The Mormon

A crucifix can tell a lot about a place. In terms of religious symbols, it allows a certain measure of interpretation which is rare in such objects of devotion. In my highly subjective experience, I have found the pattern to generally go as follows; the more realistic the crucifix the more rational the institution’s perspective on religion tends to be. The ones at my old school were a solemn affair, that whilst not plagued by hyperbolic suffering that I have seen in some (never a good sign), it is still clear that Jesus isn’t having a great day. He’s slung low, looking down despondently in a rather touching expression of his humanity. This, I feel, corresponds to my old school’s somber and meditative take on the whole thing.

Compare this to the one in the Holy Family church, one of the largest on the island. First of all, it is gigantic, taking up the entire wall of the church. Secondly, Jesus looks like he’s having a grand old time up there. He’s fully clothed, has excellent posture and generally looks pretty pleased with himself. There is no evidence that he is suffering one of the most excruciating forms of execution ever devised. I can think of no better introduction to the manner of faith on the island than this.

The community I am surrounded by is overwhelmingly Catholic. I have no problem with this. Catholics have always deserved my respect, and ones such as these who travel halfway across the world to help people even more so. This is, however, an abrupt change from my home life where I was exposed to about one religious person for every two non-religious people, and none of them were particularly over-zealous about it. Between the Jesuit Volunteers, Jesuits in training and people from countries with high rates of practicing Catholicism such as the Phillipines, we non-Catholics are firmly in the minority. As comfortable as I am with that, there also an unspoken desire for us not to openly practice or lack-of-faith and to particularly avoid teaching anything that openly criticizes Church doctrine. Having gone to a high school where even the priests discussed their issues with Christianity and atheist teachers were out and proud, this seemed strange.

However, when placed in the context of the society the school operates in this comes as no surprise. It’s not that being non-religious is frowned upon, it is simply that it is not comprehensible. Walking across the oval with a Xavier student (a group that represents some of the most intelligent and Westernized people on island) I was asked in a scandalous tone, “Is it true that some teachers are… atheists?” One might have been mistaken for him asking me whether we hid dead bodies in the teacher’s lounge. I looked at the kid, remembering that I was a card-carrying atheist at his age, and told him that we had weekly Wiccan sacrifices and that he was more than welcome to join.

My most intimate view of Chuukese society, my students, have revealed some of the truly bizarre manifestations of this. For example, the ability for religion to turn up in topics for which it has no relevance amazes me. One of my favourite examples was in a comprehension test about an extract describing the Californian Gold Rush. The question was, ‘Why do you think this article compares the lucky and unlucky stories of miners?’

“Because the good thing they were lucky to find gold. Unlucky some don’t find gold and they think too much about money but they don’t think of going to church and if they die they will go to hell. They are happy in earth but when they die they are sad in hell.”

And this student is by no means the least intelligent or most conspicuously religious I teach. Another time was when I took remedial reading for the seventh grade. The students were, on the whole, not great in their behavior. That was until my second week of it when I discovered that they paid much more attention when I made them read books about Jesus. After that, I came to school every day armed with children’s bibles and religious education texts. Their favourite, which couldn’t really be described as a page-turner, was a book of saints subtitled ‘Superheroes of God’. After going through every saint in the book whose adventures simply weren’t nearly as captivating as the stories of my childhood, I asked what sort of books they wanted to read next. I suggested the categories that had fascinated me as a kid: space, adventure, history, science. These were met with a decidedly dull reception. My Jesuit co-teacher, Brother Patrick, who had supplied all of my religious books and was quite enamoured of ‘Superheroes of God’, suggested, “What about books about Jesus?” The response was rapturous. More books about Jesus was exactly what the doctor had ordered it seemed. It should be noted that these are probably the same kids who draw swastikas on the teacher’s desk in permanent marker.

This irony is telling. It is arguable that they view the crosses that they draw elaborately in my class in the same manner they view the desk swastikas. They are both powerful symbols and are hence worthy of expression, but they are clueless as to what their meanings are. This complete lack of critical thought can easily be dismissed as some self-important non-Christian’s intensely biased view on the whole matter, but it was a strongly Catholic teacher who suggested it to me. And when one of your 8th Grade students at a Catholic school asks you what the definition of a Christian is, there is generally something seriously wrong.

This inability to view faith in a critical sense explains some of the eccentricities of the local brand of Catholicism. It explains the ‘Jesus-having-a-dandy-ol’-time’ crucifix. It explains the fact that my students cannot get their head around the idea of a non-Christian perspective on a passage about Easter. It explains the many devotional pictures of Caucasian Jesus. A Peace Corp I talked with even suggested that the state’s political apathy is a side effect. Yet again this can easily be dismissed as one of those ‘religion-is-responsible-for-everything-evil’ arguments that Dawkins and his crowd are rather fond of, but the patterns in behavior are pretty stark. I really do believe it is one of the fundamental problems about this place.

I struggled with all of this for quite a while. However, it was the awkward words of a young Mormon that lead me to come to an acceptance of the way things are and my place within it.

This chance occurrence happened at the airport. This is apt because it always draws an eclectic crowd of people on the island and is about the only time you see locals and tourists in the same room. This particular day we were bidding farewell to Sam, an American volunteer. It was an emotional time; I told him to do his best jagger, he said we’ll catch up some time and drink red wine out of the bottle. At the same time, the Mormons were saying goodbye to one of their own. As everyone knows, you can spot a Mormon at a thousand paces, particularly a group of them (I wonder if there’s a collective noun for Mormons?) and they did not disappoint. All of them were dressed identically: white shirts, black ties, black pants and personalized nametags. My favourite part is a local addition to this uniform, where the faithful can choose between black leather shoes or black crocs. Now Chuuk being the ecumenical place it is we had virtually nothing to do with the Mormons. Readers of my earlier posts may remember my obliviousness to their existence for my early months, and my awareness of them has increased only marginally. They always travel in at least pairs, and they always drive very shiny cars. They never give lifts. Beyond this, however, I was blind to their presence on island.

It came as a surprise then to find that they were closer to home than I had thought. As both Sam and his Mormon travelling companion went through check-in, a young Maori in the party came and sat by the ragtag mob of Xavier volunteers that had come to say goodbye. He began striking up a conversation with Tom, my fellow Australian. Turns out they had met at the Sapuk Elementary graduation. Turns out he was twenty years old. Turns out he was from New Zealand. This is a pretty big deal. I can name Peace Corp volunteers I have never met on islands that take days to reach on a boat. But here was someone from the country next door, who was the closest non-student in age to me apart from the two other gappies and who was living in the same village as me.

And he was nice. The conversation was pleasant indeed. He compared Tom’s looks to the lead singer of Evermore. We discussed the strange relationship between New Zealand and Australia. We talked about the island itself. I decided to ask him what he was doing on the island. His response was that he was here preaching the gospel, which I really should have seen coming but figured that if he had travelled this far to do that at least he’s devoted to the task. He asked me the same question and I told him I was teaching. He asked if I had anyone with me to translate, I said no. He asked where ,and I told him St Cecilias.

He gave a slight look away and in an absurdly casual tone, asked me, “So do you get to church much?”
Half in shock, I gave Tom and Lydia (neither of whom are of the religious bent) and he seemed to pick up on that.

“So you’re not a Christian.”
“Well that’s a complex question.” I said in an attempt to be diplomatic.
“You’re not a Christian but you teach at a Christian school?”

It was at about this point where the conversation, which I had been rather enjoying, went into a steep decline. I acknowledged that this was ironic but that I was comfortable with the arrangement. Had I been in a slightly less forgiving mood, I might have rushed into a bout of self-righteousness, comparing my attempts to genuinely help the Chuukese to his bible-bashing. But it wasn’t the right time or place, and it wouldn’t have achieved anything in the long run. He quickly peeled off and rejoined his throng of Mormons. They all looked incredibly happy, even as one of their own walked past the security guards and into the purgatorial waiting area next to the tarmac. As we left I said goodbye. I invited him up for a meal sometime, though it’s probably unlikely he’ll take me up on that.

The odd thing is, walking away from the airport, I felt more comfortable not being a Christian here than I have since I arrived. So if you’re out there, my Mormon friend, thank you.