I’ve never heard of you, but I think your thoughts are interesting. I’ve never thought about the story in those terms before, but you’re right, it’s basically the gospel solves the problem. I am so bored by all those Mormon fiction writers and I’ve often wished somebody could tell our story the way it is. So far, nobody really has, in fiction.

A writer I know once said the problem is some books will ask good questions, but don’t give the answer and some just give the answer. None ask the question or give the answer. I’m still thinking about that one.

I’m sorry you left the church, I think you would do us more good in than out. I don’t see that type of writing you describe as lies, I see it as doing the best they can. Although there have to be some pretty smart people on those magazines. They could do better.

Oh, I am a woman who doesn’t the priesthood, I don’t need any more work.

The part I found most accurate, and difficult, in your essay was the description of how converts and friends fall away. It’s a painful experience. Do you think that this pain is a natural part of living in the church and serving on a mission?

The last paragraph of this interview was particularly moving to me. It is especially important when one considers Joseph Smith’s deep desire not to be alone and related doctrine of Sealings. The Priesthood, while not democratic, seems, in the eternities, to be communal.

I want to thank Stephen for the interview. While I am a sucker for a good traditional story, they are all fantastical compared to my story. My story is ambiguous, and it is wonderful to here voice that resonates beyond the ideal.

I have a few books I’d recommend, that I think are wonderful examples of good Mormon writing. The first is Levi Peterson’s ‘The Backslider.” It has sort of been a touchstone book in my life. I think it might fulfill your criteria of asking questions and answering them. It’s also beautifully written. I mean, it’s like Levi was channeling Mark Twain or something. (Can I have my five bucks now, Levi?)

Also good reads are John Bennion’s “Falling Toward Heaven,” Margaret Blair Young’s: “Salvador,” “Love Chains,” and “Heresies of Nature,” Douglas Thayer’s “Under the Cottonwoods,” and “Summerfire,” and Eugene England’s collection of essays “Making Peace,”

I’m interested to know what about my writing made you think I left the Church. It’s true that I didn’t go yesterday, but I was sick. Right now the Church to me is like the wind in Shishmaref, Alaska. If it stopped blowing, all the houses would fall down. So though I certainly can’t go to church in order to rest or be spiritually filled, it always provides me with something to think (or rant) about.

You remember in my intereview I said that one of my biggest tasks right now is to create my own story, rather than be bandied about by outside stories. Well, one of the stories that I’m try to extract myself from is the “revolving door” story. Which is, if you find out the Church is not all it says it is, you have no choice but to leave. I personally think that story is too easy. It has no second act.

See, I think the place where our best soul work is done is in the midst of contradictions or paradoxes. If we’re always moving to a place of rest, we’re not excercising our full capacities. At least, this is true for me. So I’m trying to make my own story. Right now it seems to me that the Mormon Church still has a lot to teach me – even if it isn’t in the normal way.

And thank you, your essay is beautiful.

In the context of this blog, a story is what a lot people would call a paradigm: a larger narrative or mindset that interprets our lives. It’s kind of like when a person loses his job. One story/paradigm will say: all is lost, the world has come to an end. Another will say: great, now I can take that vacation. Another might say: God is punishing me for not paying my tithing – until this guy gets an even better, more satisfying, higher paying job than the one he lost, one that he never would have gotten had he not had the time to look for it. So then how does he interpret it? Does he say; well, looks like God had mercy on me? Or does he say: see tithing isn’t so important after all? It all depends on what larger story, or paradigm he has in place.

So I think people are constantly living in second acts, whether they see it that way, or tell it that way is a completely different story. You’re right, our life stories continue. And as we look back (at least, as I look back) we tend to change our judgments about parts of our lives. But what happens when we TELL our stories? This is what interests me, because in many ways, the way we tell our stories is the way we perceive our lives.

So the actual written or spoken or filmed stories that don’t resonate with me are the kinds without second acts. And I tend to find that our “faith promoting” or “faith destroying” stories are exactly that. And if these are the stories we believe, then our larger life story is constrained by this restricted view of life.

I’ve paid attention in my ward for the past several years and have found that there is really only one way tell an appropriate story – it always has to have the faith promoting ending. So even when people are in the midst of a second act in their life, and they start telling us about it, they inevitably say, “but I know it will end well.” And they spend a lot of time relishing how nice things will be when the end of the story finally comes.

It seems to me that those people are missing the richness of living IN the struggle. And our one-act stories seem to encourage that kind of behavior. It’s kind of like those Sunday school lessons on eternal marriage where people talk about how wonderful it will be when their marriage is finally an eternal one (meaning, I assume, that things will be better after they die and find themselves in the CK). It’s the same thing: you’re missing out on the adventure. You’re trying to get to the Hollywood ending. Or I guess we could say Holywood ending. Ha, I kill me!

Stephen Carter
Fairbanks, Alaska

I certainly do think that seeing people you helped into the Church wander away is painful. It certainly was for me. But interestingly, the person I remember best from my mission, the person who has continued to affect my life, lo these many years later, never joined the Church.

I have a theory why. Mainly it’s because my main objective as a missionary was to get people to interpret their lives through the Mormon story (and remember, for me, a story isn’t an “untrue” thing, in fact, it’s a very powerful thing). It’s possible that many of these people who joined the Church under my tutelage didn’t have much of a metaphysical outlook. So the Mormon story filled a void. In other words, a story came from outside the person, and the person decided to take it in, to one degree or another.

However, Bob, the fellow who never joined the Church, I think he already had a strong story of his own. And I think it was one that he had put together from many years of serious reflection. And I’ve become very impressed by how rich his story was, and how nourishing it was for me to be around him. (shameless self-promotion alert) You can read more about Bob sometime later this year in Sunstone, where I’m publishing a personal essay that features him.

Sometimes I wonder what I’d do if I could meet all those people from my mission again. Especially considering that, as far as I know, none of them have stuck with the Church. I think that now I would be much more interested in finding out who they are as people and prizing them that way, rather than in what kind of story I would want to offer them. Sometimes I wonder if that would be the more Christlike thing to do.

Yeah. I definitely felt like I was joining the club as well. However, when I’m writing an essay, I tend to be very selective about what I let in for the purposes of narrative unity. So I stuck with the weight metaphor. Tell me, what’s it like to be a member of “the club?”