My neighbors two blocks south kept on wanting me to go visit their temple with them. My resolve to dodge their relentless invitations was finally eroded and I caved in. Off to the Mormon temple we went. It was all my fault. I caused it during casual conversation when I said, having just discovered they were Mormons, “Oh, I always wondered what that magnificent structure looks like up close.” I say to myself- Self, leave these passing curiosities alone. Now look, you have Mormonization on your schedule.
We arrive. I get a “tour” of the model of the temple, a miniature structure that sits inside a glass box in the lobby of the office building across from the real thing. I say to the guide with the finger pointed at the miniature model- I’m getting a raw deal here, could I get a tour of the real thing? She says- No, but you can go in there once you’ve become one of us. Do you have any questions? I say yes, plenty. I can’t help myself. I’m a question-asker.
For almost two hours, my neighbors – quite a sweet elderly couple really – and two missionaries assigned to this question-asker take me to a room, show me a mediocre movie on family values, and get the proselytization process going. The movie had all the tricks for pulling at your heartstrings – a dying parent who makes it to heaven and heartbroken family oh-so-syrupy with perfect emotion who later live out a perfect Mormon life and join the departed parents in the highest heaven. My neighbor, the lady, cried her little eyes out. I was sure she had watched this short piece of religious propaganda a thousand times. She believed. It’s beautiful really, believing so completely in a good thing. One dies happy, with a nice smile on their face. Me? I tried not to laugh at the cheap tactics. I’m a storyteller and I wasn’t impressed. That script needed some work. The missionaries proceeded to giving me their testimonies. I listened with deep appreciation for anyone who makes a sacrifice of their life stories. Stories are sacred to me. They gently pushed the Mormon agenda at me. I welcomed the challenge and asked my questions. It was pure fun. All that Mormon testimony and all my counter-punches against absurd beliefs. They took it in good stride.
I say to them- All religions are irrational, except they have rational goals such as the earthly accumulation of power and wealth through membership recruitment, which evangelical Christians call “winning souls.” Your church, I say, which you of course believe is the real deal, is no different. All that you believe is in the realm of faith, and I cannot argue with it using logic. So I’ll just entertain it like I entertain the rest of other folk’s absurdities. As long as it does not cause harm to another human being or living thing, I don’t care what you believe. I say this gently. My neighbors had brought home-made cookies on our trip, the best I ever, and I did not want to be denied a cookie on the way back.
They make a last-ditch effort to shift my hard-heartedness towards their faith. I engage third gear. I say- I can see that at the core of Mormonism is the beauty of shared values that makes us all better people. I also recognize that your Mormon values are universal and one doesn’t need a conversion to a Mormon Jesus, Catholic Jesus, Evangelical Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Lord Krishna or whoever to find them. Miss Missionary smiles kindly. I do not return the smile.
From out of the clear blues, I think to rescue the moment, the other missionary tells me that God is a flesh and blood male living among us. Jesus too! That he goes shopping and passes gas. Ok, she didn’t exactly say that last part, but by all indications, if a Mormon eats like me, he passes flatulence too. I’m not engaging on this level of faith. I say- But does it have to be a man? It would have been so functional if it was a woman walking about. With massive tits towering above her head and curving out like the horns of a Matador’s bull, aimed straight at evil-doors so there’s no bullshitting with wars and all that hurtful stuff humans do to each other. People would just see the big tit horns coming from a distance and sound a warning to each other- hey, guys, She-God is coming! Quickly, throw Trump in a cave! Stop hunting down black me for a bit! And can y’all bastards stop bombing Aleppo, just hold your fire! God Mama is coming! But I didn’t say all that out loud like that.
I didn’t want my neighbors feeling too bad about their hard work bearing no fruit, being such nice folk and all. So I ask them about the benefits of signing up to these beliefs. Ms. Missionary says- After this physical life, you get to go to the sun heaven. There are three levels, you see: star, moon and sun heavens… I interrupt her- Wait a minute, there’s no hell for the unbeliever? No hell, they all assure me. Said straight up- we Mormons don’t do that hell bullshit. O, I love your after-life much better than those fire-and-brimstone guys, I say. Such terrorism. So if I don’t get Mormonized, my after-life punishment will be getting thrown to the lowest level heaven where I get to float around among the stars. How cool is that. I love these guys. Mormons rule!
I’m given a card, in case I still want to join the no-hell church. I say- I’m not worried about my after-life. When I’m gone, I think I’ll be sap in the trees. I’d love that. Or the wind in the forest. Or one of the little butterflies that flutter about and land on your nose. I don’t think I’ll need a mansion in heaven- all that maintenance and property tax, no. I also don’t care too much for streets of gold, because then I’ll have to wear shoes with suction pumps so I don’t slide, and dark glasses to keep off the glare. And I hear there’s a choir of angels singing endlessly, no no. I’d like some quiet in my after-life, some Stevie Wonder, Richard Bona and Miriam Makeba. Maroon Commandos too. And that Mormon Tabernacle Choir, I love that choir. Most of all, my grandma’s soft singing, “Andu iruwa jabuka, hata na andu jiswagha…”
