This post is in response to a gentleman who commented on a previous post of mine. As many of you know, Mormonism intrigues me. I’m fascinated with its interesting and uniquely American history. I share almost identical social values with Mormons. I supported Mitt Romney in the run-off for the presidential election. I grew up in the epicenter of LDS influence. My family has strong Mormon roots. I have known many Mormons and would gratefully call them my friends. Despite all these things, I still have serious objections to LDS theology and take particular issue with the claim that Mormonism is just another Christian religion.
Before reading my response, please take a few moments to read Mr. Madden’s original comment. As always, I welcome additional thoughts from either side of this issue.
Mr. Madden,
Thanks for taking to time to read my post and for feeling free to comment so honestly. I always appreciate people who challenge me to defend my beliefs further because it truly makes me think more deeply and more completely through where I stand on the issues I blog about.
Let me start by saying that I try very hard not to disrespect those with whom I disagree. Though you found deep offense to some of the things I wrote, please know that I am saying nothing with the intent to offend, just in a spirit of openness about what I believe about Mormonism. I think you would agree that – mixed in with the things you found offensive – I also made some very kind comments about Mormons. If you will agree to take no offense where no offense is intended, I’ll agree not to be offended that you think my thoughts make me sound “kind of ignorant and not-really-very-well-educated” 
.
You challenged me to “come up with a definition of ‘Christian’ that leaves Latter-day Saints out, but manages to include all the other denominations that [I] would consider to be Christians.” For the sake of simplicity I’m going to forgo all the theological citations and links to various Reformed creeds and confessions, and give you a very tangible reason why our two religions cannot both claim the name of Christianity. Ironically, the answer is found at the very point of Mormonism’s conception.
In Joseph Smith’s first vision, he asked “the Personage” of Jesus Christ which Christian denomination he should join – which one was right. The following answer comes directly from Smith’s account as listed on www.lds.org:
“I was answered that I must join none of them, for they were all wrong; and the Personage who addressed me said that all their creeds were an abomination in his sight; that those professors were all corrupt; that: “they draw near to me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me, they teach for doctrines the commandments of men, having a form of godliness, but they deny the power thereof.”
In one hand, Mormons hold to Smith’s founding prophecy that theirs is the one true church and that all others are corrupt abominations; in the other hand they hold the olive branch of Christian brotherhood. If Christians consent to Mormonism’s plea for acceptance, then we must give equal consent to the belief that all our creeds and practices are disgusting in God’s sight. By accepting Mormonism, Christianity must reject the very faith that they practice. Basically, this whole issue boils down to the fact that Mormons are seeking the acceptance of the very people they have deemed to be unacceptable.
I think the real challenge before us is for Mormons to come up with a definition of Christian that leaves Latter-day Saints in, but also manages to include all the other denominations that Joseph Smith was told were an abomination in God’s sight. Is any Mormon ready to claim that Smith’s founding revelation was wrong? If not, then I’m not sure it’s fair to characterize Christians as the ones who are not accepting.
This is what I know…
People make mistakes. Consequences are inevitable and oftentimes they can be painful. When we mess up, we’d like nothing better than to move on, forget the past, and continue living without suffering the inevitable consequences. But that’s not life.
This is what I know…
My adopted son was a “mistake”. The day he was conceived, he became equal amounts baby and consequence. As he grew each day in his young mother’s womb, the world around him was waging war — not for land or money or power, but for the heartbeat that pounded life through his little chest.
This is what I know…
Some people wanted to eliminate his life. They didn’t see his existence as a choice that had already been made, instead they weighed his value in terms of a choice that was yet to be made. They didn’t see a self-inflicted consequence that needed to be faced, only an unjust punishment that should be avoided at any cost.
This is what I know…
Some people refuse to see beyond the immediate. To these people, the value of my son’s smile, his laughter, the way he kicks excitedly when I pick him up from his naps, were once on equal footing with a girl’s impulsive decision to avoid the inherent consequence of a choice she already made. Because he was of no value to them, in their eyes, he had no value at all.
This is what I know…
We almost lost him. Twice. The constant drumbeat of what some call a woman’s right to choose almost cost the world a beautiful child. This young mother sat in the waiting room of an abortion clinic two separate times. Each time she felt a tugging inside — a voice almost — that told her not to take the easy way out. We realize now with great gratitude that the tugging was done on our behalf.
This is what I know…
Some people saw a promise, not a punishment. Instead of telling her the fairytale that she could make it all just go away, they encouraged this young mother to turn her mistake into someone else’s blessing. They didn’t remove the consequence, they taught her how to find a way to make the best out of the outcome she brought upon herself. That is what life is about. Before we were ever in the picture, these people saved the life of my unborn son.
This is what I know…
In a world where hundreds of thousands of couples long to have the opportunity to adopt and make an unwanted child a part of their family, advocating abortion is possibly one of the cruelest social views one can have — both to the child and to potential parents.
This is what I know…
We may never conceive a child. Because of people who could see beyond the superficial morality of our day, and because the birth mom ultimately listened to the tugging inside her, our inability to get pregnant became a non-issue in our journey to have a child. We have been blessed by someone else’s biggest mistake — and we couldn’t be happier about it.
This Memorial Day, I want to honor my grandad: Army Air Corps Major Isaac Terrell Spivey of Farmington, NM.
Grandad joined the Army Air Corps (Air Force) in his early 20s and was a B24 Liberator pilot in the South Pacific during World War II. He flew 50 missions, most of them in the pilot seat of a bomber nicknamed Red Headed Woman. Two of these 50 missions earned him the Distinguished Flying Cross, one of the highest decorations that can be given to pilots who serve in the military.
The first mission, in July 1945, had his crew flying over Saigon to take aerial photos of Japanese-controlled oil refineries. The intelligence captured on that mission was a key part in America’s strategy to destroy the Japanese war machine. The mission caught Japan completely off-guard and the crew returned safely (after a 2,500 mile round trip – one of the longest flight missions of the war) only to have the gunner accidentally drop the film, exposing the entire roll.
The next day his crew was asked to do it all again, only this time the Japanese were ready. The Red Headed Woman and its crew flew a second consecutive 2,500-mile recognizance mission, but had to fight off about 45 Japanese fighter planes this time around. In the midst of intense combat, Grandad’s crew was able to recapture the footage and return to base — despite having a large chunk of the plane shot away.
This is only one of dozens of fascinating stories that my grandad could tell you about his time serving in WWII. Some stories are fascinating and some are sobering; He can tell you stories of funny things he experienced and then stories of friends he lost in combat. I love to hear his stories and he loves to tell them.
My grandad is one of thousands of military men and women to whom we owe thanks for the freedoms we enjoy today. To anyone who has served, thank you for your service to our country.
To Grandad, thank you for being my personal war hero.
This post is a sample chapter of a book I’m writing (current working title: Swimming in Circles: A Sperm Story). As you have probably already figured out, its a look into the lives of Heidi and me as we continue our long-running battle with infertility. I hope one day that it will be published. I thought I would post it here for your reading enjoyment:
Baby-Making 101
Throughout our first year of trying to conceive, we were willing to try just about any “secrets of the trade” in the hopes that it would improve our chances of getting pregnant. If you know of a manufactured or homemade method that worked for you or someone you know, I can guarantee that we tried it. Anyone who came to us with advice impacted our sex life in one way or another.
Some methods were scientific:
Heidi would wake up each morning and, even before turning the alarm off, she would put a thermometer in her mouth and take her temperature. She even had a nice bedside calendar where she kept record of her early morning temperature-taking. Once she reached the appointed temperature, we would commence with the baby-making. It’s not as sexy to hear your wife say she’s hot for you when she means it literally.
We tried a device which the writers of the book The Conception Chronicles affectionately dubbed “Spitnik”. Basically, each morning Heidi rubbed a small amount of her saliva on the glass lens of a compact personal fertility microscope and set it aside for a few minutes to dry. If she saw what looks like a fern pattern through the eyepiece, it meant that we got to hop back into bed and get busy. If she saw what looks like a close-up of dried saliva, it meant that I needed to take a cold shower and get ready for work.
Other methods were word-of-mouth cures:
Heidi was told that she needed to elevate her legs over her head after sex. The naked headstands didn’t work for us.
Someone else swore by the “Be Sure and Pee Immediately After Sex” method. I personally recommend the “Take a Ten Minute Nap After Sex” method instead.
A friend of mine came up to me one day and loaned me what he said was a sure-fire cure: his old workout socks. He handed me a pair of bright blue, breathable cotton/poly blends with pictures of cartoon sperm on them. The socks had the caption, “Survival of the Fittest” sewn into them. Those beauties were what he wore while training for a marathon during the same time of year that he and his wife were trying for kids. So far, the sperm socks have done nothing but give me athlete’s foot.
My favorite approach was one I like to call the “Rock Star Sex” method, which required that we have sex every day during her ovulation period. While I knew this advice was surely the brainchild of some guy with no medical credentials whatsoever, I made sure that I supported it as a viable option each time we discussed getting pregnant. One month, my wife finally caved in. The Rock Star Sex method didn’t work one bit, but I personally found it to be the best way to fail at getting pregnant that I have ever tried.
to be continued…
