Love, Pain, and Faith

In my head, a perfect storm has been brewing. Various ideas which swirled around in my head until recently without direction have now coalesced to become something beautiful, something worthy of shouting from the rooftops. But first, let me share the components of this amazing intellectual concoction.

First, I have recently become enamored with a certain Søren Kierkegaard.

Kierkegaard, who lived in early-nineteenth-century Denmark, is well-known for several reasons. On the one hand, people regard him as the founder of existentialism. He was also a Christian, and so people think of him in addition as one of the greatest Christian philosophers and theologians of all time. But his significance to me lies in his beliefs concerning "uncertainty". He puts it best in his pseudonymously-written work Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Fragments, as follows:

 "[Truth is] objective uncertainty held fast through appropriation with the most passionate inwardness"

To me, what this means is that you cannot escape from the unsure. Ultimately, definiteness and certainty are complete illusions, meaning that you must continue through your life with faith as your only assurance. It is a scary thought, but a profound one at the same time.

The second component of my perfect storm is a book called The God Who Weeps, written by Terryl Givens, (along with his wife, Fiona) whom I have had the privilege of meeting in person.

Though this book says many things, the most relevant point made by it is that heaven is not merely a place of happiness - it is a place where Gods and angels weep over the pain and sins of the human race. In other words, it states that love and suffering are intimately connected.

When these two thoughts came together, I was on the bus, and I was traveling to my place of residence after finishing the first two finals of last semester. A tragedy (which I won't go into) had just occurred, and while I was pondering on the suffering that it would cause, I watched as a disabled man boarded the bus in a motorized wheelchair. For reasons I cannot explain, I suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling of love for this person. Unlike at other, less-noble, times in my life, I did not look down upon him in any way - he was a son of God, a manifestation of his glory, and a miracle. It was not long before this new-found love began to extend to everyone that was there with me. The flaws, imperfections, and humanity of every single person in my line of sight made them seem incredibly beautiful.

It was then that I realized I knew absolutely nothing about any of them; they were strangers, people whom I would probably never see again. But I loved them, with all of my heart. Suddenly, the voice of Kierkegaard spoke to me: these people were an objective uncertainty, and I was holding onto them with the most passionate inwardness. It became clear in that moment that all love involves uncertainty, whether it be with a complete stranger, a child, or even a spouse, because we can never know the innermost thoughts of another. In other words, love occurs despite an imperfect knowledge.

But I also felt a profound vulnerability. At most other times in my life, I had been content to live within my tortoise shell of numb comfort, and had refused to open myself up to the magnificent, albeit dangerous, wonders of the world. It is only when I began to venture outside of it that I become exposed to new heights of emotion, and to feel the raw joy that comes from experiencing the divine nature of the world's inhabitants. But I also began to feel incredible pain at their suffering. This love, which mixes joy with sorrow, is completely and totally divine. By exercising it, perhaps we as human beings can see the world as God does, and thus gaze into his heaven.

One can identify this love with something else, too. For what is love, as I have portrayed it, but a manifestation of faith? When we truly love another person, we believe them to be nothing less than a miracle. But we do not know this, we can only have faith in it, trusting that it is true despite the insufficient evidence of our senses.

In summary, I would say that pain, love, and faith are all intimately connected phenomena, having the unavoidable reality of uncertainty at their core. And in conclusion, I'd like to say that I wish all of you to have the same experience that I had on the bus - it was truly a revelation.

The Theatrical Universe

Though my interests lie in the intellectual, my roots actually deal far more with the artistic than the abstract. To put it a little more clearly, I come from a theater family. My great-grandparents (Ruth and Nathan Hale) were the founders of a series of theaters scattered across the Western United States, several of which bear their name. My parents run one of these, the Hale Center Theater Orem.

All of this means that I was brought up around the stage. I am familiar with theatrical nomenclature, and rules such as "don't touch props" were drilled into my head from a very young age. And while I am not much of an actor myself, I know quite a few of them.

In my time with these actors, I have become aware of the two dominant ways by which it is possible for them to do their jobs: technique and method acting. If you are a technique actor, you ideally control your movements, facial expressions, tones of voice, etc. with exact precision. You know precisely what to do to elicit a certain emotion, and have excellent control over your physical body. However, if you are a method actor, you forgo all deliberateness for an entirely different approach. The method actor, in short, tries to be their role. Insofar as they are able, they consciously try to forget that the world beyond the boundaries of the stage exists, making their mind into the character's mind (at least until the curtain call). Some method actors will even try to "be" their role while offstage, (or off-camera) in order to integrate themselves into it as much as they can.

The reader may wonder what this has to do with mysticism, or even with religion. To that reader, I offer this observation: I believe, as Shakespeare said, that the entire world is a stage. We, as immortal spirits, are the actors which play out the roles of our lives, acting the highs and the lows of our existence as a piece of art. But our spirits do not merely act - they are method actors. In fact, they are so good at it that they rarely, if ever, even recall that they are in a play. And you don't, do you? Yes, I believe that the veil of forgetfulness mentioned in doctrine is nothing less than a fourth wall separating us from our audience and director, none other than God himself.

But doesn't this necessarily conflict with the seriousness of God's plan? Wouldn't it be negating the gravity of salvation to see it through such a light-hearted lens? I don't think so. You see, to display the world as a performance puts the plan of God into incredible context, as it means that we are creating a work of art for the glory of God. Everything we do gains a certain significance when looked at artistically, (as expounded upon here) and so to do this with the plan of salvation makes it infinitely more meaningful. We are judged based on our works, sure. But I believe that we can see our works in the context of a performance. Like any performance, our director will judge the actors by how well they follow the script. And what, pray tell, is this script? It is the role we are foreordained to play, as seen in patriarchal blessings and other places. Of course, this director is a little laid-back, and so we are allowed quite a few artistic liberties. Ultimately, however, God sifts the actor-wheat from the actor-chaff by seeing how well we perform whatever it is we perform.

This has an amazing consequence. As with any play, the hardest roles in this life will be played by the best actors. Think of those born into destitute circumstances or with disabilities - they were given that role so that they could shine where others could not. They are not in any way being punished - God is challenging them due to their ability.

Finally, this play will end as all other plays do, with a curtain call. All of us, whether currently on life's stage or not, will drop our act and show ourselves for who we really are.  At that point, we will no longer see the world as a place full of suffering and misery; we will celebrate it for the masterpiece that it is, giving a magnificent bow amid raucous applause.

I look forward to that day, and to the remainder of the performance preceding it. Break a leg!

Mysticism in Cloud Atlas (the Book)

SPOILER WARNING: If you're squeamish about spoilers and haven't read Cloud Atlas, read no further until you have.

Can a book change your view of the world? It turns out that David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, which I read last August, did precisely that.

No work of fiction has affected me as much as this one has. For reasons that you will soon see, I now stand in awe of what before was mundane, amazed at the infinite grandeur that underlies even the most humdrum activities of everyday life. 

Before I get into why that is the case, let me first give an introduction. Cloud Atlas is a 2004 novel by David Mitchell, the winner of several literary awards. It is divided into eleven sections, consisting of five bifurcated stories surrounding a central one like Russian matroyshka dolls. Here is a brief outline of these stories:

The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing: The "outermost" story, it tells the tale of an American notary (Adam Ewing) from gold rush San Francisco, returning home across the Pacific Ocean. It is set in 1849 

Letters from Zedelghem: This story, set in 1931, consists of a series of letters from a "broke" young musician (Robert Frobisher) in Belgium, working as an amanuensis for a famous composer.

Half-Lives: The First Louisa Rey Mystery: Set in 1975, this story is written in the style of a mystery novel, and tells of a journalist (Louisa Rey) trying to "out" a conspiracy by a nuclear power plant.

The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish: This humorous section tells of a present-day elderly publisher (Timothy Cavendish)  who ends up accidentally imprisoned in a rest home.

An Orison of Sonmi~451: Set in a futuristic Korea, this story consists of a fabricant (Sonmi~451) who rebels against a corporate dystopia.

Sloosha's Crossin' an' Ev'rythin' After: The middle story, the only one not to be interrupted, tells of a far-future Hawaii (after "the Fall"), a young man's (Zachry's) confrontations with a devil-figure, and his encounters with member of civilization's last remnants.

Though the book is composed of six separate stories, it gradually becomes clear that they form a larger, unified, all-encompassing tale. This story has its own plot-line, its own themes and motifs, and continuous character progression across the six protagonists. However, at least in the first half, this plot-line is not a happy one. It begins simply, with naïveté and innocence on the behalf of Adam Ewing, but as the stories progress, it becomes clear that things are getting much worse. Through corporate conspiracy, abuse of the elderly, and totalitarian oppression, the first half of Cloud Atlas tells the story of a world that is consumed (and ultimately destroyed) by its own greed, egoism, and prejudice.

The middle story depicts a world that has fallen apart. Civilization has vanished, as with technology and medicine, and even the English language has devolved into a bizarre pidgin. There seems be no hope. To make things worse, a devil figure named Ol' Georgie constantly tempts Zachry to do selfish and prejudiced things, especially against a newly arrived member of a technologically-advanced civilization.  But, in each case, he resists. This is the tipping point, the moment at which selflessness begins to triumph over egoism, and when hope starts to glimmer in the darkness of despair. In fact, from Sloosha's Crossin' on, these characters' stories begin to get better and better.

But hang on! How does that work? How can character progression happen reverse-chronologically? Well, the book itself addresses this point. Meronym, the technologically-advanced woman whom Zachry is tempted to harm, tells Zachry that souls don't exist, and that "when you die you die an' there ain't no comin' back". But then, to the audience of his story, he says this:

"Jus' that once I sorried for her. Souls cross the skies o' time, Abbess'd say, like clouds crossin' the skies o' the world. Sonmi's the east'n' the west, Sonmi's the map an' the edges o' the map an' b'yonder the edges."

He then continues this sentiment a few pages later by saying this:

"I watched clouds awobbly from the floor o' that kayak. Souls cross ages like clouds cross skies, an' tho' a cloud's shape nor hue nor size don't stay the same, it's still a cloud an' so is a soul. Who can say where the cloud's blowed from or who the soul'll be 'morrow? Only Sonmi the east and' the west an' the compass an' the atlas, yay, only the atlas o' clouds."

These two quotations, in tandem, are the most important passage in the novel. Not only does it explain the book's title, but here we learn that the progression of a soul isn't bounded by time or place, but can continue wherever and whenever. In fact, this lesson becomes very apparent in the second half. For when we return to Sonmi's tale, she makes progress against the tyrannic "corpocracy" of futuristic Korea, but ultimately fails. But at the end of that section, just as she is about to be executed, she says something fascinating:

"No matter how many of us you kill, you will never kill your successor"

She implies that her fight against tyranny is not yet over, but will continue indefinitely  As a matter of fact, it does, with none other than Timothy Cavendish taking up the mantle. You see, despite the fact that it happened in the relative past, I saw his escape from the abusive nursing home as a direct continuation of Sonmi's rebellion, an extension of her story. In a very real sense, Sonmi lives on in Mr. Cavendish, giving closure to her seemingly fruitless struggle. In fact, this fight continues on even further in the past, with Louisa Rey's outing of the nuclear conspiracy that had threatened her life as yet another manifestation of this timeless war. 

But, in the second to last story, something tragic happens. Robert Frobisher, out of despair, commits suicide, dimming our hopes that his story will reach any satisfying conclusion. But he offers this observation to us, just before he pulls the trigger:

"We do not stay dead long."

And he does not, for on the very next page both Frobisher and the novel resume their stories. You see, Adam Ewing, like previous characters, is a direct continuation of Robert Frobisher's tale, meaning that whatever sadness Zedelghem brought us is made up for in this trans-oceanic voyage. This happens in a very interesting way: Ewing is being treated by a certain Dr. Henry Goose for what he believes is a brain parasite. But in reality, this doctor is poisoning him so as to obtain his possessions. Only a few pages from the end of the novel, Adam seemingly ends his journal, overcome by illness; it is all but certain, given no intervention, that he will perish. But he doesn't! Autua, a stowaway slave whom Ewing helped obtain passage, returns the favor, rescues him from Dr. Goose, and delivers him to actual medicinal care. The implications of this act are immense. It means that selflessness has finally defeated egoism. But it also means that Frobisher's life did not end in vain, as evidenced by the following quotation:

"Autua insists that had I not prevented him from being tossed overboard as a stowaway he could not have saved me & so, in a sense, it is not Autua who has preserved my life but myself."

So, in the end, good triumphs over evil, and Frobisher continues on. A truly happy conclusion to a fantastic novel. But there is yet another passage, the novel's last, which has amazing implications. He decides to go the South to help with the abolitionist movement, and imagines his father-in-law's response to such news:

"'You'll be spat on, shot at, lynched, pacified with medals, spurned by backwoodsmen! Crucified! Naïve, dreaming Adam. He who would do battle with the many-headed hydra of human nature must pay a world of pain & his family must pay it along with him! & only as you gasp your dying breath shall you understand, your life amounted to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean!'

Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops?"

What does this mean, you may ask? Absolutely everything. Are we ultimately insignificant? Are our actions just "one drop in a limitless ocean"? Cloud Atlas ultimately answers with a resounding no. The gospel of this work is nothing less than an emphatic exclamation of the following: you are important, and everything you do matters. For this book is about the self. The self does not end at the boundaries of the skin, as most people think it does, as it continues in all directions, both across space and infinitely into the future and past. 

There is only one main character in Cloud Atlas. From Adam Ewing to Zachry, and all in between, they all share the same being, the same story, and the same soul. Anything that happens to one of them can be said to happen to all of them, and at any given point in the novel you can say that they are all there. I actually believe that this is true of us, as well. Everyone that we encounter, whether meeting them in our day-to-day lives or reading about them in history, is an extension of us. All stories are our story.

In the Flesh

Imagine that you are locked in a room, and have been for your entire life. As you would expect, there are no doors, and there is only one solitary window that affords you vision of the outside world. From this window you can occasionally see the people that walk by far below, but you can't ever communicate meaningfully with any of them. Naturally, you are very lonely. What you want more than anything is to get out of your cell and join the throngs of people that mill around outside, but it would satisfy you to have a visitor, or even to have a mere conversation. But all these things are impossible, as your captivity is absolute and eternal.

This metaphor epitomizes the human condition. Like our imaginary prisoner, each of us dwells in a place from which we can never depart. This room is impenetrable from both the inside and the outside, and no one has ever visited that of another. If you haven't guessed already, I speak of our bodies, the figurative cells that hold our being captive.

Like any prison, the body's inhabitant wants nothing more than to escape, or to transcend the limitations and boundaries imposed by the flesh. In fact, this is true of all limitations, whether corporeal or otherwise. After all, why do we fall in love? For what reason is escapist literature so popular? Why does jealousy even exist? The only answer is that we long to be free of the shackles of self-hood, to exist across boundaries, to be another. 

To put it another way, mankind has an insatiable lust for the "other". We are discontented with the our current state of affairs, and we want more than anything to be somewhere else. But that is the problem: we can never be somewhere else, because we are always "here". This paradox, exemplified by the body, means that we will never fulfill our desire to transcend barriers in a meaningful way. We can never get "there", because "there" is dangled in front of us like a carrot would be to a donkey.

At least until death, there is no way for us to experience this "other", as our body limits us. What's more, Mormons believe that this can't even happen after death, as we suppose that we have "spirit-bodies" which not even the grave can part us from. Does this leave us with any hope? In fact, it does.

To see this, consider a thought experiment with me: what would existence be like without any bodies, spirit or otherwise? This world would have no limitations, boundaries or absolute definitions, and there wouldn't be a "you" or a "me", but only a cosmic unified "I". Further, there would be no separate things at all - just being, undivided and uncategorized. Now, imagine you were this "I". How would you pass the time? What would you think about? What would you do? If you have a hard time answering these questions, it is because it is impossible to do so - a state of being without an "other" lacks anything interesting or meaningful. For where is this "I"'s happiness?  Nowhere, because there is no "other" to be happy about.

The grand truth of corporeality is this: bodies allow us to be happy. It is precisely because of the limitation and finiteness of embodiment, the fact that there is something "other" than us, that we can have any sense of joy, affection, or even hilarity. Of course, embodiment also allows the aforementioned negative experiences. But I believe that it is worth it, for the body allows us a consolation. What, you may ask, is this boon? Nothing less than love.

What do I mean? Well, love allows us to have the best of both worlds, of both unlimited being and boundedness. It permits us to connect to someone else in an almost transcendental way, allowing us to stretch our being little by little into another. But most importantly, it lets us create an "extended self", existing in another's body while still encapsulated in your own. After all, think of the couple that has been married 50 years - if their marriage was successful, they know each other as they know themselves. They've told each other everything, and they know how the other thinks. They are one, in every way that matters.

It turns out that Genesis was right: it is not good that man should be alone. Because of the "other", and the boundaries of skin that ensures it exists, we can be happy, enjoy ourselves, love, and be loved.

My Testimony of the Book of Mormon

As of last week, I have finished the Book of Mormon.

This might be a dangerous thing to say, but until recently I had never even come close to accomplishing such a feat. In fact, in past years I was far more interested in reconciling my religion with others than with actually delving into its doctrine and scripture. This has changed. I now know that you must recognize the truth of your intellectual roots before you can begin to look for it elsewhere, and as a result my life and testimony have grown immeasurably richer. If I were to put it boldly, I would say that reading the Book of Mormon has caused me to experience my religion's truth in a way unlike anything else. Here I will try to convey this experience, show that it is indeed a rod leading to God's love, and testify that it is true.

The Book of Mormon is not a collection of disparate stories and sermons - it is a unified whole with consistent and coherent themes. But there is one motif that is more all-encompassing than any other, and it is stated in very clear words near the beginning. I speak of 2 Nephi 2:11, and I now insist that Lehi's teaching of an opposition in all things is the book's most important passage. This work of scripture is filled to the brim with opposition of all sorts, as it depicts persecution, war, suffering, and destruction. But the key truth at its heart is that this opposition leads to harmony. Think of the trans-oceanic journeys in 1 Nephi and Ether, the Nephites' half-millennium-long wait for Christ, and the destruction that occurs just prior to his coming: in each case the conflict leads directly to joy, making it worth more than it would be otherwise. Even seemingly meaningless conflicts like the wars of Alma or Mormon find their import in the significance they give to the reader's lives. All of this speaks directly to us: our own suffering and opposition will ultimately have meaning and be for our good. 

However, there is an opposition which was uniquely significant to me, as it turns out that I was opposed to the book itself. When I read it, I was suddenly struck by how many flaws there were: it was often condemning, had dubious historicity, and was, to put it bluntly, awkwardly-worded. The critical reader inside of me was initially very resistant, wondering how such an imperfect work could have any inherent worth. But I trudged through the "wo unto"'s and the "and it came to pass"'s, having faith that it would ultimately mean something. Though it was very frustrating, and though I felt at times like I should give up, I ultimately emerged from the mists of darkness and experienced something extraordinary: I found that I didn't care about the book's foibles, for I had tapped into the heart of gold beneath them. In fact, the words on the page soon became completely irrelevant. Everything written there was merely a conduit, transparent glass that allowed me to perceive the ineffable light of divine truth within. I ultimately became a prism for this light, as when I was in the resultant spiritual "zone" I became more virtuous, receiving spiritual epiphanies like machine-gun-fire.

I do not believe I could have experienced this state without struggling through the literary flaws which preceded it. The oppositions of language, history, and ethics that some readers may experience with this book are spiritual paradoxes, (koans) which are quite intentional and serve a specific purpose. In truth, the Book of Mormon is a test. These paradoxes check our spiritual mettle, causing the critical reader to either dismiss or believe the claims made therein. For if one is to get anything out of this book, he or she must read it with faith. And if they do so, they will be rewarded.

Though the Book of Mormon was an amazing experience, the reward I speak of came to me in its fullness only near the end. No, I'm not talking about Christ's visit to the Americas, though that was rewarding in its own right. Instead, I speak of the Brother of Jared's divine vision. You see, I had always had a problem with the notion of God's body. To think of the origin of the universe - the link between you, me, and everything else - having body parts like a nose, elbows, or toenails was the epitome of ugliness. Considering this, and that Ether 3 is the most clear elucidation of divine corporeality short of the King Follett discourse, I thought I was headed into a train wreck. But I was to be surprised. I cannot tell you why, but in that moment I had absolutely no problems with the doctrine of God's body. This intellectual peace, my goal since long before I began this blog, was nothing less than miraculous. To me, it was a divine encounter in itself.

But is the Book of Mormon true? That seems to be the key question, doesn't it? Answered with a "no", everything falls apart. It means there is no priesthood, that the first vision never happened, and that all the saints' sufferings were for naught. But if it's true, then all else follows. So, which is it? After taking a course in epistemology, I cannot claim that the words on a page grant me any knowledge about the historical events in ancient Mesoamerica. There are too many factors that might interfere to positively claim you know the book is true. However, this is only a problem when using knowledge in a traditional sense. There is another, better, model of knowledge which makes the Book of Mormon true without any question. Devised by a man named William James, it goes like this: something is true if it proves useful to one who believes in it. Or, if I might rephrase it, something is true if it has "good fruits". And what are the fruits of the Book of Mormon if not good? Think of how many people's lives, including mine, have been made better for reading it. It is beyond measure.

I am suddenly reminded of Alma 32: "O then, is not this real? I say unto you, Yea, because it is light; and whatsoever is light, is good". The Book of Mormon, because it has so much of this light and good, is real. Moreover, it is true, in every way that matters. Knowing this, I humbly leave this testimony with you, saying these things in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Breaking the Fourth Wall

I have recently begun watching the first season of a TV series called Community, which many of you are probably familiar with. It is at once hilarious and incredibly human, but there is one aspect of the show that I admire above all others. You see, Abed Nadir (one of the main characters) knows that he's in a TV show. From acknowledging plot developments to saying "good night" to the audience at the end of an episode, he has the unique ability to see his world for the fiction that it is.

We are not unlike Abed. We too are the handiwork of a creative and intelligent author, none other than God himself, who sustains us from "episode" to "episode" much like a television writer would. Moreover, we too are a role played by some other, more real, version of us. Like Abed's Danny Pudi, we have existed since long before our stint on the airwaves began, and will continue to exist after it is canceled. I speak, of course, of our eternal spirits, the actors that play the parts of our various lives.

But there is one important respect in which most of us are not like Abed: we are unaware of our fictional existence. Sure, a lot of religious people believe the doctrines elucidated in the previous paragraph, but not many take seriously the claim that our world is to God as a television show is to a writer. After all, why should we? Doesn't such a belief border on paranoia or insanity? Perhaps, but I will audaciously claim that this is an insanity worth having. In fact, believing that this world is a fiction of God leads us to have better lives than we would have otherwise.

I'm sure many of you are familiar with the Harry Potter series of books by J. K. Rowling. As a matter of fact, a character from these books serves to illustrate my point quite nicely: Severus Snape.

For the majority of the series, Harry Potter absolutely hates his Potions professor. And it's for seemingly good reasons, too: he is cynical, petulant, and bad-tempered. However, those who read the books inevitably love him, as he is arguably the series' most developed character. But why is there this discrepancy? After all, we nearly always see Snape through Harry's eyes, meaning that there's nothing there to stop him appreciating his professor as we do. But Harry, remaining entrenched in his limited and prejudicial views, does not do anything of the sort. And I think I know why. You see, it is obvious that Snape is a character in a work of fiction, yet Harry is blissfully unaware of this truth. In fact, it is this ignorance itself which directly leads to his lack of compassion. Because Harry perceives Snape as a "real" being, a combination of selfishness, fear, and  laziness prevents him from seeing his professor as the reader does. But if he were to take a leaf from Abed's book, realizing that his world is ultimately fictional, he would become detached enough from it to perceive Snape as he really is.

Let me explain this point more. When we view our ontological peers as real beings who exist in themselves, we tend to lack perspective. It is only when we begin to see the world as a fiction that we can apply the truth that all things in it serve an overarching plot-line. You see, the overly talkative fellow on the bus is there for a reason. I might not know what it is, but when I encounter him as a reader, my annoyance disappears in a surge of appreciation and sympathy. He might be there to add a flash of humanity to what would otherwise be a bleak couple of scenes. Failing that, his awkwardness might be considered lovable, making him a form of comic relief. Whatever the case, it is clear that to view things as ultimately real, or to focus on the humdrum "here-and-now", leads to the erection of a barrier between you and any object of compassion.

This principle manifests itself in other ways, as well. For example, you'd think that dirty dishes are not nice to look at. But if you search "dirty dishes painting" on Google images, you'll find that that's not always the case. In truth, holding up a frame in front of something always makes it instantly beautiful, for when you look at (or listen to) things the right way, you have the ability to see it as the most magnificent of masterpieces. But it is only when we view the world as a reader, a music-listener, or a connoisseur of art that we are able to do this. To live life to the fullest, it is infinitely helpful to acknowledge that we live in what is essentially a work of fiction. It involves placing ourselves with God in the audience, thus breaking the fourth wall that separates us from him.

Two Trees

The world is at war. Though your life may seem tranquil and at peace, you cannot avoid the fact that you, along with every other entity in this enormous universe of ours, are locked in a vicious battle with all other things. This proposition may seem doubtful, dubious, or even insane to you. But if you doubt me, think of your relationship the last person you interacted with. Whether you love, hate, or don't care about them, it is inescapably true that you are two separate individuals looking out for yourselves. Even if you act with altruism, you are always doing it for a selfish reason (i.e. to feel good, to be saved, or to help yourself follow a code of conduct).This endless conflict between the universe's players, where each manipulates the others for their own gain, happens for a simple reason. It is because, as Lehi said, "there is opposition in all things".

If you're like me, you probably want out of this endless struggle. I personally detest the idea of always having to fend for myself, and I desperately want to reach a state where I am at peace with other things. But that is a tall order. Not only does it seem impossible to eliminate conflict, but we are told that such tranquility wouldn't even be desirable. Continuing the above quote, Lehi says "if it should be one body it must needs remain as dead, having no life neither death, nor corruption nor incorruption, happiness nor misery, neither sense nor insensibility." Is that it? Are we doomed to choose between endless competition or nothingness? Is there nothing better? Thankfully, I have recently discovered that there is. And the secret to this alternative can be found, funnily enough, in the Garden of Eden.

If you were to walk into this horticultural paradise, you would see two magnificent trees placed smack in the middle - those of life and knowledge. Now, when Adam and Eve were placed there, they were forbidden from eating this second tree's fruit. However, they chose to accept the temptation of a certain snake, a wily serpent who claimed that eating this fruit enabled them to become like God, and ate. Consequently, much suffering came about, for Genesis tells us (and everyday experience testifies) that there is now enmity, pain, and labor. However, all of these things are a result of conflict, for as the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil is (at least the perception of) opposition.

By virtue of our human existence, we live in a world where we have all partaken of this fruit. In this world, full of alienation and enmity, we both see and act as if competition and conflict were the way of things. We take offense. We are prideful. We scour the world in search for things that benefit us. This all seems rather grim, and may lead us to give up hope in frustration. But this is rash, for there is another tree.

The Tree of Life has been the goal of the Gospel from the very beginning. Seen by Lehi in his famous vision, this tree serves as a metaphor for that which we strive for: to rest from the endless struggle of life. We all seek after it. And though it may at times seem like a futile pursuit, by following the commandments and clinging to the Word of God, we can taste of its delicious fruit. But here's the key: it would not be possible if we had not tasted of the other fruit first.

Each tree's fruit on its own is incomplete. As we well know, to eat of the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil leads to conflict and misery. However, to eat of the other tree's fruit alone leads to just as bad a result. It means having nothing at all! No good or evil, no love or hate, no happiness or misery, never-changing and lasting forever. But if we (when ready) eat of them both, we can achieve a result attainable no way else.

You see, these two trees represent the poles of a spectrum of opposites. If we allow both the fruits of knowledge and life to enter into us, then the contrasting values of opposition and love would combine to become something altogether more. It means that we would no longer see the finite and the infinite as mutually exclusive. We would no longer be exclusively selfish - we would be selfless within our inevitable egoism, loving the other as we love ourselves. But most importantly, conflict would reveal itself as the most glorious harmony, hidden in disguise.