Validation, Work, Church

The word validation conjures up variations of the same sense: the rich satisfaction that one did something right. The variations come in the feelings of validation. One could be great relief that a difficult thing to do paid off, or that a decision was ultimately correct. Another could be the smugness of self-satisfaction, the cold sneer of “I told you so.” Anytime a difficult decision is made and carried out, the possibilities from any of those variations of validation present themselves to each party.

Our decision to come to Kuwait, I must admit, was not made in anticipation of validation but rather out of need. I needed a job that would pay me enough to continue raising the family in the way we wanted to raise them (with food, schools, activities, music, and health) while hopefully moving my way out of education debt, the kind that seems miniscule compared to other doctor and dentist and lawyer friends but also the kind that weighs heavily on a single-income English professor family. I was not looking for validation as much as understanding and compassion—validation would be an unintended benefit.

On the other hand, I am constantly seeking validation for my decision to get a phd in English literature, and truth be told, I have yet to find it. It is true that I cherish my graduate school years, that I love teaching, that I think literature, art, and music is so undervalued that we are in constant danger of denying all that makes us human. It is true that I am often overcome by powerful waves of emotion as I encounter literature that opens up worlds of, well, ineffable profundity. It is true that the work of a critic, er, professor in the classroom, is to allow articulation to approach that profundity and show its meaning if not its power, and that is noble, almost too noble to really accomplish (which is why we tend to focus on other things, like history and cultural studies—power and meaning often scares us into suspicion). But it is not true that professors are expected to do this with their research. It is not true that this life allows for the leisure of contemplation—not leisure at all, but luxury anyway—when there is a constant stream of administrative bureaucracy and grading papers by underprepared freshman. It is not true that we spend most of our time reading great works, nor writing about them, and it is definitely not true that the job of the academic is to write about value. I try to remedy that, honestly, but I wasn’t trained in the language. There is no validation in money, or salary—at least that seems to be the view of most schools, and there is no validation. . . . I am having a hard time writing this paragraph because, simply put, this job is wonderful and enriching even as it is limited and not necessarily en-rich-ing.

But Kuwait, this place, is strange. Its foreignness is mitigated by its extensive expat community, by the tremendous popularity and success of shopping malls with American stores, by its offering of all kinds of food.  This place does not seem to be subtle, but I get the sense that most expats feel that way about their adopted home.

But I have something to say here. Something that might be thought of as indirect validation. The church—the church I belong to--seems more true here than it does in the States. To disclaim: I am not saying it is—“seems” is the operable verb, which allows me to speak subjectively about my own experience of evaluating the truth claims of the Church, a practice I have been involved with since turning eight. I can imagine the arguments against me pile up: of course the Church seems more true there, it is representative of an American institution that you long for! Of course the Church seems more true there, you are surrounded by unfamiliarity and it is something recognizable! Of course the Church seems more true there, you are one of those liberals that blithely loves being part of a minority, and the Church allows you an especially minority identity! These are all criticisms I have leveled against myself, but I always lobby back the same arguments: McDonalds is still gross here, despite its having that familiar taste (it, unlike the Church, is the same no matter where you go). About the minority criticism, that is one that my astute wife has offered, and I can’t deny its pull, but being a minority religion in the States is much more fun that being in one here, especially because you can do in the States what would be the greatest appeal for me: talk about your minority status.

But what exactly is it that “seems” truer here? First of all, the trappings of Mormon culture, a culture I alternately cherish and loathe, don’t really exist, so it doesn’t distract me from a more authentic worship. Second of all, that more authentic worship produces feelings that have been prescribed since I was a child, only the idea that they are “prescribed” has diminished as a frame for them, and instead I am allowing them to come without wondering where they are coming from, what they mean, how I could be deceiving myself, how I am certainly not deceiving myself, how they confirm the church is true or how they don’t. These are questions I no longer weigh those feelings down with; instead, I just let the feelings come without resistance or metatestimony. In this “letting go” process, I have come realize that the less pressure I put on spiritual reactions, feelings, and inspiration, the easier it becomes to allow them to flourish. The question of belief slips away and being, within those feelings, is enough. Feelings crack or harden under pressure—a still small voice is fragile—and once I understood that, as part of a minority identification, my Mormonism is predicated on who I am and not what I believe, I have allowed myself to have a variety of religious experiences that, appropriately, produce belief. William James was, and is, right.

Third of all, fellowshipping here means something other than a word of commandment. Fellowship is a description here rather than a duty. That kind of fellowship makes Sunday, or Friday, worship feel like reprieve. New people keep appearing at church, and they all seem to say the same thing: “thank you, I feel good here.” There is a lot to be said for that.

Fourth of all, those people that show up every week? They often get baptized. I have witnessed two convert baptisms (there have been more than that, though) since moving to Kuwait and there is a vitality to them, like a Pentacostal demonstration of good vibes. I won’t go into where that brings me emotionally, but let’s just say it is a tremendous peace.

The fifth, and last for now, reason the church seems truer here is the congregation of people. They, and we, believe together and worship together and take care of each other despite the disadvantages of a labor market and social inequality that is clearly evil in design, even as those who navigate near its bottom end retain hope and work way too hard within it. The stories of how people here become trapped in work that underpays, undervalues, and abuses them are devastating, and I actually end up praying a lot about it and often pray that the States does not continue to move down this same path of labor. On the other hand, the stories of how people found the church are remarkable—miracles, really—and I have seen a few miracles myself. You see, the church is under the radar here, so many people from around the world come without the slightest idea if there are other members, let alone worship services. Sometimes it is a South African member seeing a random Philipino carrying around a Book of Mormon and asking where he got it. Sometimes it is an overheard conversation on a bus, but the way many of us find the church—our home—is always miraculous in content.

How does one end a post like this? A common testimonial ending seems inappropriate, even if I am writing this on “fast” Friday. Maybe I should end it by saying that I have never been more proud to be a Mormon than I am right now, which is ironic considering we have just been through an election that has dragged my precious identity around as if it were Hector, which seems like an appropriate analogy at the moment (even when I wanted to do some dragging myself when I heard some of the awful, offensive, and small-minded comments directed towards me by my own hermanos y hermanas in the church during the election season). But my identity is not the only thing at stake in my current love for my church—it is also my capacity for belief and worship and reverence. Not only am I a Mormon, I believe in Mormonism, and that conviction is currently Kuwaiti in nature. If that is not validation, I don’t know what is.