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| My brother Bryan and me ("Team Superman") - Wasatch Back Marathon Relay (July 2012) |
Parts of my past make me cringe now. Sure, I’ve always been prone to sticking my foot in my mouth, but the moments that most trouble me are the ones when I felt so sure at the time that I was doing good (following God’s direction), only to recognize later that my actions caused or perpetuated harm – often against people who were already vulnerable.
This chapter contains a handful of those moments.
I wrote a few months ago about the LDS church’s teachings on homosexuality, as well as its activism around 2004 in pushing for a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage. I pick up that narrative again here, now in 2008, when the church threw its weight behind a California ballot initiative (Proposition 8) that proposed amending the state constitution to only recognize heterosexual marriage.
This entry, which covers more than a decade of my life, tracks my evolution from dutiful “pro-family” follower – raising money and tracting for Prop 8 – to silently cheering the Supreme Court’s 2015 holding that same-sex marriage is a constitutional right.
Then, only a few months later, walking my brother down the aisle of his (gay) wedding.
And then, within five weeks of the wedding, trying (and failing) to reconcile the harsh anti-LGBQ policy the church implemented in response to the Supreme Court's decision.
As will bear out here, this evolution forced a gradual shift in my faith, though I remained a devout and committed Latter-day Saint. The process did, however, set the stage for the faith deconstruction that followed a few years later (around the same time the church rolled back that awful policy).
As for my feelings of regret, especially in the earlier parts of this narrative, I note this at the outset: I have tried to get better at embracing Brené Brown’s mantra, which she apparently repeats to herself over and over whenever someone points out her mistakes and privilege: "I'm not here to be right but to get it right."
But also, as I confront more and more of these moments I wish I could take back now, I find refuge in this bit of encouragement from Maya Angelou: “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”
A New Ward and Bishopric
In July 2008, Michelle was into her third trimester with Natalie. The pregnancy was especially rough for Michelle, who spent nearly all nine months nauseated.
As I mentioned in my last post, I was also a few months into being a counselor in my second bishopric (in as many years). We had only been in our new ward a few months when Christopher Beesley was called as the ward’s new bishop, and he selected me as one of his counselors.
This bishopric was notably different than my first, if in no other respect than that all three of us were attorneys, and we were roughly the same age.
Christopher and his wife, Mary, went out of their way to make friends with us after we moved in, and our families connected in a way that Michelle and I hadn’t really felt since law school. In time, Christopher became one of my closest friends and confidants, someone I would bare my soul to more than anyone else, and who didn’t seem to mind.
I served alongside him in that bishopric nearly 7 years, and he remains one of my closest friends.
[He is also the guy responsible for pulling me into the gym and getting me into lifting — almost against my will (most mornings) those first few years.]
Proposition 8
That summer of 2008, the church decided to make a push for passage of Prop 8 — a California ballot initiative that proposed amending the state's constitution to only recognize marriage between a man and a woman.
I was not exactly excited about this, though it wasn’t because I disagreed with the church's position. No, I just wasn’t anxious about the extra work that would come with the campaign, nor was I thrilled for the almost certain public backlash. In an email to a few law school friends looking for advice, I described "brac[ing] myself to support the church's marching orders on Proposition 8."
In late July, the stake presidency held an early morning bishopric instructional meeting (for all the bishoprics in the stake). The meeting, which went 1/2 hour over, was dominated by discussion of Prop 8 and efforts the church was pushing us to make — both to fund and staff the campaign, as well as to teach the "doctrine of the family."
Several in the meeting expressed concern that the church's push was alienating their members: many of the otherwise faithful found the church’s stance hard to bear, even offensive. In fact, one bishop confided that a faithful woman in his ward had declared she would leave the church if he mentioned Prop 8 again in her presence.
Because of my experiences in law school, I felt a bit more sensitive to these concerns. But then I still drew this line in my journal: "Where there are questions and difficulties reconciling concerns, that is one thing. Outright and open defiance, though, suggests a deeper problem with the role of prophets and their ability to speak for God."
Some in the meeting wanted more compelling secular arguments to defend the initiative. By that point, though, I had given up on secular justifications, noting that I didn't find any of them "particularly compelling."
Besides, those arguments weren't the reason we supported the amendment anyway.
That
day, I wrote in my journal what I understood to be the reasons for supporting
Prop 8. I share them here because they provide a window into how I was (still)
approaching the issue at the time:
God has spoken through his prophet and declared that marriage is ordained of him and only appropriate between a man and a woman, and that failure to take action to preserve the sanctity of that institution will lead to further dilution and disintegration of the family, hastening the destructions foretold by ancient prophets. That is to say, it will lead to our unhappiness and make perilous both our temporal and eternal future.
Also,
revealing how little my views had changed from my time in Cambridge, I still
believed that government sanctioning of gay marriage would lead to increased
homosexual activity (which was against the law of chastity):
Government support or approval will lead others to think it's ok, and those already inclined toward such a lifestyle will feel more emboldened by it, while others will feel more inclined (or ok with) experimenting with this type of lifestyle. This will presumably lead to an increase in homosexual activity, distancing people from God and from the ordinances and faithfulness needed to return to Him.
Implicit in this line of thinking is the assumption that homosexuality is a choice.
A New Complexity
In
contrast with my experiences at Harvard, this time around I actually knew
someone who was openly gay. Back then, my direct supervisor at work was a
lesbian, and in a committed relationship with her partner (I was never brave
enough to ask her if/when they married). They were even expecting a little boy
of their own only a month or so after Natalie was due.
This
added some complexity to my efforts with Prop 8 as I often thought of my
supervisor when we spoke in church about needing to stop same-sex marriage — to
effectively delegitimize her family — in order to "protect" my own.
For as
much as I thought about that, though, I never spent much time with the mustard
seeds of dissonance I felt. Not back then.
There
was even a stretch when I actively worried that my faith's association with
Prop 8 might affect my relationship with my supervisor. I worried about
some kind of retaliation. But, as best I could tell, she never even hinted it
was an issue, and she was always one of my fiercest protectors and advocates in
the nascent stages of my career. When Natalie was born, she and her partner even
gave us a generous gift.
And when
her son was born a short while later, we got them a small gift.
It's
telling how much I stewed about that gift — a small effort to celebrate her
little family. In many respects, we gave the gift in defiance of my faith. And
it wasn’t lost on me that, at the same time, I was pushing a political measure
that sought to invalidate my supervisor’s family.
But again, I never did much with the dissonance. And honestly, I wouldn't have known what to do with it back then, even if I had thought harder about it.
A Spiritual Litmus Test
The campaign efforts asked of us by church headquarters included calling people in our ward to serve as "area coordinators" and "zip code representatives." These people were to organize and lead out on canvassing efforts, which included walking precincts and knocking on doors (I did this at least a few times, once taking four-year-old Jared with me — I called it “tracting for Prop 8.” I hated it.). There were also phone lists of registered voters to call to gauge interest and perhaps persuade. In fact, our directive from the top was to try to contact every registered voter in our respective zip codes (and our ward included 3 zip codes).
We also waved signs at busy street corners.
As for raising money for the campaign, each ward was initially assigned the fund-raising goal of $7,500. At first, those fund-raising efforts meant petitions over the pulpit and passing out church-generated donation forms. But when the donations didn’t roll in fast enough, we were told to identify and solicit directly from wealthy members in our ward.
[One news report I mentioned in an October 2008 journal entry indicated that Mormons had accounted for 43% of contributions to the Prop 8 campaign, due in large part to the pressure from Mormon leaders on its membership.]
The oversight and push (which we were told was coming all the way from apostle M. Russell Ballard) felt relentless in the weeks and months leading up to the November election. And, maybe this was just me projecting my own issues, but all the reports from church headquarters pushed a similar message: we needed to do more.
I was never thrilled about participating in any aspects of the campaign, especially the pressurized efforts to ask for money. But I saw Prop 8 the way many others in the faith likely did: as a "spiritual litmus test" from God who, if nothing else, was gauging my commitment to him.
Honestly, most of the time I wasn't sure I was passing that test, as I rarely felt I was doing enough. And much like my days as a missionary, a great deal of my motivation for doing anything related to Prop 8 felt like an effort to chase off God's displeasure.
The Election and Aftermath
Natalie came in late September, which was both wonderful and chaotic as Michelle transitioned from perpetually nauseated to perpetually sleep-deprived. But one unexpected boon from Natalie's birth was that it gave me cover to justify more limited involvement in the campaign efforts in the month before the election.
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| Clark Family - 2008 |
As election day neared, the church asked us to fast for passage of Prop 8 on that final Sunday. And when Sacrament meeting concluded that day, many of us shed tears as we ended our collective fast with the bishop's prayer asking God to accept our efforts. I was among those hoping for God’s approval, and during that prayer I felt all over again that I could have (and should have) done more.
Those
feelings spurred me to volunteer to take home a list or two of people to call
on election day — to make sure they got out to vote.
On
election night, I remember again crying grateful tears as we watched returns
come in on TV and saw that, improbably, Prop 8 was going to pass.
God
apparently had accepted our efforts.
***
In the
days and weeks following the election, protests erupted at LDS temples across
California. The accusations of bigotry, which had been present throughout the
campaign, grew louder and more pointed.
Those
accusations felt terribly unfair and left me feeling fundamentally
misunderstood: I hadn't campaigned for Prop 8 because I hated LGBTQIA people —
I was doing it because God told me to!
And God
certainly wasn't bigoted.
The irony, though, is that the louder the protests and accusations, the more they left me feeling like the victim – that I was the one being unfairly persecuted. That honestly made it more difficult to see outside myself, to understand the harm I had helped inflict on a significant percentage of my community.
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| Image that circulated of Samuel the Lamanite (Book of Mormon Prophet) flashing a "Yes on Prop 8" sign. In the Book of Mormon, the then wicked Nephites tried to kill Samuel because he preached the truth to them (of their sins). But God famously protected Samuel, and no stones or arrows hit him. |
Nearly
two years later, a federal district court first struck down Prop 8. I don’t
remember my reaction, and I made no mention of it in my journal entries.
An
Ideological Transition
The
four years following Prop 8 are hazy for me as I've tried to retrace my
thinking on homosexuality and gay marriage. I can say, though, that during this
timeframe, I became increasingly disillusioned with conservative politics and
the direction of the Republican Party (i.e., the rise of the Tea Party
movement).
It
might be hard to overstate how significant a transition this was for me. As
many in the faith can probably relate, up to that point in my life, I had seen
little distinction between my identities as a believing Mormon and a political
conservative. In fact, taking my cues from my parents (who had fed me a steady
diet of Mormonism and Rush Limbaugh growing up), those affiliations felt almost
synonymous. And it was always surprising (perplexing, really) when I would
learn that someone was purportedly both a believing Mormon and a
Democrat.
Frankly,
it was hard to imagine that was possible.
But by
2012, I had separated those affiliations enough that I even voted for President
Obama's re-election. I do remember, though, feeling the need to keep that fact from
my parents.
In the
years after Prop 8, the church grew unusually quiet about its efforts to ban
same-sex marriage. If anything, I sensed it was downplaying its efforts with Prop 8 [Jeffrey
R. Holland even claimed in 2012 that the church hadn’t spent a "red cent" on the initiative (the quote is at about
27:00), which was both deceptive and objectively untrue]. The church also failed to
(at least openly) support similar ballot measures that popped up in others
states and countries. And in a surprising turn, it had even supported anti-discrimination
legislation in Salt Lake City. That support felt like a significant shift at
the time.
Many,
like me, sensed these steps were a tacit admission that the church’s Prop 8
support and involvement had been wrong-headed, even if the church would never
say so outright.
Meanwhile,
I worked closely with my supervisor for a few years, before she eventually became
the US Attorney in San Diego (meaning she was appointed by President Obama,
confirmed by the Senate, and in charge of our entire office). And when I told
her about Dad’s death and my interest in the Utah US Attorney’s Office, she
made it her mission to get me here.
I never
had any overt conversations with her about her sexuality, though we would swap
stories about our kids and our families. The happiness and contentment she
found in her family always felt a bit jarring. I mean, it was my understanding
that "wickedness never was happiness." (Alma 41:10).
“It
Gets Better at BYU”
My next
data point comes in April 2012. That month, a new video, “It Gets Better at Brigham Young University,” made the rounds on the
Internet. Building off a similarly themed (and more prominent) celebrity video,
this offering featured openly LGBQ students at BYU sharing the difficulties of
balancing their faith and sexuality, as well as sharing their hopes that things
would “get better.”
It’s a
bit embarrassing to admit now, but I think that video was my first real window
into the vulnerability of those who identified as LGBQ in the faith.
It was
heart-breaking.
I had
learned about the video after my brother Bryan, then a returned missionary and
undergraduate at BYU, had forwarded it to me. Bryan wanted to know my reaction,
offering that he personally found the video a bit offensive.
I did
not share his view, and I remember pushing back slightly, urging understanding
and compassion.
By that
point, LDS doctrine had evolved such that identifying as LGBQ (still not so
much with the T, which is why I don’t feel I can include that letter of the
acronym) was no longer the “perversion” Spencer W. Kimball had claimed it was
in the 70’s. Even so, the church preferred the label "same-sex
attraction" and urged its LGBQ members to not identify themselves by their
sexual preferences.
And of
course, acting on those preferences was still a clear violation of God's law of
chastity.
I’ve
mentioned this before, but it was later that year the church released the
website mormonandgay.org. The site was meant to provide support for those
dealing with “same-sex attraction.” For
me, though, the big deal was that it included a statement acknowledging that
homosexuality was not a choice, and that it probably couldn’t be
changed.
While I
welcomed the shift, it also significantly undercut how I had made sense of the
church’s doctrine against same-sex marriage. If one’s sexuality couldn't be
helped, if one could only control whether they “acted upon” it, then
homosexuality effectively meant a life sentence of celibacy in the faith — and
that was the best-case scenario. It meant having to vilify the part of
yourself that yearned for romantic love, attachment, and fulfillment (with
those you are naturally drawn to). It meant those feelings could never
properly find expression. It meant loneliness, while always having to
guard against the longings for romantic companionship.
So,
while being LGBQ might not be a sin in and of itself, it was still,
effectively, a defect — a trait to be pitied if kept in check, and to be
severely punished if not.
That
didn't feel right to me, not in a faith that preached the primacy of families
in God's plan for his children. Why would God create a significant number of
his children with a biological attraction that was the antithesis of his
plan?
Coming
Out
Bryan's
initial difficulty with the “It Gets Better at BYU” video was always the first
thing I pointed to when siblings speculated whether Bryan was, himself, gay.
In
March 2013, though, I noticed Bryan had responded warmly on social media to
someone else’s coming out, and I asked him what had spurred the apparent change
of heart. It was then Bryan cautiously disclosed to me, using the faith's
preferred parlance, that he was "a person who struggles with same gender
attraction."
Bryan
went on to affirm how much he loved the church, Jesus Christ, and his
missionary service. He also shared how hard it had been for him to acknowledge
he was gay. He told me how much he didn't want it and how scared he was. He
also told me how draining this had all been for him, and how much he just
wanted love and acceptance.
I
responded as quickly as I could and as best I knew how, telling him that we
loved him, and that he'd find nothing but acceptance from us.
I also
told him I was "so sorry you have this struggle. That is so hard. So
hard."
It's
unfortunate that being "affirming" in the faith still meant treating
homosexuality as an affliction, something to be mourned. [Frankly, that message
doesn't feel very affirming now; it seems like it's just a less harsh variation
of the opposite.]
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| Nathan, Dad, Me, and Bryan (Nov. 2013) |
The
reactions of the rest of my family aren't my story to tell, but it’s not hard
to imagine how fraught this new reality could be for our relatively tight knit,
devoutly Mormon family. Even with the best of intentions, we had, after all,
derived most of our worth from our obedience to a literal, orthodox approach to
Mormonism. And this version of Mormonism still had those awful teachings on the
books (literally) from Spencer W. Kimball and others.
In the
days and weeks afterward, Bryan shared more with me about his
"struggles" with "same gender attraction" at BYU. When he
shared, he always couched his difficulties between paragraphs of assurance regarding
his desires to be faithful, as well as his love for God, for the church, and
for his missionary service. Usually I responded expressing my love, but notably
also my sense of Bryan's "purity" of heart and his sincere desires to
"do what's right."
Both of
us implicitly understood that, at least in Mormonism, the "struggles"
of LGBQ members were only valid so long as they were still faithfully towing
the line of orthodoxy.
Over
the months that followed, my efforts to support Bryan heightened the feelings
of dissonance I felt between my faith and the feelings of my heart: I couldn't
understand why God would intentionally put any of his children in the
precarious position he'd put Bryan in. I needed answers.
At some
point, I joined the Facebook group "Mormons Building Bridges," a
group of Mormons (and Mormon adjacent) dedicated to supporting the LGBTQIA
community. The group gained notoriety for marching in Salt Lake City Pride
parades and offering affirming messages that did not seem to compromise their
Mormon faith. Affiliating with
I also
read what I could find on the subject. There was In Quiet Desperation, a
2004 book coming from a faithful perspective of "understanding same gender
attraction." The book includes the story of Stuart Matis (as told by his
parents) who shot himself on the steps of his LDS church
meetinghouse. His suicide was the tragic result of his anguish over the
conflict between his homosexuality and his faith. The book also included the
first-hand perspective of Ty Mansfield, who identified as a faithful Mormon
dealing with same-sex attraction (he is now married to a woman, and they have
two kids. He's also an LMFT in Provo, Utah).
Then in
2014, Bryan shared with me the book "No More Goodbyes," a poignant
collection of stories put together by Carol Lynn Pearson, a well-known Mormon
author and poet. The book includes her own story of her marriage and divorce
with her ex-husband (who was gay), as well as dozens of stories of other
individuals and families likewise wrestling with their sexual identity in the
context of Mormonism. So many of these accounts were devastatingly raw.
Meager as these efforts were, I was trying in all the ways I could think of to both be an ally to my brother and stay true to my faith. But perhaps it is not very surprising that the more exposure I got to Bryan's reality, as well as the reality of so many others, the more pressurized the cognitive dissonance felt.
As this pressure built, I tried resolving the dissonance through all the ways I’d been taught to resolve vexing problems in the faith: prayer, fasting, study, temple worship, etc. Eventually, though, I felt like I had reached a hopeless impasse. The doctrine prohibiting romantic homosexual relationships was clear and unyielding. But in a faith that had taught me the primacy of good feelings in discerning and affirming truth, my feelings pressed on me that what was “true” and “good” was actually the opposite of the church’s position.
What on earth was I supposed to do with that?
Irreconcilable
Differences
The
months rolled on, and that internal pressure became one of the constants in my
life. Soon, I noticed that Bryan, as well as other friends in the faith, were
openly supporting gay marriage on social media. That brazen stance (among the
otherwise faithful) filled me with awe and perhaps a tinge of jealousy, both
because they could be so openly supportive and because these folks had
apparently resolved the irreconcilable conflict that often consumed me.
Hoping
for answers, I messaged Bryan and my other friends directly, asking how they
reconciled their support for gay marriage with the clear teachings of the
church. In every instance, the core of their responses all carried a similar
theme: they knew their position didn't align with the church's, and they had
come to believe the church was wrong.
I
certainly respected that, but their reasoning wasn’t helpful to me. It wasn’t something
I felt I could use to resolve my internal battles.
Roughly
a year after Bryan came out, on March 12, 2014, I disclosed to him my internal
conflict — I think for the first time:
I’m not at the point where I’m ready yet to say I know the church is wrong on homosexual relationships, but I seem to be inching ever closer. I will say, like you, aside from being categorically labeled a chastity violation right now, I don’t see the harm. To anyone. The arguments advanced to support legislation prohibiting same sex marriage have always seemed laughably inadequate. And I do see [gay relationships] can be wholesome, enriching, and fulfilling.
A few
weeks later (March 29, 2014), the conflict found its way into my journal, where
I hesitantly wrote this observation:
What if the church has it all wrong on homosexuality? I'm increasingly drawn to the strange feeling that it does, but it's such a foreign concept that I'm left bewildered. I almost feel guilty entertaining the thought, but it's becoming increasingly irresistible. I don't know what to do about it.
In the meantime, I have plenty of problems of my own.
In late
May 2014, our bishopric spent the 3rd hour of church with the youth. The three
of us were a panel, answering questions the youth had anonymously submitted
beforehand. One of those questions was, "What's the big deal with gay
marriage?"
When it
was my turn to answer that question, I said something close to this:
"I know the church is true, and I know the church teaches that gay marriage is wrong, but I don't understand it. And I really, really struggle with it."
During
this time, I had this image of figuratively holding each of those contrary
positions (the church's doctrine and my personal feelings), one in each hand. I
couldn’t put either of them down, and they’d both come to feel so heavy –
though for different reasons. Periodically I would hold them up close, study
them carefully, and try to find some solution to the dissonance. And when I
couldn't find any resolution, I’d go back to carrying them.
It
feels important to note here that, given my spiritual upbringing, I didn't have
the confidence to simply give way to my feelings. There was no place in my
faith for feelings that contradicted prophetic teachings. Indeed, those who
questioned these teachings did so because of "pride" or thinking
themselves wiser than God and his prophets (the same Book of Mormon criticisms
I had leveled against fellow parishioners when I was at Harvard). After all,
who was I to question the Brethren? To question God?
But
there was also this other, deeply unsettling side of that coin: if the church
really was wrong on this, what else could it be wrong about? And how would I
know? And what could that mean?
A
journal entry in late June 2014 touched on this conundrum and what it meant for
me:
I've been thinking hard about gay marriage and equality. The notion that the church may have it wrong (and I feel more and more all the time that this is the case) makes things a little shakier for me. I can't just absorb [church magazine] articles or conference talks anymore. I have to pay attention, listen carefully, and get a sense how the talks feel. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be, but it requires an unwelcome adjustment.
For all
my wrestling, though, I never found enough confidence or enlightenment back
then to resolve the conflict one way or the other. And for as heavy and
uncomfortable a position as that was, I guess I got used to the discomfort.
Acting
Upon It
In June
2014, months after graduating from BYU (and so no longer bound by the school's
Honor Code), Bryan announced in an email to the family that his
"friend" was actually his boyfriend. He also shared that he was not
"temple worthy" and had several issues with the church, though he was
still seeking God and spirituality.
In a
clear nod that Bryan fully understood how devastating this news would be
to some, he said he would understand if he was no longer welcome in our homes
or with our children [h/t Elders Oaks and Wickman], though he desperately hoped
that wouldn't be the case.
Bryan
further confided that he had spent his life hating himself and living according
to what others thought he should do. This, he said, was actually a step toward
being authentic.
He also
told us he loved us and still wanted to make us proud.
As
Bryan grew more confident in his lifestyle, he and his boyfriend also became
rather prominent (at least in gay LDS circles) on social media. This included
Bryan's own blogging efforts, where he revisited his upbringing and revealed
heretofore unknown challenges and misdeeds from his early years.
In late
October 2014, Bryan and his boyfriend got engaged.
Looking
back now, I believe everyone in the family was trying to handle Bryan’s
transition as best they knew how. For Bryan’s part, I can hardly imagine the
pressure: still newly out and trying to navigate the dynamics of LGBTQIA
Mormonism (and doing so prominently on social media). And at the same time,
still feeling pulled toward the perfectionism that drives many Mormons (or at
least Clarks) and holding onto deeply rooted desires for acceptance from
the family and community he'd grown up with.
Meanwhile,
my family (my parents especially) were trying to navigate a new and difficult
space of their own. Remember, the Mormonism we had grown up with had only
recently begun to tolerate homosexuality — and even then, only to the extent it
was not "acted upon."
For
Bryan to now not only "act upon" his being gay, but to do so
prominently on social media. . .that caused no small amount of turmoil in the
family dynamics. It was messy all around, and that messiness typically manifest
in classic Mormon passive-aggression.
For my
part, I sometimes tried to be an outspoken intermediary in the family, leaning
toward supporting and protecting my brother. But that wasn't always enough to
prevent a few instances of friction even between the two of us. That friction
usually resulted from what I then perceived as unfair attacks on the faith.
[I
expect to detail one of these instances in my next post, which will be more
relevant there. That particular incident left a rift that only healed after Dad
died unexpectedly.]
A Year
of Change
Dad
passed in January 2015. I've written about that experience before, but it sent
shockwaves through our family. In many ways, it has permanently altered the
family dynamic.
 |
| Bryan, James (Wood), Matt, Me, and Nathan - Dad's Funeral (Jan. 2015) |
In June
2015, the Supreme Court decided Obergefell v. Hodges, ruling that the
right to marry was fundamental and guaranteed to same sex couples under the Due
Process and Equal Protection Clause of the 14th Amendment. The ruling required
all states and US territories to perform and recognize same-sex marriages,
effectively putting an end to issue legally.
By this
point I still hadn’t reconciled the church’s position with my feelings.
I remember feeling relieved, though, even secretly happy with the decision. It
felt right.
That
same summer, Michelle and I moved our family to Utah. This meant a final
release from my bishopric calling in San Diego. After nearly 9 years there, it
felt like we were leaving home, though I felt so happy to finally live
closer to my family.
In late
September 2015, Bryan and his fiancé married. Mom and almost everyone else in
the family attended the ceremony. At Bryan's request, I walked him down the
aisle.
 |
| Clark Family at Bryan's Wedding (Sept. 2015) |
It was
not lost on me that this supportive act could be considered another defiance of
church doctrines and obligations — technically, it violated of one of the
temple recommend interview questions: “Do you support, affiliate with, or agree
with any group or individual whose teachings or practices are contrary to or
oppose those accepted by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?"
[Though
to be fair, a strict reading of that question also suggested I should not
affiliate with anyone who drinks coffee, nor even anyone who likes Neil Diamond, for that matter. This may be
one of the reasons the church changed that question a few years ago.]
But
again, as someone still anxiously seeking the constant companionship of the
Holy Ghost, it felt right to support and celebrate my brother. In fact, by
that point it felt like exactly what Jesus would want me to do.
The
Policy of Exclusion
Around
the time of Bryan’s wedding, it felt like momentum had been building (for
years) toward an era of inclusiveness for the LGBTQIA in the faith.
In
hindsight, that optimism was likely more a function of the people I was paying
attention to than objective reality. Or maybe it was just what I was really
hoping to make a reality. Either way, the hope I felt made what happened
next so much more painful.
On
November 6, 2015, roughly six months after Obergefell made gay marriage
legal nationwide, a source from church headquarters leaked a policy change in the church's somewhat
secretive Handbook of Instructions.
The
policy, which came to be known as the "Policy of Exclusion," made two
changes. First, it stated that anyone in a "same-gender" marriage was
in "apostasy." The label itself felt harsh, though the church was
already, regularly, excommunicating members found to be in committed gay and
lesbian relationships.
The second
change was far more troubling: the church also decided that children of openly
gay parents (i.e., at least one parent who was married or living with someone
of the same gender) were no longer eligible for most priesthood ordinances and
other religious rites (e.g., naming and blessing as babies, baptism, priesthood
advancement, or missionary service), except with the permission of the First
Presidency.
Only
after the child reached the age of 18, and "specifically disavow[ed] the
practice of same-gender cohabitation and marriage," and was not
living with the gay parent(s), could that child ask for permission to receive
those ordinances or serve a mission.
Effectively,
this meant that if you were living, or had lived, in an open, committed gay or
lesbian relationship, your children were prohibited from church membership, as
well as almost all the blessings that come with priesthood ordinances. These
were the same priesthood ordinances the church also taught were essential to find
happiness in this life, and to return to live with God in the next.
To me
and so many others, the policy felt like a sucker punch. It knocked the wind
out of me. And what made it so much worse, it was a beloved, trusted friend
that had hit me when my guard was down.
In
fact, this "friend" was the institution that I believed represented
God on earth. And my trust in that institution was why I had allowed myself to
be vulnerable in the first place.
I
really tried, but it was hard not to see cruelty in the policy. Even with my
apologetic bent to view the church (and its decisions) in the most sympathetic
light, I still sensed a vindictiveness carried out in God's name.
And yet,
how could I possibly insinuate this about the church I loved? The church that I
still believed to be God's one true church on earth? Was I even at liberty to
question the decision at all?
This is
what I wrote in my journal about the turmoil that day:
I spent most of the day pouring over Facebook posts on feelings over the church’s policy toward the children of same sex marriages. Feelings are raw. Personally I feel a great internal conflict. Others have made attempts at reconciling the dissonance, but such defenses of the policy seem to crumble under the slightest cross-examination. There aren’t any easy answers that I can tell. There is pain.
A few
days later, the church responded to the growing uproar, releasing a 10-minute video interview with apostle D. Todd
Christofferson. Christofferson, a lawyer and former Supreme Court clerk, seemed
uniquely situated to address the fallout, since his brother is a prominent (now
faithful) gay figure in the LDS community.
In the
interview, comfortably conducted by the manager of church public affairs, Christofferson
emphasized that the Policy of Exclusion was actually born out of love,
compassion, and a desire to protect children of gay and lesbian parents. He further pointed out that they treated
children of polygamous marriages in exactly the same way.
Christofferson's
explanation did little to quell the growing frustration and heartache. If
anything, it seemed to have the opposite effect.
It certainly
did nothing to resolve conflict in my own heart. The punitive nature of the
policy hardly felt like a loving, compassionate effort to protect children. And
it didn't seem to square with the bedrock gospel principle of agency (choosing
one's own path in life), or the church's second Article of Faith: that people
would be punished for their own sins (assuming committed, gay relationships are
sinful), not the sins of their parents.
Many of
us in the faith held out hope the church would see the harm caused and quickly
reverse the policy. But as days turned into weeks, it became apparent the
policy wasn’t going anywhere, at least not anytime soon.
In
fact, a few months later, future church president Russell M. Nelson doubled down and attempted to enshrine the
policy with the imprimatur of “revelation” from God. He described the
Brethren deciding on the policy only after “wrestl[ing] at length” to
understand God’s will and “consider[ing] countless permutations and
combinations of possible scenarios.”
The
harm inflicted, it seemed, had been carefully considered and intentional.
As much
as I tried to understand it, the policy did not feel like revelation to me. It
did not feel like God. It felt like the opposite. And to have people like
Nelson telling me that it was, in fact, God, evoked feelings of frustration and
anger.
I
honestly didn’t know what to do with those feelings, but I kept them mostly to
myself.
A
Breaking Point?
For
many, the Policy of Exclusion was a breaking point — their “last straw” causing
them to renounce their membership in the LDS church. Given what I had felt, and
the pain I had seen in the LGBTQIA community, it was hard to blame those
leaving.
For me,
though, while the policy tore at my soul, it wouldn't have been accurate to say
it pushed me to a near breaking point, even if I might have said so at the
time. The fact was that my connection to God was so closely tied to my
membership in the LDS church that I had little idea what a "breaking
point" would even look or feel like (and I wouldn't until I actually
reached a breaking point years later).
I did
identify with feeling "stuck" though. I had nowhere to go, and
nothing I could do with the pain I'd seen inflicted on so many others, with the
pain I felt myself. My church insisted the pain was misguided, but it was real.
In fact, it seemed to spring from the best parts of myself — the parts
of me that had spent a lifetime trying to be like Jesus. Trying to develop charity.
At the
same time, the church was the gatekeeper of my access to God. I didn’t know any
other way. And as far as I understood things, there wasn’t any other
way: one of the central tenets of Mormonism is that the only way back to
God is through the LDS church — through the priesthood authority and ordinances
only it can offer.
And
frankly, I couldn't (and didn't want to!) deny my own confirming experiences
that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was, in fact, God’s one
true church.
The
dissonance just felt intractable. And over the years, it only grew as I became
familiar with the pain experienced by others from other troubling
aspects of the faith — usually involving patriarchy, polygamy, and racism.
All of
it gave new meaning to the New Testament story of Jesus when, after many of his
disciples "went back, and walked no more with him," he turned to
Peter and asked, "Will ye also go away?" (John 6:67).
Peter's
response had always seemed so faith affirming: “Lord, to whom shall we go? thou
hast the words of eternal life.” (John 6:68).
But as
Teryl and Fiona Givens have observed, Peter’s question now seemed filled with
searching pathos — perhaps even a bit of tired resignation.
Ultimately,
what all this meant was that, for several years, I simply absorbed and adjusted
to the dissonance. I stayed. Staying was the best thing (the only thing) I knew
to do.
[And I
recognize that my ability to stay reflected a significant level of privilege —
the privilege of a white, heterosexual male who could still exist (and thrive)
in the church, for whom the church remained a safe space to focus on the things
that still worked for me.]
When
Nelson became prophet in early 2018, though, and chose Dallin H. Oaks as
his 1st counselor, I found that very difficult. I’d never had as much trouble
sustaining a new prophet as I had Nelson (actually, I’d never had any
difficulty before). It helped, though,
when someone suggested that “sustaining” meant more to “root for” than to
necessarily endorse.
A Move
Toward Nuance
The
sustained dissonance of those years forced me toward a more nuanced faith. That
movement was not so much intentional as it was a gravitational pull toward what
continued to resonate. In testimony meetings and elsewhere, I would talk about
how I felt certain about so much less in the faith as I was getting older. But
with the truths that remained, they seemed to shine all the brighter.
I
stumbled onto the writings of Eugene England, and his perspective in “Why
the Church Is As True As the Gospel” felt refreshingly complex and hopeful.
Someone
recommended to me Teryl and Fiona Givens’ books. They wrote within Mormonism
about the weeping God (Moses 7:28) who loved his children and would never
abandon them. Their writings made the case for a compassionate God with whom it
would never be too late to come home. Never.
This
was markedly different from the God I had always known. This gospel was much
more generous, and I liked this God so much more. Reading of him filled me with
hope and relief for friends and loved ones (like Bryan) who had withdrawn from
Mormonism, but whose leaving I could hardly criticize.
I found
I began to cling to (or “hold fast to” if the difference matters to
you) certain scriptures that became the core of my faith and testimony:
·
Helaman 5:12: that
Christ was the “rock,” a “sure foundation” — maybe the only sure
foundation. He was the foundation against the devil’s “mighty winds, yea, his
shafts in the whirlwind,” and with whom the “mighty storm[s]” would have “no
power over [me].” He was the unshakeable foundation, "[the] foundation
whereon if men build they cannot fall.”
Significantly for me, the
scripture made no mention of Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, or even Russell M.
Nelson.
· D&C 11:12-14: that I should put my trust in “that Spirit which leadeth to do good
— yea, to do justly, to walk humbly, to judge righteously.” This feeling was God’s
spirit, which would “enlighten [my] mind” and “fill [my] soul with joy.” And it
was by that spirit — those feelings — that I would “know. . .all things
whatsoever [I] desire[d] of [God].”
· Ether 12:27: that
one's eligibility for God’s redeeming grace is simply that we “humble
[ourselves] before [him].” From what I could tell, this didn't necessarily
require doing all the things. And further, it speaks of God giving us our
weaknesses (and that he would show them to us) to help induce that saving
humility. And if we managed both humility and faith in God, God would
eventually help strengthen those weaknesses.
I also
felt increasingly drawn to the stories of Jesus in the New Testament — the
Jesus who challenged orthodoxy and church authority, and who was radically
inclusive. His ministry condemned hypocrisy while reaching out to the
downtrodden and marginalized.
I
wanted to be like him. And as that became more of my focus, I felt more
connected to God than perhaps I ever had.
Mind
you, I was still trying to do all the things orthodox Mormonism said I needed
to. But this new approach left me feeling so much less anxious about the
ultimate judgement of those who weren’t. And further, for a guy so often hung
up on how and where he was falling short, I even sensed more frequently that
God was pleased with me — far more often than he was disappointed.
The
Policy Reversal
In
April 2019, Nelson reversed the Policy of Exclusion. As he did so, Nelson and
others touted this new direction as also revelation from God, somehow
without ever acknowledging that the original policy was harmful and mistaken.
[I
don’t know that they have ever explicitly acknowledged the harm inflicted by
that policy.]
At the
time, I felt grateful for the (long overdue) reversal. It came, though, during
a critical period when my faith was already crumbling (for other reasons), and
I was searching for something to hold onto. So when Nelson and others unveiled
the reversal, l saw it not so much as evidence of God’s hand in the church but
of the opposite: the men running things seemed to have no more access to,
authority from, or relationship with God than I did – though they did seem to
have a much harder time owning up to their mistakes.
As I’ll
detail in an upcoming post, confronting that possibility brought new levels of
existential difficulty.
***
In the
end, it wasn't the church’s LGBTQIA issues that caused my loss of faith. Nor
the lingering racism, or its myriad problems with gender equality, patriarchy,
or polygamy. The more removed I get from the faith now, the harder it feels
sometimes to understand this, because it seems obvious to me now that those red
flags should have been enough — why weren't they enough?!
But at
the same time, this project has reminded me over and over that my Mormon
programming ran deep. And if nothing else, these writings have, at least,
helped me make peace with this reality: I was doing the best I knew how. .
.until I knew better.
It does
feel so much better to be able to fully support and celebrate my
brother now — for all he is and chooses to be.
And to confidently follow the dictates of my conscience, wherever they lead.
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