Like Coming Home

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20241 Comment

Dear Will:

Dana and I were about 10 days into a two-week trip through Italy, with rain threatening to ruin our second day in Cinque Terre. Improvising, we decided to take an unscheduled side-trip to Porto Venere, a small hamlet set on a finger of land poking out into the Mediterranean. Along with its more-famous neighbors that make up the “five lands” of Cinque Terre, Porto Venere has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site. There are islands nearby and some old buildings. That’s about all we knew. 

Following a 45-minute train ride, a 15-minute slosh to the bus stop (got lost a couple of times), and a 35-minute ride on a local bus, Dana and I looked around and found that there wasn’t a whole lot going on in Porto Venere. But unlike the villages of Cinque Terre we had visited the previous day, Porto Venere was not overrun by tourists sent ashore from a nearby cruise ship. We loved it immediately. 

We made our way to the old church perched on a rocky outcropping at the edge of town. The Church of St. Peter, we learned, had been consecrated in 1198 (!). It’s a simple edifice, with a plain stone interior almost devoid of ornamentation. The main sanctuary contains simple pews and but one crucifix, and that cloudy day it was dimly lit only by natural light and a few candles left by previous visitors. Music from a single harp floated through its barren walls. It was so quiet and peaceful inside that small chapel that we were enveloped with a sense of reverence. I knew in an instant I had found the church where I would want to worship if I were a local Roman Catholic.

If you’ve spent time in Italy, you might find that a curious choice. During our visit we saw (along with hundreds of others) some of the most famous, magnificent spiritual sanctuaries in the world: the Florence Cathedral, with all of its gothic opulence; the massive St. Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican; the Sistine Chapel, the beauty of which is overwhelming; not to mention several other less-famous but also impressive churches that seem to arise on every corner of every town in Italy. All were beautiful and awe-inspiring, but for all their grandeur and artistry, none of them made me feel connected to God like that small church atop the rocks in Porto Venere. Entering the Church of St. Peter—away from the crowds and the spectacle—was like coming home.

The experience brought to mind a story told by Elder Robert E. Wells in which he describes the embarrassment he felt as a missionary bringing a sophisticated, cultured, well-educated woman to church for the first time. The services were held in an old building under the direction of inexperienced local volunteers. It was a bit of a sloppy mess from start to finish:

On the way home, one of the missionaries began to reflect his embarrassment. He explained: “Please excuse our present building. Some day we will build a lovely new chapel here.” Then he added: “Please excuse our new leaders. We have a lay priesthood, so we take turns conducting, and the new leaders are still learning how to conduct services.” He was just about to give another excuse when Sister Herta Mellor turned to him and said somewhat sternly: “Elder, don’t you apologize! It must have been like this at the time of Christ!”

When I heard that talk (in Spanish), delivered in Elder Wells’ signature baritone, it spoke to my heart. I myself was a missionary—serving at the time in Barrio 15, a small unit of our church near downtown Montevideo, Uruguay. Our tiny congregation met each week in a small, four-room building across the street from a cemetery. In that makeshift chapel we had to rearrange the furniture between meetings. It had broken glass and a wall that was slowly crumbling. Its roof leaked with enthusiasm any time it rained. But, oh! how I loved Barrio 15.

The people of that congregation were humble, faithful, and full of love—unimpressive, and yet the very embodiment of what you might refer to as “the pure love of Christ.” Though I was a foreigner, they embraced me (often literally) as one of their own, showering me with so much love and affection that I would happily have remained in Barrio 15 for the full length of my two-year mission. When it came time for me to move on to my next assignment, I rose before the congregation to say good-bye, but words failed. I stood, I stammered, and then I sobbed like a baby.

So yes, I know something of humble sanctuaries. Thus, when Dana and I discovered the busker whose harp accompanied our visit to the Church of St. Peter, we gladly added a few coins to his hat. To thank him for speaking to our hearts. For helping us connect memories and emotions across the years. For filling us once again with the love of God.

PW

Interior Sanctuary Image: © Achim Tomae/Getty Images

What Will They Call Our Generation?

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20243 Comments

Dear Will:

With all due respect to “The Star-Spangled Banner,” when it comes to patriotic anthems I’m all about “America the Beautiful.” I can sing either one with full-throated enthusiasm, but when they cue up “America the Beautiful” I have to brace myself, knowing that if the music director decides to go for all four verses, chances are very high that I won’t get through it all without my full-throat catching and my eyes misting over. 

Perhaps Katharine Lee Bates’ wonderful lyrics have had the same effect on you. Her tribute to pilgrims and patriots and soldiers are fitting evocations of the love of country and countrymen that lies at the heart of what has made my beloved nation remarkable—in spite of its various flaws. The third verse, in particular, always speaks to my soul: 

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife,
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life!

I thought of these words again in recent days while watching the 2024 Summer Olympics broadcast from Paris. NBC ran a segment focused on some of the few remaining veterans of the D-Day invasion who had returned to France to be honored while also paying honor to their many fallen friends and comrades. I felt humbled by these centenarians, now feeble and wheelchair-bound, men and women who embody a selflessness that I could never hope to match. As these aged vets looked out over the cemetery there on the cliffs of Normandy, it was plain to see why these Americans, both living and dead, have been rightly called the Greatest Generation. 

I can’t witness such a scene without feeling a deep sense of inferiority and inspiration. I find myself pondering: “What have I done? What sort of sacrifices have I ever made on behalf of others?” It leaves me with a determination to try to be better, do better, make some sort of positive difference in whatever small way I can to make my community, my country, this world a better place for others. I’ve learned to pay attention to such urges when they come because they seem to me a signal of truth, a solemn prompting to pay attention to what I’m seeing and feeling. These are more than mere nudges, I believe; they are God’s way of helping me see the gap between who I am and who I could be.

Occasionally I’m subjected to different kinds of promptings altogether, and I pay attention to them in a whole different way. From time to time I read or hear someone urging me to give in to that other side of myself that puts my selfish interests ahead of others. They will encourage me to take offense where I had not previously, to feel a sense of grievance that had not existed before. Such people would have me vilify those around me who are different, blame them for my misfortunes, call them names and treat them with disrespect and contempt. They even seem to reject the nobility of the cause that brought young men ashore on Omaha Beach and would gladly leave underdogs to fend for themselves against much larger oppressors. What I notice as I hear or read their screeds is that they would have me become a worse version of myself and, in the process, make the world around me worse than it already is. And I wonder: If this is the sort of person we choose to follow, what do you suppose the historians might call our generation?

I’m a church-going fellow, as you know, a guy who has chosen throughout my life to follow the Greatest Leader of them all, one who taught His followers to put others first: to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the lonely and imprisoned. To bear the burdens of others. To answer offense and grievance with lovingkindness. I believe that the best leaders are those who similarly inspire others to strive to become better versions of themselves, who motivate their followers to pull together and achieve something they might not be capable of otherwise. Could I ever justify concurrently supporting someone who actively encourages me and others to do the opposite? It’s unthinkable. 

I acknowledge that some may see in their options ambiguity that I do not. If that includes you, may I suggest the following: As you listen to the speeches and consider both the message and the messenger, pay attention to what they are inviting you to do or to become. Then heed the advice of one prophet who taught a simple way to judge: That which invites you to do good comes from God, and that which does not, does not. 

Then choose good.

I pray along with Katharine Lee Bates that God will indeed shed His grace on America as we work together to crown our good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea. What will they call our generation? We are about to find out. 

PW

Photo: Best Defense Foundation

A Little Perspective on Life

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20241 Comment

Dear Will:

For Christmas, my son Luke bought me a one-year “subscription” to StoryWorth. Every Monday, I get an email, prompting me to respond to a question about myself as a keepsake for my children and granddaughter. This week’s question: How has your faith influenced your perspective on life? Since you and I have become close over the years, I thought I would share my answer with you as well.

First, some context: Through my mother, I am a sixth- or seventh-generation Mormon (depending on which genealogical line you trace), a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. For his part, my father claimed to be a member of the Church of England, which, he said, explained why he didn’t attend services (too far away). So as I was growing up, my mother would schlep me and my six siblings off to church services each Sunday while my dad stayed home tending the pot roast. Throughout my formative years, I remained an obedient but indifferent member of the Church, not thinking much about it or its teachings one way or the other. While other kids my age dutifully played along and parroted the standard professions of faith and belief that they were taught, I remained a detached observer—in the Church but never really of the Church, if you catch my meaning. As I observed my older siblings testing various types of rebellion and defiance, I assumed that one day that would also be me.

When I was 14 years old, my family moved from Redlands to Glendora, California—just as I was entering the ninth grade—and things changed for me dramatically. At a junior high school, the ninth-graders were the old kids, the cool kids, and without upperclassmen to put us in our places we worked hard to act more grown up than we really were. Because I was the new kid in town, I got invited to parties, offered weed, pulled this way and that by different social groups who were trying to figure out if I was one of them. I wondered if I might be as well. I recall being asked about my beliefs and personal practices (“So, do you drink?”) and always answering awkwardly, usually making up some excuse for being a straight arrow because I had not taken the time to decide for myself.

Meanwhile the kids in my church social group were tugging me in another direction altogether, and in time, without really making a conscious choice, I found myself pulled into their orbit. At some point, I couldn’t really tell you when exactly, I made the choice to lean in and truly become the thing I had spent 15 or 16 years merely observing. While I don’t recall the particulars, this much I remember distinctly: at 15 I didn’t really know what I believed; but by 18 I had decided to become a missionary. Those two years in Uruguay were life-altering, and I have remained actively involved in my church ever since.

But all of that is merely preamble—necessary backstory, I think, since so much of what I believe and how I live has been influenced by my association with the Church. But what of the question regarding my faith? Rather than delve into lots of religious doctrine, let’s just focus on those of my core beliefs that really get to the heart of the question:

All my life I have believed in God—that part has been easy for me. I tend to agree with the Book of Mormon prophet Alma who said that “all things denote there is a God.” As I observe the wonders of the world around me, it just seems obvious (concurrent evil and destruction notwithstanding). Beyond those observations, I have had moments of clarity when I have felt God’s presence and an assurance that He has touched my life in a number of significant ways. Along with that baseline belief, I have faith that there is more to life than what we can extract from our 90-or-so years of mortality—that I pre-existed and that I will continue living beyond the grave. I could say more on this—much more in fact—but rather than turn this into a sermon, let’s get to the point about how all of this has influenced my perspective on life.

Because of my faith, I believe that what I do in this life—or more to the point, what I become—really matters. I have spent most of my life striving to become a better version of myself—kinder, less selfish, more patient, more virtuous, more loving. The idea that we should love one another and treat one another as we wish to be treated is not unique to my Christian faith, but it certainly informs how I choose to live. It’s easy to imagine that I would be a very different sort of person if I thought that ultimately how I interact with others is just a choice that really doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be a person of faith to believe and to try to live by the Golden Rule, of course. But for me, it has helped me tremendously to be preached at regularly and to be surrounded by others who are striving imperfectly, just like me, to be better tomorrow than we are today. Not that I’m doing it for show, but I would hope that others could observe my life and see evidence of my faith in the choices that I have made. They will also see plenty of evidence of times and circumstances when I have fallen far short of my own aspirations (sorry), but in its totality, I hope the trend of my life is in the right direction—that I have made at least some progress since my days at Goddard Junior High.

Because of my faith, I tend to be more optimistic than pessimistic, a man more prone to hope than to despair. That hopeful perspective has been tested in recent years—by political and environmental issues, in particular—but I try to maintain an “eternal perspective” when I start to feel the negativity drag me down. Over the last few years, I find myself returning again and again to something the Apostle Paul said in his letter to the Romans: that “all things work together for good to them that love God.” That isn’t to say that it will be easy or even just easier for me because of my faith, but I do think my faith helps to carry me through the rough times. In 1999, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland gave a discourse that I love, a sermon that captures in better words than I could hope to compose the nature of my hopeful perspective in the face of adversity. I wholeheartedly recommend that address to anyone and everyone.

And finally, because of my faith, I have no fear of death. Rather I anticipate it with curiosity and wonder. It has been painful for me to lose loved ones—to be sure—but I have taken comfort in the surety that we may be reunited one day. I remember sitting with my mother during her final months on earth when her body was breaking down and she was ready to move on. She said: “I want to see what it’s like.” I have a few more years left in me (I hope), but I agree with her on the essential point: this life is great, but there are even better things to come.

Thanks for asking.

PW

Photo by Benjamin Davies on Unsplash