I don't know where my journey out of the church began exactly. For as long as I can remember, I've always had an inquisitive and curious nature. I was raised in a good Mormon household. My great-great-great-great grandfather was Charles Rich, one of Brigham Young’s apostles. I never knew anything other than Mormonism as God’s Truth on Earth.  I was one of the Valiant Warriors in the Pre-Existence. Maybe that’s why I was never satisfied with the trite answers from the “Brethren” to questions like: Why has the temple ritual undergone significant changes if God restored it to its fullness through Joseph Smith? Shouldn’t something as sacred as the Keys and Tokens to the Celestial Kingdom be as eternal and unchanging as God Himself?  Why would God care about how society views His Rituals?  If He did, there wouldn’t be an Old Testament today.

 

Maxims such as “When the prophet has spoken, the thinking has been done,” seemed to be more along the lines of a parent answering a six-year-old’s inquiries with, Just because dear, now run along and be a good boy.  I have always needed to know the nature of things and there came a point at which Mormonism fell apart under its own irrationality.  

 

Around the age of fifteen, I was the typical teenager. I hated getting up on Sundays for Church. But I did for my mom. Mormonism for me was just a social gathering. I did enjoy Seminary though. I actually liked learning about the scriptures and the history. Seminary was structured and class-like. Sunday school, on the other hand, was a joke. Most of the time it seemed like the teacher threw whatever together the night before. Eventually, I went inactive.

As I turned twenty or so, I returned to the fold after what I took to be a spiritual experience: recovering from German measles. After a blessing by my step-dad and my bishop, I returned to health. Now, being a strapping young lad with a healthy constitution, I probably would’ve gotten over it anyway, but at the time, I needed some direction in life. I had dropped out of school and was staying out all night with my friends. I needed to get my life on track.  That bout with the measles reactivated my interest in the Church. I started praying again and preparing myself for a mission.

 

I had been dating my girlfriend Jaime for about a year. We had met at the local movie theater where we both worked. She was Catholic but it was never much an issue while I was inactive. It wasn’t until I decided to go on a mission that the relationship became strained. We would talk about the “finer” points of Mormonism. You know, the meat that comes after the milk: polygamy, blacks, the role of women.  I regurgitated the party line like some candidate at his party’s convention. Jaime, on the other hand, seemed to bring light to the shadowed corners of Mormon theology. However, I couldn’t be dissuaded. I had a renewed Testimony and knew the Church was True.

 

I got my call to serve in the Oregon Portland Mission in the spring of 1993. Jaime and I decided to keep in touch and to see where we ended up when I returned. I asked her to ignore her feelings to the contrary and to have faith that Mormonism was the True Gospel of Christ. I asked her to soften her heart, to read the Book of Mormon, and to ask the Lord to give her the sign of the “burning bosom.” (I find it interesting that Korihor was struck dumb and then trampled to death by a holy mob for asking for a sign.) I later found she had followed Moroni’s promise, but the answer she received was negative. No burning bosom. Just a feeling that it was wrong. Looking back on it all now, I can only thank her for being strong when I was weak.

 

What can I say about that Bastion of Brainwashing that is the MTC? A line from a Simpsons episode sums it up nicely: on returning from a week at bible camp, the Simpsons’ neighbor Maude Flanders quips, “I was learning to be more judgmental.” Mostly though, the MTC was more a sales boot camp/seminar. I was there five weeks as part of a (then) new telemarketing program. We sat at phones and called people who had requested a video or book through one of the Church’s commercials. We practiced the sales techniques we were learning to try to get appointments set up for missionaries already in the field. We didn’t look at it as telemarketing of course. It was the Lord’s Work.

 

I was quite emotional heading into Portland. As the plane circled the city on its final descent, I literally wept as I looked out over the homes of all those people ignorant of the fullness of the gospel. I really felt at the time that I had a testimony burning within me. It pisses me off when Mormons say that I, and others like me, never had testimonies. My testimony is what drove me OUT of the church. Following its echoes of inspiration has always been something I strive for. Living a life in good faith that is true to the heart is important. I cant dissociate myself from what wells up within me. It becomes a dissembled life.

 

An example of following this current occurred about four months into my mission. On the way home from the temple one P-day, my companion and I--along with several other companionships--had stopped at a Seagull Book and Tape. We all were looking for something inspirational. Ironic, I think, since we were the ones supposedly inspiring others through giving of ourselves to “such a marvelous work and a wonder.”

 

Two books in particular drew my attention: one entitled Women and Authority: Re-emerging Mormon Feminism, edited by Maxine Hanks, the other, Sisters in Spirit: Mormon Women in Historical and Cultural Perspective, edited by Maureen Beecher and Lavina Anderson. Hanks and Anderson, two of the September Six, were excommunicated shortly after I purchased these books.  How far out could these books be? They were written be good, testimonied members. They were being sold in Seagull Books. I believed these books would help show Jaime, or anyone else I came across, that Mormonism was one of the few religions in the world that truly respected and esteemed women and had been behind the women’s movement since the beginning. After all, the Relief Society was one of the first women’s organizations in the country. Little did I realize what a different body it was then compared with what it is now.

 

Over the course of the next month, I devoured those books. I didn’t want to put them down. The stories by women who felt smothered under the church’s monolithic male hierarchy moved me like another book, the Book of Mormon.

 

I read of how women in the early days of the church had held and used priesthood authority to minister to the sick, to prophesy, to bless those in need of comfort, and more. These women left journals that stated how they had received the keys within the temple.

 

I read how the general authorities changed positions over time and curbed the use of these keys by women. I felt there was something wrong with an eternal and unchanging god that seemed to change with the times.

 

I read of women who had kept silent long enough and were finally speaking out on how the church patronized their desires, belittled their needs, and ignored their requests for some word from their Heavenly Mother(s).

 

I don’t know why I identified so closely with these stories. My parents divorced when I was eleven. My dad stopped paying child support and left my mom to fend for her own in raising my two sisters, my brother and me. The church helped at times but they never seemed to take her side of it seriously. My dad was soon back attending temple while my mom was drowning financially. Maybe growing up through all of this left me with a certain bitterness towards authority; male authority in particular.

 

I subjected my companions to questions and they gave me that sideways-brow-raised-glance and told me the answer would come through obedience to the mission rules. My mission wasn’t for myself, it was for others. I was on the Lord’s errand now and should focus on what He wants. But I couldn’t in good faith with myself simply chalk these stories up to learned men and women who stumble on their pride in second guessing the Lord’s Anointed. These women’s (and men’s) stories struck a nerve deep inside me that was not pacified with the idea that they probably came from women who had a grudge against their bishop, home teacher, etc. or had probably committed adultery. I couldn’t maintain that level of faith in the Brethren.

 

There was a gap opening ever wider within me. I prayed. I fasted. I thought I would try and stick it out for my family. I was the oldest and felt I had to be a good example. I believed I could work for reform from within the church. Hard as I tried though, I felt more and more like an impostor, that I was living a lie. The time finally came when I could not teach the discussions because I couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy.

 

Finally, after five months of trying to turn that smile upside down and smile that frown away, I told the mission president I felt it would be best for all involved if I just went home. He went on about how I was turning my back on the Lord and asked if I was sure I knew what I was doing. He told me these were trivial things to worry about and that the Lord loves women too. The last interview was a double interrogation, the mission president brought in his first lady. Together they tried to show me how women in the church “really feel.” They bored me with their testimonies and reiterated that obedience to the mission rules would bring peace to my troubled soul. They told me to put it aside and have faith. However, seeing that several of the writers had been excommunicated, I already knew the Church’s position.

 

My family took my early homecoming well. I know they were disappointed but I was fortunate to find a home filled with lots of love and very little judgment. No explicit judgment at any rate. Nobody seemed to really want to talk about it though. They had a few questions but never really seemed too interested when it came down to brass tacks.

 

The first Sunday back happened to be fast and testimony meeting. There I was, sitting in my home ward with my family ten months after my farewell. I knew people were wondering. I had to do something. I walked up to the podium and bore my un-testimony. I thanked those who had written to me. I wanted to make it clear that the decision to come home was mine. I was not sent home. I stated there were some doctrinal issues I was uncomfortable with and that I couldn’t--in good faith--teach others of their truthfulness. I stepped down from the podium, strode past my family’s pew and straight out the door. I’ve only been back twice: once for my brother’s farewell and once for my sister’s farewell. Needless to say, I spoke at neither.

 

The Mormon system did quite a job on me, but I’m feeling more whole and connected to myself thanks to activities such as this that allow for some sense of catharsis. Thanks to all those who have shared their stories in an effort to heal and to make whole the fractured existence we lived under Mormonism.

 

My un-testimony:

 

I have gone beyond Mormonism. It saddens me when I see others afraid to take that step, to make that choice, to look beyond the mark.

 

I’m still rather brash and impetuous with my family. They are all still true blue Mormons. I like to needle them from time to time and point out when they get a little too proud of their belief.

I no longer feel an obligation or responsibility to teach them my way nor any way. Thank you.