No Empty Chairs

 

When holding your breath is safer than breathing

When letting go is braver than keeping

When innocent words turn to lies

And you can't hide by closing your eyes

 

When pain is all that they offer

Like the kiss from the lips of a monster

You know the famine so well, but never met the feast

When home is the belly of a beast

 

The ocean is wild and over your head

And the boat beneath you is sinking

Don't need room for your bags, hope is all that you have

So say the Lord's Prayer twice, hold your babies tight

Surely someone will reach out a hand

And show you a safe place to land

 

Oh, imagine yourself in a building

Up in flames, being told to stand still

The window's wide open, this leap is on faith

You don't know who will catch you, but maybe somebody will

 

The ocean is wild and over your head

And the boat beneath you is sinking

Don't need room for your bags, hope is all that you have

So say the Lord's Prayer twice, hold your babies tight

Surely someone will reach out a hand

And show you a safe place to land

 

[Sarah Bareilles - "Safe Place to Land"]

 

 

Near the climax of C.S. Lewis’s The Horse and His Boy, the young protagonist, Shasta, finds himself traveling mournfully (on his horse) over a mountain pass. It is dark and cold, and all seems lost. In the gloom of that setting, Shasta begins recounting to himself his many troubles, and he almost can’t help thinking himself the most unlucky boy in the world.

 

Somewhere in the middle of his sad thoughts, Shasta realizes there is a large creature walking beside him — he can tell only because he hears the creature breathing. The beast, whom the reader recognizes as the lion Aslan (the messianic figure in The Chronicles of Narnia), eventually speaks and invites Shasta to share his sorrows.

 

Not yet knowing his companion is a lion, Shasta relays his woeful story, including a few frightening encounters with lions at various points in his journey. Soon enough, though, Aslan reveals himself as the very lion in each of those incidents, only now explaining how his frightening presence in those moments had been necessary to guide Shasta and his friends to where they needed to be at key points in the narrative.

 

Upon hearing this, Shasta then wonders aloud why Aslan had attacked (and wounded) his friend Aravis early in the story.

 

"Child," said Aslan, "I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own."

 

I’ve thought of that exchange many times over the years, most often when I’ve been tempted to interpret or explain the “why” of someone else’s story. Even over the course of this project, it has grounded me when I’ve felt inclinations to generalize my own experiences to a broader swath of people: I can tell no one’s story but my own.

 

But recently, I’ve also found in that story a growing bit of encouragement, too, and it has brought clarifying reassurance when I start to feel my efforts here are a fool’s errand: no one else can (properly) tell my story but me.

 

So to any still reading, I offer this explicit caution and reassurance: I am telling no one’s story but my own. And to the extent you might find in my story a resonance or dissonance with yours, that is entirely your story to tell.

 

***

 

This post brings the narrative right up to the precipice of my faith deconstruction (which will be the subject of my next post). To get to there, this entry revisits several key memories from the last 10 years — moments when my faith-filled narrative brushed up against others wrestling with their own loss of faith. In all, I share a series of six such experiences (with permission) that ultimately converge on an inflection point in early 2019.

 

Fair warning: this is my longest post yet. Each of these stories, though, is a necessary plot point along the evolution of my Mormon faith. Further, they provide important context into what it would eventually mean for me to lose that faith. 

 

Beyond that, though, these experiences also allow a glimpse into the brave and difficult stories of some of my favorite people in the world. In fact, it is not hyperbole to tell you I now consider many of these memories sacred.

 

No Empty Chairs

 

Leaving Mormonism is a big deal. I’ve been hinting at this all along, and it’s something immediately understood by anyone who has ever made a serious investment in the faith. For those with only minimal exposure to high demand religion, though, the fallout can seem unduly harsh. 

 

It bears mentioning again here that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints claims to be God’s one true church on the earth. Also, it claims to be the only church authorized to act in God’s name. This authority (the “priesthood”) is necessary to perform the saving ordinances (e.g., baptism and confirmation, the temple endowment, and the sealing [marriage], etc.) that make it possible to attain the highest degree of heaven. 

 

In effect, this means that Mormons believe that only Mormons will return to live with God. And if you die without getting the proper opportunity to become Mormon, the living can still make it happen posthumously (though, in theory, you have the chance to reject the proxy ordinances).

 

It is not enough, though, simply to join the faith and receive all the ordinances. Once you’re in, you then need to “press forward with a steadfastness in Christ” and “endure to the end” (2 Nephi 31:20). 

 

The full meaning of those two phrases could well be the subject of treatises, but essentially they amount to trying your best to do all the things until you die.

 

Among the ordinances I referenced above, the sealing ordinance is performed only in temples and is necessary to “bind” a family together in the next life. Without it, we are told that you will not and cannot have the familial relationships there that you enjoy in this life: spouse, parents, siblings, children, grandparents, grandchildren, aunts, and uncles, etc. Yes, one of our hymns preaches that “families can be together forever,” but that only happens if everyone is bound together by the sealing ordinance and everyone thereafter tries their best to do all the things in Mormonism until they are safely dead.  

 

In other words, families can be together forever — if everyone does all the things. 

 

This doctrine can be incredibly motivating, and there is a shared notion within many Mormon families that everyone take the proper steps to ensure there are “no empty chairs” at the family table in Heaven.

But this doctrine has a pernicious and damaging side, too, and it seems to show up whenever loved ones stray from the “covenant path” of Mormonism. Because the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is God's one true church, and because it's only through the church and the priesthood ordinances that one can return to God, there are no good reasons for leaving the faith. And in fact, The Book of Mormon promises that anyone who "hearken[s] unto the word of God, and would hold fast unto it" would "never perish [surely in the spiritual sense], neither could the temptations and the fiery darts of the adversary overpower them until blindness, to lead them away unto destruction." (1 Nephi 15:24). 

 

For me, the truth and logic of that scripture always meant two things: (1) that if one "hearken[ed] and held fast" to the word of God, they would never fall away from the faith, and (2) whatever anyone's explanation for leaving the faith, I could be certain they weren't meeting the requirements of (1).

 

[Apostle Dieter F. Uchtdorf once offered a lone (relative) olivebranch to those who leave — at least the only olive branch I’m aware of. In a 2013 address he conceded that it is "not that simple" to assume that people leave the faith "because they have been offended or lazy or sinful." Still many, many other statements suggest otherwise, including President Russell M. Nelson's reference last month to "lazy learners" and those who supposedly study "with the hope that [they] can find a flaw in the fabric of a prophet’s life or a discrepancy in the scriptures." The tenor of Nelson’s comments, which play to the orthodox crowd, perpetuate a fundamental misunderstanding of what often spurs the faithful to leave. And at their worst, comments like his become the model for the rest of the membership on how to frame the choices of those who leave. To put it mildly, his approach seems to be the opposite of helpful.]

 

Sad Heaven

 

If one still chooses to leave the faith, the fallout doesn’t just affect their own prospects for eternal happiness, but their entire family's — since those remaining in the faith (presumably still bound for the highest degree of heaven) now face the likely prospect of an "empty chair" at the family table in Heaven.

 

Outside of mainstream Mormonism, this idea is commonly referred to as “sad heaven,” since it understandably wouldn’t be as happy a Heaven without the company of all of the people you care about.

 

[Yes, I am aware of statements from past church leaders that try to hedge this doctrine. So is apostle David A. Bednar, who doesn't want people getting too carried away with the idea that wayward children of faithful parents might get a free pass, or even a reduced fare.]

 

Recently, Nelson devoted an entire sermon to this idea. After talking about his daughter passing away — and noting how proud she made him because she had remained faithful throughout her life — Nelson went on to remind everyone that their families would not be together in the next life unless each did all the things:

 

The spirit in each of us naturally yearns for family love to last forever. Love songs perpetuate a false hope that love is all you need if you want to be together forever. And some erroneously believe that the Resurrection of Jesus Christ provides a promise that all people will be with their loved ones after death.

 

In truth, the Savior Himself has made it abundantly clear that while His Resurrection assures that every person who ever lived will indeed be resurrected and live forever, much more is required if we want to have the high privilege of exaltation. Salvation is an individual matter, but exaltation is a family matter.

 

….

 

So, what is required for a family to be exalted forever? We qualify for that privilege by making covenants with God, keeping those covenants, and receiving essential ordinances.

 

….

 

The Savior invites all to follow Him into the waters of baptism and, in time, to make additional covenants with God in the temple and receive and be faithful to those further essential ordinances. All these are required if we want to be exalted with our families and with God forever.

 

The anguish of my heart is that many people whom I love, whom I admire, and whom I respect decline His invitation. They ignore the pleadings of Jesus Christ when He beckons, “Come, follow me.” [emphasis in original].

To drive home his message, Nelson offers an extended back-handed compliment and warning to the “wonderful men and women” who reject Mormon covenants, opting instead for a “most meager roof over [their] heads” (instead of a mansion) in the next life:   

 

I understand why God weeps. I also weep for such friends and relatives. They are wonderful men and women, devoted to their family and civic responsibilities. They give generously of their time, energy, and resources. And the world is better for their efforts. But they have chosen not to make covenants with God. They have not received the ordinances that will exalt them with their families and bind them together forever.

 

….

 

They need to understand that while there is a place for them hereafter—with wonderful men and women who also chose not to make covenants with God—that is not the place where families will be reunited and be given the privilege to live and progress forever. That is not the kingdom where they will experience the fulness of joy—of never-ending progression and happiness. Those consummate blessings can come only by living in an exalted celestial realm with God, our Eternal Father; His Son, Jesus Christ; and our wonderful, worthy, and qualified family members.

 

I feel to say to my reticent friends:

 

“In this life, you have never settled for second best in anything. Yet, as you resist fully embracing the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, you are choosing to settle for second best.

 

“The Savior said, ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions.’ However, as you choose not to make covenants with God, you are settling for a most meager roof over your head throughout all eternity.”

 

[Personally, I find Nelson’s remarks problematic on several levels, though I’m inclined to believe he’s doing the best he knows how with the information he has. My chief concern isn’t with Nelson, per se, but that his disconcerting message draws upon ideas already firmly rooted in the core doctrines of Mormonism. And again, the message is “disconcerting” not so much to those who have left (at least those who don’t believe Nelson speaks for God), but for those still in the faith — those who will take Nelson at his word and who have loved ones that have left. For these faithful saints, unless they can prevail upon their straying loved ones to return, Mormonism promises them a sad heaven, albeit one with palatial living space.]  

 

Whether or not these doctrines resonate with you, they are a necessary part of understanding the anxiety and depth of emotion attached to some of the experiences that follow.

 

First Brush: An Irvine Connection

 

I mentioned before that we lived in Irvine in from 2005-2006. In our time there, I attended church with quite a few lawyers. One of them was the president of the elders’ quorum. A few years older than me, and equal parts self-assured and self-deprecating, I couldn’t help but admire the man — in no small part because he seemed to be thriving as a young Mormon lawyer in private practice. Some of his spiritual insights, too, would have lasting effects on my own approach to discipleship. And midway through that year, when I became overwhelmed as a first-year associate at a law firm, he went out of his way one evening to talk with me about “coping strategies” for young Mormon lawyers. 

 

Facebook wouldn’t become a thing for me until years later. But when it did, we connected there. And that was about the extent of my contact with him after we left for San Diego.

 

In early 2012, though, seemingly out of nowhere, my friend left some comments on Facebook indicating that he was both disillusioned with Mormonism and now an atheist. He talked about “coming out” with his disillusionment, and it costing him his marriage. Further, he mentioned that his parents and a sibling now refused to have any interaction with him.

 

Despite all that, he claimed he was happy and that he’d found his “perfect match” in an ex-Mormon girl.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

My friend also included a link to a blog by a former LDS bishop who had left the faith. In the blog, this ex-bishop described doubts creeping in as he determined to understand (and refute) why his brother had left the church. The ex-bishop then described learning things about Joseph Smith that were “too disturbing to set aside.” So he left the faith, and the week before leaving, the ex-bishop gave a talk to his congregation about loving those who leave the church.

 

My friend’s posts left me terribly unsettled. And in my free moments that day, I thought of little else. I retraced my interactions with my friend from years before, as well as everything else I knew of him. I remembered him bearing powerful testimony during fast and testimony meetings in our Irvine ward. I also remembered his diligent work as our elders’ quorum president and comments he had made in ward council.

 

The idea that this same man had now left the faith felt like a heavy, heavy blow.  

 

That night, I wrote an extended journal entry, hoping to work through my discomfort — trying to understand and piece together (on precious little information) how someone as strong as my friend could end up leaving:

 

How? Why? He knew as well as I did (didn’t he?) where to find answers on the questions that really matter and how to feel them. He’d felt them (hadn’t he?). He’d tasted of the fruit of the tree of life – he must have – and led his family to partake also [1 Nephi 8]. I don’t understand. I can’t understand. Had he seen or understood something that I had missed? Something that had upended his family – his whole life for that matter?

 

I don’t know. People like [my friend] (and I haven’t known many) who dabble in putting the gospel under the lens of secular learning and scrutiny always seem so much smarter and better informed than I am. They gravitate toward discussions on the margins of the gospel or curious aspects of church history that are difficult to swallow, even in context. I avoid such discussions and have little interest in them. Not just because of how they make me feel, but because they don’t seem to be much help. And I often times all but reject the notion of applying a secular lens to gospel learning – where truth most often needs to be felt to be proven, not measured against the scientific method.

 

And there are parts of church history – parts of Joseph Smith’s history – that are difficult for me, glossed over (or even ignored) in the materials put out by the church. This is why learning of them for the first time, in Rough Stone Rolling, proved to be such a difficult thing for me. Joseph [Smith] had real flaws and seemed to make real errors of judgment, and some things really seem unexplainable.

 

Eventually, though, I would find catharsis as my thoughts turned to the Book of Mormon and how it made me feel:

 

But, and this is what I can’t get past, the Book of Mormon is true. [Joseph Smith] didn’t write it. He couldn’t have written it. It is the evidence that Joseph [Smith] saw what he said he saw. That he was a prophet. I am as intimately acquainted with that book as I am with anything in this life, and I know he couldn’t have written it. It is true, worlds without end.

 

It is striking to me that one such as [my friend] would (or could) lose sight of that simple fact. Did he let go of the iron rod [the word of God]? I don’t know. But I haven’t. And my witness of the Book of Mormon and, consequently, the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, extends far beyond the limits of indoctrination and social conditioning. I have felt it, and everything in me rings out that it’s true. 

 

[The “indoctrination” and “social conditioning” comment makes me smile now, because I would have been at a loss if pressed to describe what either of those ideas actually felt like. I was apparently still sure enough, though, they couldn’t feel like what I had experienced in the faith. It is also particularly ironic given a comment my friend made when we reconnected and compared notes recently. After telling me about his own post-Mormon faith journey and spiritual practice, he mentioned (unsolicited) that he sees now in his former Mormon beliefs the clear effects of social conditioning.]

 

The next day, my journal indicates that I had made peace with my friend’s loss of faith — without ever needing to approach him and ask him what happened:

 

I have felt less rattled today by [my friend] as I’ve felt the Holy Ghost and been reminded how truth feels and how much and how often I have felt the truth of this latter-day work.

 

Second Brush: A Regrettable Defense (Bryan)

 

Nearly three years later, in December 2014, my brother Bryan confided in me some of his doubts about the church. Not long before, he had proposed to his boyfriend, and they were engaged. At this point, though, Bryan had forwarded the link to a blog post by a couple that had recently left the LDS church. The post contained a lengthy list of pointed questions about several aspects of church history.

 

Bryan mentioned that the concerns expressed in the post were now his. He wanted my thoughts. [I don’t know if I fully appreciated at the time the trust and vulnerability reflected in Bryan letting me in to see this part of him.]  

 

I gave the blog post a cursory read, and, a few days later, responded with a lengthy email. That email is perhaps the most cringe-inducing thing I've ever said or written (which is saying something).

 

I admitted to Bryan that I was not a historian, and I didn't have specific answers to many of the questions posed. But then, I didn't seem to need specifics. Reading Rough Stone Rolling years before had left me feeling like I was inoculated from critiques based on church history — that my faith had already survived everything history could legitimately throw at me. In fact, by that point, I was even telling Bryan that I took comfort in the troubling aspects of Joseph Smith’s history and character: if God could (and would) work with Joseph Smith despite his myriad imperfections, maybe there was hope for me, too.

 

[This perspective was not original to me — it was first advanced by Lorenzo Snow, fifth prophet and president of the LDS church. In recent years, this specific approach seems to be an increasingly common defense of early church leaders, as scholarship sheds more and more light on their lives and conduct. It also utilizes my favorite technique in persuasive writing and argument: turning an opponent’s most forceful argument on its head to actually reinforce your contrary position. It worked so well for me at the time because (1) I was (intentionally) hazy on the more troubling specifics of Joseph’s life, and (2) I was thirsty for any hints of grace for my own weaknesses. Now, though, it now amazes me the extent to which the church (and I) could strain at gnats over relatively minor conduct (e.g., coffee will keep you out of the temple and, ostensibly, Heaven), yet would still anxiously swallow the camels of Joseph’s most egregious behavior.]

 

I pointed Bryan to my testimony of the Book of Mormon, and the assurance I felt that it must be true. As part of that testimony, I cited both late apostle Bruce R. McConkie and a 2009 seminal address from Jeffrey R. Holland:

 

First, nothing you sent or that I have read comes close to swaying me that the Book of Mormon is anything but divine. I believe I have read it somewhere between 40-50 times (and I’m closing in on finishing it yet again). The fact is, I have studied that book more than anything – anything. And I have often (in the face of other things like this that have come up before) gone page by page, as Elder McConkie once suggested, and asked myself, “Could Joseph Smith have written this?” And the answers comes often that there is no way, absolutely no way, that he wrote it. In this regard, I could borrow from Elder Holland’s words as if they were my own:

 

“For 179 years this book has been examined and attacked, denied and deconstructed, targeted and torn apart like perhaps no other book in modern religious history—perhaps like no other book in any religious history. And still it stands. Failed theories about its origins have been born and parroted and have died—from Ethan Smith to Solomon Spaulding to deranged paranoid to cunning genius. None of these frankly pathetic answers for this book has ever withstood examination because there is no other answer than the one Joseph gave as its young unlearned translator. In this I stand with my own great-grandfather, who said simply enough, ‘No wicked man could write such a book as this; and no good man would write it, unless it were true and he were commanded of God to do so.’”

 

In the second half of my response to Bryan, I got more personal and daring. The blog post he had sent made repeated reference to “confirmation bias,” but I saw no accounting for the feelings of the Holy Ghost. To me, that was telling, as I was certain the two concepts were not the same thing.

 

Working from the premise that spiritual truths had to be felt to be fully understood, I reasoned that one’s ability to discern spiritual truths had everything to do with one’s ability to feel the Holy Ghost.

 

And as I’ve mentioned before, Mormonism teaches that you have to be “worthy” to have the companionship of the Holy Ghost. 

 

Regrettably, but perhaps predictably, I then turned Bryan’s inquiry back onto himself, wondering openly how much his doubts were the result of not being worthy of the guidance of the Holy Ghost:

 

Only you can really answer for yourself, but where are you with your scripture study habits?  The Word of Wisdom? Sabbath day observance? Media choices?  The law of chastity?  I don’t mention these to try and induce guilt – I mention them because they are primarily standards that are meant to keep us worthy of, and attentive to, the promptings of the Holy Ghost.  

 

And then, to sink the knife in further, I noted that his personal blog entries and social media posts had indicated there were things from his teenage years he had never properly repented of (i.e., confessed to priesthood leaders). And so I wondered how long it had really been since he had felt the Holy Ghost's companionship. And might not this be the explanation for his doubts and spiritual darkness?

 

And if the Holy Ghost does not have much play in your life (again, only you can answer that), it does not surprise me that you are now questioning the very existence of God, because it’s through the Holy Ghost (not through reason) that He reveals himself to us.

 

Again, I don’t know that I’ve ever said or written anything more regrettable in my life. And yet, in the moment I thought I was being courageous by trying to lovingly give voice to the truth as I had come to know it in Mormonism.

 

Bryan responded better than anyone could hope for, but the continued back and forth eventually left a rift between us that took some time to heal. And of course, I felt certain at the time that I had nothing to apologize for — I was only trying to speak the truth of my faith, my candor borne out of genuine love for my brother.

 

Revisiting this incident now, though, it is obvious to me (though I was oblivious at the time) how readily scripture and doctrine can be (mis)used to deflect genuine concerns and criticism: to almost effortlessly turn the lens of inquiry away from the troubling issues themselves and toward the “worthiness” of the critic.

 

When I talked with Bryan recently about this experience, he could still remember the feeling that my initial response shut down any further conversation. He noted, "You can't really speak to someone in that type of mindset, because it doesn't allow for anything else."

 

Third Brush: A Family Friend Leaves (Andrew and Jamie)

 

A few weeks before Dad died, he emailed me giddy about a wonderful visit he’d had with our friend Andrew. Andrew is a few years younger than me, and we’ve known each other from our earliest days in Ilion, NY. Our families were some of the early members of the local LDS congregation there (the Herkimer Branch). Depending on the week, our two families could sometimes account for up to 20% of the Sacrament meeting attendance. 

 

For several of my teenage years, Andrew’s father was our branch president. Meanwhile, during my sophomore year of high school, his mother was our seminary teacher.

 

One way or another, our families have been close for a long time.

 

For as long as I’ve known Andrew, he has always been one of the brightest and most intellectually curious people I know. He and his family had also been among the most faithful in the LDS church. So it caught my attention around 2014 when his social media posts advocated for gay marriage (he was among those I reached out to for help reconciling the issue). And after a prominent Mormon podcaster faced church disciplinary proceedings, Andrew’s posts indicated a further dissonance with the faith.

 

Two weeks before Dad died, Andrew went out of his way to visit with him for a few hours. Dad could hardly contain himself afterward, writing effusively about how thrilled he was with the visit. This, notably, even though Dad reported that Andrew had removed himself from the faith.

 

When I pressed Dad for details (because he was rarely this glowing), Dad wrote of building on commonalities and Andrew’s continued reverence for our years together in the branch.

 

A few days later, Andrew also reached out to me, describing his visit with Dad. That gave me the chance to ask Andrew directly about his shifting relationship with the church.

 

Andrew responded with a surprisingly level of candor, noting that he and his wife, Jamie, had withdrawn from the faith about a year earlier. In a few cogent paragraphs, he went on to share that they left over issues with the LDS church’s authority claims, as well as its promotion of several false doctrines and principles. These unhealthy teachings, Andrew explained, had created a harmful atmosphere for his immediate family (for Jamie in particular).

 

Though he assured me he still valued his spiritual experiences and many other things about Mormonism, Andrew shared this observation about the effects of his orthodox upbringing and devotion:

   

Looking back, I think my greatest fault or my undoing if you will was that I took the church too seriously. I believed everything and believed that you had to believe everything. I took the church and its leaders at their word and never took a second thought. So when we increasingly brushed up against historical anomalies and contemporary doctrinal issues, it blindsided me. 

 

I was still firmly in the faith at the time, but I knew exactly what he was talking about. In that night’s journal entry, I wrote that Andrew’s response had spurred “great thought.”

 

I also shared his response with Dad, who replied to me in a characteristically incomplete sentence:

 

Absolutely love and respect his answer and thought process.

 

[I had completely forgotten Dad said this, so re-reading his reply this past month nearly had me in tears. Dad was understandably fond of Andrew, but his response also gives me new hope — hope that maybe he would have found similar “love and respect” for my own withdrawal from the faith.]   

 

Papa Murphy’s and Martinelli’s

 

Later that year, in November 2016, we got to host Andrew and Jamie for an evening of dinner and conversation.

 

Over a five-star meal of Papa Murphy’s pizza and Martinelli’s, Michelle and I peppered them with questions about having left the faith. I remember Jamie, in particular, sharing her story of growing frustrations as a woman in the church — confronting issues with patriarchy and the troubling history and doctrine of polygamy. Also that, despite her faithful missionary service and lifetime in Mormonism, she had never experienced the feeling of the Holy Ghost.

 

That last part didn’t make any sense to me. Though I took Jamie at her word, could that really be true?

 

Together Andrew and Jamie recounted their careful, deliberate process in deciding to leave the faith. Andrew still held onto a semblance of belief and spirituality, but Jamie described herself as an atheist. That idea — losing her belief in God entirely — felt completely foreign (and completely terrifying) to me. Jamie, though, described feeling genuine relief and happiness in her newfound freedom from religion.

 

I don’t think I noticed at the time, but both seemed deliberately vague with us on their specific issues with the church’s foundational truth claims. Even so, I remember sharing (to counter something said) my now familiar conviction that Joseph Smith couldn’t have written the Book of Mormon.

 

Jamie responded, quickly and firmly, to my well-worn defense (though I sensed she was trying to remove any hint of confrontation from her tone). Matter-of-factly, she noted that her experience as an editor made it clear to her that much of the Book of Mormon was plagiarized.

 

The rebuttal caught me completely off guard — no one had ever pushed back like that on my testimony of the Book of Mormon. And further, the confidence in Jamie’s voice was unnerving. Which is surely why I didn’t ask her any follow-up questions about that particular insight. 

 

[As a trial lawyer, I’ve been trained repeatedly never to ask a question on cross-examination that I don’t know the answer to (unless I am certain the answer can’t possibly hurt my case). With hindsight now, I think my training had kicked in here.]  

 

Still, I was curious how they approached life after leaving Mormonism. What source(s) did they look to now for direction on how to live? What had replaced the anchoring guidance of their Mormon faith?

 

[I asked because, surely influenced by apostle M. Russell Ballard’s remarks just the month before our visit, the thought of losing the anchoring of my Mormon faith was deeply unsettling. And the idea of choosing to leave it behind — without having something commensurate to replace it — was almost unthinkable.] 

 

I don’t remember their specific answers to that query, only that they really hadn’t replaced Mormonism with anything. Instead, they were now just figuring things out as they went along and trying to lead good, meaningful lives.

 

I honestly couldn’t get my head around that at the time. And yet, leaving the faith (and even letting go of a belief in God in Jamie’s case) had not seemed to rob them of any of their goodness. If anything, it had augmented it.

 

One lingering memory about that evening was that, as it ended, they thanked us for asking about their experiences leaving the faith. That seemed a little odd to me, and I think I expressed surprise. They then explained that, since leaving (nearly two years before), almost no one among their friends and family still in the faith had asked them about it. And they described how much lonelier and more isolating the silence made an already difficult transition.

 

I hadn’t ever considered how lonely it could be for those leaving.

 

***

 

The next day, I replayed our conversation over and over in my head, trying to reconcile my feelings of cognitive dissonance (in a way that affirmed my Mormon faith). It didn’t help that I sensed Andrew and Jamie were, both of them, smarter and more earnest than me. 

 

The inner conflict found its way into my journal that evening:

 

I’ve also stewed over our visit with Andrew and Jamie last night, trying to figure out where and why I differ with them on the subject of faith, the church, and Joseph Smith. Trying to figure out how two such as them — so intelligent and earnest – could differ from my views on these matters, and how it is I could think that I know better as to keep believing.  In truth, it’s what drove me back to the Book of Mormon this morning before ward council, and what drove me to several other talks this morning, hoping for the familiar feeling of the Holy Ghost to reassure me that my faith was not foolishness.

 

By the next night, though, I described feeling “less troubled.” I further observed “that kind of reassurance has not simply been given for the asking.”

 

Fourth Brush: A Long-Time Friend Loses Faith (Matt Lund)

 

Matt Lund and I became friends while I was in high school, after his family moved to nearby Richfield Springs, NY. Also Mormon, their family of six quickly became an important pillar in the Herkimer Branch.

 

They were a tall bunch, but my lasting impression of the Lunds is how genuinely kind they are — all of them — to everyone.

 

Matt was a few years older than me and so much cooler. He carried himself with a confidence, especially with girls, that I envied, and that felt so far beyond me. We bonded over basketball, among other things, and one of my favorite basketball memories is playing alongside him (and others) as our little branch won its first regional title in the church’s youth basketball tournament.

Herkimer Branch Young Men's Regional Champions - 1994 (I'm the one in the middle with goggles; Matt Lund is to the left; Jamin LeFave is to the right; Dad is at the far left of the picture)

Matt left on a mission two years before I did, and I left for mine just before he returned.  Near the end of my missionary service, he married Laura.

 

When I left home for BYU, Matt and Laura welcomed me to Provo and helped me adjust to the new surroundings. And once Michelle and I started to get serious, Matt and Laura quickly befriended her, too, and offered crucial advice on our first double date to follow our spiritual promptings and pursue marriage.

 

Laura thereafter even took a Saturday afternoon to drive us around to go ring shopping (we didn’t have a car).

 

Matt and Laura were easily some of our best friends at BYU, and I have dozens of lingering memories of our Friday night RISK battles, as well as Saturday mornings playing Madden on Matt’s state-of-the-art PlayStation 2.

 

Over the years, Matt and I kept loose tabs on each other as Michelle and I moved around the country. We could go years between conversations, but it always surprised and delighted me how readily we dove back into weighty topics — politics, religion, and the meaning of life.

 

In February 2015, while I was in Utah taking the bar exam, I noted in my journal that I was "very sad" to learn (2nd or 3rd hand) that Matt and Laura "don't go to church these days."

 

Lunchtime Conversations

 

It would still be another three years before the two of us introverts had another meaningful conversation. When we did finally get together, over lunch at the Café Rio in Draper, UT, Matt nervously admitted to me that he was now essentially an atheist.

 

I don't remember feeling taken aback by his revelation, and I felt secure enough at that point that Matt’s loss of faith didn’t feel threatening. I was interested to know, though, how he'd gotten there — having come from a space of earnest (mostly orthodox) Mormon belief the last time we'd talked.

 

I had known that one of his children was transgender, and Matt mentioned the difficulty in having to confront the LDS church's policies on his son (which leave no room for transgender identity). Matt also described the difficulty he would have felt, if he had stayed in the faith, just looking his son in the eyes.

 

Matt noted, too, how frequently the church has lagged behind on social issues (e.g., racism, patriarchy, and misogyny), when one would expect a divinely-led institution to lead out. And he further wondered why a purportedly loving, all-powerful God would only reveal himself to a handful of people on the earth — though he admitted the faithful justification (to require and build faith) had once felt more compelling than it did now.

 

That night, in a familiar effort to reconcile the dissonance, I wrote in my journal that in Matt’s description of his road to atheism, "I noticed no talk of the Holy Ghost or accounting for those experiences." Describing the Holy Ghost as my "mainstay," I reasoned that "without the Holy Ghost, left simply with the logic of my own experiences, I might well be in the same place [Matt is] now. But that has not been my experience, and the Holy Ghost has been the key to everything."

 

I also added this observation:

But I'll also note this feeling that seemingly is innate in me that there is a God, and that there is purpose to all of our difficulties. Remove Him from it all, and life for me becomes darkness. 

 

Unimaginable Loss

 

In May 2018, Matt's father died. Our families had been close for so long, and we all mourned his loss.

 

Several in my family attended the funeral. In fact, Michelle, and my sisters Sarah and Alisha, even sang a musical number — “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof.

 

I remember watching Matt carefully that day, and I couldn't help but compare his situation to me losing Dad three years earlier. Matt didn't believe in God, though, or an after-life. He didn’t believe he would ever see his dad again.

 

I could hardly imagine that feeling of loss. And a part of me couldn't help wondering it might turn Matt back toward belief.

Matt Lund and Me - May 2018

Our semi-regular lunch conversations continued. Months after his father’s death, I remember asking Matt why atheism hadn't led him down a path of hedonism. [Apparently at that point, I still figured the only thing holding humanity back from the constant pursuit of pleasure was belief in God — God and the hope (or threat) of what awaits in an afterlife.]

 

Matt’s thoughtful response is now a core memory. After validating my question, Matt observed that he had, mostly, just found other reasons to keep doing what he had always done. For instance, he wasn't about to run off and have an affair on Laura because he still loved her, and he knew that kind of behavior would hurt her.

 

For a long time afterward, I tried to make sense of Matt’s response. Even then, it was still so strange to me that people didn't necessarily need God to want to be "good."

 

That lunch was only days before things started to fall apart for me.

 

Fifth Brush: A Best Friend’s Struggle (Jamin LeFave)

 

I have known Jamin LeFave since grade school. We are the same age, and we were both among the handful of young Mormons in the Herkimer Branch. Jamin went to a rival high school (Little Falls), but we played together every year on the branch’s basketball team. He and his family were a familiar, steady presence through my teenage years, and we only got closer as we aged. By the time we were seniors, we were even going on double dates (with his now wife, Amber).

 

During my freshmen year at Utica College, Jamin was my closest (and sometimes only) friend. We spent Thursday night's together reveling in the freedom of new adulthood — splurging on sandwiches from a local grocery store and watching the Thursday night NBC lineup of TV shows at his apartment. For spring break we got wild and made a now legendary four-hour roundtrip to the nearest 7-11. . . just to get a few Slurpees.

 

We also attended institute together (college-age church classes) and readied for our missions.

 

I left for my missionary service in June 1999, expecting I wouldn’t see my friend for 2+ years. But as fate would have it, Jamin ended up joining me in the California Roseville Mission a few months later (he was assigned English-speaking). Jamin’s first area even overlapped with my second, which allowed us to spend time together on of our first Christmas in the mission field. [I’ve long since taken for granted how improbable that was.]

 

Our paths would cross several times over the course of our service, and it was one of my favorite things to catch up with him at zone and leadership conferences.

Elders LeFave and Clark

Afterward, following a few years together at BYU (he and Amber were part of many of those RISK nights!), we kept in touch as circumstances brought our growing families to different parts of the country. And in the last 7+ years, our friendship found new strength as our kids connected — to the point that the LeFaves are some my family's favorite people in all the world.

 

For most of the last 7 years, hardly a week has gone by that we haven’t checked in with each other.

 

Difficulties with Church History

 

Our families went camping together in August 2016, and that night I first learned that Jamin and Amber were having difficulties with the faith. From what I could gather, at the very least, Amber had issues with Joseph Smith. Sitting around the glow of the campfire, I remember sharing my pithy defense of the prophet — that his weaknesses just meant he was also human, and that his humanity gave me hope.

 

Amber seemed entirely unpersuaded by my argument, and I had the distinct feeling she'd been hoping I had something more to offer.

 

In our weekly check-in in early October 2017, Jamin vaguely disclosed to me that he was experiencing some depression. One of the contributing factors was that he was “dealing with a crisis of faith and trying to work through some concerns I have from things I have learned from Church History.”

 

Jamin further mentioned that he was trying to work through those concerns “by trying to come to terms with what I have felt and what I know.”

 

A few days later, I met Jamin for dinner. We talked for hours about many things, including his faith issues (though I note now that he never went into specifics with me about his concerns — I would learn later that he was shielding me). As Jamin relayed his difficulties, I wished I could do more beyond just sitting with him and listening. I knew better (by then) than to preach, but I did tell him of my faith that God’s hand was in the details of our lives, and that we needed our difficulties to help refine us.

 

The next day, though, as I processed our conversation, I wrote Jamin about my own experiences. I told him that I, too, had dealt with doubts about church history, and particularly about Joseph Smith. I also told him that I had managed those doubts by reading the Book of Mormon consistently, over and over again. Also by seeking the Holy Ghost.

 

Between those two pursuits, I wrote, I had found the faith, peace, and reassurance I had been looking for — even if those pursuits didn’t exactly bring answers to my pressing questions. They did, though, leave me feeling like I was on solid footing, and they filled me with trust in God.

 

Jamin responded kindly, noting that he had also thought to re-double his efforts with the Book of Mormon.

Jamin LeFave and Aaron Clark - April 2017

A Continuing Crisis

 

We didn’t talk much about it again for months, though in February 2018, Jamin confided again that his faith crisis (which I had hoped had resolved itself) had been very hard on him. He mentioned specifically that, in the process of trying to find answers to his concerns, he now had more concerns “and still no answers.”

 

We met up a few weeks later, and Jamin shared more of what he and Amber had been through — so they had both been in a continuing faith crisis. 

 

Two days later, I noted in my journal that “Jamin and Amber’s situation weighs so heavily on me this morning. I feel responsible for Jamin and his loss of faith.”

 

As I confided my worries to Michelle, she tried to assuage my concerns. Yes, maybe the LeFaves would leave the faith for a time, but we knew their goodness and the earnestness of their efforts. And we could trust them (and God) that once they had worked through things, the LeFaves would come back.

 

This perhaps explains why, the following month, I wrote one morning that my pain (at Jamin and Amber’s loss of faith) had been “swallowed up.” Echoing what our (Mormon) marriage counselor had been preaching for awhile, I described feeling keenly that 

God has given us this life to learn by experience, with the Savior’s Atonement to make up for the countless mistakes we’ll inevitably make. So we all plod forward, trying our best to discern the right way to go, and to align our thoughts and actions with that path.

 And then I noted that, like me, like Michelle, and like so many others I was worried about at the time, “Jamin and Amber seem to be trying to do the best they know how.” 

 

That thought felt very comforting.

 

A few months later, I took our kids down to Orem for a picnic with the LeFaves. As the kids played happily together, Jamin, Amber, and I fell into deep conversation.   Amber shared her spiritual journey away from Mormonism. While she had left the faith, I was amazed by how much of her perspective resonated with me — a perspective that still leaned heavily on Jesus and the concept of grace.

 

Jamin, too, shared more of his struggles, though he still seemed to be in the middle of them.

 

Meanwhile, I talked openly about my love of the Book of Mormon and my dogged pursuit of charity. I didn’t sense that either of them found my beliefs threatening. In fact, I realize now that both Jamin and Amber were deliberately protective of my Mormon faith.  

 

On the drive home, though, my kids were in tears. They, too, had learned the Lefaves had mostly stopped attending church. And given what my kids knew of Mormon Heaven and the requirements to get there, they were devastated at the possibility that the Lefaves might not be there, too (sad heaven). I wrote that night: “It’s difficult [for the kids] to process and understand. It feels near impossible for me to explain.”  

 

"Perpetual Doubter"

 

Jamin and I continued to check in with each other at least weekly, but it wasn’t until January 2019 that he again mentioned his continuing faith crisis. He said he was trying to make sense of the past year — trying to regain some of the faith he once had.

 

Not long after, we got together for a Saturday morning lifting session and breakfast. During that time, Jamin eventually shared his frustrations with a recent worldwide devotional from apostle Dale G. Renlund and his wife. 

 

In the Renlunds’ joint address, “Doubt Not, but Be Believing,” they begin by sharing an animated parable of a boy stranded at sea who is rescued by an old fisherman in a dilapidated motor boat. The boy is initially grateful as they make their way to land, but soon he comically begins complaining about the quality of his rescue and rescuer. Eventually he's so disgruntled that, implausibly, the boy decides he's better off in the water (and jumps back in). Laughter ensues as the animation then includes shark fins beginning to circle the boy.

 

The Renlunds then reveal that the boat represents the church, the fishermen its leaders, and the complaining boy those with doubts about the faith who leave.

 

They also tell the apparently true story of “Stephen,” who had several concerns about church history. Describing Stephen as a “perpetual doubter,” they discern “doubting pleased him more than knowing.” They further claim that Stephen was playing a kind of game with his rotating list of concerns — “church history whack-a-mole.”

 

And finally, near the conclusion of their remarks, Elder Renlund refers to those with doubts who leave as “spiritually bankrupt.”

 

Understandably, Jamin found these characterizations alienating and deeply hurtful.

 

Afterward, as I listened to the address myself, I felt frustrated for my friend and embarrassed by my faith. The Renlunds’ depictions of those wrestling with doubts were cartoonish (literally). And they seemed to disregard entirely the years of real struggle and hurt for earnest people like Jamin — people who were searching anxiously for something real to hold onto (and losing hope that they would find it in the church).

 

Adding to the difficulties, though, is the fact that the Renlunds weren’t acting alone. Around this same time period, the church put out several addresses to young adults on doubt and faith (including BYU Idaho President Henry J. Eyring’s September 2018 devotional, and Elder Lawrence Corbridge’s January 2019 BYU devotional). While neither of those other addresses are as overtly condescending, they are both still deeply problematic in their own ways. 

 

These misguided, seemingly coordinated efforts did more damage than just alienating those already on the margins of the faith (like Jamin), they also weakened the church’s credibility with some people still trying to remain firmly in it (like me) — because of how badly they miss the mark in talking to and about those with doubts.

 

So when I would confront my own crisis of faith only a few months later, the church’s diminished credibility made it harder to trust its purported solutions. And in the end, it hastened my loss of faith.

 

Sixth Brush: In the Thick of Things (Brooke and Mat Shaw)

 

Mat and Brooke Shaw moved into our Utah neighborhood not too long after we did. From 2016-2017, I was the Young Men’s President in our ward, and Mat worked with me as a Priest’s Quorum Advisor (16-18 year-old young men). Gregarious and usually sporting the coolest socks, Mat laughed easily and seemed to take an interest in everyone.  At least to me, he always appeared to be completely at ease. It was impossible not to like him. 

 

Brooke, meanwhile, is probably as introverted as I am. So it understandably took a few years before either of us said anything to each other.  

 

In early 2017, I asked for a release from the Young Men’s program (my marriage was not in a good place, and I needed more time and energy for my family). In the shuffle of callings, Mat began working with the Deacon’s Quorum (12-13 year-old boys), where Jared was then situated.

 

My journal indicates that in early January 2018, I finally prevailed on Mat to join me one early morning at the gym. Brooke was already a steady presence there (on the treadmill), though we both held to an unspoken code not to acknowledge each other — at least until Mat made fun of us for it.

 

A few weeks later, Michelle and I gathered up the courage to ask the Shaws over for homemade ice cream. That evening, while our kids played together, the four of us connected on far more than I had expected. And in the end, our conversation ended later than planned, but still somehow too early.  

 

The feeling seemed to be mutual, so we made plans for more get togethers. Few couples, it turns out, made for better company than the Shaws, and it continually surprised me how easy they were to talk to.

 

Brooke, who at the time was one of Jared’s youth Sunday School teachers, says she opened up to us in May about some of her budding issues with the church (I only vaguely remember this). In August, however, we had the Shaws over for more of Michelle’s homemade ice cream, along with a few of my homemade pizzas. During the conversation afterward, I remember Brooke’s vulnerability as she shared a bit more with us about her difficulties with the faith. 

 

As I had done so many times before, I remember sharing with her my feelings about the Book of Mormon. I also made some reference to the feelings of the Holy Ghost.

 

I will never forget the sincere, forlorn tone of Brooke’s response to my testimony, saying something to the effect of, “That’s really good for you, Aaron.” In perhaps the politest way possible, she was conveying that my approach wasn’t going to be helpful for her.

 

The next day, my continued thoughts about that conversation found their way into my journal: 

I’ve thought lots today about our evening conversation with the Shaws, and Brooke’s difficulty with faith. I keep coming back to what feels best for me: doing what I can to try to be like Jesus.

Sushi and Serious Questions

 

It would be months until our next visit together. One Sunday, however, my ears perked up in Sacrament meeting as I heard Brooke’s name announced over the pulpit: she had been released from her youth Sunday School calling. And adding to the intrigue, she hadn’t been issued a different calling to take its place.

 

I couldn’t help wondering what part Brooke’s faith difficulties had played in her release. I wanted to ask, but it didn’t feel appropriate.

 

At least not yet. In late November 2020, we ventured out for another double date — sushi (which I had tried for years to like). After exchanging sufficient pleasantries, I finally got around to asking that question that had been on my mind for months. Brooke seemed to expect it, and she confirmed that she had asked for a release because of her faith crisis.

 

Serious conversation followed, and I remember Brooke and Mat sharing with us, among other things, their growing difficulties with Joseph Smith, polygamy, and even tithing (Mat shared his research that only a minuscule percentage of tithing donations — pennies on the dollar — actually go toward charitable causes).

 

I remember wanting and trying to be supportive. At the same time, though, I felt a growing ache and emptiness at the thought of Mat and Brooke pulling away from the church — of no longer being “temple worthy” (you have to be a full-tithe player to be eligible to enter the temple).

 

I also remember not having answers as they gave more and more details about their growing concerns. At points during the dinner and afterward, the lack of answers felt more disconcerting to me than it had ever felt before.

 

Afterward, I noted briefly in that night’s journal entry that the Shaws “left me with lots to think about on their own journeys of faith and cognitive dissonance. It was a good talk.”

 

The next day, though, I described having slept “fitfully” that night and “thinking deeply about the concerns raised by the Shaws in our visit last night.” I then summarized my familiar resolution to concerns with the faith: 

What I’ve come to (again) is just how much I want charity, to move toward the Holy Ghost’s companionship and the peace that accompanies it. That is my aim. That is my religion.

 

Two days later, though, our dinner conversation was still weighing on me, and I described still trying to “sort through” the difficulties I was encountering:

 

It’s almost like I have to work through everything all over again to figure out what is real, what is true, and what I believe and why. It’s terribly unsettling, but maybe there’s something to the whole notion of being unsettled and it eventually leading to a more firm foundation (and allowing you to better empathize with others in similar difficulties). The Holy Ghost really does seem to mean everything.

 

Even a week later, my journal still makes mention of feeling anxious, and that “residual questions following dinner with the Shaws” partially accounted for why I felt on edge.

Mexican Food and More Questions

 

The next month, we met the Shaws for another dinner date — this time at Red Iguana in Salt Lake City.

 

I wish I could remember all of the details of that pivotal evening. I do remember that as we waited outside for a table, Mat shared that a prominent Mormon podcaster had been recently excommunicated, purportedly for exposing several blatantly false statements by apostle Jeffrey R. Holland (including one in the Book of Mormon sermon I quoted above in my email to Bryan). 

 

That didn’t make any sense to me: Why would Holland lie? And if, by some chance he did, why would the church excommunicate the podcaster simply for exposing the truth of his lies? Why wouldn’t Holland be the one in trouble? 

 

I just didn’t see how that could be true.

 

As we got a table and the evening progressed, we talked about all sorts of things, including more of the Shaws faith concerns — concerns they seemed to be working through in real time. We talked late into the night, and in my journal afterward, I made only the brief notation that our conversation left me “more confused than when the evening started.”

 

That night, though, I again slept fitfully, unsettled by the conversation. And as I got up (early) the next morning, I immediately began wrestling with lots difficult thoughts.

 

Throughout the day, I retreated to the sources that had usually brought comfort. That evening, I noted how those sources had pulled me back toward “my inclinations to move toward what feels best. To allow for the messiness of mortality and for mistakes by a fallen people living in a fallen world trying to move toward God.”

 

But as to the specifics of the concerns the Shaws had raised, I had no answer:

 

I can't resolve the doubts and thorny historical issues in doctrine and the practice of early (and modern) church leaders. I can feel with those for whom these doubts seem to consume their faith. I wrestle with these same doubts as they're shared, seeming to absorb and take them on myself. And when I can't resolve them, I feel [the same sort of darkness I felt] this morning. And then I keep trying to move forward the best way I know how, trying to find my way (or my way back) toward what feels best, toward feelings I associate with the Holy Ghost or God's presence. Those feelings settle and comfort me. They lift me and seem to draw me nearer to the God I want to worship and who I'm trying to learn to emulate. Those feelings give life meaning and hope and reassurance that all will be well. 

 

I've noted before that this, increasingly, is becoming my religion, my barometer of truth and the propriety of a course of thought or action. 

 

I continued in this same entry:

 

I don't have answers for [Mat’s] doubts. He's looked at things more carefully than I have. He's also more troubled by the apparent mistakes of past church leaders and some of their promulgated doctrine. I feel like a simpleton, by comparison, appreciating the feelings of the Holy Ghost and wanting, above all, to move toward Christ and to help others to do the same. 

 

I would write further, but this time, there was no catharsis:   

 

I don't want to be consumed by doubts. I want to have clear answers, and I don't, even when I acknowledge the messiness of mortality and the fallen nature of man and this world. I am working to figure this out, and I am uncomfortable. 

Mat & Brooke Shaw, Michelle & Aaron Clark - April 2021

Increasingly Unsettled

 

In the days that followed, my mornings would get earlier and earlier. One morning, unable to sleep any further, I was up at 3:30 am and reading anxiously from the Book of Mormon. I also reviewed key moments from a church worldwide devotional in 2018 (also on addressing church history and Book of Mormon issues). The answers provided at that fireside had seemed so compelling at the time. Now, in the face of Mat and Brooke’s concerns, they felt decidedly less satisfying. 

 

It was not all darkness at this point, though. Sometimes, my difficult thoughts and feelings would give way to moments of "electricity" as I read and remembered certain passages in the Book of Mormon. No other source seemed to bring me closer to God.

 

The internal back and forth continued for months. And it seemed like every time I would lift with Mat or we visited with Mat and Brooke, they had new ideas they wanted to talk through (especially after Mat started reading Sapiens). I could put on a brave face for Mat’s questions in the moment, but within a day or two, I’d be writing in my journal again about familiar themes: feeling unmoored spiritually, questioning what I could trust in (and why), and feeling guilt and shame over the very fact that I was questioning things at all.  

 

By mid-February 2019, the internal battles had gone on long enough that I finally opened up to Michelle about how I was feeling. Given the level of dysfunction in our marriage at that point, the admission reflected a significant level of desperation. That night I wrote in my journal the following:

 

I don't know that I'm wrestling with a belief in God. That might just be an almost innate part of who I am at this point. And I have to — have to — believe that there is purpose in life's difficulties and injustices, in the hard things we all bear to some degree or another. 

 

But I still feel rattled enough that I've wondered who/what it is I'm praying to and what He looks like. Mat Shaw's question the other night seemed to lead me there. Yes — there is a bit of frustration and guilt associated with those feelings of confusion. 

 

This morning I felt anxious and uncertain. What can I trust? How do I know what I can trust? What do I believe and why? 

 

I've caught myself even wondering this morning how I know that Jesus is the "sure foundation" (Hel. 5:12) on which to build my life. How can I seriously be questioning that? Given all that I've experienced and felt? And yet I feel uncertain all over the place. 

 

I feel uncertain about the Book of Mormon's historicity, even as I've been continually drawn to it as a source bringing me closer to God, and even as I find it almost impossible to believe that Joseph Smith wrote it. I feel uncertain about President Nelson and President Oaks. The church's position on LGBTQ issues seems largely out of step with where my heart leads me. It feels wrong. So does polygamy and Joseph's and the early church's connection to it. I don't see how it did or could align with something I imagine the God that I worship sanctioning, much less commanding. It leaves me shaking my head.

 

Michelle’s Growing Concerns

 

In mid-March 2019, Michelle texted out of the blue that she, too, was having trouble working through concerns about the faith. She worried that none of it was real, and that she wouldn’t get to see her father again.

 

Her text surprised me, and it left a pit in my stomach — Michelle had always presented as the more spiritually assured of the two of us.

 

A few days later, in another visit with the Shaws (that went past midnight), Michelle was now the one airing her growing concerns with the church, with faith generally. Mat and Brooke were so reassuring, and it was obvious to me how important it was that Michelle had trustworthy, supportive friends to talk things through with. 

 

The discussion, though, left me reeling internally. Our marriage difficulties aside, Michelle’s seemingly steady faith had helped anchor me in belief as I had wrestled against doubts in the months prior.  

 

My Own Pleas for Help

 

A few days later, I went to the temple (for what would be the second to last time ever), seeking to be close to God. More aware now than ever of issues with the endowment ceremony, I saw everything with new eyes. I paid closer attention to the presentation and ceremony than I had in some time, trying to make sense of it all in light of Michelle’s doubts and our conversations with the Shaws.

 

I noted that it felt good for me to be there, and it seemed like a good thing. But as I sat in the session trying to reconcile everyone else’s difficulties, too, I also had the feeling that maybe the temple wasn’t essential.

 

That, at least, was my generous attempt at synthesizing everything weighing on me.

 

Not long after, it felt like time to reach out to some trusted friends from law school. In an email that quickly summarized my developing faith, I shared with them a handful of my concerns: 

 

In no particular order, those concerns deal with Joseph Smith’s supposedly inspired practice of polygamy (and the problematic parts of D&C 132), the historicity of the Book of Mormon (and I love so much about the Book of Mormon), the whole notion of priesthood authority, and the claim to being the one true church. On top of that, the church just seeming to get a bunch of fundamental things wrong (from my perspective). It’s been enough that I’ve lately had to reassess completely what I believe and why and what I can still hold confidence in. 

 

I asked for their guidance — how had they worked through some of these historical and doctrinal issues in the faith?

 

Of course, I was asking because I still believed (and expected) there were authentic grounds for holding onto something at the core of Mormonism. At least some of our core beliefs had to be "true," right?

 

But, for as much internal conflict as I had experienced up to that point, it paled in comparison to what was coming next.