My family had always been somewhat prestigious. As the sixth of eight kids and the daughter of a doctor and bishop, I always had high ideals to live up to. Everyone attended BYU, served two year missions, married in the temple, and held high church callings. Our pioneer blood ran back to the founding of our church. We took pride in who we were and lived up to everyone’s expectations. We were the model Mormon family.
I fit the mold pretty well. I was not very rebellious. I followed the rules and trusted my parents and leaders. I was taught to excel in all areas of my life and to hold Christ at the center of it. Given all of this to build a stable foundation, I still struggled at times with who I was. I was young, inexperienced, and eager to learn about life. Unfortunately, things were not going as smoothly as anticipated.
It started back in elementary school. Most of my friends at the time were either church friends or other practicing Christians. One was the daughter of a pastor. We were good friends since about 5th grade. I felt that we had a lot in common despite our religious differences since we both believed in Jesus and tried our best to be good and follow him. But when the subject of religion was brought up it usually just turned into an argument.
All of my Christian friends told me that I wasn’t a “real” Christian. I was part of a cult. It hurt to think that they thought that of me.
“All Christians go to heaven. Unless you’re Mormon. Those ones don’t count. You don’t really believe in Jesus because Mormons only believe in a ‘fake’ Jesus.”
I didn’t understand why they always felt they had to point that out to me and make me feel like I didn’t fit in. To this day I still do not understand how they could judge my faith in Jesus by the fact that I was Mormon. The hurtful and offensive word “cult" still says nothing more to me than a passing of judgment and superiority.
The more we fought over our faiths the more upset we became. Instead of learning from each other it made us more resolute in or own opinions. Overtime we learned from each other the lesson of “agreeing to disagree.” The subject still came up through the years and the judgment was still there on both sides, but it wasn’t worth the strain in friendships to push things.
This lasted till about sophomore year of high school. I was sixteen. A friend and I found ourselves debating Mormonism and Christianity, spending days looking for new things to throw at each other. She was stubborn and so was I. I insisted on the idea that Christianity lost its authority back in the dark ages and that it is only through the restoration brought by our prophet Joseph Smith that churches can receive the authority of the priesthood. She continued the usual cult accusations, claiming that I was being brainwashed and lost from Jesus. Of course an argument like this could not last very long between friends and it soon died down again.
There was one thing she said though that did influence me and leave a lasting impression- a hard cold fact. She told me of the story of the brother of Jared, told in the Book of Mormon. I don’t remember the details, but she made a pretty convincing argument against the scientific validity of it and how entirely improbable it is to travel across the ocean in barges to the Americas.
“Well, I don’t know much about it,” I confessed, “but I’m sure that if I did research into it I could prove you wrong.” Even if I couldn’t, I knew it wasn’t earth-shattering enough to affect my testimony.
Later on that week I did an online search to find the answer. This was the beginning of a long chain of events for me. The tip of the iceberg. I probably found a Mormon apologetic argument to refute hers, but I can’t remember anymore. What I do remember was being appalled at how much information there was that argued against the church. I read convincing arguments, not silly things like stating all Mormons had devil horns growing on their heads. These were things like Joseph Smith marrying other men’s wives behind Emma’s back, Brigham Young preaching blood atonement, unfulfilled prophesies, criminal acts.
I originally went into it all withan attitude of confidence, knowing that my faith could withstand all obstacles and knowledge could only strengthen me. But the deeper I dug, the stickier it became. Nothing made sense. Nothing was cohesive. Mormon history was clearly different from what I was taught in Sunday school. Looking at apologetic explanations from Mormon historians only proved to show how pathetic and stale our side looked. Nothing was inspired. There were no answers.
By the time I read about the Book of Abraham I was in tears. I was too confused to know what to do and too ashamed by my shaken testimony to ask for help. I began thinking about the “what if’s.” What if the church is a fraud and the answer lies somewhere else? What if my Christian friends were right all along? Am I going to hell? What about my family? My mom? My brother’s baby boy? All because we were born into the wrong faith and believed in the wrong Jesus.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I cried for two weeks, thinking about hell and what’s right and wrong, where the answers were and what they would be. With my life turned upside down I spent all of my free time researching deeper, looking for more. Why had church doctrine changed? If prophets sometimes speak only as a man, why don’t they differentiate between the two when they preach? Early church members were expected to believe what Joseph Smith and Brigham Young taught. Why not still today? How could I trust my church leaders as ultimate authority in my life when past authority proved to be inconsistent? What was up with all of the scams and cover-ups? Stories of affairs, lies and manipulation kept piling up as I read.
I compiled all my research into a folder and brought it to school with me one day. I gave it to a trusted Mormon friend. We’d know each other our whole lives and were next door neighbors since 4th grade. We weren’t the same little school girls who held hands on recess playgrounds together. Time had changed our friendship to a neighborly acquaintance, but my trust in her was still there. I knew that if anyone could understand me it would be her. She brought the packet home with her and read it.
She ended up having a panic attack and was found by her dad sobbing in her bedroom. She showed him everything. She told me the next day that her dad wanted to talk with me at church on Sunday and that everything would be ok. He wouldn’t tell anyone. It was such a huge relief. Finally someone to talk to. An adult to confide in.
I went to church that Sunday and he met me in the hallway between classes, with people hurrying past us to their rooms. He couldn’t have chosen a more awkward way to meet up. I didn’t want to talk with him about something so personal in a hallway full of people.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything will be fine. It’s normal to question your faith,especially as a teenager. There’s a lot of stuff out there and it can be hard to find the truth. When I was your age I went through the same thing. I left the church and started going to other churches. But it never felt the same. I began to realize that no matter where I went searching for answers, nothing had the spirit of the gospel. The only place you can truly feel that is right here. You’ll come to realize that too.”
He then went on about faith and prayer. He said we can only rely on the spirit because we can never know anything for certain any other way. These were the standard answers I was used to, but they didn’t even begin to address the real issues. I was dealing with scientific research. Facts. This wasn’t philosophy or religious debate. I couldn’t choose to believe in something just because I wanted to. It seemed ridiculous when everything within reason pointed against it. I loved the church and the gospel, but my love for it didn’t make it real.
I realized I was thinking differently. For the first time I was putting my beliefs under the scrutiny of scientific thought. I knew that science was guided by God and was just as eternal as Him. They had to coincide. Yet pushing it this far seemed shameful. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him how I felt. Our different perspectives placed a barrier between us. Going further seemed useless. I stood there in the busy hallway, feeling emptiness and defeat, and I pretended to accept his answers.
I asked my friend for the research papers back, but she said her dad took them and wouldn’t allow that. This upset me even more. I spent the next few days bitter and torn, considering when I should do. I was upset. I wanted to walk away and leave all my problems behind. But what if the church was true? I couldn’t leave unless I knew.
I realized I was such an emotional wreck that I couldn’t think straight enough to make any important decisions. I was only sixteen. Surely if I gave it more time it would all work out. Whatever is meant to be would come if I could out long enough. Until then, I won’t change anything.
As time went on and the initial shock and desperation wore off, my real life circumstances settled inagain. I am a Mormon. My whole family is Mormon. I belong to an entire community of Mormons. Leaving would break my mom’s heart, ruin relationships, label me as an apostate. I can’t live like that. Was it even worth it? No. Absolutely not.
The drama slowly faded into the past and was almost forgotten. It couldn’t be as serious as I thought it was. There was never any real threat. It was just teenage drama and it doesn’t matter anymore. I can still believe in the church. Even if I don’t know for sure, faith can still be a desire to believe. A hope.
“I have faith,” I told myself.
I was picking up the shattered pieces of my broken testimony. It felt like the right thing to do. The trust I lost in the church was slowly coming back. I had something to hold onto again and it felt good. But it also felt different. Maybe it was because I was beginning to realize that my faith was a conscious decision. I chose to believe. It wasn’t fate or God or destiny. It was circumstances.
I must not have true faith yet. If I had true faith I would know the church is true for myself. My faith was still developing. It was small, like a mustard seed. It will get there someday. That’s the whole purpose of life- to come unto Christ. God promised this to every sincere person. He will not let me down. I know it.
I kept “enduring on,” fighting my weaknesses and obstacles, staying true to the church. I kept all the rules and did my best to be a good Mormon. I tried to build my faith but it was a constant struggle. I held on tight to what little I had and resolved to move forward.
A year went by and then another. I graduated from high school and came out to BYU. It was the perfect opportunity to figure myself out and find that missing puzzle piece I was long search for. I was at the Lord’s university.
Anyone who has ever lived in or visited Provo knows about the “bubble.” It is a community to self-contained you almost forget there’s a world outside the city limits. The BYU honor code lays out all of the rules for everyday life so all you have to think about is maintaining the status quo. Go to church every Sunday, make sure you shave everyday if you’re a guy, and don’t drink coffee. Watch the dress code on and off campus. Curfew’s at midnight during the week and 1:30 on Friday nights. An annual ecclesiastical endorsement required for class continuance insures that everyone is worthy at BYU. The Lord takes his university seriously.
It was just the influence I was looking for. A place to feel the spirit. I was studying with Mormon professors who incorporated gospel principles in with class material. I was surrounded by like-minded people who encouraged me and boosted my faith even more. How could such an institution full of intelligent people lead me astray? Their authority was almost too easy to accept. It was easier to just follow the crowd. Life was simple again.
I grew to know and love my new BYU ward just as much as the one I left behind in Seattle. I was provided for and felt at home, even as a freshman. With church being the closest thing to a family that a stranded college student could have, all student wards set up FHE groups- a designated family to meet up every Monday and hold family nights. I went faithfully each week.
I went one night, just as any other, and we had a lesson planned by a young man in the group. I always appreciated his scriptural insight, and his lesson did not fail to impress. He read from the scriptures, telling the story of the mustard seed. After his introduction, he said:
“Many people think that having the faith of a mustard seed means your faith can be small. Insignificant. God will reward you in whatever faith you happen to have as long as it’s there in some form. The mustard seed is not insignificant. It is a seed: the potential of things tocome. If you look at your faith the same way as this tiny seed, you won’t be feeble and wilting like a dying flower. You would recognize your potential and let it move you forward with a perfect brightness of hope. You understand who you are and God’s unique plan for you. He has so much in store for you. Never give up or belittle your faith in His plan. The faith of a mustard seed is strong and resilient, always hopeful and trusting. Develop this faith in your lives.”
The faith of a mustard seed. I’d heard the story before, but it never struck as close to home as it did that day. He had a way with words, and everything became clearer to me. How can I develop the faith of a mustard seed? It wasn’t there yet, but I wanted it so badly.
As more time passed I continued looking for my faith. I knew I would find it. It stayed on my mind as I went on day to day. Another year passed and I continued my life at BYU. Soon I met another young man.
He was a returned missionary who loved the Lord. He had a true testimony. It attracted me to him and he made me want to be a better person. We started dating and we were happy together. I was looking for someone to help me find my way again, and he was just what I needed.
Things became serious and marriage was beginning to look like a real possibility. We weren’t engaged yet, but it was young love and we both knew we wanted to be together forever, married in the temple. He, being the honorable priesthood holder that he was, decided to go to the temple for guidance. He wanted to propose. He prayed to God for an answer,but God told him no. We weren’t allowed to get married.
I was devastated. How could this be?
“God gave me the answer I didn’t want, ” he said. “I have no clue why. I can’t figure it out. But I know that God doesn’t want us to be together.”
The words broke my heart.
“I promise, this has nothing to do with our relationship. It hurts me just as much as it hurts you.”
It was my first heartbreak and I couldn’t eat for days. What is wrong with me? Am I really such a bad person that God won’t let me be with the one I love? Why can’t I even find faith in Christ? I felt terrible and I wanted to die. I should have known I was too weak to deserve him. I lost trust in myself and my ability to livea whole and complete life. God was purposefully holding back on me. What was I doing wrong? I wanted to fix my faults but I couldn’t even find them. It was the worst despair I had ever experienced.
My mom didn’t believe the story.
“He’s too young to understand himself,” she said. “If he thinks it’s God talking to him he’s mistaking his own feelings as personal revelation.”
Of course my mom believed in personal revelation but she also thought my boyfriend was being immature and that God would not manipulate someone’s relationship like that.
“If God didn’t want you two together he would have given clearer signs to both of you. He’s there to guide you. He would never force something on you the way your boyfriend just did.”
She warned me that this is something to look out for with people who were overzealous in their faith in God.
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you what todo in the name of God. If a boy tells you God said you have to marry him, run away. If he says God told him you weren’t allowed to get married it was cursed to begin with. Be grateful you figured him out now instead of after years of manipulation.”
My mom’s words, though harsh and painful during a breakup, were also a huge comfort to me. This wasn’t about me. It was him. He could be going through something or holding something back from meand was using God as a way out. But I trusted him. I believed that whatever it was, he truly felt this had to do with God’s interference.
It was through this experience that I lost trust in the power of personal revelation. If the faith we use to believe in our religion is the same faith we use to trust in personal revelation, what does a false prompting say about faith? Does it only work some of the time? How can I trust it?
It was another hopeless dilemma I forced into the back of my mind. I had to hold onto my faith. I had to keep moving forward. While I learned to get over the relationship, I never fully got over what happened or the lack of trust I felt in myself and others. My answer will come. Hold on.
Another year passed me by and kept me on my seemingly wild goose chase. That summer I moved apartments and roomed with a young freshman girl. After living in the crazy commotion of countless roommates over the years, crammed in tight spaces, with constant neighbors and friends stopping by, I found myself in a quiet complex. It was just the two of us. We were both good BYU students and we continued to uphold the honor code together in our small, simple home.
One Sunday morning, neither one of us got out of bed. We both slept in late without bothering to get ourselves out the door to church. It was summer laziness with just a hint of spiritual weakness on my part. But it was only a one time thing, I told myself. Until it happened again. And again. I was slowly going to church less. Sometimes if I did go to church I would only stay for the sacrament and then leave. I knew things were starting to go downhill. I’d held out for over five years and couldn’t go on for much longer.
In June my roommate moved out and it was just me. I fell into full inactivity. This was my first public act of frustration towards the church. It was so long in the coming that when it started crashing down around me I almost didn’t notice the fall out. I was still in denial.
I swore to go back to church again. This is just a phase. I’m working through some things but it will turn around again. I decided to come back to church once I moved into a new ward in the fall. I was just having a hard time coming back because I didn’t like the attention of being the inactive member. I’ll wait till I have a fresh start.
But things did not get easier in the fall. I tried coming back but it was harder the second time around. For the first time in years I found myself seriously questioning the church again. This time it wasn’t through research, but through years of spiritual betrayal. Unanswered prayers. A lost God. My faith had never proven to be real. And, maybe, this time it was worth questioning.
I looked back on my life and what I’d learned the past few years. I thought about all of the old issues still nagging me about the church. I was ready to face them. And this time I was going to trust myself.
I began with faith. What is faith? Faith never was knowledge. I was always taught that if a man had a perfect knowledge of God and Jesus Christ there would be no purpose for him to come to earth. Life is a test; a trial of faith. It wasn’t about knowledge. I realized then that faith really is nothing more than a trust in hope, and hope is no more real than wanting something.
The faith I have now, and have always had, was all the faith there was to have. It was a good thing, but still based on circumstances and what I chose to be true. Knowing this, it was clear that my faith wasn’t any different from my Christian friends or from a Jew or a Hindu. To assume any superiority is illogical and offensive.
How does this view of faith affect personal revelation? Does it explain false promptings? If faith is a conscious decision to trust in what we choose to be true, then spiritual promptings are nothing more than intuition. False promptings come because intuition, while good, is not absolute. Is there absolute truth? I believe so. But you can’t find it through faith when everyone’s faith is the same and everyone’s beliefs are different. It just doesn’t work. Faith can not be used to find absolute truth.
Faith must serve some other purpose. If faith is not absolute and only reflects on personal knowledge, and personal knowledge comes from our own understanding, the only thing to have faith in is ourselves. I trust that I can be good and do good because I have faith that I am a good person. That’s all I care about. After years of beating myself up and looking for my hidden faults in the name of seeking out God, I found what I was missing. It is the only source of true happiness, understanding, and personal fulfillment. The answer is me.
I ended up leaving the church. It had held me back for too long. My new faith now allows me to think for myself. This is me, uncensored. It doesn’t matter what the answers are or what meaning I choose to give my life. I know who I am and I understand my potential as a human being. I have the strength to do anything because I believe in myself.
A new seed has been planted. This is my new beginning.