Finding Safety in Counsel

Get away from me.
Just get away from me,
This isn't gonna be easy!
But I don't need you, believe me.
Yeah you got a piece of me,
but it's just a little piece of me.
An' I don't need anyone,
And these days, I feel like I'm fading away.
Like sometimes, when I hear myself on the radio. 

Have you seen me lately?
Have you seen me lately?
Have you seen me lately?
I was out on the radio starting to change,
Somewhere out in America it's starting to rain,
Could you tell me the things you remember about me,
And have you seen me lately?

[Counting Crows – “Have You Seen Me Lately?”] 

At a memorable Stanford commencement address in 2005, Steve Jobs made this observation about the faith it takes to "connect the dots" to our future:

You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backward. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something – your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. Because believing that the dots will connect down the road will give you the confidence to follow your heart even when it leads you off the well-worn path; and that will make all the difference.

A few years ago, Mormon apostle Dieter F. Uchtdorf referenced this observation and compared it to the neo-impressionist painting style — a technique that apparently requires "dotting canvases with small specks of color." Up close, the individual dots may appear "unconnected," "random," and "arbitrary," but when one steps back to take in the whole painting, the patterns and beauty of the art emerge.

Uchtdorf used that imagery to offer hope to those struggling to make sense of the day-to-day chaos, disappointment, and difficulty that dot our lives, insisting we can trust that God (the "Master Artist") is working out his own designs. And, ultimately, if we trust God and follow Jesus, we will eventually see the masterpiece he has made — we’ll be able to see how all the dots intersect.

It is a beautiful thought. As Jobs noted, though, the ability to discern the retrospective patterns and beauty in one's life, as well as to trust that “the dots will somehow connect in your future,” isn't something just reserved for Mormons, Christians, or even believers generally.

That has been my experience thus far, anyway, as I leave behind the “well-worn path” of Mormonism and slowly make my way through this project — retracing the dots that now mark my journey away from belief.  

***

In this particular entry — the first of a final series of posts setting up my faith deconstruction — I re-examine my years at Harvard Law School, where my fixed devotion to Mormon orthodoxy frequently clashed with the more progressive atmosphere in our ward. 

Those clashes stemmed from disagreements over all sorts of issues, the most prominent of which was the church’s opposition to gay marriage. I staunchly defended the church's position at the time, while many in the congregation apparently took a contrary view. 

That divergence of viewpoints, among otherwise faithful Latter-day Saints, always troubled me, because it suggested a fundamental disagreement over just how much one trusted that the church’s prophet spoke for God. And when the prophet provided clear direction, could there still be room for faithful disagreement?

As I try to articulate below, the correlated church doctrine really doesn’t allow for space to question our leaders, much less faithfully disagree with them. And back then, being in lock step with that doctrine was all that I knew.

Fortunately, though, I had a close friend during these law school years who was a bit more comfortable with non-conformity. And while it took several years before any of that rubbed off on me, his willingness to push back (when I tried calling him out!) would eventually mean the world to me.

Harvard Law School

Michelle and I left BYU in late summer 2002, selling our little Honda Civic to my parents and driving a Uhaul cross-country to Cambridge, Massachusetts. We had been married about 2.5 years, and I was to start at Harvard Law School in the fall. Those were still the days before Siri and smart phones, and I remember vividly how nervous I was as we got closer and closer to Boston: could we follow the street signs and navigate the city to our apartment (armed only with our printed Mapquest directions) without getting lost?  

We knew virtually no one in the Boston area, but one of the great comforts of Mormonism is the way it provides instant community. With one phone call to the bishop in our new ward, someone even met us at our new apartment to help us unload the moving truck. 

That feeling of religious community eased our adjustment to east coast city living that first year, but only slightly. In fact, our first year in Boston felt rather lonely. Michelle, in particular, had trouble finding her place, and we dealt with a devastating miscarriage over that first Christmas break (notwithstanding a Christmas Eve family announcement of the pregnancy and a priesthood blessing — at my hand — that the baby would be fine).

Meanwhile, I dealt with a serious case of impostor syndrome at school, especially that first year. That feeling was surely exacerbated by how introverted I was, but also by the fact that our only grades came from final exams.

I did, eventually, find my footing, though, settling somewhere in the middle of the pack of our class of over 500.

Fortunately, the law school boasted a significant group of Latter-day Saints — enough that we even had our own student association. That core group provided meaningful, comfortable connection for me without too much energy on my part [regrettably, I don’t think I really ever got to know any other students outside that Mormon circle]. We met semi-regularly, and I played all three years on the group's intramural basketball team ("The Stormin' Mormons"). Besides church, basketball was the most comfortable way for me to connect with people.

Midway through my second year of law school, we had Jared (almost exactly a year after our miscarriage). 

Christmas 2004

By then, we'd also started to form a group of friends with other student couples in the ward. We shared meals regularly, played board games and video games, discussed politics and religion, and even sometimes watched together a fledgling reality TV show, “The Apprentice.”

Many of the couples we connected with in those years are still among our dearest friends, even as time and distance make connecting more difficult.

Maine - August 2004

Cambridge 1st Ward

As for the congregation we worshipped with, the Cambridge 1st ward boasted an eclectic mix of mostly post-graduate student families from MIT and Harvard, as well as a number of established locals from all over the socioeconomic spectrum. So many of the people in that ward were among the smartest, most genuine, thoughtful, and caring people we had ever met, and we have many cherished memories of our time there.

Frequently, though, church meetings in Cambridge felt like a completely different world from anything we'd known at BYU — or anywhere else, for that matter. The “thoughtfulness” of many that I noted above often left me feeling uncomfortable, if not outright threatened, because those thoughts frequently challenged my conservative and orthodox bent. 

["Orthodox" is a term I've only felt comfortable applying to my beliefs in recent years; it hardly felt appropriate before because the term seemed to diminish my beliefs as simply being one of several acceptable approaches to gospel living. As I saw things then, what I now term as “orthodox” beliefs were the only beliefs that I thought were pleasing to God. Any more "liberal" views, on the other hand, endangered one's prospects for exaltation. So I would have resisted classifying my beliefs as anything other than "faithful."] 

Some examples of instances that caused me discomfort in the ward included hearing of the former bishop's wife asking to stand in the circle for her child's baby blessing. Or a priesthood lesson where the teacher mentioned that a prominent former apostle was racist (and doing so with a nonchalance that suggested the idea wasn't controversial). Or hearing of a teacher in a Relief Society meeting open her lesson by questioning whether Joseph Smith (the subject matter of the lesson) actually deserved the fawning and near worship he enjoyed in the faith. Or even just a young law school couple speaking in Sacrament meeting of their prayerful decision to delay having kids until they were established in their careers.

Anything that strayed from the beaten path of orthodoxy seemed to unsettle me, and that sort of thing seemed to happen on almost a weekly basis.

I won't blame you if find the above grievances relatively tame (I certainly do now). At the time, though, they struck me as borderline apostate — well outside the norm of faithful adherence to church doctrine and practice. And far more often than I care to admit, I came away from church meetings thinking of the Book of Mormon's criticism of the "learned [who] think they are wise" that "hearken not unto the counsel of God" but instead "set it aside, supposing they know of themselves, wherefore, their wisdom is foolishness and it profiteth them not. And they shall perish." (2 Nephi 9:28).

That really wasn’t a healthy way to be thinking of some of my fellow parishioners. It's certainly not charitable.

"Finding Safety In Counsel"

So the one time I got the chance to choose and teach a lesson in the priesthood meeting (elder’s quorum), I opted to discuss then apostle Henry B. Eyring's talk, “Finding Safety in Counsel.”

Since my mission, Eyring had been one of my favorite apostles to listen to and study. A Harvard Business School graduate and long-time educator (he had been a Stanford professor and later the president of Rick's college while Dad was there), Eyring used deceptively simple language and themes to distill powerful, faith-filled messages. [I loved, for example, his repeated mantra that the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ were simple enough that even a child could understand them.] Others have been more skilled orators, but no one's style resonated with me as consistently as Eyring's, whose sermons shaped my approach to discipleship more than any other (and probably also my speaking style).  

In this particular address, Eyring emphasized the need to (quickly) obey the counsel of prophets and others with "priesthood keys" (which would include local leaders like one's bishop and stake president). He described obedience as "the path of safety" — a path that would "make[] sense to those with strong faith." Less so to those with little to no faith. 

For those who reject (or even just delay) following prophetic counsel, Eyring asserted they are not merely choosing to be independent or to be free from influence: they are actually choosing Satan's influence, and that choice leaves them on "dangerous" ground. It also "lessens [their] power to take inspired counsel in the future."

So, not really much room for faithful disagreement.

I believed Eyring, and I believed with all my heart his simple message that prophets speak for God. Our job was to obey them without delay. This was, after all, the mainline, correlated version of Mormonism I had always known. And this was precisely why I regularly found worship in the Cambridge 1st ward exasperating: too much tolerance of deviation from prophetic counsel — too much "independent" thinking. As Eyring had made plain, that was dangerous ground.

The simplicity of Eyring's message, though, belies a complexity just beneath the surface. Eyring speaks in stark, absolute terms, leaving the clear impression that prophets do not get it wrong — not when they are counseling and trying to keep us safe.

Eyring is certainly not alone in that message. For instance, Wilford Woodruff, fourth prophet and president of the LDS church, offered this firm assurance (which is canonized in scripture in connection with the church's "Official Declaration 1" ending the practice of polygamy):

The Lord will never permit me or any other man who stands as president of this church to lead you astray. It is not in the programme. It is not in the mind of God. If I were to attempt that, the Lord would remove me out of my place, and so He will any other man who attempts to lead the children of men astray from the oracles of God and from their duty.

Even in primary, one of the more emphatic songs of my youth had this chorus: "Follow the prophet, follow the prophet, follow the prophet; don't go astray. Follow the prophet, follow the prophet, follow the prophet; he knows the way."

The problem is that it takes very little digging to learn that Mormon prophets do seem to get it wrong sometimes, priesthood keys notwithstanding. Among the more glaringly obvious examples is the church's historical doctrines and attitudes toward people of color, for which the church now nearly (but not quite) acknowledges more than a century's worth of prophetic mistakes in banning its black members from holding the priesthood and participating in temple ordinances. [That history includes former prophet Brigham Young’s fiery defense of slavery before the Utah Legislature in 1852 ("I will remark with regard to slavery, inasmuch as we believe in the Bible, inasmuch as we believe in the ordinances of God, in the Priesthood and order and decrees of God, we must believe in slavery."), as well a 1949 First Presidency letter defending the priesthood/temple ban (claiming the ban was not unfair to black people because the "skin of blackness" was a "curse" stemming from one's conduct in the pre-earth life).

Back then, though, I was still naïve enough to truly believe that prophets never really got it wrong.

[This, understandably, may sound borderline ridiculous to those outside the church, especially given my studied devotion and lifetime in the faith. But as I'll touch on more in future posts, I had purposefully limited my religious studies to the correlated materials put out by the church, and those materials never let on that prophets made spiritual mistakes. Also, confirmation bias is a real thing, and it has far more influence on how we filter information than most of us realize or are prepared to acknowledge (except in those who disagree with us).]

At any rate, I felt like my Iesson on Eyring's sermon kind of fell flat. The people I felt most "needed” the message weren't even in the class. And among those who did attend, several wanted to spend the hour discussing exceptions to the rule (i.e., instances when it wasn’t necessary to follow prophetic counsel, or times when following a priesthood leader's counsel led to harm). It was frustrating enough to validate my perceptions of the ward.

Goodridge v. Department of Public Health

In our time at Harvard, Massachusetts became one of the hot beds for the same sex marriage debate after a November 2003 ruling by the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court in Goodridge v. Department of Public Health. In Goodridge, the court held that the state's ban on same sex marriage was unconstitutional. Following the decision, the court stayed its ruling for 180 days to allow the state legislature to take "appropriate" action.

In the aftermath of Goodridge, I volunteered to lead a brownbag discussion with the LDS student group at the law school. The handful of us that showed up for the discussion all seemed to agree that Goodridge was wrongly decided. But when it came to articulating why it was wrong, I remember sensing that all our arguments seemed like thinly veiled appeals to morality (i.e., gay marriage is morally wrong, so Goodridge was wrongly decided).

Strong legal arguments usually needed more than that.

Church Teachings on Homosexuality 

As I noted at the outset, much of the friction I felt in the Cambridge 1st ward came from the seemingly open support of gay marriage by several in the ward. Based on what I understood then, that seemed to be untenable for a faithful Latter-day Saint.

[Trigger Warning: the history I lay out in this section could be triggering to some, especially those who have dealt with religious trauma related to homophobic teachings and/or church practices. If so, feel free to just skip to the section “Gay Marriage”]

I've alluded to this before, but the church's position on gay sex and gay marriage (for at least as long as I've been alive) has been consistent in claiming both are contrary to the laws of God. This is not to say that these things are mentioned at all in Joseph Smith's revelations or Mormon-specific scripture. But scripture does state that "whether by [God's] voice or by the voice of [his] servants, it is the same." [D&C 1:38]. And prophets and apostles in the church, at least since the 1970s, have authoritatively denounced both.

For instance, in an October 1976 general conference talk warning against masturbation (titled "To Young Men Only"), apostle Boyd K. Packer stated that it was a "falsehood" to claim "some are born with an attraction to their own kind."

The church made pamphlets of this talk to distribute to young men, and these pamphlets were still prevalent in the mid-1990s. I remember getting ahold of one and reading it at some point in my teenage years.

[In recent years, the church quietly seems to not only have pulled the pamphlet from circulation, but to have scrubbed the talk from its conference archive entirely.]

Meanwhile Spencer W. Kimball, church president and prophet from 1973-1985, in his seminal book The Miracle of Forgiveness — the book, remember, that I had been assigned to read as part of my repentance process in the Missionary Training Center — claimed that homosexuality was an "ugly," "repugnant," "embarrassing," and "unpleasant" perversion, and that those who claim "that there is nothing wrong in such associations can hardly believe in God or in his scriptures."

Kimball would go further, asserting that it was a "glorious thing to remember" that homosexuality is "curable and forgiveable . . . if totally abandoned and if the repentance is sincere and absolute." Meanwhile, the idea of homosexuality as an inborn trait was one of the "diabolical lies Satan has concocted. It is blasphemy."

To those claiming homosexuality cannot be changed, Kimball offered a particularly troubling bit of imagery: "How can you say the door cannot be opened until your knuckles are bloody, till your head is bruised, till your muscles are sore? It can be done."

And, comparing homosexuality to vices like alcoholism, Kimball offered that the "cure" to being gay "is as permanent as the individual makes it and, like the cure for alcoholism, is subject to continued vigilance."

Without any support (though, frankly, prophets don’t necessarily need support since they are supposed to be the mouthpiece of God on earth), Kimball also asserted in the book that masturbation "too often leads" to homosexuality.

[Notably, this book remains for sale in the church owned book store].

It will become quite relevant to my story later, but I should note here that the church launched a website in 2012, mormonandgay.org, that aimed to offer help and support to those in the church dealing with "same sex attraction" [the church’s alternative term]. While still condemning gay relationships, the site made the significant concession acknowledging that people did not choose to be gay ("Even though individuals do not choose to have such attractions…."). For me at least, this was a major theological shift that threw into chaos how I made sense of the church's (God's) approach to LGBTQIA issues. That is to say, the church's position in the face of this shift no longer made intuitive sense — it required lots of contortion, if not just holding two dissonant ideas.

Curiously, though, the site has been removed in recent years. And since Russell M. Nelson became the prophet in 2018, this language — that gay people "do not choose to have such attractions" — has been modified with the qualifier that they may not choose such attractions: "While same-sex attraction is not a sin, it can be a challenge. While one may not have chosen to have these feelings, he or she can commit to keep God’s commandments."

And officially now, the church "does not take a position on the cause of same-sex attraction." 

[Oh, but the interview the church cites for the above statement, which includes current First Presidency member Dallin H. Oaks, also states that LGBTQIA individuals will be heterosexual in the next life ("Gratefully, the answer is that same-gender attraction did not exist in the pre-earth life and neither will it exist in the next life."). And, if gay individuals are faithful here, they will get to have an eternal, heterosexual marriage after death. Oaks also reiterates in this interview the theme that feelings of gay attraction are similar to temptations to steal, drink alcohol, or give in to anger.]

Gay Marriage

In 1995, the church issued its "Proclamation on the Family," which I referenced in my last post. In it, the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve Apostles proclaim to the world that "marriage between a man and a woman is ordained of God" and both "central" and "essential" to his plan.

With this in mind, the church has repeatedly opposed legislative and judicial efforts to "expand" the definition, protections, and privileges of marriage beyond the union of one man and one woman.

For instance, in October 1999, then prophet Gordon B. Hinckley, in a sermon "Why We Do Some of the Things We Do," offered a brief explanation of the church's opposition to "same-sex marriage." Hinckley noted that "God sanctioned marriage between a man and a woman has been the basis of civilization for thousands of years" and that there was "no justification to redefine what marriage is."

[People more discerning than I was then may sense the irony of Hinckley's statement, given the church's prominent history of polygamy and its (God’s) more expansive definition of marriage a century earlier. The doctrine of “eternal polygamy” (apparently to be practiced by the faithful in the next life) also remains on the books in Mormon scripture (D&C 132).]

From there, Hinckley positioned the church's opposition of same sex marriage as matter of morality:  

Some portray legalization of so-called same-sex marriage as a civil right. This is not a matter of civil rights; it is a matter of morality. Others question our constitutional right as a church to raise our voice on an issue that is of critical importance to the future of the family. We believe that defending this sacred institution by working to preserve traditional marriage lies clearly within our religious and constitutional prerogatives. Indeed, we are compelled by our doctrine to speak out.

As one who believed that Hinckley was God's prophet, the issue seemed clear cut: homosexuality was a choice, and homosexual romantic relationships were morally wrong. Therefore, gay marriage was wrong and should be opposed.

Not having carefully thought through all the implications, I further reasoned that the law should proscribe anything that could encourage or protect such relationships. 

[I'll also note here that, at this point in my life, I had not yet had a close relationship with anyone who was openly LGBTQIA.]

Confronting the Bishop 

One Sunday (February 15, 2004), our bishop offered some remarks at the outset of our Sacrament meeting. As I recorded that afternoon, the bishop noted that there were divergent views in the ward on same-sex marriage, with people vigorously defending both sides of the issue. He offered that we should "keep an open mind" about the divergent positions and posited that the gospel of Jesus Christ embraces "both sides of the spectrum."

The bishop's remarks disturbed me because, as Hinckley had explained years earlier, I understood the church's opposition to same-sex marriage was "a matter of morality" and "compelled by our doctrine." So the bishop seemed to be spreading false doctrine by claiming that our faith could embrace "both sides."  

I was beside myself with frustration.

That afternoon, I felt so bothered by the bishop's comments that I emailed him, pointing to Hinckley's remarks and asking if he could explain how it was possible for faithful members to support same-sex marriage.

He responded a few days later, largely deflecting my inquiry. As the bishop remembered it, he hadn't commented on the propriety of supporting same-sex marriage. Rather, he said he was addressing the debate over whether the church should be involved in "political" themes like gay marriage.

It is, of course, possible that I’d misunderstood the bishop, but I was doubtful (I still am, frankly). And even taking the bishop at his word, I still didn't see room in Hinckley's remarks to support what he'd said over the pulpit.

[About 7 years ago, I connected with this man on Facebook. As I'll describe in a later post, I was then serving in a bishopric and wrestling with the church's approach to LGBTQIA issues. I thanked this bishop for the sensitivity he had demonstrated all those years ago — a sensitivity that felt so strangely threatening at the time. I also apologized for the hard time that I gave him. He thanked me but confessed that he didn’t remember what I was referring to.]

Doubling Down

In 2004, there was a national push to amend the US Constitution to ban gay marriage (and free states from having to recognize same sex civil unions allowed by other states).

And in July and October 2004, the church weighed in further on the issue. In July, the First Presidency issued a brief statement voicing support for a constitutional amendment. The statement noted simply that the church "favors a constitutional amendment preserving marriage as the lawful union of a man and a woman.”

In October 2004, the First Presidency issued a slightly longer statement on the topic. It began by expressing "understanding and respect" for people "attracted to those of the same gender." But then the statement doubled down on the ideas that (1) God only authorizes sex (the "exercise" of "the powers of procreation") between a husband and wife, and (2) any other form of sex "including [] between persons of the same gender" undermines the "divinely created institution of the family." For these reasons, the church favored "measures" defining marriage as "the union of a man and a woman" and that "do not confer legal status on any other sexual relationship."

"Unfair and Dangerous"

Following the church's October statement, Dave Vincent, a close law school friend (and fellow ward member) sent an email to a few of us, offering his thoughts. Dave was (and is) one of the kindest people I know. He was also rather liberal (which in and of itself was radical to me) and  routinely challenged conventional church thought. His email continued that trend, wondering openly whether this First Presidency statement was meant to be doctrine, or whether it could be parsed.

Dave took the latter position, further questioning how much weight to give those parts of the statement offering political opinion and advocating for particular legislation. My friend then concluded offering a nuanced argument that acknowledged the church's preferred definition of marriage, but that also made room for conferring legal status on same-sex relationships (which the church statement expressly disfavored).

At the time, even that level of nuance (sensitivity, really) felt dangerous to me.

Feeling a swell of what I probably considered righteous indignation (the allowable form of anger in the faith), I fired off a response to my friend, bearing testimony that the First Presidency's statement surely expressed the "mind, will, and voice of the Lord on the matter" and that it was now our job to "properly align our thinking and conform with such."

I further stated that I believed my position was "the only plausible interpretation." And, with clear echoes of Eyring's address, I told my friend that it was "unfair and dangerous" to try to compartmentalize the statement to justify a policy position at odds with the church.

Yikes! [I've been cringing inside over that response for more than a decade.]

I'd never risked such boldness. But, if pressed, I likely would've said I was trying to "lovingly" "reprov[e] [] with sharpness," having been "moved upon by the Holy Ghost." [D&C 121:43 — the Mormon scripture outlining how to properly call someone out.]

This was the first and only time I'd openly challenged the unorthodox thought I'd felt surrounded by since we'd arrived in Cambridge.

Not one to back down, Dave responded quickly and firmly. He picked apart the tone of my bold declarations and further put my claims in historical context (a context that, up to that point, had been completely lost on me). And in the end, he really just wanted room for respectful consideration of his thoughts on the matter.

The doctrine I knew, though, didn't really allow for that.

We went back and forth a few more times, reverting to more and more respectful tones with each follow up. And after we made peace on the subject (reaching the point where we seemed to understand each other but still disagreed), what lingered with me was that Dave told me he knew I was a "good" man.

As I've looked back on that experience over the years, it's been clear for awhile that he was much kinder to me than I had been to him, even though I deserved it so much less than he did.

Moving On

A few months later we graduated and moved to separate corners of the earth. Michelle and I moved west to Orange County, California, where I studied for that beastly California bar exam and began work at a law firm in Irvine. Dave and his family moved to Europe, and not too long after was called as the bishop of his ward.

Over the years, we continued those challenging exchanges from time to time. Usually they followed the same pattern: Dave would share his thoughts on some event or development relating to our shared faith, and I would respond clumsily with passionate orthodoxy. He would then push back, kindly but unflinchingly, almost always revealing that he'd clearly studied and thought more carefully about the issue than I had.

As I look back now, I don't know why he put up with me and kept reaching out, but it was so important to my spiritual development that he did.

It would be several years before any of Dave's arguments began to resonate with me (though, to be fair, I never got the sense that persuasion was his goal; he really just seemed to want engagement). And it would be even longer before Michelle or I felt comfortable deviating, in the slightest, from our alignment with church orthodoxy (e.g., our kids will be telling their grandkids horror stories about how we made them stay in church clothes all day on Sundays).

But knowing Dave and engaging him over the years still had profound effects on my faith. If nothing else, knowing him made me slower to vilify nonconformity in the church — more cautious about labeling divergent viewpoints with the usually lazy tropes of ignorance, intellectual arrogance, or a plain old desire to justify sin.

Also, eventually, I started listening to people a bit more carefully, too, treating more gently (as I knew Dave would) the thoughts and experiences of those for whom the faith didn't always work as it was supposed to.

And, because life is nothing if not ironic, when I reached the point of battling my own frustrating issues with the faith (issues that I couldn't adequately resolve through orthodoxy), Dave was one of few I felt safe turning to for help — help now to try to find authentic grounds to stay in it.

Dave Vincent and Me - Germany 2019