Ragging on Mormon Culture is a Problem

I often hear people complain about church culture, with the implication that we ought to get rid of as much of it as possible and live the pure gospel. “Let’s get rid of Latter-day Saint lingo; it’s confusing to investigators.” “Trek is such a weird thing; can’t we stop doing it?” The simplifying of church programs. And then there are also those scary stories people tell about Utah culture.

Part of this is what I recently heard Christopher Blythe call the “self-loathing Mormon,” the need to distance ourselves from the culture we know so many of our more sophisticated friends distain. We worry that liking Saturday’s Warrior or admitting to having read all the volumes of The Work and the Glory will make us look like backward yokels. Additionally, the move towards fewer church activities seems like a good idea because it helps us focus exclusively on the gospel, on Jesus, rather than the church and its many traditions; and besides, we have so many other things to be busy with.

bryce canyon with sandy rocks in national park of usa
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Eugene England tried to counter this exalting of the gospel at the expense of the church in his famous essay “Why the Church is as True as the Gospel.” He pointed out that only in interacting as a community can we truly practice the principles that we are learning through the gospel. Learning and intellectually assenting to gospel principles is irrelevant if we don’t practice them on those around us. Our wards are the ideal gym through which to practice love and charity by close association with those who we might otherwise avoid, practice leading and following without compulsion.

I love Brother England’s point, but I’d like to approach the necessity of the church from a different angle: the need for culture. Wherever humans are, this strange amorphous thing called culture develops. To misquote scripture, “where two or three are gathered,” there culture will be, that amalgamation of unique vocabulary, folklore, rituals, traditions, and activities, not to mention my favorite part, stories.

We can’t eliminate church culture any more than we can eliminate language. It’s something that’s going to happen either way. But what we can do is weaken it, starve it, actively suppress it. We can cancel traditional activities in favor of simplifying our ward’s social calendar. We can stop publishing fiction featuring contemporary LDS characters at our bookstores. We can take our distinctive Latter-day Saint music with its strange references to missions, pioneers, and the Book of Mormon, and water it down into something that would be unobjectionable to a nondenominational Christian. (Guess how I feel about the modern FSY albums…)

The key word here is unobjectionable, which I think is a synonym of undistinctive. All that has resulted from efforts to downplay LDS culture is culture that is almost not there because it is so bland. The issue is that the culture at large that we swim in is hardly likely to do us the same courtesy.

When forced to choose between a culture of thin translucence and a culture of vibrance and interest, we will tend to go with the stories in our hearts rather than the doctrines in our heads. Our beliefs have less to do with the arguments and theology than they do with the people we want to be around. As Arnold Kling puts it, we decide what to believe by deciding who to believe. If church movies are bland and basic, their messages are less likely to stick in our children’s minds when they have to compete with the interesting stuff being put out constantly from all sides. If our church activities are all solemnly focused on Jesus with no insertions of Pioneer Day fireworks or neighborhood roadshows, they simply can’t compete with the world’s celebrations or diversions. Not to mention that if we don’t create our own stories about what our culture means, the larger entertainment industry is sure to paint one instead. One solution to this is to shut the world out, but we all know that’s only a temporary one.

So I propose an alternative: “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Let’s build up some Latter-day Saint treasure. Let’s stop trying to be like everyone else and instead be so interesting and compelling that people want to find out what’s going on over here. Of course, it would also be naive to equate Latter-day Saint culture with Utah culture. As the church grows more global, we need to have not less church culture but more church cultures. We can’t do that by playing it safe, by creating a gospel culture of lowest common denominator. We have to be not only true and good, but beautiful, interesting, fascinating, hilarious. Let’s stop apologizing and be our weird, peculiar selves.

What I Read: Jan 2024

January is my birthday month, and usually one of my favorites, but things got off to a rough start this year. The school board was thinking about closing a program my kids participate in, so I had to make time to go and speak at a board meeting. Success: they’ve decided to expand the program instead of close it. Then one of my kids slipped in the snow and got a concussion. On top of regular life stuff, I’ve been struggling to keep all the balls in the air this semester. I finally decided to withdraw from a class last week, so hopefully there will be a bit more breathing room.

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Next week is the Life, The Universe and Everything Symposium (number 42!) in Provo. I’ll be presenting my paper on Mormon portrayals of aliens on Thursday and participating in a panel about religious clashes in speculative fiction. On Saturday, I’m on another panel about speculative fiction for various school ages and classes. If you’re coming, please send me an email and let’s meet up!

Speaking of upcoming conferences, my paper on representations of Latter-day Saints in The Expanse and Stranger Things was accepted by the Mormon History Association for their conference in June. I really love this paper and am excited to work on it a bit more in preparation for the conference.

On the podcast side, we’re back in the swing of things with an experimental new short format which will hopefully let us cover more things while spending less time on post-production. Our first short episode is on a documentary called The Mission on Disney+, which is about an evangelical missionary who is killed trying to contact an isolated people. We also released an episode today on Indiana Jones as a possible lapsed Latter-day Saint, with the authors of the popular post over at By Common Consent. It’s a really fun episode!

And now, forward to the book reviews!

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Why Fantasy and Faith?

This semester I’m taking a postsecular literature course from Mikayla Steiner. Postsecular is a term complicated by a multitude of definitions, but in essence, it represents the “religious turn” in modern literature. The death of religion predicted by those who worshipped at the temples of rationalism has mostly failed to come to pass, and many writers have turned back to the ideas of religion (in all shades of orthodoxy and non-orthodoxy) to seek the consolation that had been lost in modernism. (Understand that this definition is based on three weeks of reading and is certain subject to the flaws of my current naiveté, though it fits with things I had noticed but never been able to articulate.)

However, as we’ve been reading foundational essays on the topic preparing to study novels that fall under the postsecular umbrella, I’ve noticed something strange: many of these essays cite as examples books that could also fall under the moniker of speculative fiction. John McClure in Partial Faiths points towards Thomad Pychon’s Nebula winning novel Gravity’s Rainbow as a prototypical example of the half-in, half-out nature of postsecular faith. Rita Felski uses Miyazaki’s portal fantasy masterpiece Spirited Away as an example of the enchantment that the postsecular seeks to return to literature in Uses of Literature. Her argument on the importance of being transported by a work grasps at the exact same ideas as Tolkien’s discussion of escape On Fairy Stories while managing to never cite it. (“Who would speak loudest against escape? Jailers.”) Now I’m digging into the first novel of the term, Lousie Erdich’s The Round House, and I find that not only are the chapter titles all drawn from episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation, but that the show seems to be a major metaphor within the text.

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The connection between the spiritual or religious in literature can seem obvious. Both deal with things that the rational mind would consider impossible. Angels are just as unbelievable to a rationalist as dragons. There’s just as little evidence for believing in miracles as there is to believe in magical realism.

But is the connection really that simple? Does it really make sense to align fantasy which is transparent about being fictional with faith-based ideas that claim to be about ultimate reality? It seems to align with those who accuse believers of being blinded to reality by a story, and not even one as interesting as the latest installment of Star Wars at that.

Granted, I’ve seen some believers make the same conflation. Some worry that fantasy will confuse readers about their faith. You know the sort of thing: Harry Potter will teach your kids witchcraft; D&D is at best a waste of time and at worst Satanic; a visit from Santa Claus will cause them to doubt Jesus’s existence; even simple unease about studying Greek mythology and the worship of false gods.

But these concerns usually come from people who don’t actually read or enjoy fantasy. Among those who are religious and also enjoy speculative fiction (and if the size of the first Salt Lake City FanX is any indication, there are many), there’s no confusion about products of the imagination and the equally impossible things that they believe are real. Perhaps there are believers who have been led away from the faith by reading fantasy novels, but I’ve never met one.

Perhaps the key to the massive overlap between the literature of speculative fiction and literature concerned with spirituality is that both tend to leave behind concerns with the everyday and focus on ultimate concerns. Despite the recent turn towards cozy SF, a good percentage of fantasy novels focus on epic events that are country-, world-, or even universe-imperiling. Even when the plot is smaller, the magic system or technological innovation at the center of the “speculation” often deals with the deep forces of the universe–at a word, metaphysics.

Related to this large scope is the attitude of wonder that pervades the speculative and the religious. Whether we call it awe or the sublime, both genres put humanity in its place as a smaller part of something vast, something in the end unexplainable by logic and reason. Even the science in science fiction is less based on logic (except in the hardest sci-fi) than on what Sanderson calls the “rule of awesome.” Though I’m sure he didn’t intend it, it’s easy to see the connection to our human impulse to awe in speculative fiction.

Does this mean that speculative fiction is intended to be a substitute for religion? I’m certain some stridently atheistic authors might see it that way. I recently read Childhood’s End by Arthur C Clarke, and it’s clear that he is substituting the sublime of cosmic aliens for the sublime impulse of religion. Yet this substitution fails to account for the vast number of believers who read and enjoy speculative fiction. I was not really surprised to find in our podcast episode about Mormons watching Star Trek that three out of the four of us shared the experience of watching Star Trek with our very religious families growing up.

I would argue instead that religious people are drawn to speculative fiction precisely because it flexes the same intellectual muscles that they use in their faith. It’s like cross-training for our spiritual sensitivities. When done well, fantasy scratches the same itch for deep meaning that we seek in religion, but rather than a replacement, it acts as a supplement for our ability to think and believe abstractly in things beyond our everyday experience.

Writer in Review: 2023

This is my third year continuing my writer in review tradition. I don’t know if these are valuable to anyone else out there but me, but I really enjoy the forced opportunity to reflect back on the work I’ve been doing. Sometimes in the thick of it, I don’t see any progress, but then you look back on a whole year and can see real changes. So without further ado, a summary of last year.

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On the Pressure to Read the Best Books

One of the many things that gives me imposter syndrome as a humanities graduate student is the fact that I don’t like so many of the classic literary works that I’m supposed to be studying. During my undergraduate years, I was often in the awkward position of loving reading and hating most of the books I had to read for class. Part of this was that I tend to enjoy speculative fiction books and, at the time, very few professors taught speculative fiction books as part of their courses. I did love my Shakespeare class and a few of the novels I read grew on me through the process of discussion. But by and large, the books I remember most from that time period were the ones that I read on my own or with the CS Lewis society on campus.

In the years since, I’ve often felt the obligation to embark on projects to read the “great works,” however you end up defining that. I’m particularly enamored of the format set up in Susan Wise Bauer’s The Well-Trained Mind of following a rotating, four-year schedule of reading books by period: ancient, classical/medieval, early modern, and modern. (The beautiful systematic approach appeals to me, plus it doesn’t hurt that it aligns well with the church’s Come Follow Me scripture study rotation.) My most recent attempt at this was following the Hardcore Literature Book Club on YouTube, which had me reading both War and Peace and The Brothers Karamazov in the same year, which I’m not sure I can recommend for anyone looking to get enjoyment out of literature.

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The issue with most “read the classics” approaches is that they tend to be based on reputation, with subsequent pressure to say that we enjoyed them even when we blatantly didn’t. My father-in-law had a habit of saying whenever one of his kids didn’t enjoy a canonical work that “the classics aren’t on trial,” with the implication being that you, or at least your character as a cultured person, is; that your worth as a person, or at least as a reader, is determined by matters of taste. Or rather by denying that this is a matter of taste at all.

On the one hand, I see the value of consuming books that we don’t necessarily like or immediately jive with. It can help us avoid the slump towards books that we “use” to indulge in favorite tropes. We all know someone who reads what seems to be the same romance novel over and over. By challenging us with something that we experience for the first time and have to work at. By doing so, we can expand our tastes: I didn’t used to appreciate edamame or hummus, but with repeated exposure, they are now some of my favorite foods.

And some books have been undeniably important to the world conversation. Part of my motivation for doing the double-Russian last spring was that I didn’t feel I could rightly be commenting on issues of belief in literature if I hadn’t at least been exposed to The Bros K. It’s such a formative work on the subject for our collective understanding. The canon is not as set as we think it is, but also, certain books are important for a reason. Sometimes we have to reach beyond our personal tastes to acknowledge this.

But sometimes the pressure to like a book that’s been proclaimed a classic can actually squash our ability to have a real conversation about it. I often felt this way as an undergraduate, hesitant to say that I found Victorian classics like Dickens and Hardy to be wordy and boring, because I worried about how it would reflect on my own character (and how it might damage my relationship with a professor who controlled my grade).

One thing that has liberated me at least somewhat from this perspective was reading about C.S. Lewis’s dislike of TS Eliot–not just personal dislike or professional envy, but saying that what he wrote was bad poetry (which would have been heresy in several of my classes). But from Lewis’s perspective, Eliot was simply a contemporary, not a major shaper of modernism that I met him as. Seeing this literary giant as a human person whose work was not universally praised gave me permission to realize that I could both recognize something as important and stand by the idea that I didn’t like it.

A book’s spot in the canon is not a mark of merit per se but a mark of engagement with the current issues in our public consciousness. As Daniel Coleman wrote in In Bed with the Word, books “stay alive because they are not hermetically sealed, closed off against new engagements, appropriations, and interpretations. … We play the texts we read into life” (84). Too often, students (myself included) approach the books they read in school with this “hermetically sealed” mindset, that we are here to measure ourselves against something which is externally judged to be worthy. But this attitude tends to result in a dead-on-arrival engagement with literature, kills the real connection (or lack thereof) we might have with the text. For me to really enjoy the works that previous generations have deemed to be great, I have to be free to engage with them as something living and real, something that represents the inner thoughts or imagination of a living person, who I may or may not get along with. Strangely, by giving myself the option to hate the classics, I find myself more likely to enjoy them.