Stay

A few weeks ago my brother asked for recommendations for his book club, including for short stories. I recommended a very short work by Ursula K. LeGuin called "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" and they went for it. Well, it's like four pages long.

So on the night of his book club, my little brother texts me: "What does it mean?" His very literal-minded book club had tried on several scenarios for the allegory, but none of them fit entirely, so they'd basically given up in disgust.

Naturally, I went straight for the meta. "It's about censorship in fiction," I eventually posited. I can defend that reading, too, as counter-intuitive as it is. But really, it's just not that complex. The story's power is in its non-specificity (they called it "vague" which isn't wrong). It is not the moral dilemma it ostensibly seems, but a realistic distillation of contemporary life (anyone out there seen The Good Place?).

As a moral dilemma, it seems obvious. Why would anyone stay!? If everyone left, the innocent sufferers would be released, right? It's not even an interesting question.

My religion is frequently criticized for how it treats some people. For a long time, black saints weren't allowed to go to the temple or hold the priesthood. Women don't have the same priesthood authority as men. We don't sanction or perform gay marriages, and there's no place in our revealed theology for transgenderism. All of this (and a few other issues) has caused great heartache for many members. There are policy changes that hurt in different ways, and some people feel it more acutely than others, or see the suffering more clearly, and they often leave. They walk away.

It seems obvious: they must leave. Why would anyone with a conscience stay in a place whose peace and joy rest on the suffering of innocents? It's not a perfect analogy. The church is no kind of paradise - it's just a bunch of people trying (and mostly failing) to overcome their own stupidity while trying to be useful to Jesus. But the contrast between society and suffering remains.

Let's step past the obvious fact that Jesus suffered innocently for everything. He had a choice, and died out of love. I'm looking at those who did not volunteer for their anguish.

All the smart ones seem to leave; the sensitive ones, the educated. I admired them before they left, and in some ways I still admire them, or admire them more. Their decision to leave is hard, but it makes sense and is full of compassion and goodness. It is sometimes necessary to experience faith transitions to express our genuine selves.

The question is obvious, then. If the church is Omelas (in some sense) and somebody is suffering from it, how can I justify staying? Am I just stupider than the ones who leave? More selfish?

Because I'm that kind of person, I have to give that possibility some weight. I don't think either choice is more intelligent than the other in itself, and I have nothing to prove to anyone by wanting to be associated with intelligentsia (that's not a good reason anyway). The accusation of selfishness might be valid. I love having the privilege of attending the temple. I love the community, of having somewhere to be on Sundays, and singing congregational hymns (mostly). Jesus would love me either way, and I would still love him. I deeply value feeling the Holy Spirit with me, when I can. I would miss it if I left.

Yes, there are many reasons for me to selfishly remain an active member of a church whose social escutcheon is not unblemished (to be mealy-mouthed about something painful to many people). But selfishness would not keep me here, if I felt it was right to leave.

How can I stay? Because I feel that it is the right thing to do. I feel that adhering to the traditions and covenants I have made is not just easy, and certainly not painless, and perhaps not "correct" whatever one imagines that to mean. It feels as though I am facing a source of light in a dark time. It feels stronger and wiser. I frequently feel out of place. I feel frustration and sometimes even anger. But I also feel that in the church, I am standing solidly, weightily, while the world whirls madly around me.

It's not the doctrine, necessarily, either, which is inconsistent, incomplete, and sometimes even incorrect. But it IS something. I can feel it under my feet. It isn't something I can share. It isn't even something that I can word into being taken seriously. It's laughable, how confident I am in something that looks like delusion. It certainly doesn't whisper at me to believe anything or everything. On the contrary, it is often a source of discerning criticism, when things feel. . . unstable, even when they're taught in church.

I will strive never to turn away from those who are suffering. Indeed, I have promised God that I will carry their sorrows, too. In that way, Omelas is not the carefree carnival for me that it might be for some. I will struggle and writhe sometimes, sometimes needlessly, and I will cry every time I hear that somebody is leaving. I will understand why and admire their courage and conviction, but I still cry. Every time. And I will choose to stay.