Are Mormons Christian?

Tales of the Chelm First Ward

Little Breyndl Fischer came home crying one Friday after school, though there was not a scrape or bruise on her. When Belka asked what the trouble was, Breyndl sniffed back her sobs. “Minah Malkin said it’s not good to be a Mormon, since Mormons are really just a kind of Christian.”

Belka knew children could be cruel, but felt this was going too far. “Minah Malkin doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” she said.

Little Breyndl shook her head. “But she does! Rachel Weismann said her mother told her so, too. Mormons are just a kind of Christian. We’re the same as them all.”

The Fischers’ older daughter, Golda, was sprawled across the couch in the apartment’s main room. Though she was busy giving the barest possible impression of working on her homework, she abandoned that effort to join the conversation. “Did she say that in front of a Christian kid?” Golda asked. “Was there a fight?”

“Golda!” Belka said. How many times did a mother need to repeat that there was more to an education than betting on hallway scuffles? But Little Breyndl had already turned toward her sister, eyes wide.

“Would there be? Really?” she stammered. 

“I’ve never seen one over the issue before,” Golda admitted. “But Bluma and Bina said they heard that Saul Gottlieb was picking on poor Zusa Cohen once about her grandparents being Mormon and a Christian kid heard and he laughed at Saul and told him he was full of—”

“Golda!” Belka repeated, more sharply this time.

Golda rolled her eyes at her mother, then searched for words. “He said, um, that Saul was wrong about Mormons being Christian. Anyway, the Levy twins said they got in a fight but the Christian kid had a bunch of friends close and they told Saul to shut the, um, to not talk about that stuff anymore and that Mormons were just a cu—”

“Golda!” Starting with the third warning, Belka expected some respect. Cult was not a four-letter word she wanted a young child learning.

“Anyway, the kid said that we’re definitely not Christian. Bluma and Bina were standing way down the hall when it happened, but they said if you look close you can see a bump on Saul’s head from when the Christian kids shoved him against the locker.” 

Golda shrugged. She turned to her mother. “Honestly, though, I don’t think Saul was wrong. We are kind of Christian.”

Belka could see this needed to be a serious conversation. She stopped kneading the dough for the evening’s challah and washed off her hands. “Just because someone might be a little right about something doesn’t mean they know what they’re talking about,” she said. Take baking: everyone with a tongue has an opinion, but hand them an apron and some people will just about burn your kitchen down. And religion? Hand a man a flag and in five minutes he’ll think he knows the right way for all civilized people to worship. Putting a label or two in hands like that is a serious fire hazard. At least that’s what Belka’s grandmother said.

Belka walked over to the couch and nudged Golda over so she could sit between the girls. “Mina Malkin and Saul Gottleib say we’re Christian and that’s bad. The Christian boy says we’re not Christian and that’s bad. Golda says we’re not not Christian, and maybe that’s not good—although it’s also possible that’s not not good.” She looked at each of them. “Am I getting this right so far?”

“You’re not getting it wrong,” Golda said.

“Well, let me ask you this,” Belka said. “If I put raisins in the bread tonight, would it still be bread?”

Breyndl nodded. She liked raisins in her challah.

“You see? What does it matter if I make it a little different? It’s the taste that counts.”

“You could add apple,” Breyndl said. 

“Or pear,” said Belka. “Or pineapple. Or melon.”

Golda made a face. “That’s weird, Mom.”

“If Mina Malkin doesn’t want to, she doesn’t have to try it. But God help anyone who should tell me what to bake in my kitchen!” Belka pulled Little Breyndl close. “Don’t ever let someone else’s lack of adventure tell you who you ought to be.”

Little Breyndl leaned into her, but Golda shifted uncomfortably. “But it is weird. We’re weird.” Golda asked. “What if we’re the ones hiding from obvious facts?”

Belka sighed. “Enough,” she said. “Let me bake. We can talk about it at Family Home Evening tonight.”

That evening, after they’d lit the candles and blessed the bread and sat down to eat, the Fischers started their regular Friday Family Home Evening. Since they were home and it was evening, Belka figured it was the perfect opportunity to bring difficult questions up.

She looked over at Yossel. “Today,” Belka began, “Minah Malkin at Breyndl’s school said it’s not good to be a Mormon, since Mormons are really just a kind of Christian. I said the important thing about bread is how it tastes, and if it happened to have some apples in it, that doesn’t make it a cake.” She picked up a piece of bread for emphasis. “But what do you think?”

Yossel finished chewing. “When I have apples in me, that certainly doesn’t make me a cake,” he reasoned.

“So what would you say to Minah Malkin?” Belka prompted. “Are Mormons Christian? Or not?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I think I would tell Minah to ask her mother. She’s a young girl and I’m a grown man. It wouldn’t do for us to fight.”

“I’m a girl still,” Breyndl said. “I could fight her.”

“Hmmm,” said Yossel. “Best to do it with your brains. After all, you’re a Fischer.” He scratched his head. “And I think if we want to understand what a thing is, we should ask ourselves first what that thing does.” He looked back to his wife. “What do Christians do?” he asked.

“Run the Parliament, for one thing,” Belka said.

“Set all the school holidays,” Golda noted with a hint of bitterness, echoing an old Chelm complaint.

“Complain about how much better things used to be,” Yossel noted, “while drinking a lot of vodka.”

“Tell us it’s their country,” Little Breyndl said.

“That’s not all Christians do,” Belka said. “They eat dinner with their families, just like us. They worry when their daughters are crying after school. If a few obnoxious Christians are loudest, the rest can’t help that.” She sighed. “But it’s no wonder Mina Malkin thinks being Christian sounds like such a bad thing.”

Yossel looked at his daughters. “Now…what do Jews do?”

“Make challah?” Breyndl said.

Yossel nodded. “And eat some together on a Sabbath afternoon.”

“Argue about how to keep the commandments,” Belka noted. “Talk about the fate of Israel. Remember the temple.”

“Get in trouble for not being able to pass as Christian,” Golda added wryly.

Belka silently thanked the Master of the Universe. Her daughters understood. “So,” Belka concluded. “If your father is right, and if knowing what a thing does teaches us what a thing is…let me ask once more, is Mina Malkin right? Are Mormons Christian?”

Golda put her fork down loudly. “I understand what you’re trying to say,” she said. “But Minah and Rachel and Saul have a point. We pray now in the name of Christ. The Book of Mormon is ‘another testament of Christ.’ You have to admit the other Jewish kids are at least a little right for thinking we’ve betrayed our history. We belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

“That’s it,” said Yossel. “Right there in the name of the Church. We are not Christians. Just Saints.”

“Or at least we are,” Belka added cautiously, “when we act like Saints.” She looked Golda right in the eye next. “And history is something we still have time to make.”

“We’re in a young Church,” Yossel said, “even if it wears an old faith.”

Golda didn’t answer. Just chewed the inside of her cheek. Belka didn’t know if they’d gotten through.

Meanwhile, Little Breyndl was looking unsettled again. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Are Mormons Christian?”

Belka sighed. “Not in Chelm. Not yet, at least. But in the whole world? I don’t always know.” She looked once more at Golda. “We will see how we did when the story is done.” 

James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Artwork by David Habben.

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Tales of the Chelm First Ward: Introduction