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| Visit to the Mormon Temple, Washington, DC |
We arrive. I get a tour of the model of the temple, a
miniature structure that sits inside the lobby of the office building across
from the real thing. I say, I’m getting a raw deal here, can I get a tour of
the real thing? I’m told, 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.
For almost two hours, my neighbors – quite a sweet elderly couple
really, and two missionaries, take me to a room, show me a mediocre movie on
family values, and get the proselytization process going. It was pure fun. All
that Mormon testimony and all my counter-punches against absurd beliefs. They
took it in good stride.
I say, all religions are irrational, except they have rational
goals such as the earthly accumulation of power and wealth through membership
recruitment, which 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.
At the core of Mormonism is the beauty of shared values that
makes us all better people. I say, those values are universal and one doesn’t
need a conversion to a Mormon Jesus, Catholic Jesus, Evangelical Jesus, Mohammed,
Buddha, Lord Krishna… to find them. Then from out of the blues Miss Missionary
tells me that God is a flesh and blood male living among us. Jesus too! That he
goes shopping and passes gas. Ok, they didn’t exactly say that last part, but
by all indications, the Mormon God farts. I say, but does it have to be a man?
It would have been so functional if it was a woman. 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! You Boko-stupid-scumbags, return those Chibok girls! Someone
go say sorry to Trayvon mama, and Freddie mama, and all black men mamas! Can y'all
bastards stop bombing Aleppo and fix it for cri’sake! God Mama 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, what are
the benefits of signing up to these beliefs? I’m told, after this physical
life, I get to go to the sun heaven. There are three levels, you see: star,
moon and sun heavens. I say, wait a minute, there’s no hell for the unbeliever?
No hell, they 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. 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
monarch butterflies. 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 that 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 Grammy award-winning Mormon Tabernacle
Choir. Most of all, my grandma’s soft singing, “Andu iruwa jabuka, hata na andu jiswagha…”
Sere
Sere
