Beliefs and Bullshit: Getting to Third-Level Heaven

Visit to the Mormon Temple, Washington, DC

My neighbors two blocks across 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 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