At first, Nephi didn't know much about Jesus Christ. One time as I was reading the Book of Mormon, I noticed that Christ's name didn't show up at all in 1 Nephi. At first we get lots of references to "the Lord." Later, Lehi prophesies about the Messiah who is the Redeemer, the Savior of the world.. Then, when Nephi has his vision, he learns about the "Son of God" and the "Lamb of God." Then came "the Holy One of Israel" and "Lord their Redeemer."
But it wasn't until 2 Nephi 10 that the name Christ showed up for the first time, and it was Jacob who learned it first. Even after Nephi's visions, it still was a lifelong journey to learn about the Lord, to learn His name and trust in His ability to save. I wonder if he ever had to discard preconceived notions to obtain a proper concept of who He was. When I first made this observation in June 2014, I wondered if I was carrying around any incorrect beliefs about God.
In May of that year, I attended stake women's conference. There the keynote speaker spoke of a woman who had been told she had a miscarriage. Yet before any procedures, she got up her courage and asked for an ultrasound. There she found out that the fetus still had a heartbeat.
Two months later, I had the same hopes. I went to my doctor's appointment and found out that the baby was exactly the right size but didn't have a heartbeat. This was not a missed miscarriage, a loss that had happened weeks earlier. "This must have happened in the past 24 hours," the doctor said.
I didn't want to believe it. I wanted to have the same happy ending that I had heard of two months earlier. So I prayed. "Am I still pregnant? Is this baby still alive in me?"
The response was a warm, comforting, confirming feeling. The baby was alive. The baby was alive. The baby was alive. Other people confirmed they felt the same peaceful, affirmative feeling. The baby was alive. The baby was alive. The baby was alive.
The baby was not alive. The ultrasound two days later proved it.
I was devastated, but I was also angry. How could I have let myself be tricked like that? How could I have taken feelings of comfort and assumed they meant some kind of answer?
I was angry for years. I didn't want to feel peace from the Spirit anymore because I didn't trust it. And hearing others' spiritual experiences also frustrated me. Friends would tell me of going to the temple for an important medical question. Instead of getting a yes or no, they would simply get a feeling of peace. I would hear stories of women who had gotten a feeling of peace when they asked if they should marry someone, only to find out their spouse was unkind, unworthy, or even abusive.
Meanwhile, I would hear people bear powerful testimonies of the prophet and Book of Mormon in church and then turn around and declare on social media with the same vigor that Sandy Hook was a hoax, that little children the next stake over had not actually died. I would see people I considered spiritually sensitive promote pseudoscience with reckless abandon. I would see people insist that their way of doing things was right because the Spirit had told them so.
I was angry. I was very angry.
I was grieving.
At first I was grieving the loss of my unborn child. But then I was grieving another loss. I was grieving the loss of how I understood the Godhead. I had always thought that the Spirit would give clear directions, especially when things mattered. But time and time again I saw that what the Spirit had to offer was not answers but peace. And even then, I wasn't convinced that that wasn't just my brain and hormones offering that peace. It took years of patiently testing that to regain my trust that it was the Spirit, and not just me.
But when that trust came back, it also came with a more mature relationship with God. Gone was the Heavenly Father that was trying to tell me the answers to everything, answers that I'd always been just too dense to understand. In His place was a Heavenly Father that loved me, that respected my agency, and that would give me little reminders of His love, little nudges when I was straying, and little warnings if I really needed them.
Sometimes I see my friends become very angry about the Church. Not all who leave are like that -- many leave quietly and peacefully, even amicably. But others are angry. They feel betrayed by church history and even more betrayed by what they weren't taught. They feel they were taught to hate themselves because they are gay. They feel like their talents were pushed aside, their needs marginalized, and their spirituality stifled.
They are grieving.
They are mourning the loss of what they had, the assurances of the gospel and the hope in the next life. The profanity, cynicism, and rhetoric (and even coffee) are all coping mechanisms for losing something once very precious to them. For many of them, Christ has died and we are stuck in eternal Holy Saturday.
But it is not Christ that is dead. It is their previous perception of Christ that has died. Perhaps they are still learning about God in their own way. Perhaps they are learning about other attributes of God even amidst their anger, attributes like stewardship, kindness, patience, forgiveness, and love.
And, like Nephi of old, all of us, whether currently active or not, will continue to learn more about God as we try to live virtuous lives and love as He does. We will all have times of mourning when we find out we weren't quite right. We might have times where all we receive from heaven is silence. We might wonder when we will witness the rebirth of our relationship with God.
It might take a while. But Sunday will always come.
But it wasn't until 2 Nephi 10 that the name Christ showed up for the first time, and it was Jacob who learned it first. Even after Nephi's visions, it still was a lifelong journey to learn about the Lord, to learn His name and trust in His ability to save. I wonder if he ever had to discard preconceived notions to obtain a proper concept of who He was. When I first made this observation in June 2014, I wondered if I was carrying around any incorrect beliefs about God.
***
In May of that year, I attended stake women's conference. There the keynote speaker spoke of a woman who had been told she had a miscarriage. Yet before any procedures, she got up her courage and asked for an ultrasound. There she found out that the fetus still had a heartbeat.
Two months later, I had the same hopes. I went to my doctor's appointment and found out that the baby was exactly the right size but didn't have a heartbeat. This was not a missed miscarriage, a loss that had happened weeks earlier. "This must have happened in the past 24 hours," the doctor said.
I didn't want to believe it. I wanted to have the same happy ending that I had heard of two months earlier. So I prayed. "Am I still pregnant? Is this baby still alive in me?"
The response was a warm, comforting, confirming feeling. The baby was alive. The baby was alive. The baby was alive. Other people confirmed they felt the same peaceful, affirmative feeling. The baby was alive. The baby was alive. The baby was alive.
The baby was not alive. The ultrasound two days later proved it.
I was devastated, but I was also angry. How could I have let myself be tricked like that? How could I have taken feelings of comfort and assumed they meant some kind of answer?
I was angry for years. I didn't want to feel peace from the Spirit anymore because I didn't trust it. And hearing others' spiritual experiences also frustrated me. Friends would tell me of going to the temple for an important medical question. Instead of getting a yes or no, they would simply get a feeling of peace. I would hear stories of women who had gotten a feeling of peace when they asked if they should marry someone, only to find out their spouse was unkind, unworthy, or even abusive.
Meanwhile, I would hear people bear powerful testimonies of the prophet and Book of Mormon in church and then turn around and declare on social media with the same vigor that Sandy Hook was a hoax, that little children the next stake over had not actually died. I would see people I considered spiritually sensitive promote pseudoscience with reckless abandon. I would see people insist that their way of doing things was right because the Spirit had told them so.
I was angry. I was very angry.
I was grieving.
At first I was grieving the loss of my unborn child. But then I was grieving another loss. I was grieving the loss of how I understood the Godhead. I had always thought that the Spirit would give clear directions, especially when things mattered. But time and time again I saw that what the Spirit had to offer was not answers but peace. And even then, I wasn't convinced that that wasn't just my brain and hormones offering that peace. It took years of patiently testing that to regain my trust that it was the Spirit, and not just me.
But when that trust came back, it also came with a more mature relationship with God. Gone was the Heavenly Father that was trying to tell me the answers to everything, answers that I'd always been just too dense to understand. In His place was a Heavenly Father that loved me, that respected my agency, and that would give me little reminders of His love, little nudges when I was straying, and little warnings if I really needed them.
***
They are grieving.
They are mourning the loss of what they had, the assurances of the gospel and the hope in the next life. The profanity, cynicism, and rhetoric (and even coffee) are all coping mechanisms for losing something once very precious to them. For many of them, Christ has died and we are stuck in eternal Holy Saturday.
But it is not Christ that is dead. It is their previous perception of Christ that has died. Perhaps they are still learning about God in their own way. Perhaps they are learning about other attributes of God even amidst their anger, attributes like stewardship, kindness, patience, forgiveness, and love.
And, like Nephi of old, all of us, whether currently active or not, will continue to learn more about God as we try to live virtuous lives and love as He does. We will all have times of mourning when we find out we weren't quite right. We might have times where all we receive from heaven is silence. We might wonder when we will witness the rebirth of our relationship with God.
It might take a while. But Sunday will always come.
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