Awe Without Angels

Shortly after my mission I attended the annual Joseph Smith Memorial Fireside at Utah State University with my best friend. Henry B. Eyring spoke.

What he said has stayed with me for over two decades: "The Savior is aware of our meeting. If your eyes could be opened, you'd see angels and perhaps the Savior himself."

I remember the feeling that washed over me. Incredible. Sensational. I felt special, chosen, like I was experiencing something profound and meaningful. It was one of the premier spiritual experiences of my life.

The Framework I Had Then

At the time, I had one way to interpret what I felt: the Holy Ghost confirming truth. The weight of the witness, the awe, the sense of being part of something bigger than I could see. All of it pointed to one conclusion. The church was true. God was real. Angels were literally present. The Savior himself was watching our gathering.

That interpretation was the only one available to me. The church had taught me that feelings of awe and transcendence were the Spirit confirming truth. So when I felt something profound in a religious setting, the logic was simple: this feeling proves the gospel is true.

I wonder how many other people in that room were feeling the same thing I was. It felt like we were all part of something special together—chosen, elevated above ordinary experience into something sacred.

The Framework I Have Now

I don't believe angels were present at that fireside anymore. I don't think the Savior was watching from some unseen vantage point. And yet—I don't dismiss what I experienced.

The feeling was real. The awe was genuine. The sense of transcendence and connection to something larger than myself actually happened.

What's changed is my explanation for it.

I've since learned about collective effervescence—what happens when a large group gathers for a shared purpose. An authority figure speaks with conviction. Everyone experiences similar emotions simultaneously. The awe you feel reinforces others' awe, and theirs reinforces yours. It creates a feedback loop that produces profound feelings of unity, meaning, and transcendence.

This happens at religious gatherings. It also happens at concerts, protests, sports events, and theatrical performances. The feeling is real. The interpretation ("this proves the church is true") is no longer a reason I hold on to.

The Polynesian Luau

A mission memory surfaced alongside the fireside memory: watching a haka performance at a Polynesian luau as part of a ward party. It was powerful, masculine, culturally rich. And unexpectedly, it felt spiritual.

Within the Mormon framework, I explained this as the Holy Ghost confirming goodness or truth even in a secular context. But I've come to understand it differently now. I witnessed something beautiful and powerful. My brain and body responded with awe. That's what humans do when encountering beauty, power, and cultural depth. When something resonates.

Same experience. Different interpretation.

What I'm Not Doing

I want to be clear about what this reframing isn't.

I'm not saying the experience was fake. I'm not claiming I, or anyone else, was manipulated or brainwashed. I'm not dismissing it as meaningless now that I don't believe.

I'm saying the experience was real, and I felt something profound. The interpretation I had then—supernatural, with literal angels watching—was one framework. The interpretation I have now—natural human capacity for awe, amplified by group psychology—is another framework. Both honor that I felt something. Only one requires supernatural belief.

I don't mind calling it a spiritual experience, even after my deconversion from religious belief. It was a time that I felt supreme awe and wonder. That's what sprituality is to me now. That doesn't require angels, a god, or Jesus to be meaningful. It doesn't make those experiences any less impactful when they happen.

Finding Awe Outside the Framework

Several weeks ago at CVUU, the "sermon" was about awe and wonder.

The timing feels significant. I'm remembering profound awe experiences from my Mormon past. I'm learning they don't require supernatural explanation to be valid. And I'm asking: how do I continue to cultivate that feeling now, outside the church framework?

The church doesn't have a monopoly on awe. I can find it in nature—the Utah mountains I often take for granted, stars on a clear night. I can find it in music that moves me. I can find it in learning something that expands my understanding. I can find it in deep conversations with other humans. I can find it in writing, in creating meaning through words.

The capacity for awe is in me. The church provided structures for accessing it—firesides, temples, sacrament meetings. Now I get to find my own structures.

That's both the freedom and the responsibility of deconstruction. No prescribed path, but infinite paths available.

The Question I'm Sitting With

How do I have more awe and wonder in my life?

Some answers are emerging: seek it intentionally through hikes and live performances and stargazing. Notice it in everyday moments—rain on the roof of my car, a candle flame, music that stops me in my tracks or that makes me want to dance. Conversations that don't feel forced but flow like a stream. Create conditions for it through presence and openness rather than numbing and escaping.

I don't have to solve this today. But the question itself feels important. It's part of rebuilding meaning after leaving a system that told me it had exclusive access to transcendence.

It didn't. Awe was always a human capacity. The church just convinced me it owned the franchise.

What Remains

That fireside with Eyring remains one of the most profound experiences of my life. Not because angels were there—I don't believe they were. But because I felt something real. I experienced awe. I connected with something vast and meaningful, even if the something was human psychology rather than the divine.

I'm grateful for the memory. I'm grateful I can honor it without needing it to prove anything about supernatural claims. And I'm grateful I can now seek that same feeling in a thousand different places, no longer waiting for an apostle to tell me angels are watching.

The awe was always mine. I just own a larger share of it now.