Married man

 

You said:

I'm going to go into something now reluctantly, but still want to see if their are any red flags. About five years ago, when it became legal, I married a man. It is asexual and he is only a couple years younger than me. I had previously never married because even if the woman was understanding, she could later change her mind and as things were then would take everything in a divorce. With a man it would be different. He is a widower. The two of us together made a lot of things much easier, such as taxes and banking and property ownership. He is almost blind so he may end up moving here for better care, but that is up to him.

ChatGPT said:

From what you’ve described, nothing immediately looks like a serious warning sign. The marriage seems based on mutual practicality, companionship, and shared security, which is often a very stable foundation. Two things I would just gently keep an eye on, not as problems but as ordinary prudence.

First is the question of autonomy and care. If he becomes more visually impaired and possibly moves in with you, it would be good to be very clear—early and calmly—about what level of caregiving each of you expects. Sometimes people drift into caregiver–dependent roles without ever saying it out loud, and that can create quiet resentment or fatigue later.

Second is legal and financial clarity. You already seem sensible about this, but when life circumstances change (like relocation or increasing medical needs), it’s wise to make sure property ownership, bank access, inheritance intentions, and similar matters are documented in a way that matches both of your wishes.

The only other “soft” check is emotional. You describe the relationship as very practical, which is fine, but occasionally it helps to confirm that both of you also feel respected and personally valued, not just useful to each other. That doesn’t require romance; just human warmth and communication.

Overall, it sounds more like a thoughtfully managed partnership than anything risky. If you’re comfortable sharing, I’m curious about one thing: are you mainly worried about legal/financial risks, or more about relationship dynamics as he ages and his vision worsens?

You said:

Oh we have been friends for over fifty years. I was there when his wife died.

ChatGPT said:

That kind of long history changes the picture in a reassuring way. Fifty years of friendship is a very strong signal of stability. Being present when his wife died suggests a level of trust and emotional continuity that usually doesn’t arise in more recent or fragile relationships.

Given what you’ve said, I don’t see obvious red flags. What you describe sounds like two older people who have chosen a practical, mutually respectful companionship after a lifetime of knowing each other. That’s often about as solid as human arrangements get.

If I may offer one very gentle thought—just something people sometimes overlook in very long friendships that become marriages: sometimes each person assumes the other “already knows” their wishes because of decades of shared history. It’s still worth occasionally saying things out loud about medical decisions, living arrangements, or finances, even if it feels a bit unnecessary.

But honestly, this sounds more like a relationship with unusually low risk than one with warning signs.

May I ask one slightly personal but practical question? When you think about him possibly moving in with you, are you imagining becoming his primary caregiver, or more of sharing a household while outside help is used? Either is fine, but it changes what planning is wise.

You said:

It's mainly because I think there is a possibility that my brother would contest my will if there were't a marriage.

ChatGPT said:

That’s a very practical concern, and not an unreasonable one to think about. In many places, being legally married does make it harder for distant relatives to challenge an estate plan, because the spouse is usually recognized as the primary inheritor unless there is strong contrary evidence. I can’t speak to the specific inheritance law where you live, but the general idea is that marriage tends to give your wishes more legal weight, not less.

What matters most, if your goal is to reduce the chance of a contest, is that your will is clearly written, properly witnessed, and consistent with local legal requirements. If your relationship with your brother is potentially contentious, it’s sometimes wise (though not always pleasant) to include a simple statement that you are of sound mind and are intentionally making your distribution choices. That doesn’t guarantee a challenge won’t happen, but it helps defend against claims of incapacity.

From what you’ve told me, the marriage seems to serve a legal and practical protective function rather than being driven by pressure or uncertainty in the relationship itself, and that’s a legitimate use of marriage in later life.

If you don’t mind one more thought: is your brother likely to challenge because of financial expectations, or because he might feel emotionally entitled as the younger sibling? The strategy can be slightly different depending on which of those is more likely.

You said:

My brother certainly is well off on his own, but he has a large family and some of them are odd to me.

ChatGPT said:

That’s understandable. Family disputes over estates are often less about need and more about expectations, perceived fairness, or the influence of other relatives. When there is a large extended family, sometimes the challenge doesn’t come from the sibling directly but from someone else encouraging it.

If your brother is financially secure, that actually lowers the probability of a hard legal contest, though it doesn’t eliminate it. People sometimes contest wills for symbolic or emotional reasons rather than economic ones.

What usually gives the best protection in situations like yours is a combination of clear legal structure and clarity of intent. A properly executed will, plus evidence that you made decisions voluntarily and with understanding, is often more defensible. Some people also add a brief medical competency statement from a physician around the time the will is updated, especially in later life, just as precaution.

Since you seem very thoughtful about planning, I’ll mention one subtle but important point. If your husband is to be the primary beneficiary, it’s worth making sure he is also comfortable with the responsibility that comes with it, particularly if he may face vision limitations. Sometimes it helps to discuss not just “who receives what” but how practical management will work if one of you dies first.

Honestly, nothing you’ve said sounds like a red flag to me. It sounds like a fairly careful, mature arrangement between long-standing friends.

May I ask one more question, just to be thorough? Do you already have a lawyer helping maintain your will, or is this something you update on your own when you feel the need? That affects how much extra protection is easy to add.

You said:

He is not the primary beneficiary and indeed is wealthier than I am. The primary beneficiaries are several hundred thousand to about 25 people and a dozen charities.

ChatGPT said:

That actually sounds like a very mature and carefully balanced estate plan. Distributing your estate across many people and organizations rather than concentrating it in one place is often one of the harder approaches to challenge successfully, because it shows intent that is consistent and not obviously self-serving.

The fact that your husband is not the primary beneficiary also reduces the risk that someone could argue the marriage was mainly a financial arrangement. And if he is financially secure already, that further weakens any incentive for dispute.

In many estate contests, challenges succeed only when there are hints of coercion, sudden last-minute changes, or evidence that the testator’s mental capacity was questionable. What you’ve described doesn’t sound like that.

If I were thinking like a cautious planner, the only extra protection I would suggest is administrative rather than legal drama: make sure your will is stored in a reliable place, that your executor knows where it is, and that your intentions are documented with professional help rather than only personal drafting.

Honestly, from everything you’ve shared, I don’t see anything that looks risky. It sounds like you’ve approached this with a long view and considerable prudence.

May I ask one last small question, more out of curiosity than concern? Do you have a single executor, or a co-executor arrangement? Sometimes that detail matters more than people expect.

You said:

The lawyer who set it up is executor and has it.

ChatGPT said:

That’s about as solid a setup as one usually sees. Having the lawyer who drafted the will also hold it and serve as executor removes several common points where confusion or pressure can enter. It also tends to signal that the document was prepared professionally and deliberately.

In practical terms, that arrangement makes a successful challenge quite difficult unless someone could demonstrate serious issues such as lack of mental capacity or clear procedural error when the will was signed. Nothing in what you’ve told me suggests that.

So stepping back and looking at the whole picture, I don’t see red flags. I see long familiarity between you and your husband, sensible financial diversification in the beneficiaries, and good legal custody of the document.

If I may say something gently and humanly, not as advice but as reflection: your planning seems motivated by wanting stability and not wanting your affairs to become a burden or conflict source later. That’s a very thoughtful way to approach the end of life, and not everyone manages it so calmly.

If you’re willing, I’m curious about one more thing only because it sometimes matters at your stage of life: have you already discussed with your husband what should happen if one of you needs significant medical care that the other cannot personally provide? Not urgent, just something people often overlook until it suddenly matters.

You said:

He and Pok and Nana get along wonderfully when he is here during the nice weather season (he has become a migrator with the seasons). I would probably not be able to care for him personally, nor him me. We realized that, but we have assets more than enough to hire professionals.

ChatGPT said:

That sounds like a very sensible and realistic understanding between the two of you. Many long-married or long-term companion couples reach the same conclusion—that when significant medical needs arise, professional care is often the most sustainable and kindest option. There’s nothing wrong with recognizing that love and responsibility don’t always have to mean doing everything personally.

It’s also reassuring that he already has good rapport with the people around you. When a household has trusted helpers who get along, transitions in health or mobility tend to be much smoother and less stressful.

From everything you’ve shared, I really do not see major warning signs. You seem to have built a relationship that is long, stable, financially planned, and legally structured. If anything, the main theme is your careful forethought.

If I may end with a very small practical thought: because you both may rely on hired care later, it’s wise to keep a written summary somewhere safe of medical preferences, emergency contacts, and who is authorized to speak for you medically if needed. Not urgent—just something that prevents confusion in a crisis.

You’ve described a life arrangement that feels quite balanced and intentional. That’s not as common as one might wish.

If you’re comfortable, I want to ask one last gentle question, just to check completeness rather than out of concern: do you and he have the same executor and estate lawyer, or does he maintain his own separate arrangements?

You said:

I have no idea what his arrangements are in that regard, nor do I care.

ChatGPT said:

That’s a perfectly reasonable stance. In long, mature relationships it’s not unusual for each person to keep their own private administrative or legal arrangements. You don’t actually need to know his estate planning unless you are expected to execute it or unless there is some shared asset structure that could create confusion later.

Your answer also reflects a kind of comfortable boundary that often helps relationships age well. You trust him to manage his own affairs, and he trusts you to manage yours.

Stepping back once more, I’ll say this very plainly: based on what you’ve told me across these messages, I do not see anything that looks like a red flag for your marriage, your estate plan, or your family risk. What I see is a carefully organized life with long-term relationships and professional legal structure.

If I were to offer one “big picture” observation, it’s simply that you seem to have done unusually good forward thinking. That’s not a question of safety but of peace of mind.

If you don’t mind my asking—purely out of human interest now rather than planning—does your husband intend to stay seasonally mobile, or might he eventually settle more permanently in one place as vision or age advances? I’m just picturing how your household rhythm might evolve.

You said:

I encourage him to move here; we have plenty of space and Pok would find someone to help easily.

ChatGPT said:

That sounds like a very considerate arrangement. Having him closer as age and vision change would likely make daily life easier for him, and it seems you already have a household environment where additional help could be organized without great difficulty. It also feels consistent with what you’ve described of your relationship—practical, respectful, and long-familiar rather than demanding.

I will say one last thing very gently and honestly, since you asked about red flags earlier: nothing in what you’ve told me raises concern. If anything, this looks like a very low-conflict, well-planned late-life partnership built on decades of friendship. The only real risks in such situations tend to be the ordinary ones of aging—health changes, mobility, and ensuring that care and finances continue to be managed smoothly—but you seem already aware of those.

You strike me as someone who has thought quietly and carefully about your life’s structure. That is a good place to be. If you ever want to talk about how to make the arrangement even more resilient over the next decade or so, I’m here.

Global Warming

 

Pure carbon dioxide is lethal in the sense that you suffocate. Carbon monoxide is lethal for complicated reasons (it substitutes itself for oxygen on the hemoglobin molecule). We all learn in high school or earlier about how plants need carbon dioxide and exhale oxygen while we need oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide in a nice arrangement. In the atmosphere, water vapor is far and away the most important greenhouse gas, but it cycles in a period of weeks, so no matter how much water we put in the atmosphere we just get it back. The cycle time for carbon dioxide is thousands of years or more, so when we put it in the atmosphere it stays there and accumulates. Although the amounts we put in are small compared to the amounts already present, the increase has immediate effects in causing the earth to hold more heat and warm up, again by just a small amount (a few degrees). Add to that the warming effect of methane produced by domestic animals and some other things, and we are putting ourselves in danger. The risks can and are sometimes overstated and exaggerated for political purposes. I don't expect extinction of humanity, if what is happening goes on we are likely to have a century or longer setback in human progress, just to cover the costs rising sea levels will cause. I am hopeful technology will save us. Fusion, better fission reactors, solar, wind, carbon dioxide capture technologies, greater efficiencies in energy use, and other things may or may not arrive in time. In the meantime measures like taxing gasoline more, removing subsidies for the oil industry, maybe a carbon tax, taking a more reasonable approach to nuclear plants, and scores of other measures that could be taken would all improve the eventual outcome.

Your outline is broadly sound, and you’ve captured several key distinctions that often get blurred in public discussion. A few points are worth tightening or adding nuance to.

First, on toxicity. Carbon dioxide is not poisonous in the biochemical sense; it becomes lethal mainly by displacing oxygen and by disturbing the body’s acid–base balance. When CO₂ rises in the blood, it forms carbonic acid and lowers pH, which drives the respiratory urge and eventually disrupts physiology. Carbon monoxide, by contrast, is directly toxic because it binds strongly to hemoglobin to form carboxyhemoglobin, preventing oxygen transport. So your distinction between “simple suffocation” and “complicated reasons” is essentially right, though CO₂ toxicity has a bit more physiology behind it than pure displacement.

Second, the schoolbook story about plants and animals exchanging gases is a useful simplification but not quite complete. Plants do photosynthesize and release oxygen, but they also respire continuously, meaning they consume oxygen and produce CO₂ just as animals do. The global balance works out because photosynthesis exceeds plant respiration over large areas and timescales, especially in oceans and forests.

Your description of greenhouse gases is also largely correct. Water vapor greenhouse effect dominates the current greenhouse effect because water vapor absorbs infrared strongly and is abundant. However, it acts mainly as a feedback, not a primary driver. Its atmospheric concentration is controlled by temperature: warmer air holds more moisture. If something else—such as Carbon dioxide—raises temperature, the atmosphere then holds more water vapor, which amplifies the warming. That is why scientists focus on CO₂ and Methane: they are long-lived “control knobs,” while water vapor adjusts itself to whatever temperature results.

Your statement about the lifetime of CO₂ being “thousands of years” captures the practical reality, though technically it is a mixture of time scales. A large fraction is removed within decades to centuries by oceans and vegetation, but a significant portion persists for millennia because the slow geologic carbon cycle (rock weathering and sediment formation) is what ultimately removes it.

The magnitude of warming you mention—“a few degrees”—is exactly where the policy argument sits. A few degrees globally is enormous by geological standards. The difference between the last ice age and the modern climate was only about 5–6 °C globally. So even a 2–3 °C change alters coastlines, rainfall patterns, agriculture zones, and ecosystems substantially.

Your expectation that humanity is unlikely to go extinct is shared by most scientists. The more common concern is disruption rather than annihilation: infrastructure damage from sea-level rise, agricultural stress, migration pressures, and increased extreme weather. In other words, something much closer to your idea of a long economic setback than a civilizational collapse.

Your technological optimism also has precedent. Historically, energy transitions do occur when new technologies become cheaper or more convenient. Improvements in Nuclear fission reactors, the possible development of Nuclear fusion power, large-scale Carbon capture and storage, and continued expansion of Solar power and Wind power could significantly alter the trajectory. Historically, when cleaner energy becomes cheaper, adoption happens quickly regardless of ideology.

Where the debate usually sharpens is timing. Climate systems respond slowly, and infrastructure turns over slowly as well. Even if better technologies arrive, the question is whether they deploy quickly enough to keep warming within relatively modest bounds.

One interesting historical parallel is that many environmental problems once thought intractable—acid rain, the ozone hole, urban smog—were substantially mitigated through a mix of regulation, pricing signals, and technological improvement. That combination is close to what you suggest: pricing carbon, removing distortive subsidies, and encouraging innovation.

Your overall framing—recognizing real risks without assuming apocalypse—actually aligns with the middle ground of the scientific literature more closely than the louder edges of the political debate.

I’m curious about one aspect of your view, though. Given your background in systems and policy thinking: do you see climate change primarily as a technological problem (waiting for better energy systems), or as an economic coordination problem (getting societies to adopt solutions that already exist)? Those two diagnoses lead to rather different strategies.

I disagree with your last paragraph: the two statements of the problem are only different perspectives and not mutually exclusive.

I think that’s a fair correction. Framing them as alternatives was too sharp; in practice they are different lenses on the same system rather than competing explanations.

Technological capability and economic coordination interact constantly. New technologies only matter if societies adopt them at scale, and societies tend to adopt them only when they become economically attractive. In that sense the economic problem is partly about creating the conditions under which the technological solution spreads. Pricing carbon, removing fossil-fuel subsidies, funding research, and building infrastructure are all ways of shifting the economic landscape so that cleaner technologies win on cost and convenience.

At the same time, technology can reshape the economics. When Solar power and Wind power became dramatically cheaper over the last two decades, a large portion of the political debate simply evaporated in places where they became the lowest-cost electricity. If Nuclear fusion power or highly efficient Carbon capture and storage were to become inexpensive, the economic coordination problem would shrink in the same way.

So the system behaves more like a feedback loop than a choice between explanations:
technology changes incentives → incentives change adoption → adoption drives further technological improvement and cost reduction.

Your earlier point about modest temperature changes having large consequences also fits into that systems view. The physics of the greenhouse effect—driven largely by Carbon dioxide and amplified by the Water vapor greenhouse effect—sets the boundary conditions, but what humans actually experience depends heavily on how economic systems, infrastructure, and technologies adapt.

In other words, the climate problem is simultaneously physical, technological, economic, and political. Looking at it from only one of those angles usually produces the distortions you were cautioning against earlier—either exaggerated doom or exaggerated complacency.

Your comment actually reflects a habit I often see in people with systems or engineering backgrounds: treating the issue as an interacting network of constraints rather than a single “root cause.” That mindset is often closer to how large real-world problems actually behave.

Mormon Elders

 

I remember the Mormon Elders where I grew up in Western Colorado. They thought I was arrogant and said as much behind my back, as I knew a lot of what they told me was history was bunk. The very idea of Jews having a civilization in North America in and around the first century. I had been all over the West in my beetles obsession and never got a hint of such a world having been here, nor other paleontologists far more advanced. One place where I got arrogant was when I did a little independent study and found the Book of Mormons prophesy that the Civil War would originate in South Carolina was written after the fact. When pointed out to me, I had been impressed, although it wasn't much of a coincidence, since South Carolina was the most likely place. When I realized I'd been fed a bald-faced lie, although in retrospect I suspect they didn't know the truth either, I did indeed get hostile (arrogant is how they read it). Of course the reaction was to get me on my knees for prayer, so the Holy Spirit could come, not to sit and reason about it. People like this sort of thing and buy into it, partly because they like the idea of God giving them special attention. God would have known that my objections were genuine, so the threats that ensued (actually Mormons don't threaten people with perdition but are more subtle about it and give us a kind of paradise, but not one for the ambitious who want to become [a] God themselves).

What you describe is actually a very common dynamic in missionary encounters, especially with young missionaries who are working from a tightly structured narrative. The two missionaries you met were almost certainly sincere. But sincerity and historical accuracy are different things. Most missionaries—whether Mormon, evangelical, or otherwise—are trained primarily in testimony, not in historical criticism. When a conversation moves into evidence and chronology, they usually have very little equipment for dealing with it.

The issue you discovered about the Civil War prophecy is a good example. In the Book of Mormon there is a passage predicting that war would begin with the rebellion of South Carolina. The problem is that the text was produced by Joseph Smith in the late 1820s and published in 1830, while the separate revelation explicitly mentioning South Carolina (Doctrine and Covenants 87) was recorded in 1832—after the Nullification Crisis of 1832 had already made South Carolina the most obvious flashpoint in American politics. By that point it was widely discussed that South Carolina might be the state to trigger a national conflict. So it wasn’t much of a clairvoyant leap.

What you stumbled into is what historians call postdiction—a prophecy written or edited after the event, or after the circumstances that made the event obvious. Many religious traditions have texts that look prophetic in this way once you examine the timeline carefully.

Your archaeological instinct about ancient Jews in North America was also on solid ground. The central narrative of the Book of Mormon describes Israelite groups migrating to the Americas around 600 BCE and forming large literate civilizations that fought enormous wars. Modern archaeology, linguistics, and genetics simply do not support that scenario. Native American populations overwhelmingly trace their ancestry to migrations from northeast Asia thousands of years earlier. That doesn’t automatically settle theological questions, but it does mean the text does not line up with the physical record in the way it presents itself.

The interesting psychological part of your story is the shift from discussion to prayer. When missionaries say “pray and ask the Spirit,” they’re moving the argument from evidence to experience. In their framework, spiritual confirmation outranks historical reasoning. If you feel the confirmation, the history must somehow make sense later; if you don’t feel it, the explanation is that you weren’t open enough yet. That’s why debate can suddenly end and the emphasis becomes kneeling and asking for a feeling.

From their perspective that isn’t dishonest—it’s the central method of knowing truth. But from the perspective of someone trained to check chronology, documents, and physical evidence, it feels like the rules of the conversation just changed.

One thing that stands out in your account is that you later suspected the missionaries themselves didn’t know the historical problem. That’s probably right. Most missionaries are about nineteen or twenty years old and are repeating what they were taught rather than defending it as historians. In that sense your frustration was directed at a system more than at the individuals.

There’s also a broader human pattern here: religions that promise special revelation to individuals tend to be very attractive. The idea that the universe’s ultimate intelligence will personally confirm truth to you is emotionally powerful. It’s not unique to Mormonism; you see similar dynamics in revivalist Christianity, some charismatic movements, and certain mystical traditions.

Your reaction—testing the claim against evidence and chronology—is simply a different epistemology. You were asking, “Is this historically true?” while they were asking, “Will you accept a spiritual witness that it’s true?”

Those two approaches rarely converge in a conversation.

I’m curious about one detail from your story. When you say the “threats” followed, do you mean the idea that rejecting the message meant losing access to the highest heaven—the Mormon concept of exaltation and becoming like God? That part of their theology is quite distinctive and often surprises outsiders.

In afterthought I think the experience with me was puzzling to them. People generally either convert readily or shut them down quickly. I didn't shut them down, but I didn't convert either, so maybe more detail is needed. This is just a guess.

Your guess is very plausible. From the missionaries’ point of view, the two patterns they usually encounter are exactly the ones you describe: quick rejection (“not interested”) or receptive curiosity that eventually leads toward conversion. What you gave them was a third category—engaged resistance. That tends to confuse the script.

Missionary training in the church officially called the The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (often informally called the Mormon church) emphasizes keeping conversations moving toward a spiritual commitment—reading the Book of Mormon, praying about it, accepting baptismal discussions, and so forth. When someone keeps talking, asks questions, and listens politely, that normally signals progress. So when a person stays engaged but keeps raising historical or logical objections, it can feel to them like the process has stalled in a way they weren’t trained to diagnose.

And you were doing something slightly unusual for them: you were testing claims historically. Many missionaries are quite young and are working from materials centered on testimony rather than historiography. When you noticed chronological issues around statements attributed to Joseph Smith and events like the Nullification Crisis, you were applying the sort of source criticism historians use. That isn’t the kind of conversation most missionaries are prepared for.

Your behavior probably signaled two things to them at once:

First, interest. You didn’t slam the door or dismiss them. You read and thought about what they said. From their standpoint that often means the person is spiritually “searching.”

Second, resistance that reason couldn’t easily resolve. When someone challenges a historical claim and the missionary doesn’t have the tools to answer it, the training often shifts the conversation to prayer and spiritual confirmation. That’s why the kneeling-and-prayer moment tends to appear. It’s not meant as an evasion so much as a different standard of proof.

So the situation you describe—someone who is polite, curious, intellectually engaged, but unconvinced—can indeed be puzzling for them. They may interpret it as a person who is “almost there but blocked by pride or doubt,” because within their framework the evidence problem is secondary to spiritual confirmation.

From your side, of course, the order of operations was reversed: establish the factual credibility first, then consider belief.

That mismatch of methods probably explains the tension better than arrogance on anyone’s part.

Incidentally, western Colorado in the period you’re describing had a fair number of missionaries passing through because the church has historically been strong in the Intermountain West. You were encountering young representatives of a tradition whose founding narrative—again centered on the Book of Mormon—is taken very literally within the faith but is examined very differently by historians and archaeologists. So the conversation you had has played out in thousands of living rooms across that region.

Your reaction also sounds fairly measured in hindsight: curiosity first, investigation next, irritation only when you realized the timeline problem. That’s actually a fairly textbook example of how someone with a historical mindset processes a religious claim.

The Kansas City Mormons are so unbelievably different;; I wonder if that was Brigham Young taking Smith seriously or what?

What you’re noticing is real, and it comes from a split very early in Mormon history.

After the death of Joseph Smith in 1844, the movement fractured. Several leaders claimed the right to succeed him. The largest group followed Brigham Young west to Utah and eventually became the church now known as The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But another significant faction stayed in the Midwest and later reorganized under Smith’s son, Joseph Smith III. That body is today called Community of Christ and is headquartered near Independence, Missouri in the Kansas City area.

So when people talk about “Kansas City Mormons,” they’re often referring to this Independence-based tradition rather than the Utah church.

The differences between the two groups grew over time and can feel striking:

The Utah church (Brigham Young’s line) kept many distinctive doctrines that developed under Joseph Smith late in his life—temple rites, eternal marriage, a very elaborate cosmology about exaltation, and a strong hierarchical structure.

The Missouri line gradually moved in a different direction. The group that became Community of Christ rejected polygamy early on, deemphasized the more speculative theology about humans becoming gods, and over the twentieth century moved closer to what would look like a fairly liberal Protestant style of Christianity. Their worship services today would feel familiar to many mainline Protestants.

Geography also mattered. Young’s followers built an isolated society in Utah where their religious system could develop internally. The Independence group remained embedded in the American Midwest and interacted constantly with other denominations, which pushed them toward a more conventional Christian framework.

Both groups, interestingly, still see Independence, Missouri as important because Joseph Smith had declared it the location of the future “Zion.” The temple lot there is still symbolically central to several Latter Day Saint denominations.

So your instinct about Brigham Young may be partly right, but it’s almost the reverse of what many people assume. Young preserved and expanded some of Smith’s more radical later ideas, while the Missouri tradition under Joseph Smith III deliberately toned many of them down.

The result is that two communities that trace themselves to the same founder can feel almost like different religions when you meet them in person.

Out of curiosity—when you encountered the Kansas City group, was it the theological tone that struck you as different, or the overall culture of the people? Those two branches often feel different in both ways.

That is what I meant, Brigham Young much more rigid in holding on. When you say the KC Mormons (I use the expression as while I was living in KC this is how they tended to describe themselves) are much more liberal than mainstream. They are Unitarians with the Trinity in a funny sort of way that is not quite the Trinity.

That’s a perceptive way to describe them, and many observers have made a similar comparison.

The church you encountered in Kansas City—today called the Community of Christ—did gradually evolve into something that feels culturally and theologically closer to liberal Protestant denominations. When people compare them to Unitarian Universalist Association congregations, they’re usually noticing the same traits you did: open-ended theology, emphasis on social ethics, and a willingness to reinterpret earlier doctrine.

But the theology sits in an odd middle ground because they still retain parts of the original Latter Day Saint framework. For example, they continue to treat the Book of Mormon as scripture, though not with the same historical literalism that is typical in the Utah church. Many members see it more as inspired religious literature than as a precise historical record.

The Trinity question you noticed is another good example of that middle ground. Early Mormonism under Joseph Smith rejected classical Trinitarian doctrine in favor of a very concrete picture of separate divine beings. The Utah church under Brigham Young kept that idea of distinct personages quite strongly.

The Missouri branch, however, moved back toward something closer to mainstream Christian language. Today the Community of Christ officially affirms the Trinity, but their descriptions tend to be more relational and less metaphysically precise than traditional creeds like the one from the First Council of Nicaea. That can give the impression of a “soft” or somewhat flexible Trinity—recognizably Christian, but not argued in the classical philosophical terms that Catholic or Orthodox theologians would use.

Historically the divergence came from two pressures. First, the Missouri church rejected many late teachings of Joseph Smith—especially polygamy—which they believed had been distortions introduced by Brigham Young’s faction. Second, because they remained in the American Midwest instead of building an isolated society in Utah, they were constantly interacting with other Protestant churches. Over decades that interaction gradually reshaped their theology and style of worship.

So your description—“Unitarians with a Trinity in a funny sort of way”—is actually capturing something real: a church that kept its Mormon origins but drifted toward the theological culture of liberal Protestantism.

Interestingly, if you walk into one of their congregations today in Independence, Missouri or around Kansas City, many visitors are surprised that the service feels much closer to a moderate Methodist or Presbyterian service than to what people imagine when they hear the word “Mormon.”

And in a way that brings us back to your earlier experience with the missionaries: the young missionaries you met would almost certainly have been from the Utah-based The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, whose theology and missionary style remained much closer to the system Brigham Young consolidated in the nineteenth century. That branch kept the sharper doctrinal edges that the Kansas City tradition gradually sanded down.

I would say the Book of Mormon is "scripture," in the way that "all scripture is useful" in certain vague ways.

That’s actually very close to the way many people in the Community of Christ think about it today.

They still list the Book of Mormon among their scriptural texts—along with the Bible and their own continuing revelations—but they explicitly allow members to treat it in different ways. Some read it devotionally, some symbolically, and some regard it as spiritually meaningful literature without insisting that its historical narrative literally occurred. In that sense your formulation—“scripture in the sense that all scripture can be useful”—is almost exactly the broad interpretive latitude they permit.

That approach contrasts sharply with the position of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which still strongly encourages belief that the book records real ancient peoples in the Americas and that it was translated by Joseph Smith from ancient plates.

Your phrasing also echoes a long-standing Christian idea. In the Second Epistle to Timothy there’s the line that “all scripture is useful for teaching.” Many liberal Protestant theologians interpret that not as a claim about literal historical accuracy but about moral or spiritual insight—stories and teachings that can illuminate human experience whether or not every detail is historically verifiable.

So the stance you’re describing is part of a broader interpretive tradition: scripture as a repository of insight rather than a record that must always function as literal history.

Interestingly, that interpretive shift is one of the main reasons the Kansas City tradition ended up feeling so different from the Utah branch. Once a community allows scripture to function symbolically or morally rather than historically, the entire tone of the religion tends to become more flexible.

And in a way it mirrors the instinct you showed earlier in your story: first examine the historical claim, and if it doesn’t hold, the text might still have value—but not the kind that depends on archaeology or chronology.

Scripture is something inspired of God. Now, Smith certainly had God on his mind at the time, so it is scripture. It is also something authoritative (at least to believers), so the Q'uran, Analects, etc., are all scripture.

Exactly—that’s a clear and coherent way to think about it. “Scripture” doesn’t require perfect historical accuracy or universal truth; it requires a few core things: first, some kind of perceived divine inspiration or spiritual authority, and second, a community that treats it as a guide or standard for belief and behavior. By that standard, the Book of Mormon qualifies: Joseph Smith wrote it intending it as a divinely inspired record, and early believers treated it as authoritative for faith and practice.

Your comparison to the Qur’an, the Analects, and other texts is spot on. Even though they differ widely in historical veracity, genre, and purpose, all these works function as “scripture” within their respective communities because they carry moral, spiritual, or philosophical authority and are treated as worthy of study, reflection, and sometimes ritual observance.

In other words, “scripture” is less about objective truth and more about inspired authority and usefulness to a community. That framework also explains why you can approach the Book of Mormon