I was worried when the dates of the Manti Temple open house were announced. 

I had been worried since March of 2021, when announcements from the Church Newsroom declared that the Manti Temple would be renovated, and murals would be lost. This included news that live endowment sessions would end, and the historic elements of the temple would not be preserved. 

I, along with countless others, felt ill. There was an immediate and ongoing outcry. Several of us wrote blogs about it here on Exponent 2. I joined others on news podcasts, and interviews for articles. There were letter writing campaigns. Journalists for international media covered this. Art and history organizations contacted Church headquarters, condemning this action. Within weeks, another announcement said the intent was now to remove and preserve the murals, and display them elsewhere. But anyone who knew details about the murals knew that was not possible. And the loss of this incredible historic building was still too much. The outcry continued. 

Then, in May 2021, the decision to preserve the historic temple with the murals intact was announced. A new temple would be built nearby to satisfy the need for accessibility and efficiency. The unique qualities of the Manti Temple would be honored. Many of us were calling each other, crying in relief. It was too late to save the historic interior of the Salt Lake Temple, which had already been gutted. And the live session was to end. But the completely unique work of this building was promised to be safe. 

2 years later, as the open house approached, I was nervous. I was afraid someone had decided not to keep that promise. There had been promises made years ago by President Hinckley that the exquisite interiors and artwork of Manti Temple would always be honored and cared for. But someone with power and influence had looked at those interiors, those murals, those spiral staircases, and they had thought – “We need to make this more efficient”. And the promises made by past prophets were dismissed. What if the promises made in response to the outcry had been dismissed as well, and we wouldn’t find out until the open house that it was too late. 

Then I saw the article from Peggy Fletcher Stack about her preview tour, and it included pictures of the interior. I cried with relief again. I had made reservations for the March 14, the first day of the open house. 

I was with my husband and daughter as we drove toward Manti from the north. I have always loved that approach. I can see the temple up on the hill from a few miles away. It rises up from the surrounding fields, from the level farm valley held between mountain ranges. 

This is a clear depiction of the effort of pioneer ancestors to create a place set apart, a place for the symbolic ritual of the sacred journey towards the divine. This is where they would offer their best work, their most beautiful creations. This is where they would take themselves away from the mundane distractions of regular life, and ascend above it all to a place where they could be in the spiritual theater, acting out the allegory of moving from innocence and ignorance, toward wisdom and complexity, desiring to learn from the teaching ritual. This is what the building was designed to do, create this space of learning as we move forward and upward through the rooms, vicariously moving through the story where all characters depict a part of us, and we seek to learn insight that is individual to each of us. The only journey we can experience is our own. The only truth to find is unique and personal. 

I felt gratitude, again, for the lessons I had learned from my ancestors about the value of this spiritual theater. There is no literal meaning in the ritual. Symbolic learning is meant to be individual, and my experience did not need to match another. 

We parked, and slowly walked up the hill. I approached this building as a friend, a last remnant of original pioneer creation. I think of the journals of generations of women. They wrote of their journeys, their complex faith, connections to Gods that were personal because of this mystical restoration, their fierce commitment to their own power, their spiritual gifts, their heartbreak and loss, their voices speaking up. I thought of an ancestor mother who lived near Manti, and the journal account of when she threw a cup of coffee in Brigham Young’s face, refusing his instruction that she approve of second wife for her husband. I relished that memory as I neared the entrance.

We entered the foyer, and I remembered coming there with my married student ward, realizing I had forgotten my recommend. My bishop, Dillon Inouye, spoke with the worker at the recommend desk. I will never forget the way he said in such a matter of fact way, “Here is Sister Hansen, worthy in every way to enter this temple”. It was the first time I imagined that God would say this about all of us. They want all of us to learn of our journey in any way we will. That is all the worthiness that matters. All are invited to come to Them.

I stayed calm as we walked through the hallways, and in and out of the side rooms. 

Then I stood at the base of the north spiral staircase and looked up at the most concise symbolic structure of an ascension journey. Painstakingly and beautifully made by many nameless hands. 

We climbed one step at a time, looking out the windows at the valley spread below. 

At the top I walked into the Assembly room, preserved in its original state, the careful work of countless people. There were no curtains covering the many floor-to-ceiling windows, the rippled original glass showing a clear view of the nearby mountains and fields. The snow covered peaks were so close, they almost seemed to be part of the room. This is where people once gathered for meetings and events, even dances and celebrations. A place unlike any other. A place set apart. 

I thought of how close we came to losing all of this. And I sat in a corner and sobbed. 

I try to understand that we will each see things in our own way. I try to consider that we are each doing the best we can with what we have. I try to consider the individual journeys that bring us to this place where some will connect with each hand that created here. And some will see it as a room that is no longer efficient, which is in need of streamlining for sound systems, elevators, screens and projectors. 

I mourn the loss of so much that people in power, or committees have decided to eliminate. The loss of live sessions, the desecration and gutting of the Salt Lake Temple. The loss of women using their spiritual gifts, offered freely in covenants of consecration. The loss of keys of direct power given to women when the Relief Society was born. The loss of the autonomy of the Relief Society. The dismissal of so many promises. 

And I am grateful for every person who spoke up over and over in the face of loss. I thought of all who spoke up to preserve this work here in this building. I have learned that there were many who risked their jobs, and position in the church in order to relentlessly speak up to save the artwork and craftsmanship of this building. It took great courage for many of these people to do so. There were some who never stopped contacting any and all organizations who would recognize the unique value of this temple, and who would do all that could be done to communicate the terrible consequences to the Church if leaders allowed it to be destroyed. Some of these people realized they would never be able to personally see these interiors, but they knew the world would be poorer without them. That was reason enough. 

We gradually made our way to the Teichert murals. I spent the most time there, seeing details that I could not see while attending sessions here. I saw how she had painted “the least of these” in the foreground along one side, at the same level as those in attendance. We are each, all, the least of these. I looked at the Christ figure behind the altar, his arms outstretched. He is the only one of the 120 figures in this mural which is looking at us. His hands gesture. Come. All are welcome.

I had moments of shock and grief at the thought that anyone could consider removing or painting over this. But I did not weep here.

I mostly felt awe and gratitude for the creation of Minerva. She gave all of herself for this. We each bring what we can to the altar, and offer it to the world. When something is given with such love, we need to honor the offering.

Thank you, again, to all who would not stay silent when this was threatened.

In 2005, a few years after my dad(Eugene England) died, I wrote an essay called “A Pope Story: How One Person Brought Down The Berlin Wall.”

https://eugeneengland.org/wp-content/uploads/sbi/articles/2005_e_001.pdf

It recounts some events from 1981, when Dad was one of the leaders of a 6 month BYU Study Abroad group in London. My siblings and I were there with my parents. We traveled around Europe for a few weeks near the end of the term, and we happened to be in Rome on May 13. We gathered in front of the Vatican to watch Pope John Paul II address the crowd before we planned to leave to catch a train to Geneva. I describe in the essay how Dad decided to move through the crowd to get closer to where the Pope was, and I climbed on top of a post to get a better view. I saw the Pope as his jeep drove next to the crowd. He was reaching out to grasp the many hands reaching for him. I heard gunshots ring out, saw the Pope collapse into the jeep as it sped away, and I saw the gunman run away and the crowd chase him. Dad soon joined us, looking shocked. The side of his head was red, and his finger was bleeding. He had been directly in front of the Pope when the bullets went right by his head, one clipping the finger on his outstretched hand before piercing the Pope’s robe.

Dad saw that the Pope was a spiritual leader and inspiration to the Solidarity movement in Poland, which was engaging in non-violent resistance to the Communist regime. He felt this was an attempt to crush that movement by assassinating the Pope. He decided to start a non-profit organization that would collect food and donations to send to the striking workers of the Solidarity movement, to help them continue their resistance. We called it Food For Poland.

The essay describes many things that happened and impacted this. We sent donations for years, joining many others who helped with the movement. The resistance continued. More of the world found ways to support that resistance. 

In November 1989, the Berlin Wall came down. Without guns, without bombs, and with celebrations on both sides. 

Whatever small part Food For Poland had in sustaining this resistance, we might never know. But for Dad to do this took extraordinary courage and effort. I once considered that his ability to make that kind of difference was unique.

A few years after he died, however, I saw that I was using that as an excuse as to why I might not make much of a difference in the world, or community. I just wasn’t born with the right stuff, like Dad was. The problem is, that excuse does not give me the life I want. I saw Dad struggle with circumstances and ignorance and obstacles and failure and weakness. He set out to create himself as someone who makes a difference in the world. What he learned to do, I can learn to do. True, the world will never see another like him, or like Minerva, or any of the people who create extraordinary things. The world will also never see another like me or any of you. We are each unique with what we can offer.

I think of the many ways I have seen walls and barriers and policies and destructive plans and harmful rhetoric and dogma torn down. I think of the many people who went against what was easy, or safe, in order to speak up and show up to make that kind of difference, even though many would say it was too risky, and they had no logical reason to do so.

Here’s something I learned from Dad: You are most powerful when you create reasons to do things, and you know you created the reasons. Dad could have listened to any of the reasons that were given to him to not support non-violent resistance – no time, money, obligations, loyalties, you can’t, it won’t work, it’s not your place, people will be upset. Instead he chose to make up his own, and it was a reason that was bigger than anything he came up against. Let’s call that reason World Peace. The power to create a reason that big is the power to tear down walls.

There were countless people who were involved in saving the Minerva Teichert murals, and they each created reasons that were bigger than the risk, the loss of their job or position, the discomfort of speaking out. 

In both my title here, and the title of my Pope Story essay, it is not countless people who brought down the Berlin Wall. It is not countless people who saved the Teichert Murals.

Here is the last paragraph in the Pope Story essay – 

“Who is the one person who tore down the Berlin Wall? It is Pope John Paul, it is Lech Walesa, it is my dad, my mom, my sisters and brother and me. It is each person in Solidarity, each person who donated, or fasted, or prayed, or took a stand. The wall was not brought down by millions of people. It is brought down by one person, hundreds, thousands, millions of times.”

Who is the one person who saved the murals?

It is everyone who wrote articles, gave interviews, spoke on podcasts, contacted media, alerted organizations, wrote letters, called Church headquarters every single day, everyone who fasted, prayed and took a stand, everyone who risked their jobs to speak up. The Teichert Murals were not saved by countless people. They were saved by one person, hundreds, thousands, millions of times.