Mormon culture is more than singles wards and Jell-O

By Ryan Cunningham

October 22, 2007 | In Andrew and Amy Royer's kitchen, Jesus Christ's portrait looks over the kitchen table -- a distinctly Mormon Jesus, who looks like he could have grown up in Provo. His infinite blue eyes appear to be staring upwards with a touch of wistful melancholy. While Andrew and Amy are both Christians, it's obvious that Amy, a Latter-day Saint and daughter of an LDS bishop, chose to display this particular wall decoration.

"We have to make some compromises sometimes," says Amy, facetiously adding, "I make Andrew do whatever I want, and that's the compromise."

While the Royers might not be a miracle coupling in other states, they are an extreme anomaly in Utah: an interdenominational marriage. Yet to illustrate just how unlikely such a union is in Utah, it is frustratingly difficult to find statistics categorizing their marriage. In a 2003 study on marriage and divorce in Utah commissioned by the governor's office, the survey seems to strongly neglect the notion that people marry interreligiously. However, the study does indicate that "very religious" couples were less likely to have been divorced, while 15 percent of divorces in Utah are at least partly due to "religious differences between partners."

But marriage only begins to tell the story of Utah's eccentric social dynamics. It's one thing to label interreligious marriages as rare in Utah, but an argument that relationships or even friendships among people of cultural differences is uncommon wouldn't be too far-fetched.

Yes, segregation of all forms occurs just about anywhere, but it is an exotic breed in the Beehive State. To the untrained-perhaps out-of-state-eye, the boundaries are confusing and seemingly invisible. But stick around long enough, and the ever-important distinction between "heathen" and "Mormon" becomes a decidedly effortless judgment. Call it "Mormon-dar."

"Non-Mormons have to put up signs, like tattoos, piercings; whatever," says lifelong Utah resident Cody Howell, a 20-something former Mormon. "But once you take off the piercing, it's like you take off who you are."

Andrew, who grew up in Utah the son of a Pentecostal Christian pastor (better known as "Pente-what?" to Utahns), elaborates, "Mormons are such an overwhelming majority, non-Mormons do anything they can to distinguish themselves. As long as you don't look crazy, people assume you're Mormon."

It's safe to say that non-Mormons are, more or less, the outcasts of Utahn society. According to the 2000 Census Bureau figures, LDS faithful make up 62 percent of the population. Still, percentages are misleading, as it's difficult to quantify the pervasiveness of Mormon culture. After all, the beer is diluted for everyone who drinks it, and whether or not you're LDS, you still have to drive to Idaho to buy Powerball tickets. In other words, even if you aren't Mormon, you have to try pretty hard to convince others of that fact.

Dillon Cooper, a return LDS missionary, mostly disagrees with the idea that non-Mormons and Mormons are easily identifiable. Though he says he feels a "different spirit" with some non-Mormons, "even if they have tattoos or drink coffee, I still can't tell."

Cooper served his mission on the north side of Chicago, which may have more diversity (and people in general) than all of Utah. Cooper says he loved every moment of it. "I really liked the diversity in Illinois. It was nice to talk to different cultures and religions. I liked talking about religion with different viewpoints."

Cooper says he experienced more culture shock coming home to Utah after his mission than when he first arrived in Chicago. "It was weird seeing churches on every corner," he says. "If I had to pick, I'd like to live outside Utah. I like places with more diversity."

Utah can hardly be blamed for a lack of diversity, though. Only in recent years have more non-Mormons felt comfortable about moving to Utah, presumably as a direct result of Mormons losing the ability to grow horns.

But such public comfort isn't shared by all, and there is still a long way to go in terms of Mormons and non-Mormons meshing more amicably. Andrew relates that, while he is "older and wiser" now, he felt much more comfortable around non-Mormons when he was younger. In elementary school, some Mormon students even taunted him by ripping off his crucifix necklace.

Howell, who was LDS through his teen years, agrees that growing up non-Mormon in Utah would be "horrible... If you're not Mormon, you're out of the loop." He admits that he continues to instinctively "cling" to Mormons when in social situations. "There's an ease of communication there. We have so much in common that I feel at ease, even without common (religious) beliefs," says the reformed atheist. "I still have the same prejudices as when I was Mormon."

On the contrary, Cooper finds that most of his friends are on the opposite side of the spectrum: "Most of my friends are not members (of the LDS church)," says Cooper.

Cooper wonders if fellow Mormons feel pressure to associate with a more Mormon crowd. "The Church teaches to have friends with good values, which might be seen as, 'only hang out with Mormons.' But some of the best examples are outside my religion. My non-Mormon friends are some of the most charitable people I know."

Of course, charitable individuals can be found in any cultural persuasion. The question is, with so many Utahns raised to stick to those of their own kind, do they get the chance to thoroughly familiarize themselves with decent people of diverse viewpoints?

"I don't think it's a problem specific to Utah," says Amy. "People stereotype entire races."

Yes, stereotypes are quite universal. Utah is not to be totally condemned for a social epidemic that plagues nearly every human society. But what is more disconcerting about Utahn society is a general reluctance to address an obvious and growing tension between two increasingly polarized communities. Why is there such a need for residents to disambiguate between Mormon behavior and non-Mormon behavior? What makes a Mormon Jesus so Mormon-looking?

Perhaps it's fear. Fear that the other side might actually make sense every once in a while. A fear to leave the friendly confines of a comfort zone where nothing you believe is challenged. And although many people could live happy, healthy lives without ever having to venture outside their own ideologies, it's becoming harder and harder to find the isolation necessary to accomplish such a closed-minded feat.

"People are so polarized. If you're not Mormon, you have to smoke and drink and talk about smoking and drinking," says Howell. "Everyone's so into it, it's hard to separate lifestyles and beliefs.

"People pick conclusions and things to support those conclusions," he continues. "I wish people weren't so sure of themselves."

"I don't want to toot my own horn or anything," says the newlywed Amy, "but if other Mormons could share my experiences and have more open-mindedness, things could be a little better. I don't think Mormons even mean to be closed-minded. It's just ignorance."

Provo Jesus watches over the Royer kitchen, and some hardliners might say those blue eyes are glazed with skepticism over a marriage that, at least to the governor's office, is nearly unthinkable. But somehow, the Royers are able to push aside the expectations of the surrounding culture.

Anyway, a Provo Jesus is still Jesus, a blessing is still "saying grace," and, as Amy put it, "A relationship based on love and unselfishness can't go wrong."

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