Dinner with Mormons
24 Oct. 2008
I had the Mormons over earlier tonight. I guess I was really just curious. I was curious to see what they would have to say, and curious to ask them all sorts of crazy questions, and curious just to watch and listen to really, really ardent believers—the sort of people and fervent belief that I have been thinking about so much lately. I thought it would be educational.
What I wasn't expecting was just how disquieting the whole experience would be. Not in a flashy, obvious, "wow, you're crazy get away from me" way. In a very quiet, deep down, niggling but undefinable sort of way. They were lovely gentlemen. They were sweet and kind and dedicated and a little awkward. They were cute and ordinary. One of them had the sweetest, blondest, most see-through eyelashes of anyone I have ever met. And they had not the slightest, remotest, barest question about what they were doing. They knew that they were right. What made me so uncomfortable was that they never, never questioned anything. Their sureness was their comfort to themselves. Their safety. Their reason for being in the world. Their home. And what, after all, is more dear to a person than their home, their family? What is the one thing a person will do anything, anything for, if not their home?
I was disquieted because, while one can easily define the outlines of a loved one, a house, or an object, how does one define the outlines of an idea? How does one define the outlines of a God, or a theory, or a system? How does one define the outlines of democracy or the outlines of science? If we make these things our homes, where do we draw the line at their defense?
I had wanted, perhaps, to challenge them a bit, but in the end I felt it would be too cruel. I might not agree with them, but I hardly felt it appropriate to enter their home and profane it. So I simply sat in awkward silence, feeling terribly guilty for wasting their time because of my insatiable curiousity.