Fire

I spent a few hours with an uncle of mine this evening, while my wife watched over Elaine. My uncle G. went through a fairly messy divorce almost thirty years ago, and was eager to dispense advice. We had dinner at a swank steakhouse and discussed the ramifications of starting over after such an event. Uncle G. had two young children when the unhappy event transpired; there was infidelity and other such unlovely conduct, but in the end, he and his ex have become, if not close friends, at least comfortable acqaintances. Her husband -- the man she should have married in the first place, according to all concerned -- does contracting work at his house now, and the two families are very chummy. All, or almost all, is forgiven, after so many years.

Uncle G. and I are alike in many ways, and, religious differences aside, embarked upon marriage from similar points of departure. He and I were both naifs as to the ways of the world, so to speak; neither of us had ever, shall we say, been intimate with a woman prior to our respective marriages, and neither had dated much.

I was therefore interested at the contrast in some of the lessons we've drawn from our respective marital debacles. For me, the old adage "Marry in haste, repent at leisure" has new significance; but I have absolutely no intention of changing the moral standards of my upbringing and my religion, regardless of what lies ahead. Uncle G., by contrast, concluded that some measure of sexual experience, in conjunction with a years-long courtship, was the best safeguard against a second failed marriage, and, in the years that followed, conducted himself accordingly.

Which is not to say I blame him; unlike me, he is not under strict religious covenants to keep what we LDS term the "law of chastity," and the cultural climate in our country has, since the 1970s, suffocatingly favored so-called "sexual freedom." My young students, the third generation since the original "sexual revolution," now advocate "hooking up" which, I'm told, is a sexual encounter of the most casual and anonymous character imaginable. By twenty-first century standards, even what used to be called "living in sin" is becoming a quaint anachronism for the degree of commitment it used to entail.

People like myself, on the other hand, who adhere rigidly to the values of several generations past, are today to be found only in a few enclaves of conservative religion (although even the members of my church do not always live up to the lofty moral standards we profess). My parents, never religious in any sectarian sense of the word, also believed in and practiced premarital chastity and postmarital fidelity, just because it "seemed like the right way to behave." Theirs is an extinct breed, I fear.

So it was with some chagrin and a poker face that I listened to my good uncle hold forth on the absolute necessity of getting tested for AIDS and the entire suite of formidably-named venereal diseases now in circulation. There is no such thing as a virgin anymore, he explained, and you'll have to protect yourself and your partners. He admitted he was conflicted on the merits of living together before marriage; he had one such relationship, which lasted a year and a half, and eventually broke up, whereas he did not cohabitate with the woman who became his second (and current) wife. He is now by all accounts a healthy, well-adjusted, happily-married, successful man in his early sixties.

And yet... And yet... I thanked him for the advice, which was so clearly heartfelt, but I already knew in my heart what I would do. For me there can be no turning away from the principles of conduct I have always lived by. I could not help thinking as I drove homewards that, in spite of the alluring rationales for the "new morality" (as they called it when it was still fairly new, at least on Main Street USA) and the new so-called sexual freedoms conferred by birth control, abortion on demand, modern medicine, and an utter revolution in attitudes about marriage and sexuality, we as a nation are not as well off as our ancestors who upheld and practiced a set of values requiring more restraint. We have a saying in our religion (courtesy of the Book of Mormon, from a sermon delivered by a prophet of God to a wayward son who had a problem with the ladies): Wickedness never was happiness. That, it seems to me, is the only possible answer to all the champions of sexual permissiveness. It is difficult to understand, particularly when in the throes of temptation that mortality sometimes sends our way. But it is the truth.

Sexuality has rightly been likened to a fire, and not the sort that refines. Freed from moral restraints, it consumes men and women like a savage flame, leaving ruined lives, families, and societies in its wake. That, at least, is what I've observed. As my experiences richly attest, relationships like marriage are fragile enough without introducing the consuming flame of sexual misconduct of whatever variety. And now a sexual conflagration is literally burning the country to the ground.

This metaphor gained force as I crested the hill and saw my hometown spread out before me. There, a few blocks from the highway and very close to my house, a three-storey building was aflame. Fearing for my daughter's safety, I rushed back to the house, but the massive fire was in fact a block and a half away, an old hotel succumbing to some misbegotten spark. I took Elaine and my soon-to-be ex-wife down the street to watch from a reasonably safe distance as the fire worked its destructive and inevitable course. Seven fire companies were represented, and my daughter watched in awe as thick streams from several water cannons and numerous hoses tried in vain to quench the huge flames erupting from the upper storey windows and the roof. Window panes exploded and a cauldron of smoke billowed heavenward as the firemen struggled to save the ground floor and the adjacent buildings. Elaine was frightened at first, then fascinated, then indifferent, her attention distracted by the numerous dogs wandering around that needed a petting.

We watched the immolation of one of our town's most venerable old buildings for more than a half hour before Elaine's eye-rubbing suggested that bedtime was in order. As we made our way homeward, the hoses and water cannons continued to thunder away, and the night sky was lit up by flames forty or fifty feet high gushing from the roof of the doomed structure. There is nothing good about fire untrammeled, I decided. It is a purely destructive force.

So it is with the fire that lurks in the hearts and minds of men: only when it is kept pent up and under strict control can it ever do any good. If allowed to escape its proper bounds, it will burn the edifice of the soul to the ground. This is my belief, and not even a failed marriage is going to alter it.