We Sinners handles faith with graces

Hanna Pylväinen's debut novel We Sinners lacks so many traditional plot elements found in contemporary novels about religion. No pedophile priests. No hypocritical pastors. No overwrought preachers foaming about the Book of Revelation.

Rather, the moving story offers grace, insight and compassion. Pylväinen immerses the reader in the experience of growing up in a fundamentalist faith. Although the author is no longer a member of the Laestadian Lutheran Church, she was raised as a Laestadian, like the Rovaniemi family in We Sinners.

Founded in 19th-century Sweden by Lars Levi Laestadius, it is a strict branch which emphasizes forgiveness and forbids drinking, dancing and TV. Although We Sinners is about one faith, it explores how people, particularly children, feel when their religion sets them apart, whether they are Orthodox Jews, Mormons, evangelical Christians or Muslims.

Pylväinen tells the story of the Rovaniemis in 11 chapters, each from a different family member's perspective. The Finnish-American family live outside Detroit and, with nine children, money is tight. But the parents Warren and Pirjo provide them with books, musical instruments, and love. Their house is small, the van rusty and the siblings bicker. And yet the children share a tribal bond outsiders can't grasp.

There isn't a lot of drama. A daughter's classmates discover why she can't attend the school dance. The congregation choose the father to be minister. One brother marries a fellow believer and the other brother — who is gay — leaves the church.

Some children rebel and return. Others don't, but find themselves adrift in a world that sometimes feels shallow and lonely. A Chinese-American boyfriend — an only child — finds the kind of comfort with the Rovaniemis and their faith that his achievement-obsessed parents cannot give him. The final chapter illuminates the hope Laestadius offered to impoverished Finns in a cold, harsh world where alcohol provided the only warmth.

We Sinners is the rare mainstream novel that treats faith with respect and subtlety, conveying both its power and pull.

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Review-a-Day for Sat, Sep 24: Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith

by Jon Krakauer A review by Doug Brown

On July 24, 1984, two fundamentalist Mormon brothers brutally murdered their sister-in-law and her baby girl, believing they were fulfilling a revelation that one of the brothers had received from God. Today they reside in federal prisons. The older brother, Ron (who had the revelation), is on death row and following every avenue for appeal. The younger brother, Dan, is serving a life sentence and seems okay with it (Krakauer says he refers to prison as a "monastery"). Krakauer spoke to Dan for the book, but not Ron. Under the Banner of Heaven tells in parallel the story of the Lafferty brothers and their descent into fundamentalism alongside the history of the Mormon Church.

The modern Mormon Church is quick to distance itself from fundamentalists; most are excommunicated from the Latter-Day Saint (LDS) community. The church downplays the history of plural marriage (polygamy) in Mormonism, to the point of maintaining that Brigham Young was monogamous (history says otherwise). Polygamy is a central point of contention with fundamentalists -- they feel the church went astray when it cooperated with U.S. law and renounced the practice in the late 1800s. A practice that is still a part of the church, though, is revelation. Mormons are encouraged to listen for messages from God, and much of the basis of Mormon dogma is a sequence of revelations that Joseph Smith and later church leaders have had. One doctrine of Mormonism that has terrible consequences is "blood atonement"; if acts are committed against Mormons, Brigham Young said this could sometimes only be rectified if the "sinners have their blood spilt upon the ground." Fundamentalists are naturally drawn to blood atonement, and this element of Mormonism became a focus for the Lafferty brothers.

A fundamental point of Ron's trial was whether he was insane. The defense argued he was; the prosecution argued no. As Krakauer details, if Ron Lafferty is insane, it could be argued that so are most religious people. He believed he was receiving revelations from God, but revelation is a tenet of Mormonism. Despite carrying out horrible crimes, he felt he was doing the right thing, and was thus divorced from reality. But so is everyone who goes to war with a cross or a star or a crescent around their neck. Ron did what he did because of his faith. Sure, the motive seems self-serving -- Brenda Lafferty (the victim) had convinced Ron's abused wife to leave him, so naturally Ron said that God wanted her "removed." But there was much discussion between the brothers and their circle about whether the "removal revelation" was legitimately from God; the final decision, for Ron and Dan anyway, was yes. This discussion is a particularly sore point for Brenda's family -- several people knew about the revelation months before it was carried out, and no one warned her. Krakauer maintains one of these people was Allen Lafferty, Brenda's husband. Ron had shown him the revelation and asked what he thought of it. Allen spoke against it, but never felt inclined to say, "Hey, honey, I had the creepiest talk with my brothers..."

Even before Under the Banner of Heaven was on the shelves, the LDS church preemptively attacked it. In a five-page screed that is reprinted in an appendix for the paperback, Krakauer is taken to task for focusing on the negative aspects of the church. It emphasizes that the Lafferty brothers weren't members of the LDS church, having been excommunicated. Krakauer responds to each of the charges. In a few cases, he acknowledges having gotten facts wrong in the initial release (which were subsequently corrected for the paperback edition). But, for the most part, he defends the points made in the book.

Events have happened in the history of Mormonism that the church would rather sweep under the rug, like the 1857 Mountain Meadows Massacre (detailed in the book). And while the Laffertys had been excommunicated from the LDS church, their beliefs were rooted in the church. They believed they were being better Mormons than the LDS church leaders. To me, that was an important take-away lesson of the book -- religious fundamentalists don't necessarily believe something completely different from the mainstream; they just interpret the same texts more inflexibly and believe in their interpretation more deeply. In the hands of fundamentalists, religious belief is by definition intolerant, and often used for brutal ends. Under the Banner of Heaven is a scary book about the dark fringe of extremist religion and believers who are willing to lethally impose their dogma.

View the original article here

Review-a-Day for Sat, Sep 24: Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith

by Jon Krakauer A review by Doug Brown

On July 24, 1984, two fundamentalist Mormon brothers brutally murdered their sister-in-law and her baby girl, believing they were fulfilling a revelation that one of the brothers had received from God. Today they reside in federal prisons. The older brother, Ron (who had the revelation), is on death row and following every avenue for appeal. The younger brother, Dan, is serving a life sentence and seems okay with it (Krakauer says he refers to prison as a "monastery"). Krakauer spoke to Dan for the book, but not Ron. Under the Banner of Heaven tells in parallel the story of the Lafferty brothers and their descent into fundamentalism alongside the history of the Mormon Church.

The modern Mormon Church is quick to distance itself from fundamentalists; most are excommunicated from the Latter-Day Saint (LDS) community. The church downplays the history of plural marriage (polygamy) in Mormonism, to the point of maintaining that Brigham Young was monogamous (history says otherwise). Polygamy is a central point of contention with fundamentalists -- they feel the church went astray when it cooperated with U.S. law and renounced the practice in the late 1800s. A practice that is still a part of the church, though, is revelation. Mormons are encouraged to listen for messages from God, and much of the basis of Mormon dogma is a sequence of revelations that Joseph Smith and later church leaders have had. One doctrine of Mormonism that has terrible consequences is "blood atonement"; if acts are committed against Mormons, Brigham Young said this could sometimes only be rectified if the "sinners have their blood spilt upon the ground." Fundamentalists are naturally drawn to blood atonement, and this element of Mormonism became a focus for the Lafferty brothers.

A fundamental point of Ron's trial was whether he was insane. The defense argued he was; the prosecution argued no. As Krakauer details, if Ron Lafferty is insane, it could be argued that so are most religious people. He believed he was receiving revelations from God, but revelation is a tenet of Mormonism. Despite carrying out horrible crimes, he felt he was doing the right thing, and was thus divorced from reality. But so is everyone who goes to war with a cross or a star or a crescent around their neck. Ron did what he did because of his faith. Sure, the motive seems self-serving -- Brenda Lafferty (the victim) had convinced Ron's abused wife to leave him, so naturally Ron said that God wanted her "removed." But there was much discussion between the brothers and their circle about whether the "removal revelation" was legitimately from God; the final decision, for Ron and Dan anyway, was yes. This discussion is a particularly sore point for Brenda's family -- several people knew about the revelation months before it was carried out, and no one warned her. Krakauer maintains one of these people was Allen Lafferty, Brenda's husband. Ron had shown him the revelation and asked what he thought of it. Allen spoke against it, but never felt inclined to say, "Hey, honey, I had the creepiest talk with my brothers..."

Even before Under the Banner of Heaven was on the shelves, the LDS church preemptively attacked it. In a five-page screed that is reprinted in an appendix for the paperback, Krakauer is taken to task for focusing on the negative aspects of the church. It emphasizes that the Lafferty brothers weren't members of the LDS church, having been excommunicated. Krakauer responds to each of the charges. In a few cases, he acknowledges having gotten facts wrong in the initial release (which were subsequently corrected for the paperback edition). But, for the most part, he defends the points made in the book.

Events have happened in the history of Mormonism that the church would rather sweep under the rug, like the 1857 Mountain Meadows Massacre (detailed in the book). And while the Laffertys had been excommunicated from the LDS church, their beliefs were rooted in the church. They believed they were being better Mormons than the LDS church leaders. To me, that was an important take-away lesson of the book -- religious fundamentalists don't necessarily believe something completely different from the mainstream; they just interpret the same texts more inflexibly and believe in their interpretation more deeply. In the hands of fundamentalists, religious belief is by definition intolerant, and often used for brutal ends. Under the Banner of Heaven is a scary book about the dark fringe of extremist religion and believers who are willing to lethally impose their dogma.

View the original article here

Review-a-Day for Thu, Aug 25: Sweet Heaven When I Die: Faith, Faithlessness, and the Country in Between

by Jeff Sharlet A review by Steve Yarbrough

I used to live in Fresno, Calif., a red city in a blue state, and during my years there I belonged to a gym where I once overheard a conversation between two young people about whether or not "intervention" was in order when you learned that a Christian brother or sister had out-of-wedlock sex. I found myself thinking of that conversation while reading "The Best Minds of My Generation," a piece about youth minister Ron Luce in Jeff Sharlet's superb new essay collection Sweet Heaven When I Die: Faith, Faithlessness, and the Country In Between.

Luce's intention, Sharlet argues persuasively, is to "immunize" the young from the enticements of secularism. His most devoted followers cough up $7,800 per year to become students at his Honor Academy. "'Turn and burn,' goes a popular saying there. That is, look away from Jesus for even an instant -- at, say, a hot girl in Potter's Desire, the academy's evangelical dance team -- and you might find yourself in hell instead of Texas. Which is why every student must pledge to confront other students if their behavior is ungodly, or simply too arousing."

Luce puts his recruits though such ordeals as a 2 1/2-day endurance trial in which they are forced to remain awake at all times and carry enormous wooden crosses. They take "gender-divided purity classes" taught by such experts as Shannon Etheridge, who has written volumes for an "antimasturbation" series. Etheridge, Sharlet notes, developed a "passion for sexual purity ... in mortuary college." If all of this sounds comic, it is. But it's also profoundly disturbing. Luce, Sharlet says, has created for his followers "a cramped little country in which there is not enough room to be lost or found, only 'saved' as a static condition."

Many of these essays isolate figures who operate on the fringes of extreme belief or extreme skepticism. One of the most compelling pieces concerns philosopher Cornel West, who describes himself as "a bluesman in the life of the mind. ... A jazzman in the world of ideas." In order to live, West believes, one must constantly remain ready to die. "In the end," he tells the author, "we're beings headed toward death ... for the most part we don't have any control ... you have to acknowledge the magnitude of the mystery."

The musical motif resounds most memorably in the stunning concluding essay, which focuses on the life of the great banjo player Dock Boggs, who recorded eight sides in 1927, got rid of his banjo during the Great Depression and, as far as we know, didn't play the instrument again for 30 years. Thinking about Boggs and recent setbacks in his own life and that of a friend, Sharlet considers what it means to quit.

"Quitting," he writes, "is a place, free not just of ambition but of bitterness, too. A place where what could have been is simply not, neither forgotten nor clung to. At most just observed. Like the sparks that didn't sizzle when they hit the pond."

From what people in the publishing business tell me, collections of essays are not easy to sell these days. I hope Sharlet proves conventional wisdom wrong. This is a fine book, by a deeply thoughtful writer, one with the wisdom to observe that "we are none of us human yet, only trying and quitting and trying and tiptoeing out the back door. We recorded our eight sides and went home, singing the 'Down South Blues.'"

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FAITH

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May 18, 2011 ARCHIVES  |  Entertainment  |  COLUMNS

Jennifer Haigh
Harper
ISBN 978-0060755805
318 pages
$25.99

Reviewed by Ron Charles, The Washington Post's fiction editor

There's no way to approach yet another story of sexual abuse by Catholic priests without a weary sense of revulsion. I lived in Boston during the most shocking revelations about the archdiocese, and though I wouldn't take a word -- or an award -- away from the Boston Globe's coverage, the ever-rising tally of robed predators became morally exhausting. But don't let that worn-out disgust turn you away from Jennifer Haigh's smart fourth novel, "Faith." Haigh brings a refreshing degree of humanity to a story you think you know well, and in chapters both riveting and profound, she catches the avalanche of guilt this tragedy unleashes in one devout family.

"Most of you have heard, by now, what happened to my brother," the narrator begins, placing this fictional case in the context of those accusations during 2002 when grim photos of collared monsters flashed up on the nightly news. Two years have passed since that horrible spring, and now Sheila McGann is breaking a promise of silence she made to her older half brother, Father Art. A lonely, middle-aged woman long estranged from her family and her church, Sheila carefully pieces together "a kind of fifth gospel" to describe the events that ruined his life. "My penance is to tell this ragged truth as completely as I know it," she says, "fully aware that it is much too little, much too late."

Actually, she's being too modest. As a narrator, she's fantastic: compassionate, psychologically astute and candid about her own biases and blind spots. The novel works so effectively because Haigh has created a thoughtful woman poised between doubt and belief. Without the self-righteous bitterness of an apostate or the willful certainty of the devout, Shelia hovers precariously, not sure what to believe about her brother's faith or his sins.

In a preface to the main story, Sheila lays out Art's early life and adolescence in swift, dramatic strokes, searching for the foundations of her brother's character: early abandonment by his father, then a distant stepfather and finally the welcoming arms of the church. Though she doesn't feel it herself, Sheila intuits the comfort that orthodoxy can provide a frightened young man. The collar, the pulpit, the vow of chastity -- she understands that these aren't burdens for Art so much as shields against the complex demands of adulthood. But how effectively, she wonders, can such a cloistered person handle the passions and strivings of being human?

Haigh raises these psychological inquiries in a story that repeatedly knocks our sympathies off balance. The action begins when Father Art is in his early 50s and feeling as though he's lost his way. On Good Friday, 2002, as he contemplates the promise of new life, he receives a call from a church administrator. "He told me later that he'd had no idea why he'd been summoned," Sheila writes, but that "seems incredible." TV news vans have been stationed outside the chancery for months, hoping to catch the cardinal's reaction to each new accusation of abuse. As soon as Art arrives, he's calmly informed that he's being placed on administrative leave. In this Kafkaesque scene, he's not told "the name of the accuser; not even what he was supposed to have done." But he must speak to no one and move out of the rectory that has been his home for years.

Everything Sheila relates to us is cast in shadows of regret and sorrow, and "Faith" certainly isn't a thriller in any conventional sense, but it's an incredibly suspenseful novel. What's at stake isn't just a child's innocence or a man's reputation, but a whole family's faith and all the secrets they've kept neatly packed away like old christening gowns in the attic. Her vacillating belief in her brother's virtue keeps us wondering as Sheila fills in the details of the incriminating evidence against him. He had taken a close interest in his housekeeper's 8-year-old boy, but as Sheila notes, "When it comes to a man like my brother, nothing -- nothing -- is clear."

After watching these ghastly cases play out in the news, it's unnerving to move through such a scandal from the point of view of a gentle, sympathetic defendant. "What will be, will be," Art tells his sister with eerie calmness. But while he seems willing to ignore the battles raging around him, everyone in his family must decide what to believe. For Art's mother, "her son the priest could do no wrong." His younger brother, Mike, meanwhile, is determined to find proof that will either exonerate or condemn his strange, sexless sibling. Mike's "energy is fearsome," Sheila writes. He's immune "to the modern illnesses: inertia, anxiety, ambivalence, regret." But the disturbing accusations against Art eventually test Mike's persistence, and in his insatiable quest for certainty, he risks committing an act of exploitation himself. He seems incapable of admitting that, as Saint Paul notes, "faith is the evidence of things unseen."

Sheila keeps reaching into her parents' troubled past, even as she relates Mike's disastrous efforts to ferret out the truth. In this ingeniously plotted story, the question of whether Art molested a little boy is eventually supplanted by a larger set of questions about each family member's culpability for others' suffering. Every time the story threatens to sink too ponderously into its philosophical concerns, the plot takes some new, startling turn, and every time that quick pace threatens to blur the novel's deeper themes, Haigh suspends the action and forces us to consider the murky dimensions of faith and sin.

How fusty those theological terms can sound nowadays, but in the voice of Sheila, a nonbeliever grasping for understanding, they burn. "Faith is a decision," she realizes. "In its most basic form, it is a choice."

Copyright 2011 Washington Post Writers Group
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