The Church of
Latter Day Saints is blocky and beige, set atop a hill on Overland, looking
over the holy land of Santa Monica, California, (and the Seven-Eleven across
the street). Their garage door is huge. The parking lot features a
larger-than-life statue of The Mormon Family— barefoot mother, bread-winning
father, and a clown-car’s worth of deferential children.
Other Christians
clutch their crosses and point at the Mormons and say, now look, that’s crazy. They have funny underwear.
They’re extra racist. Their holy book was published in 1830 by a guy named
Joseph Smith, it can’t possibly be real. Everyone knows real holy texts are at least a few thousand years old, from the
days when magic existed, God massacred people, and rape was okay.
But
my Dad was raised a Mormon, so in my childhood we went to the behemoth church
every Christmas. Not to go inside, or anything, because my Dad raised us as
lovely little empiricists,
but because they had the best holiday lights. On Christmas Eve, each towering tree was lit up with
glittering silver and white strings of lights, gossamer and netted. The garage door was plated with gold lights. The palm
trees sported candy-cane spirals of red, the low shrubs glistened with dewy,
spring greens, the rose bushes held delicate blooms of yellow and gold. We
strolled through the grounds, whispering close about life and science and
gingerbread cookies.
So
we celebrated in the shadow the hulking tower, topped with St. That-Guy blaring
his giant Trumpet of Jesus or whatever, and basked in the glow of a holiday we
have repossessed from the Christians and transformed into our own pagan
celebration of the winter solstice and familial love.
,