The Polygamists in My Closet

I was in Zion National Park with my extended family on May 21, 2011 – the supposed Day of Judgment, according to a few kooks who took it upon themselves to advertise the event. Not surprisingly, Saturday came and went, with no opportunity for post-rapture looting.

Wacko religious cults are nothing new. And the older the cult, the less wacko it is going to seem to the outside world. No one bats an eye when Catholics claim they're eating the body and drinking the blood of their crucified god on a weekly basis. Oh, wait, sorry – they're consuming ordinary wafers and wine that somehow turn into divine flesh and blood in their mouths.

The wacko religious cult in which I grew up is less than two hundred years old. These days, it's pretty inoffensive, but it's got a colorful history.

For example: Mormons aren't going to be phased by any “apocalypse now” announcement that isn't accompanied by a Church Headquarters directive to migrate en mass to Jackson County, Missouri. Never mind that there isn't room in Jackson County for millions of Mormons – Joseph Smith said that the Saints would be called back there in preparation for the Second Coming, and by golly, that's the way it's going to be.

Shortly after my parents got married, they attended a church service in which the Sunday School teacher pretended to have received a letter from church authorities, to the effect that the last days were upon them. According to this communication, it was time to go back to Jackson County. Which also meant, the teacher pointed out, that it was time to re-institute the practice of plural marriage. For a minute, my mother was taken in by the ruse – and in that minute, she revolted. She was ready to renounce her religious beliefs rather than become a sister-wife.

Of course, it turned out that the “official letter” was just some eccentric soul's idea of a good object lesson: when Judgment Day arrives, will you be prepared to do what God asks of you? Even if it means moving to Missouri? Even if it means sharing your husband with another woman?

Oh, yeah. Polygamy. Go back three or four generations, and most Mormon families have to confess to at least a token polygamist or two. I guess you could say we've got non-monogamy in our genes.

Mainstream Mormons haven't practiced polygamy in over a century. But it's hardly a moot point. Official doctrine has it that plural marriage – one man, multiple wives – is going to be practiced in heaven.

Church officials tend to keep quiet on the subject, but speculation about this embarrassing relic of Mormonism's “new cult on the block” days is rampant in the rank-and-file. I have clear memories of many discussions about heavenly polygamy. It poses quite a conundrum for people who are raised to be clean-cut, conservative, “save it for marriage” types. Everyone seems to have his or her own pet explanation or justification, some way of making the weirdness okay.

My BYU roommate's mother, for example, argued that plural marriage was the only reasonable solution to a serious logistical problem. Since only married members of the church are eligible to enter the highest level of heaven, and since, as everyone knows, women have an easier time being righteous than men, she thought there was bound to be a demand-exceeds-supply issue in paradise. Given the severe shortage of marriageable males in heaven, she argued, women will have no choice but to double, triple, or quadruple up if they want to be top-tier.

My own mother once told me that she didn't believe the plural marriage doctrine to be the word of God. When she uttered this heresy, we were cross-country skiing, just the two of us. The whole world was hushed and snowy. I felt honored that she'd confided in me. I was also struck by this thought: “If you're going to question the official doctrine, why stop there?”