Learning Not Very Useful Truths

“There is a temptation for the writer or the teacher of Church history to want to tell everything, whether it is worthy or faith promoting or not.  Some things that are true are not very useful.”¹  

Boyd K Packer, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles

          As a faithful Mormon girl, I was warned to never read literature concerning the Mormon church that had not been approved by the Church.  The leaders taught us that Satan was looking to lead faithful Mormons astray.  To maintain the faith, I needed to stay in the warm, cozy confines of Church-sanctioned truth.  And I believed the warnings.  Straying outside the confines of Church literature never even occurred to me.  I didn’t leave the Church because I read “anti”-Mormon literature.  I left because the attitudes within the Church didn’t feel right and I had a hunch that there was a wider world waiting for me outside the confines of a rigid belief system.  

          I only learned about the dirty secrets of Mormon history after leaving.  I was in my mid-twenties when I learned about Joseph Smith’s 33 wives, a truth that directly contradicted the myth of Joseph and Emma’s love story.²  I am still learning about the many permutations of the First Vision, which is a “not-very-useful truth” that casts an unforgiving light on the true origins of Mormonism.³  As a person who was trained in genetics, I am painfully aware of the fact that there is no proof that the civilizations described in the Book of Mormon ever existed.⁴  The list of “not-very-useful truths” about the Mormon Church is a mile long.  And the majority of these facts are unbeknownst to my family.  To mention these truths to my family would expose me to anger and the accusation of being “anti”-Mormon.  True or not, even the slightest hint of criticism would be an affront to my family and their religion.  

          When I learned these truths, I felt betrayed by the church I had grown up in.  Learning the truth strengthened my conviction that I had made the right choice in leaving.  But I learned these truths only after leaving; why then should these issues matter so much to me?  

          The reason I care so much about the “not-very-useful” truths is because the actions of Mormon authorities --- to bury the past in secrecy --- infantilizes members.  I was raised to place blind faith in authorities; now I know these authorities to be dishonest.  The tendency to place blind trust in authorities is a trait that has lingered even past my break with the Church.  As people, we deserve the right to question the actions of authorities.  We deserve the right to question if authorities are acting in our best interest.  However, the Mormon church forbids dissension of any sort; criticism of church authorities is a very serious matter and can lead to excommunication.

1 The Mantle Is Far, Far Greater Than The Intellect

2 http://www.wivesofjosephsmith.org/

3 http://mormonthink.com/firstvisionweb.htm

4 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genetics_and_the_Book_of_Mormon

Mormons & Pagans

          I grew up in upstate New York, where Mormons constitute a very small minority.  My home was in a rural area, right in the middle of a large state forest.  One of the few neighbors within walking distance is a couple who moved to the area forty years ago, around the same time that my parents did.  The husband is a folk singer who does voice-work for the local radio and his wife works as a lab technician.  

Flowers to celebrate May Day and the return of spring

          For the past thirty-five years, my neighbors have hosted a annual series of three parties; May Day, Stone Soup, and Winter Solstice.  For May Day, there is a may-pole and dancing, along with a distribution of flowers to remind us all that spring is coming.  Every year, I got a paper cup with a little johnny-jump-up.  I took the flowers home and planted them in our garden, where the flowers are still blooming.  For the Stone Soup party, there is a dramatic re-enactment of a tired old soldier wandering into the party, begging for a meal, and promising to make soup from a single stone.  “Oh, but if someone, anyone, had just a few sprinkles of herbs --- or a little carrot --- or just a potato, one potato --- that would just make the soup so much better.” he would ask as we taunted him, telling him to leave the party and go elsewhere.  Then, one by one, everyone would bring forth an item and add it to the pot.  For the winter solstice, we hiked up into the woods to burn the may-pole from the spring before.  As the may-pole burned, we stood around the flames holding hands as we shared our hopes and dreams for the year ahead.  Winter solstice was a reminder that though the winters were long and cold, the sun would once again make an appearance.  

          When the celebrations had ended, we all ate a potluck dinner, crammed into the warm, rough-hewn confines of my neighbors’ house.  Afterwards, everyone got out their instruments and the singing lasted well into the night; the party only ended once everyone had left.  This was an event where everyone was welcome and no one was ever forced to leave; people came from as far from Vermont to attend these parties.  

          What I only realized as an adult is the fact that my neighbors are pagan.  I never thought to ask and I also never connected the celebration of pagan holidays with the parties that my neighbors throw every year.  My neighbors are private people; they won’t tell if you don’t ask.  I don’t know what their interactions with my parents were like; knowing my father he has tried to give them a Book of Mormon at one time or another.  But my neighbors never treated me any differently because of what my family was.  And I also understood, even as an over-enthusiastic teenager, that discussion of religion with my neighbors was off-limits.  

My Mormon Piano Teacher

          In college, I signed up for a semester of piano lessons.  I was a self-taught piano player in need of formal instruction.  The day of my first lesson, I was nervous.  I walked into the studio and introduced myself to the teacher, a short, stout woman with dyed brown hair and a gentle smile.  When she asked me if I had any previous training, I told her I was self-taught.  So she asked me to play a song for her.  I hadn’t thought to bring any sheet music with me so I plunked out the one song I knew by heart --- the hymn “A Poor Way-Faring Man Of Grief”. 

          After I played, she was quiet for a moment.  Then she tilted her head and with a smile, asked me “Are you Mormon?”.

          Shit, I thought, my fingers frozen on the white keys.  I stammered out that I was not a Mormon but my entire family was.  My heart was racing in my chest and my body began to shake as I anticipated the condemnation that was sure to come.   

          “My daughter left the Church.” she said.  “It was a long time before she felt comfortable telling all of us that she didn’t believe.”  The tension in my body released by a fraction.  

          I took three semesters of piano lessons from her.  We had an unspoken agreement not to discuss religion.  Occasionally she would broach the subject in a very non-confrontative way.  I learned which students in the program were Mormon.  She also told me about some of her family reunions; from what I gathered, the extended family had judged her daughter harshly for leaving.  She told me that there were times when she had to stand up for her daughter, times when she had to remind the family that her daughter was the same sweet girl she had always been.  

          My piano teacher was a lot like my mother --- a woman with a big heart, trying to live the best life she knew how.  

A Child And The Big Scary Apostate

          As a kid, most of the General Conference talks didn’t make much of an impression on me.  I was sitting in the pews listening, but I was also a kid with a short attention span.  Beyond feeling a sense of reverence for the guys on the screen, most of the talks went in one ear and out the other.  

          But there was one exception.  One year, I heard a talk about people who leave the church.  The speaker described people who left as being led astray by Satan, fallen into the depths of immorality.  He told us that people who left were angry and deluded.  Deep down they knew the Church was true and so, locked in the throes of Satan, they were trying their best to tear the Church apart.  

          I was terrified.  My dreams that night featured an army of people seeking to tear my family apart.  The talk left an emotional imprint on my mind that lingered for years as I grew up and began navigating my religious identity.  

          About a year ago, I started wondering about the talk that had left such an impression on a little girl.  I started combing through the LDS archives, searching for the talk that had struck so much fear in me.  

          Locating the talk took a long time.  I was searching during the years when I would have been between 6 and 10 years of age.  I kept searching, trying to find the talk but nothing seemed to fit my memories.  Then I started searching the earlier years; that was when my search finally yielded results.  

          If I am correct, I heard this talk in April 1989.  I would have been four years old at the time.  The talk was titled “Follow The Prophet” and given by Glenn L. Pace.  I have included excerpts of his talk.

          “The second category of critics is former members who have become disenchanted with the Church but who are obsessed with making vicious and vile attacks upon it [...]

          [...] In addition to attacking our sacred beliefs, some former members speak evil of the Brethren [...]

          [...] It seems that history continues to teach us: You can leave the Church, but you can’t leave it alone. The basic reason for this is simple. Once someone has received a witness of the Spirit and accepted it, he leaves neutral ground. One loses his testimony only by listening to the promptings of the evil one, and Satan’s goal is not complete when a person leaves the Church, but when he comes out in open rebellion against it.”

          Sometimes I wish I could go back in time.  If I could, I would walk into the darkened church of that General Conference.  I would sit next to the girl with the ragged blonde hair, wearing threadbare hand-me-downs.  I would put my arms around her and tell her that everything will be all-right.  That I know what she is going through, that I know what she will go through in the future.  That the road ahead of her will be long and winding and hard but that she will come out the other end a stronger, more resolute woman.  She will become her own person; not the woman that others expect her to be but the woman that she truly is.  


Note:  This post was re-posted over at Main Street Plaza

A Child's Memories Of General Conference

          As a kid, I always dreaded General Conference weekends.  The prospect of two long days spent sitting in a darkened chapel, listening to the televised speeches of a bunch of old guys was not my idea of a good time.  But my parents impressed on my family the very serious nature of these talks and so we went.  

          My childhood was during the era of Ezra Taft Benson.  I was raised to believe that he was a modern-prophet whose words came straight from God; I associated his name with a sense of wonderment and awe.  He died when I was nine; the day of his passing was a very sad event in our household.

          I liked General Conferences for one reason --- the breaks in-between sessions.  Since a lot of the members lived too far away to go home during the break, there was always a potluck lunch, with a wide array of dishes.  Treats were few and far between in my house; I had five older brothers and a sister to fight off in order to get any of the good food.  My mother was also too exhausted to cook very much; at the time she was working part-time, going to school full-time, and trying to raise a huge family.  General Conference was a time when I could scarf down good food to my heart’s content without having to fight off my big brothers.  

          The break between sessions also represented a time when I could play with other children.  I lived in a very isolated area; there weren’t many children around for me to play with.  Before I started school, church was the one of the few opportunities to see other children my age.  Normal church was too structured for play but the long break between sessions represented a time when we could tear through the church like the hellions that we were.  We explored the empty baptismal font, daring each other to cross the barrier between the women’s side and the men’s side.  We acted out stories on the stage of the cultural hall, pretending that we were famous actresses.  When I got a little older and a little more rebellious, we would even skip sessions and explore the empty church on our own.  

          By the time I reached my teenage years, a shift had started.  Members started watching General Conference at home on their televisions.  The potlucks started getting smaller.  My family still attended General Conference at church.  We had no choice in the matter; we didn’t have cable TV.  Attendance was still moderate, mostly for the feeling of community.  During the break, I would visit a friend who lived within walking distance of church.  

          Nowadays, my parents will head to my brother’s house for General Conference; my parents still don’t have cable TV.  My mother tells me that the church is empty during Conference weekend and the potlucks have ended.  

Still A Member? Or Not A Member? I Don't Know.

          I have tried three times to have my name removed from the membership rolls of the Mormon Church.  Three separate attempts and I still don’t know if I am counted among the official 14 million members that the Mormon Church stakes claim to.  My first attempt to resign was during my freshman year of college.  I wrote out a letter requesting my resignation and sent it to the Church Headquarters in Salt Lake City.  I assumed the matter was finished --- I was grown up and ready to move on with my post-Mormon life.  

          Then someone told me that the Church sends you an official letter after they accept your resignation.  I had never received a letter; did that mean I was still a member?  I feared that the answer was yes.  So this time around, I looked up the local ward and called the bishop.  I had to call a couple times but I finally reached him.  I explained that I wanted my name removed.  The bishop was quiet for a moment and then said, with a note of regret in his voice, --- “Are you sure?  You sound too young to make such a big decision; I don’t want you to do anything you might end up regretting.”  

          I hated that he sounded like a father grieving over a wayward daughter.  I just hated that.  “Yes.”  I told him, full of youthful conviction.  “I am sure about this.”  After I hung up the phone, I would berate myself for not pointing out that if eight is old enough to be baptized into the church, then nineteen should be old enough to leave the church.  But for the moment, I was too insecure to argue with a man that sounded like my father.  

          “Why don’t I send the missionaries over so that you can discuss the matter?”  

          I didn’t want to talk to the missionaries.  I didn’t want to have to deal with people telling me that I was wrong and that I needed to go back to church like a good little Mormon girl.  I told the bishop no, I didn’t want the missionaries over at my house.  I ended up mailing another resignation letter to the local ward.  A futile gesture, but one that I hoped would yield some result.

          Then I transferred colleges.  And I started getting calls to my unlisted phone number from church members.  And the Mormon organization on campus decided to add my e-mail to their list-serv, without notifying me or asking my permission.  All of a sudden, my in-box was being flooded by e-mails about temple trips and branch activities.  

          So I sent an e-mail out to the list-serv at large, pointing out that I had not asked for my e-mail to be added and that I had not been notified of this decision.  That prompted a flurry of e-mails.  About half of the e-mails were from people that wanted their names removed as well.  The other e-mails were from members that were bewildered as to what the problem was about --- didn’t I know that I could just have my name removed, without having to make a big fuss about it?  But the issue was not about the e-mails; the issue was about my invasion of privacy.  

          Eventually the list-serve administrator contacted me.  He introduced himself; he was friends with one of my brothers.  My father had contacted him and asked him to “make me feel welcome”.  I told him that what he had no right to add my e-mail without my consent or knowledge.  Then I told him I wanted out --- I wanted to officially resign from the Church.  He forwarded my e-mail to the branch president, who then contacted me.

          A week later, I met with the branch president.  He was a professor so we met on campus at the ice cream store.  We made some small talk about research; he was a biology professor and I was a biology major working in a genetics lab.  We had some common acquaintances; I had interned in the lab of one of his good friends.  His wife was also my spinning instructor.  Then we moved on to the matter at hand.

          “I want to resign.” I told him.  “I don’t believe this Church is true and I can’t support the authorities.”  

          At that point his eyebrows rose and his tone changed from friendly to dismissive.  “I guess we can’t all be believers.” he said, his shoulders shrugging.  Then he gave me some papers to sign and I left.   

          I am still waiting for my letter.  

A Mall, A Church, And The Misuse Of My Parents’ Tithing

          There is a new mall in downtown Salt Lake City called City Creek Center.  This mall is, from what I have heard, a very nice mall.  Adjacent to Temple Square and built to revitalize the downtown area, City Creek Center offers shopping, as well business and residential space.¹  

          Normally I could care less about a mall in Salt Lake City.  I think Utah is a gorgeous state, blessed with an abundance of natural beauty.  However, my kind are not welcome in Utah and so I stay away.  But the issue is this: City Creek Center was financed and built by the Mormon Church to the tune of 5 billion dollars.  That’s right.  A tax-free organization financed by the charitable donations of church members decided to spend billions of dollars building a shopping mall.²  

          I found out about the City Creek Center about six months ago.  And every time I think about the issue, I start getting angry.   My parents are faithful tithing payers.  Every year, they give 10% of their pre-tax income to the Mormon church.  Tithing comes before food, bills, and everything else.  As a kid, I saw first-hand just how much my parents had to struggle to pay tithing and feed a huge family.  No matter how desperate times got (and there were some very, very desperate times) my parents have always paid their tithing. And my parents have complete faith in the Mormon Church.  They pay their tithing trusting that the Mormon church will put their hard-earned money to good use.  

          And how does the Mormon church treat their members?  Well, to start with, the Mormon church has never published their financial reports.  They take my parents’ money but they don’t have the courtesy to tell them how they use the money.  And now I find that my parents’ contributions are being funneled into the creation of a mall in Salt Lake City.  

          If that isn’t enough to turn me into the stereotypical “angry apostate”, there is also the issue of Church janitorial services.  The Mormon Church used to pay for people to clean their churches.  When I was little and my family was extremely poor, my mother used to work as the church janitor.  Sometimes my sister and I would come to work with her; we would sleep in one of the classrooms while my mother worked through the night cleaning the church.  Now the Church has decided they can no longer afford to pay for janitors.  Members are now expected to pitch in and volunteer time to clean their church building.  So not only is the Mormon Church dropping a whole bundle of money on a mall in Salt Lake City, in order to cut costs they have now decided to add an extra burden to their already over-worked members.  

          My parents have given so much to the Mormon Church.  Over the years they have paid tithing, paid to send their children on missions, given fast offerings, and put  in countless volunteer hours.  Now they are approaching retirement with little more than Social Security and my mother’s school-teacher pension.  They have given everything they have to the Mormon Church.  I wish that my parents had the courage to stand up for themselves; their sacrifices should be given meaning by the Church.  But my parents won’t.  They have spent too many years being indoctrinated by a church that forbids dissension of any sort, however justified the dissent may be.  

¹http://www.shopcitycreekcenter.com/

²http://www.ksl.com/?nid=148&sid=19428181&title=a-look-inside-as-city-creek-centers-completion-nears&s_cid=featured-1