Ex-Mormons and Belonging

November 18, 2019

Today, (I guess that’s yesterday now) I attended two events. Both were large gatherings of ex-Mormons.

Ex-Mormon Group #1 — Stake Conference

The first was my stake conference. Everyone there used to be Mormon. But now we’re Latter-day Saints.

For me, the highlight of stake conference was helping set up chairs the day before. I had invited a guy I didn’t know to help. He was on my ward list and I sent him a text. He agreed. When he showed up, I instantly recognized him. We were in junior high together 30+ years ago.

After setting up chairs, we grabbed some breakfast together and enjoyed talking about life. I was reminded how much I love the way the church connects me with people. How something as simple as setting up chairs is really just an excuse to be with each other. A beautiful thing.

I also loved singing in the choir. Oh, it is wonderful that he would care for me, enough to die for me. Oh, it is wonderful! The kind of love that would die for someone. That would give all.

We also sang High On a Mountain Top. The final line of the song is, “And save ourselves with all our dead.” Today, it had a new meaning for me. Which brings me to…

Ex-Mormon Group #2 — Thrive Conference

The second event was called Thrive. Everyone there also used to be Mormon.

[Note to my stake presidency: a photo booth might be fun for our next stake conference.]

[Note to my brother who I went with: I love you and it was fun being there together.]

Most people at this conference have, in a sense, experienced death. The death of their testimonies of the church. The death of their belief in God. The death of their ties to their lifelong community.

As one speaker described well, people who lost their faith easily don’t show up to conferences like this. These are people who cared deeply. People you used to serve with and respect and be inspired by.

Faithful people who encountered difficult questions and troubling contradictions. Honest people who care about the truth. Loving people.

Our daughters and sons. Our husbands and wives. Our siblings. Our children. Our old companions. Our best friends.

Ourselves. Me.

Our Dead

When I returned to the church a few months ago, I was surprised by the sparse attendance. Despite adding a large apartment building to our ward boundaries, the number of people seems fewer than ever.

Is it because the world is becoming more wicked in the last days? Young people are leaving religion in droves. Is it because they are evil?

Words like “apostate” or “covenant breaker” are easy to hurl at people you don’t know and love. It’s easy to assume a person stops attending the church because they are lazy or want to sin or never really had a testimony or don’t have enough integrity to keep their commitments when it becomes difficult.

It’s much harder to ask ourselves why we are no longer meeting the spiritual needs of so many?

A thoughtful teacher led a recent discussion in my elders' quorum. We talked about how we can better serve the needs of our ward. I instantly thought of three families who no longer attended for the same reason: LGBTQ+. They have good reasons to feel that my church requires them to choose between the church and their LGBTQ+ loved ones.

Many, perhaps most, queer Mormons don’t see any way to be both happy and accepted in my church. Too many contemplate suicide.

Another wrinkle in the idea of saving ourselves with all our dead.

When I left my church and felt dead, I soon discovered that I was very alive. Like a ghost, mostly invisible to the saints, I found fellow ghosts who faced the same challenges. Holy ghosts.

We mourned with each other. We comforted each other. We opened our homes to each other.

We vented to each other. We cried with each other. We wondered if our marriages could last with each other. Together, we wondered if our parents and other family members could ever love us again. Together, we talked about the many values we still had. We ate food together. We played tennis together.

We loved each other. And still do.

These sinners loved me with no conditions when most of the saints in my life disappeared. Perhaps they (church members) were praying for me or putting my name in the temple rather than stopping by my house. Instead of seeing me as a lost sheep, I assumed they chose to see me as a dangerous wolf.

Aren’t We a Hospital?

The ex-Mormons at my stake conference could learn a lot from the ex-Mormons at Thrive.

You’ve heard the comparison of a church to a hospital where everyone is in need of help.

My church can sometimes feel more like an intimidating club with a lot of rules than a welcoming hospital.

What happened to the ideal of striving to include people who smell like cigarettes or have a bunch of tattoos or a mohawk? Or people who aren’t sure that the church is true? Or people who know that their gay child is wonderful? What happened to being a hospital?

Why wouldn’t we want to be a place to welcome people, just as they are? What happened to the idea that we are all sinners? That we all fall short, each in our own ways? That together, in a loving community, we can all grow?

Thrive is full of people who know that they’re hurting and know they don’t have all the answers. They know the pain of shunning and rejection by the very people who claim to have The Truth.

They’re hungry for change. Instead of waiting for a leader to give them an authorized revelation, everyone feels empowered to act and innovate, seeking to help people have a place where they belong.

As people who have doubts, are they a threat to my church? Or is this an opportunity to let the dead rise? Not just any dead. Our dead.

A resurrection that brings people we love back into our midst? A recognition that, even in our church, we have some dead traditions that could be quickened by prioritizing love first, then worrying about which doctrine is true this century.

…but the greatest of these is charity.

President Uchtdorf and Me

In 2013, President Uchtdorf talked to me in a very personal way. I had been away from church for about two years when he told me,

“Regardless of your circumstances, your personal history, or the strength of your testimony, there is room for you in this Church.”

With his kind voice, he said,

“Sometimes we assume it is because [you] have been offended or lazy or sinful. Actually, it is not that simple. In fact, there is not just one reason that applies to the variety of situations.

“Some of our dear members struggle for years with the question whether they should separate themselves from the Church.”

His honesty surprised me when he admitted,

“…to be perfectly frank, there have been times when members or leaders in the Church have simply made mistakes. There may have been things said or done that were not in harmony with our values, principles, or doctrine.”

I felt possibility when he said,

“To those who have separated themselves from the Church, I say, my dear friends, there is yet a place for you here.

“Come and add your talents, gifts, and energies to ours. We will all become better as a result.”

All the negative things I had learned and observed about the church momentarily evaporated. He was inviting me to the hospital. As I was. Not the club. The hospital.

I contacted my bishop at the time. We met and I expressed my renewed hope that there could be a place for me at church, despite my inability to believe certain things. I expressed excitement at the idea of finding common ground in things I still shared.

“What if we started a new class? I think I know at least 3–5 people who no longer come to church, but that would have interest in this class. Instead of focusing on the things we no longer believe, we would focus on the many things we still share.”

While I loved this man then and I love this man now, I believe my bishop saw me as more of a threat to be contained than a lost sheep to be rescued — or even better, a fellow sinner to be loved.

I felt sad. Then I felt like a sucker for believing President Uchtdorf, seeing his words as mere fluff rather than a real possibility. “My church doesn’t want people like me. They want people who don’t know their own history. They want obedient soldiers who all look and act the same,” I thought.

Three months later, I formally removed my name from the records of the church.

Your New Community?

When a childhood acquaintance shared why he was returning to the church, it triggered an unexpected experience that led me back to the church.

I realize that for many, my church will never be a healthy place for them to return. They have found new approaches to life that work well for them.

There are others of you.

People who have been trying to find your place for years, but never quite feeling the sense of belonging and purpose you once had in the church. You’ve tried.

You wonder if the reason you felt all these things was simply because you had been brainwashed by a cult.

But then you have a childhood memory of sitting next to your mom on the couch, looking at illustrated scriptures, being excited to get to read the next page; the fuzzy memory of your young mom who was much younger than you are now. You know her love was sincere. You know she was loving and teaching you in the best way she knew how.

You remember the seminary or institute teacher that really reached you. The excitement to learn. The way it made you want to be kind to your siblings and everyone around you. The skills of seeking personal revelation that could change everything.

You remember that moment as a young husband. That married student ward lesson at church when you suddenly thought, “rather than feeling sorry for myself that my pregnant wife doesn’t want to have sex, what can I do to help her be more comfortable?” And you were filled with love for her.

You remember that friend you escorted through the temple. That family. You didn’t know anything about masonry and gruesome symbolic penalties and whatever else. You just saw some beautiful friends with tears of joy, matching your own.

These were good things. Very good things. Things that you no longer have. You miss them. You sometimes sense that empty feeling in your gut, knowing you can’t unlearn what you know. You miss innocence.

Then some presumptuous newly re-baptized member who understands your position digs all these feelings back up and you’re not sure if you feel hope or despair. Excitement or anger.

If you’re mad at this point, please stop reading. This isn’t for you and I really do respect where you’re at.

But if you, like me, have felt pulled by the possibility of re-joining the tribe that is in your DNA, please set your fears aside (on the shelf?) just for a moment. I don’t want to ask you to do anything that violates your conscience. I don’t want you to do anything that makes you feel unsafe or invalid. You don’t have to pretend to believe anything that you can’t believe. And I don’t expect you to deny science or history.

I want to propose the possibility that, for some of you, the new community you’ve been searching for may be your old community. The part that is new, is you. The new you.

The you that believes that loving other people is far more important than proving you are right. The you that knows your worth will never depend on the results of a worthiness interview. The you that has learned to listen to your conscience and do what you think is right, even when it costs you dearly.

The you that intuitively knows that, if there is a God, and if this God is good, that he loves you exactly as you are right now. And that this love can’t be taken away or used as a bargaining chip to influence your behavior.

The you that understands that you don’t need a calling or assignment or authority to help and care for people. That service can be a way you live rather than something scheduled by a group at a church. That a calling is something that you feel within your soul more than something a leader asks you to do.

The you that enjoys coffee and wine. The you that won’t be at church every Sunday because you might be skiing. The female you that knows you’re equal. The “gay man married to a man” you, who, despite all the pain of the policy, inexplicably feels drawn to the spiritual home of your youth.

Yes. You. As you are.

Even if you have no intention of living according to all the church’s teachings. If you simply want to be part of the community because you’re in Utah and you grew up in this church and it’s a block away from your house.

If you feel inspired by this possibility, I echo President Uchtdorf’s words, “Come… we will all be better as a result.”

What if more members could stop talking about how sinful gay people are and actually get to know you? What if their children sat next to you and watched their parents say hello and shake your hands?

I don’t pretend to seek to change my church’s doctrine. I’m just thinking about the song I learned at church as a child. “Jesus said love everyone. Treat them kindly too. When your heart is filled with love, others will love you.”

Even as an extrovert, returning to church was quite intimidating for me. I’ve had weeks when I come home feeling angry and frustrated and wondering why I feel so sure that I’m supposed to be there.

I’ve also had weeks… many more weeks… where I go to church and sing the sacrament hymn and feel overcome by love. Weeks… many of them… where I choose to participate in a simple act of service and feel all my problems evaporate, at least for a while.

The body of Christ needs all the parts. Let not the hand say unto… the sphincter?… I have no need of thee. Yes, we need unity. And yes, we need diversity. Yin and yang.

Like a family, despite the skeletons in the closet, I love being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A year ago, I would have laughed if you told me I would say that. To spite you, I would have wanted to go to the Beer Hive and have a few shots.

Today, I feel like I belong. I don’t know that my church is “true” and I really don’t care. I just believe it has the potential to be good. And I believe I can contribute in a way that makes life feel meaningful.

I love God. I’m not at all concerned if you don’t believe in God, but I’m 99% sure you believe in love. I hope you know that you deserve love. I call this love God, wherever it comes from.

Yes, you can love and serve and feel meaning in many ways. But, for me, the church is one really good way to do it.

The Helpers

One key to the possibility of belonging in this church again is the ability to stop seeing it as a monolithic institution where everyone is the same. To stop expecting yourself to fit a mold, even when it feels like others expect it of you.

Do like Mr. Rogers said. Look for the helpers. Whenever there are scary situations, you will find the helpers.

One lady that recently moved into our ward found a helper. She saw my wife wearing pants. That was her signal to hope that my wife could be a safe place for her. She soon confirmed it, finding a fellow feminist.

Recently, I bore my testimony that I didn’t know the church was true. Later, multiple people let me know that I had been their helper.

In one discussion before I was re-baptized, one elder in the group suggested that service should always include an invitation to church; a missionary opportunity. I was feeling a sense of disgust when two helpers kindly but clearly disagreed and expressed their belief that the true spirit of service is something given freely.

You will find your helpers. The people that make you feel like you belong for exactly who you are. You will also find others. Those who feel threatened or confused by the difference they sense in you. Which is their choice.

Become a helper. Believe that you can find common ground, even with the weird guy who inserts his conservative politics into lessons as though it’s the gospel truth. Find ways to do positive things together by simply showing up to some of the never-ending invitations the church gives you. Bagging an older lady's leaves together, you may find that you really like each other, despite your different world views.

When you like each other, you can’t help but influence each other. A natural side effect of love. And you’ll belong.

Note: This has been my experience with my church and I believe it may be a positive option for others. But I know this won’t work for everyone. Luckily, the helpers are everywhere. Find them in the places that feel safe and inviting for you. And be one.