A couple weeks ago, I read “The Girls From Fourth Ward” by Donna Banta. The book was a dark romp into the world of teenaged Mormon girls, complete with the bishop from hell. One of the scenes that lingered in my mind was a conversation between the four girls about the consequences of leaving the Mormon church. Mormon theology teaches that the only sin worse than murder is renouncing the teachings of the church. In the mixed-up minds of these four teenaged girls, this teaching somehow justified the murder of a bishop who was acting as an obstacle to fulfilling their potential as ideal Mormon women (and achieving access to the highest level of Heaven). This example is extreme and one that I hope is relegated to the pages of fiction. But the conversation in this book brought up very painful memories of just how afraid I was when I began questioning my faith.
When I was sixteen, and my faith was just beginning to crack, the missionaries were asked to teach my Sunday School class for a week. Being the missionaries, they decided to use the opportunity to show off their knowledge of the Gospel. We were treated to an overview of the Gospel and the three-fold mission of the Church: perfect the saints, preach the Gospel to the world, and redeem the dead.
Then the missionaries started talking about the levels of heaven. I grew up learning about the Telestial, Terrestrial, and Celestial Kingdoms but I had heard very little about Outer Darkness, which was a fate too awful for my mind to even comprehend.
“Don’t worry.” the missionaries assured my class. “It’s almost impossible to get sent to Outer Darkness. You have to either kill someone or renounce the teachings of the Church. And even murder is forgivable in some situations.”
Uh oh. I sat there on my hard plastic chair, painfully aware that I was in the process of committing the only sin worse than murder. The only sin that meant irrevocable exile to Outer Darkness. I felt as though I had been punched in the gut. The rest of the day was a blur as I mulled over the lesson and all of its implications on my life.
I was upset for a while. Upset and terrified. But as the lesson began to sink in, I began to get angry. Really angry. Boiling, red-hot anger that started at the top of my head and crawled its way down my body. I knew that what I was doing -- asking questions of my religion and expecting rational answers -- was not a sin. The fact that I had received no answer, the fact that logic dictated that there could be no proof, did not mean that I was a bad human being. And yet, as part of Mormon Church, this sin of mine was worse than killing another human being. I began to see the Church in a different light; I could no longer rationalize its goodness.
I reached my limit that day. I was tired; tired of feeling like I was less faithful, less worthy, simply because the answers I had received were not the “correct” answers. This lesson tipped the balance from grief about my lack of faith to anger at an unforgiving authoritarian religion. This anger gave me the courage to start my journey out of Mormonism, as I began to untangle the many threads woven throughout my up-bringing. A year after this lesson, I made a permanent break with the church. I am grateful that I managed to find the courage to break away, even while faced with the threat of absolute damnation. But for every person that does manage to come to terms with their lack of belief, there are ten more that stay because they are too afraid to commit the one sin worse than murder.
