible virus? Why did god choose to save the wealthy doctor and not the little homeless girl?

I'll tell you why. God doesn't exist. That doctor was saved by complex medicine and skilled American physicians. That little girl died because she didn't receive proper treatment. It's simple. There is no god.

There is no god when the 5 year old boy is being raped by his ecclesiastical leader. There is no god when the wife is being hit by her husband. There is no god when the baby is born with congenital heart defects.  There is no god when the homeless man wins the lottery. There is no god when the teenage girl finds the perfect pair of shoes. There is no god when the vet saves the dog from heart worms. There is no god when you pray to know he exists.

When that fire was lit, I could not stop it. There was just too much evidence to suggest to me that my religion was false. That it was abusive. And that it had stolen thousands of dollars from me to do conceited things like build malls and mega worship centers. Over a period of two tears, I struggled. It did not happen over night. And I resisted for as long as I could, because I was scared.

I'm not scared anymore. I'm hurt, I'm sad, but I'm not longer fearful of hellish retribution by a jealous god who would rather see me rot in hell than have his name tarnished. And if he does exist, he will have to answer to millions upon millions of people who have suffered in his name. He will have to account for each murder, each rape, each child who suffocated in gas chambers. Each mother who watched her baby starve to death. He should pay.

The most likely explanation is, however, that god simply doesn't exist. And that brings me more comfort that I ever received believing that he did.