1. In Search of Saltiness

Way out in the heart of the American West, Salt Lake City, Utah, is known as the center of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, commonly called the Mormon Church. Invited to a national conference for editors there this spring, I realize that I have an unexpected chance to learn more about the Mormons. The conference hotel is near Temple Square, the hub of the church’s places of worship.

While flying east from California to Salt Lake City, I sort through my scattered knowledge. Since childhood, I’ve had nice Mormon friends, but I always hesitated to ask about their faith. Details gleaned from random sources had intrigued me with no real impact. I loved John D. Fitzgerald’s then-popular series of “Great Brain” children’s books, which followed the adventures of boys in a mixed Catholic-Mormon family in late 19th-century Utah, learning lessons about tolerance while living as “gentiles” among Mormons. Yet these books appealed to me not as sociology, but because of their characters’ mischievousness and their escapades’ poignancy.

In Sunday school, a visiting speaker once told my class about her experience growing up adjacent to the faith in Utah — a setting she’d felt glad to escape. Yet sad to say, I also felt increasing discomfort in my own church’s parochial program, fine as it may have been.

Later, in my senior year, Mormonism was part of my high school’s world religions curriculum. The two young Mormon men who visited to explain their faith found that doctrines like their church’s ban on alcohol, tea and coffee faced a tough audience among the teenage students. Separately, a friend found the Book of Mormon in a thrift store and tried to read it for fun, struggling with its unusual style and content. At that time, I was more interested in the beatniks’ thoughts on religion.

My family, based in the western U.S., occasionally vacationed in Utah, and I visited my brother a couple of times when he temporarily moved there for grad school in a smaller town than Salt Lake City. I had no meaningful interactions with Mormons there, though.

Since then, I’ve had little reason to visit Utah or think about its founding faith. Still, approaching the state again to discuss editorial craft, I feel an urge to clarify my vague impressions.

Even those unfamiliar with the Mormon church may have heard about its history and tenets, which include strict moral codes and mandatory two-year missions that increase the likelihood of encountering church members worldwide. Founded in the early nineteenth century by Joseph Smith, the church is based on his testimony of discovering the Book of Mormon inscribed on ancient gold plates, which he claimed to have translated before returning them to an angel.

Smith maintained that after the death of the apostles, the Christian church had lost its revelatory reference points regarding Christ’s teachings, and that the first restoration of direct apostolic authority had occurred transcendently through him.

The Mormon church’s development is linked to its members’ westward migration from the Eastern states, culminating in their movement to future Utah along the Mormon Trail. The Mormons saw these western expanses as their Zion — a promised land. Their success in cultivating this harsh terrain contributed to their reputation for industriousness. Over time, they became a significant force in global spirituality, economics, and philanthropy.

The Mormon faith has inspired both admiration and ambivalence, yet all religions provoke their share of resistance. I try to move beyond my previous superficial approach to this topic, remaining as neutral as seems right.

 

As my flight crosses the Sierra Nevada mountains and the Great Basin Desert, I’m reminded of the forbidding landscapes the Mormons traversed to reach their future homeland. Indigenous tribes may have roamed these regions, but the vast continent is a setting able to pose countless harsh ordeals. This wild West remains quite wild today.

Rare dirt roads stretch across barren plains and trace ridgelines of solitary mountain ranges, then fade into nothingness. Why do these roads exist? How much are they still traveled? Desert monastics’ discipline would come in handy out here, yet the land’s harshness would challenge even their resilience.

To cross such territories by wagon, cart and foot required extraordinary determination. Settlement by the Great Salt Lake, rather than continuing to California or Oregon like other pioneers and seekers of fortune, reflected a no less remarkable intuition.

 

The southern part of the lake comes into sight by the warm glow of sunset, which intensifies the water’s phantasmagoria — emerald green with scarlet plumes, the colors of algae that thrive in high salinity. The lake, a remnant of a much larger prehistoric body of water, continues to shrink and risks disappearance, pressured by seasonal heat and neighboring population growth. Yet its eerie beauty remains breathtaking. In the lake’s northern part, separated by a railroad causeway, a different kind of algae tints the waters red. Punctuating the shoreline, islands of rugged crags extend into the lake, hinting at submerged geology.

At a respectful distance from the eastern shore lies Salt Lake City. The metropolis sits in a valley framed by panoramic mountains. The Mormon settlers discerned heavenly providence in this landscape, which gave them glorious beauty and sources of water, timber, and soon mineral wealth.

It’s easy to see how these spaces accommodated the Biblical archetype of the Israelite exodus, which formed the governing metaphor for so much of the colonization of the New World. America’s deep wilderness mirrors that of the Sinai Peninsula, and the pioneers’ trail evoked the goal of the ancient land of Canaan, open for claiming and cultivation by settlers fleeing persecution and following dreams. The Great Salt Lake itself is an obvious twin of Israel’s Dead Sea, with a primal otherworldliness that complements the mountains’ majesty.

 

The skyscrapers of a downtown area grow ever larger in the distance. The low, flat roofs of warehouses and data centers testify to the local culture’s adaptability.

Then we touch down, nestled among the mountains. On the tiled floor of the airport terminal, a large embedded map shows routes radiating from Salt Lake City to spots around the globe. By the converging logic of prophecy and modern transportation, this once-isolated valley — though still surrounded by vast expanses of wilderness — occupies a central position on the planet, like a Jerusalem or Mecca for today’s Western Hemisphere. We’re at an abstract point in a homogenized world, but also in a place with its own distinct ecology and culture.

In a niche by the windows overlooking the airfield stands the skeleton of a massive predatory dinosaur. On the ceiling of a long tunnel between terminals, blue lighting imbues undulating aluminum with enough of the atmosphere of a mountain riverbed to make it feel more tolerable to pass through, serenaded by water-themed songs like “Take Me to the River.” Beyond, white benches rise in layered formations, higher than human height, evoking the state’s iconic canyons. Then the airport’s secure zone ends, giving way to groups of waiting people with “Welcome, Elder” signs.

 

At the first stop on the commuter train ride from the airport to downtown, a grizzled, stocky man boards and starts playing harmonica. A fellow passenger asks him if he’s been playing long. “Since I was ten years old,” the man replies in a raspy, throaty voice. “I taught myself, but I’ve had lessons. The harmonica player in Blues Traveler has heard me play and says I’m one of the best harmonica players in the world.” He disembarks at the Utah State University stop.

“We got lucky with that concert,” I remark. “Anything can happen on the Green Line,” says the passenger, a goateed, hippyish young man with a frame pack. “I ride it to work and back every day, and I’ve seen everything.”

Reminding myself to temper my preconceptions about Utah, I notice we’re sharing the train with a clean-shaven, friendly-looking man in a suit and tie, sitting one seat past the hippy. “How many stops to Temple Square?” he asks.

“Just a couple,” says the hippy, who makes sure we disembark correctly and wishes us well.

The smartly dressed man and I leave the train and pause together at the nearest intersection. “I need to get my bearings,” he says, hesitant but cheerful.

“Me too,” I respond. “Is this your first time here?”

“Oh, no, I’ve been here many times. It’s just been a while. I came up from Texas for a general conference. I’m an Area Seventy now, actually.”

I don’t ask him to explain what that means, but I guess it has evangelical antecedents. “I’m here for a conference, too,” I say. “A conference of editors.”

The man responds to this enthusiastically. We realize our hotels are in the same direction, down South West Temple Street, so we walk together. When I mention that I’d like to use my time between conference sessions to learn about his church, he seems pleased. “You might not be able to get into my conference, though,” he says, with good-natured chagrin. “There are tickets, and all of them are sold out. Thousands of people come here twice a year from all over the world.”

He reckons the Salt Lake Temple, too, will be closed for renovation for at least another year and a half. Still, he assures me Temple Square offers much else to see. By Saturday, too, the escalating general conference will find the area packed with crowds.

Reaching his hotel before mine, we shake hands in farewell, exchanging names and wishing each other wonderful conferences. “I just know you’re going to do well in your career,” he says in a warm Texan drawl, his face beaming goodwill.

Our nocturnal exchange has passed generically, yet feels charged with some special quality, bigger than whatever beliefs we might hold.

I later learn that “Area Seventies” are part of the Mormon hierarchy, related to the seventy disciples mentioned in the Gospel of Luke as sent by Christ. “Quorums of the Seventy” exist in every part of the world. Viewing their structures as directly inherited from the early apostolic church, the Mormons are highly organized, with an administrative charism blending church leaders with laity.

I drop off my bags at my hotel, then make a quick grocery run to Harmon’s, a local institution, just before closing time. A new moon rises over Salt Lake City. The “Why KiKi” bar advertises “Drag shows every Saturday.” Girls in short skirts and tall leather boots walk by, and fresh vomit adds risk to the tidy sidewalk outside Harmon’s — more reminders that not all the region’s inhabitants stick to traditional strictures.

Back in my ninth-floor room, I open the curtains and see the still snow-capped mountains, a looming US Bank branch, and the illuminated Utah state capitol’s classical dome peeking between the headquarters of Zions Bank — founded by Mormons and still closely connected with their church — and another office tower. The tower obscures my view of the main temple, if not of the cranes parked beside it. Clouds of steam rise from heating ducts into the cold night air. Resources circulate and combust.

This country’s current president has designated this date, one slot beyond April Fool’s Day, as “Liberation Day,” a day when the United States will reorder its relationship with the world. The immediate topic is trade, but the implied context seems broader. The world is said to be turning away from America, but Salt Lake City is still refurbishing its temple — staying on its own American path, come what may. In the maze of the trails of humanity, what might real liberation be?

 

2. A Hive of Dreams and Visions

The next day, during a long break after a conference session on fact-checking, I walk up to Temple Square, a landscaped area surrounding the neo-Gothic main temple and dotted with other structures important for the faith. On the nearest corner stands the plainer neo-Gothic of the Salt Lake Assembly Hall. Beyond that extends the oval-shaped pavilion of the old Mormon Tabernacle. The square around the Tabernacle teems with monumental cast-iron sculptures from the last century and the current one. Each sculpture is rendered in a painstakingly traditional style.

 

The scale of the Mormon historical worldview is immediately evident in “Restoration of the Melchizedek Priesthood,” which depicts the apostles Peter, James and John placing their hands on the head of Joseph Smith, accompanied by Oliver Cowdery, a witness to his prophetic acts. Nearby, in “Restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood,” John the Baptist gives Smith and Cowdery the power to baptize. Opposite, Smith discovers the golden plates of the Book of Mormon with the aid of the Angel Moroni. On the tabernacle’s far side, a sculpture illustrates the so-called First Vision, when the first two persons of the Holy Trinity reportedly appeared to fourteen-year-old Joseph in the woods of his home state of New York. Beyond this stands a more conventional Gospel tableau, “Come, Follow Me,” where Jesus summons two fishermen. Each sculpture depicts its subject with equal realism and heft — Joseph Smith’s visions rendered with the same physical certainty as Christ calling his disciples.

I find myself caught between admiring the sculptors’ skill and commitment to classical forms, and uncertainty about interpretation. Are these works monuments, art, devotional aids, or something else entirely? The bronze is beautiful, yet the physical rendering of Smith’s revelations alongside a traditional Gospel scene implies equivalence. The sculptures speak to the universal human longing for connection with the divine, but also represent claims that fundamentally challenge centuries of Christian belief — which others challenge, of course, for other reasons. The resulting sculptural ensemble mixes spiritual archetype with Mormonism’s foundational claims.

Beyond a fence displaying a large photograph of the original temple dedication ceremony, the temple itself stands under renovation. The Angel Moroni on its tallest spire overlooks a lattice of scaffolding, attended by cranes hoisting pallets. Mormons tithe a tenth of their income to their church, giving it a solid financial foundation. Taken as a plain fact, such a sacrifice may seem unquestionably laudable.

The majestic temple is set against the even taller “Church Office Building,” a typical postmodern office tower of the sort that came to dominate the second half of the 20th century. The building’s observation deck is said to offer excellent views of the mountains, the Great Salt Lake, and the temple from above — though perhaps spiritual perspective depends on factors beyond elevation. The stylistic contrast between the temple and the office tower might strike some as jarring, yet many Latter-day Saints may welcome such juxtapositions as expressions of their faith’s vitality. Similar currents exist in mainstream Christianity and other religions.

 

 

 

The Mormon Tabernacle has the sumptuousness of a grand Masonic lodge. Even beyond the boundaries of the faith, an eponymous choir has brought the venue decades of renown. Signs declare the building open for self-guided tours, while at the interior’s focal point, a young woman in an old-fashioned dress faces a small excursion group, whose members watch her from the hall’s midpoint. Framed by a semi-circle of plush red choir seats and overlooked by a huge pipe organ, she drops three grains, one after another, onto a lacquered wooden table. Each grain’s fall is distinctly audible, illustrating the hall’s exceptional acoustics.

 

Across the street stands a Mormon genealogical center, offering help in identifying ancestors in need of prayers. Beside it crouches a humble log cabin preserved since the days of the Mormon pioneers. Next to the cabin is a church history museum, where mingled languages indicate a significant number of international visitors.

The museum depicts stages in the emergence of the faith, from the young Joseph Smith receiving his first vision in the woods to the adult Smith finding the Book of Mormon’s golden plates. A replica of that legendary vanished treasure sits in a glass case. Men in suits and women in modest dresses await questions and tend the displays, eager to engage with visitors, yet maintaining a polite restraint.

One woman, leading a group of children, directs their attention to a framed photograph. “Those are seer stones,” she says. A little girl exclaims, “I know about them!” The smooth, egg-shaped stones, their originals closely guarded elsewhere, were said by Smith to have been among his aids, along with angelic guidance, in translating from the golden plates’ script into an English reminiscent of the King James Bible.

 

The museum collection also includes domestic items — a corroded spoon, a leather wallet, a rifle, a trunk with its owner’s initials traced in brass studs — from the lives of Mormonism’s founders. Such artifacts are interspersed with objects aimed at promoting the faith, such as an early hymnal, manuscripts of church teaching, and the printing press used for the first five thousand copies of the Book of Mormon.

Each item possesses its own beauty, partly due to antiquity or at least the studious recreation of a vintage source, such as the replica of one of the “sunstones” that served as capitals in pilasters of an early temple. Built before the migration to Utah, that temple was destroyed by arson and natural disaster after persecution forced the Mormons to venture westward.

The death masks of Smith and his brother Hyrum are also on display in the museum, along with the clothes Hyrum was wearing at the time of his death. Two years before the dedication of that temple in Illinois, the brothers were imprisoned at a diminutive town jail, pending trial for treason and inciting a riot. An anti-Mormon mob attacked the jail and murdered them. Today, the historic jail building is owned by the Latter-day Saints as a sacred site.

 

Interpretive materials explain the early church leaders’ ideas about practicing polygamy, described as an option endorsed by Smith’s revelations, despite conflicting with their upbringing and prevailing social conventions. The mainstream Mormon Church has banned polygamy for over a century, but some fundamentalists defy religious and state regulations by staying faithful to this custom, historically integral to Mormonism.

Finally, the exhibition includes items from the Mormons’ settlement of Utah: an ox-drawn cart, a plow, a pair of sheep shears, a violin brought from England. The artifacts vividly illustrate the real lives of their owners, lending tangible weight to the beliefs that came with them.

 

In neighboring areas of the city, historic non-Mormon churches such as the Catholic Cathedral of the Madeleine and the Orthodox Cathedral of the Holy Trinity bear witness to early waves of migrants from Ireland, Italy, Greece, Russia and Serbia — often arriving to perform dangerous work in the mines and on railroads. More than Mormons have traveled to Utah from far and wide in search of opportunity.

Today, Utah is no longer a majority-Mormon state, although non-Mormons sometimes report feeling pressured in this environment. As orange-vested temple renovation workers pass me on the edge of the square, the ironic tone in their mention of the Assembly Hall leads me to suspect their disaffection.

On a street corner near the hotel, I stop at a box and pick up a free copy of Deseret News. The newspaper appears to be thriving, with a front-page headline proclaiming that “Utah’s growth strategy could guide America’s future.”

This official church newspaper is affiliated with a host of other church media and charitable operations named Deseret, after a Book of Mormon word that Smith said meant “honeybee” in the language of the ancient emigrants to America. The book describes the Israelite travelers bringing honeybees along, affirming their prudence.

Mormon leaders initially proposed the creation of a “State of Deseret” before receiving approval to establish “Utah,” named after a local indigenous tribe. Yet the beehive, symbolizing industry and self-sufficiency, continues to represent Utah. Some crosswalks in Salt Lake City feature a honeycomb pattern, subtly reinforcing this theme. The emblem also often merges with conventional American patriotic iconography.

 

 

Nearly a century and a half ago, a Mormon elder’s wife, Susa Young Gates — one of the many daughters of Mormon leader Brigham Young — corresponded with Count Leo Tolstoy. Mentioning Deseret News as a sign of community progress, Gates arranged for the Deseret Book Company to send him copies of the Book of Mormon and a biography of Joseph Smith.

Tolstoy’s diary entry indicates that after his positive impression of the correspondence itself, the great count responded with horror to Mormon literature, prompting more of his characteristic musings on the duplicity of all religions. He went on, though, to express more conditionally tolerant views of Mormonism in a visit with U.S. ambassador Andrew White.

According to White, Tolstoy called the Mormon religion “two-thirds deception,” but found its principle of premarital chastity worthy of respect. Tolstoy also said that “on the whole he preferred a religion which professed to have dug its sacred books out of the earth to one which pretended that they were let down from heaven.”

Later, though, a Mormon acquaintance of the ambassador may have embellished this report, attributing to Tolstoy further assertions of the faith’s advantages and potential great future as a world religion. The conversation’s precise details have become part of Mormon lore, illustrating how historical accounts can evolve to serve faith narratives.

Fact-checking matters, but there are more perspectives to consider.

 

3. Holding Fast to the Compass of Liahona

Beginning my third day in Salt Lake City, I wonder how to gain a clearer notion of the motives that drive Mormon life. After attending conference sessions on the evolution of English-language grammar and the latest style updates of the Associated Press, I visit a local branch of Deseret Books, which shares a space with a Brigham Young University ice cream shop across the street from the Salt Lake Temple. Two residences formerly occupied by Young — the Mormons’ second president, who led them to Utah — still stand preserved on a corner of Temple Square. Young kept many homes for his more than fifty wives and about as many children.

As soon as I enter the bookstore, two nearby women clerks are quick to greet me.

“Could you recommend anything to help a non-Mormon understand your church?” I ask.

“A book for a non-LDS member?” one woman wonders. “Let’s think about it.” I’m increasingly convinced that members of the church today often use the acronym “Latter-day Saints” instead of the historical informal name “Mormons,” although I have a hard time getting used to the acronym. In fact, the church prefers using its full formal name — the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints — to emphasize its connection to Christ’s teachings. But it’s understandable that even members sometimes stick to the simple, neutral-sounding acronym.

The women consult a male co-worker, who promptly suggests, “Ballard, Our Search for Happiness.” The clerk, Suzanne, leads me back to a “Gospel Voices” nook. She retrieves a slim volume with a twilight nature scene on the front cover and an earnest church elder in a suit and tie on the back. Other shelves showcase Books of Mormon and Bibles in various translations and adaptations, from the King James Version to later editions, along with multi-volume publications of annals of church documents.

 

Thanking Suzanne, I ask if she can recommend anything about her church’s relationship with the Biblical canon. She leads me to another section full of commentaries and selects a book called Gospel Principles.

“This is my first time here, and I’d like to write an article for a magazine I work for, based in Russia,” I explain. “People in Russia don’t know a lot about your faith.”

Sincerely eager to assist, she asks about my own beliefs and responds respectfully. “For us, everything is connected with Jesus Christ,” she says. “I love him so much, and I always find strength in his words.”

“Your church’s story is so fascinating,” I say. “What do you think has made your settlement here in Utah so successful? What values have really mattered?”

“Each of us tries to be responsible for ourselves,” she says. “We work hard and try not to depend on the government. If something bad happens and we need help, it’s fine to ask for it, but we need to do our work for ourselves.”

“Do you think of your faith as a uniquely American phenomenon?” I ask.

“No,” she replies. “Our prophet, Joseph Smith, happened to be born in America and to live here, but he had a role to play in the world and his message is for everyone. That’s why we go on missions, because we care about the world.”

She selects a Smith-focused pamphlet and a few broadsides: articles of faith, statements about the living Christ, and a proclamation on the sanctity of the family. “You might like this, too,” she adds, handing me a magazine about Mormon temples, starting with the one across the street. “Our whole life centers on our temples,” she explains. “Don’t worry, nothing we publish costs much.”

Much as when I spoke with the elder on the night of my arrival, our conversation is simple, yet behind Suzanne’s words, her basic decency comes through.

After giving me the latest issue of a Mormon magazine, Liahona — named, I later learn, for a faith-powered compass reputedly used by the ancient Israelite emigrants — she leaves me to continue browsing. I pause for a while by a large selection of blank notebooks intended to serve as spiritual and conference diaries. Then I peruse a section of biographies, which includes not only church figures but also heroes from American history, with Abraham Lincoln looming large among them. The Mormons hold Lincoln, the preserver of America’s union, in particular reverence, almost as a prophet of their own.

 

At the checkout counter, I see Suzanne again. “Can we treat you to some ice cream?” she asks. “Our café is just over there.”

I politely decline but express confidence that the ice cream is delicious. Utah universities’ agriculture departments have a tradition of making their own ice cream. “Yours is probably the best,” I venture.

“That’s right,” affirms Suzanne, smiling as she sends me on my way with a bag of literature to explore.

That evening, during a gala banquet at my hotel, I find myself at a table with an elfish-looking man, whose remaining hair around his bald pate is dyed bright green. He turns out to be the manager of the three younger women to his right. They’ve all landed their dream jobs editing for a prolific fantasy author, Brandon Sanderson, a Utah-based Mormon who’s popular enough to have founded his own publishing company, Dragonsteel. Perhaps Sanderson’s beliefs help bolster tolerance toward his faith among non-Mormon readers.

The writer has ” prayed over the Book of Mormon. I have prayed over the truthfulness of the truth. I have felt a strong witness–a strong power–within me that I cannot deny. … This is something I cannot prove with science, and I am respectful of those who have troubles believing in something with only a feeling as proof. However, it is my proof.”

On many levels, this way of life and creativity seems to work. Sanderson has even built an underground lair — a kind of personal temple — for convenience and inspiration while crafting sagas of imaginary worlds. This land is yielding new kinds of promise.

 

4. Toward a General Conference of Consciousness

The next day, after a session on cultural sensitivity in editing, it’s time for my departure from Utah. As I walk up South West Temple Street one last time, I pass groups of Latter-day Saint general conference attendees, identifiable by their name tags and neat attire.

Some greet me as they pass. None proselytize. Contrary to stereotypes, no other Mormon has, either, through my time here. Perhaps some act differently in other circumstances, but all the Mormons I’ve encountered here or elsewhere either turned out to be open and friendly or else stayed aloof, in either case refraining from excessive familiarity.

 

This is the Saturday that the “Area Seventy” told me about when I arrived. The LDS conference’s peak is approaching. The closer I get to Temple Square, the more the streets surge with suits and modest dresses. The commuter train platform and train itself are packed, but everyone behaves politely.

At the airport, I notice a group of well-dressed Mormons, the most poised of whom wears an eye-catching crimson suit. He may hold a special rank — whether Mormon or purely social.

I’m unexpectedly nostalgic for my time in Salt Lake City, yet also feel a need to catch my breath, to recalibrate my sense of objectivity amid the vast varieties of the subjective. After just a few days here, it seems strange that soon I’ll no longer see so many Mormons walking the streets at once. But that’s all right. Diversity looks different in different places.

On the flight back to California, I read Elder Ballard’s Our Search for Happiness and gaze out the window — sometimes doing both at once. The views seem unlike those on the way to Utah. The desolate expanses of the American desert now seem full of presence. For me, not a Mormon one. Not un-Mormon, either. Just something universal.

Maybe these lands stay uncluttered as symbols of potential. For the sake of contemplation. For now, they tolerate my thoughts about the labyrinths of Mormon paths while also letting me exit them. Civilization may overgrow blank slates of Earth’s wilderness, but nature and its Creator can always serve as the measure of human invention.

 

The Mormons have invested decisively in their own experience and complex notions of integrity, with far-reaching consequences. Understanding this faith and community may be less about finding answers and more about leaving questions and facts open. Whatever our own traditions and choices, may we strive for happiness as persistently — entering and leaving labyrinths in search of the vertical of truth, the keeper of salt in the salt of the earth.