There But For Fortune

This morning my mom and I were discussing all the world’s problems, as we do. (Solved. Every one of them. Who knew it was so easy?)

My mother and I were discussing what it means to be a terrorist.

What causes terrorism? An imbalance of power and an underdog fighting for their own cause. 

It’s incels and white supremacists feeling that they are losing power in their own futures, and bringing guns into it. But it’s also District 13 in the Hunger Games, with Katniss Everdeen, fighting for the rights of their children to stop being sacrificed as political pawns. 

Being a “terrorist” simply means you don’t belong to the party in power, and you’re willing to fight against that power. History is written by the victors. “Terrorists” are defined by those same victors - but that doesn’t mean they’re right. 

After all, wasn’t throwing tea into that harbor an act of terrorism? 

You can weigh out good and evil by your own moral judgements, but ultimately, the other side has their own moral judgements and reasonings in opposition to your own. 

Watching the news this morning I saw an awful lot of usage of the word “terrorist.” As a Millennial kid who grew up following 9/11, I also heard a lot of the word “terrorist.” For us, the word is emotionally charged, with many connotations. But perhaps we need to see the word in a different light. Perhaps we need to use that word with a different understanding, when it comes to appreciating motive. Terrorists are not motivated simply by destruction for chaos’ sake. 

I watched an interview, once, with a woman who had gone undercover for the United States Government, seeking intel on “terrorists.” She said something that has stuck with me more than a decade later, that changed the way I saw and did literally everything. She said, “No one is the bad guy in their own story.” She was undercover with a group of people that she talked to, that she understood, and she appreciated where they were coming from and what they were fighting for. We can disagree, but ultimately, terrorists have their reasons, too.

I bought a peace sign necklace the other night, considering the current status of the world and my feelings. I envied the songs of my mother’s generation and the powerful lyrics that have changed minds and inspired a time dedicated to peace. “Last night I had the strangest dream I’ve ever had before. I dreamed that all the world agreed to put an end to war.” “Red, white, and blue, and the victory sweet, but we left him to die like a tramp on the street.” “How many years can some people exist before they’re allowed to be free? Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn’t see?” “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us and the world will live as one.”

Ceasefire. I’ve seen the call for it, and I have to agree. “We can’t bomb our way to peace.”

I was listening to more of my mother’s hippie music tonight, while watching dishes, and was shook when I listened to the lyrics of yet another song I knew by heart, from years of my mother singing, but had never fully digested. 

“Show me the country where the bombs had to fall. Show me the ruins of the buildings once so tall.

And I’ll show you a young land with so many reasons why there but for fortune go you and I.”

We are not so different from each other, as humans. One flap of a butterfly’s wing, a twist of fate, could make us bankrupt, or refugees, all. 

There are things that even I would fight for. There are things I would kill for.

There but for fortune. 

It’s only been fortune.

All The Same

 The weekend started with a wedding… *cue church bells*

A MORMON wedding… *cue organ*

…reception. *Cue the sweet, smooth jazz of Michael Buble.*

My little brother got married in California last week, and I flew out to attend their Utah reception. It was wonderful to see my family again, after living thousands of miles away, and to meet a brand new sister-in-law! Overall, it was a day filled with laughter, insomuch that I feared for my bladder, due to having too many babies too recently, and that was quite a stressful thing to be worrying about when I was trying to win over the heart of my baby nephew, to whom I was “new.” (I did it, by the way. I knew it when he put his hand out for a high-five.)

The reception was lovely. I saw cousins and aunts I hadn’t seen in a good long time. I apologized, over and over again, for not having brought my children and husband with me. ExPenSiVe.

I was delighted to dote on the nieces and nephews, however, while taking absolutely zero responsibility for their behaviors when they climbed scaffolding and poked the decorative cacti. I haven’t spent a night “childless” since I started having children over seven years ago. This was quite an exciting lack of child-management. 

Like the incredible weight of loneliness you feel, returning home from a mission and going companionless for the first time, however, it was equal weight “freedom” and “shock.” Who would I describe all the things to, if there was no baby around? Who would give me purpose? No man.

Flying adrift, I had to… make conversation. With adults. (Trust me, I tried to make conversation with the kids, first, for as long as possible.)

An unnamed “other” and I had plotted to bring in flasks, as ex-Mormons are wont to do, at a Mormon wedding. I discovered, unfortunately, that this person’s taste in alcohol was “hand sanitizer,” and so I had to seek out that warm, chest full of comfort, elsewhere. There was one man I knew was up to the task. I could tell because he was drinking a drink that was a color not currently being offered at the party.

My Uncle Milan is a lovely man - may he never find that I’ve written this. Milan has two rules: 1) If anybody asks, we’re not related, and 2) … I honestly can’t remember, but he repeated it to several of the nieces and nephews throughout the evening. There are definitely two rules. But the second rule is definitely not “no drinking.”

I brought my cup with me, to sit next to him at his table. It was awkward. I’ve never had to covertly ask anyone for alcohol before. There are first times for everything, when you’re an ex-Mormon. I figured out I had to sit next to him and put the cup underneath the table while he emptied a “cute” amount of liquid into it. (I am more of a wine drinker than a shot-glass user, so it was totes adorbs.)

Thankfully, Milan has good taste, and the drink did not taste like I’d wandered into an overly aggressive hospital. (Was it whiskey? I THINK it was whiskey?)

I was overwhelmed, suddenly. Not knowing how to express it, or what exactly to say, I said something like, “It’s really great to just sit here and drink, with you, like a heathen.”

Thankfully, Milan understood what I was saying, or at least gave my lack of eloquence the benefit of the doubt. “We’re hardly heathens,” he replied. “You know, we’re all about the same, really.”

My Uncle Milan is a Burning Man kind of man. I knew, looking at him, that he was immediately ready to understand and relate to the deep, profound feelings I was having, in that moment. When he said, “We’re all the same,” I knew that was truly saying that. And I felt tearful!

“I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that.”

We then proceeded to talk about work, and retirement.

I was able to apologize to my never-Mormon Uncle for the years I spent seeing him as “someone else.” 

It’s difficult to explain to someone who has never been a part of an organization like the Mormon church. As a Mormon, you very much are trained to have an “us versus them” mentality. Nobody’s parents are doing it on purpose, but it’s in the way that they stress having missionary efforts with your neighbors and friends. 

People who aren’t in the church aren’t as happy as you are. People in the “world” don’t “understand.” They’re not as smart as you. They may laugh, but when they go home at night, they are missing the profound peace that comes ONLY from being baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and receiving the Gift of the Holy Ghost.

Uncle Milan had patiently endured having some stuck-up, self-righteous niece who was afraid of him because he drank beer. But all that time, he’d been my equal, and I his. (I think he understood the baggage that Mormons have, in that regard, with relationships with others. He lives in Utah, after all.) 

That was the highlight of my evening. Folks? In Mormon-speech, I received revelation and insight. I felt the Spirit whisper greater light and knowledge to my heart. Folks? I felt really really grateful to have been able to have that conversation. It’s painful, growing up, and being humbled is good for you. My Uncle Milan was ready to see me, in that moment of growth, and I felt, for the first time, that I really understood him, and that I really connected with him. He doesn’t bite kids or hold them upside-down because he’s sadistic. He’s actually not scary at all. 

The next day, I went adventuring. 

I set aside DAYS extra, onto this trip to Utah. Understand, I came for the reception, but since I was already spending the money, I had some things I needed to do.

See, I’d been visiting old Mormon historic sites and blogging about them to fulfill my own psychological needs for processing my religious trauma, and there was one site in Utah that I had missed.

Mountain Meadows.

I had watched videos. I had read books. And I was ready.

DID YOU KNOW: Alaska. It’s a fun fact. Alaska was sold by the Russians to the United States. Seward’s Folly, this was. (I know about this, because I did a school report on Alaska, when I was a kid. I had to draw it, and it was very hard.) 

A NOT insignificant portion of the justification for the sale of this land, however, was because the Russians heard rumor that the Mormons may be fleeing Utah, as the Federal Government was after them (again.) The Mormons had their potential sights on Alaska! 

FUN FACT!

(The Russians were like, “Hell no!”)

See, the federal government was zeroing in on the Mormons. The Mormons were kind of insurrectionists, kind of sex traffickers with women from Europe and polygamy, and kind of just creating a theocratic DEFINITELY not democracy. That was kind of threatening, and the government wasn’t thrilled.

Brigham Young responded to the federal government’s crack down by doubling down himself. He was vocal about his opinion that emigrants should not feel safe traveling through Utah. Did he order anyone to be killed? Not white emigrants, personally, that I’m aware of. (Just the Timpanogos and stuff…)

John D Lee, down near Mountain Meadows, took Brigham Young’s opinion to heart, and very much was an over-achiever. Emigrants would NOT feel safe while he was on the lookout, no sir. He encouraged the local Paiutes to kill and rob. I mean, just go for it!

Enter the California-bound wagon train from Arkansas. Unfortunately for Lee’s plans, the Paiutes were not as interested in this game of “murder,” as he had hoped. So he ordered local Mormons to dress like Paiutes and shoot at the wagon train. They killed seven and wounded more. Over the course of five days, the emigrants were running out of fresh water, food, and ammunition, as the Mormons lay siege.

The Mormons put themselves in a situation where they felt like they had to complete a job. They’d killed people simply for traveling through. If they’d killed SOME…logic follows… 

Refusing to admit when you are wrong is a damn, cruel thing.

On September 11th, 1857, the Mormon militia approached the wagon encirclement dressed as MORMONS. They came as friends. They convinced the company to surrender their weapons and stated that they would lead the women, children, and wounded out of the valley first, so the “Paiutes” would see and know not to fire. Then the men could come out, and the Mormons, who had an “agreement with the Paiutes” would accompany them for safety.

When the Mormons reached an agreed upon spot, the call was given, to “Do your duty.” The Mormons fired upon the group of men, killing them. 

The women and children, just ahead, heard the gunshots, and started to run. They, too, were killed, though the field where their bodies were strewn about was a lot larger, as they’d had time to run. 

Seventeen children, mostly babies, were spared. They were given to Mormon families. Their names were changed in the Mormon ordinance commonly known as a “baby blessing,” where they were given a name by which they would be known on the records of the church. It took years for the families of these children to get them back. Their loved ones back East fought for them, after word of the massacre was known, and they were eventually returned.

120 people were murdered. The church tried to cover it up. John D Lee reported to Brigham Young. When he got the vibe from Brigham Young that Young was not happy about emigrants being murdered, he tried to blame the Paiutes, and reported the lie that some of the men in the company had been a part of persecuting the saints in Missouri and Illinois. There was a prophecy about Missourians being destroyed, after all.

Jacob Hamblin, a local, found seventeen traumatized children taken into his home, after the event. When he returned to the site, he reported that the bodies were “in a state of putrification.” He counted nineteen wolves eating the bodies. “My feelings, upon this occasion, I will not attempt to describe - The gloom that seemed to diffuse itself through the air and cast a shade over the hills and vales was dismal in the extreme.” 

Jacob’s son, Albert, was a herdsman in the meadow. “He had a hard time adjusting to life again,” one described. “The Indians and the white men both claimed ‘the devil or evil spirits’ were after Albert.” The kid had PTSD. 

Jacob Hamblin didn’t bury the bodies. He decided to wait until the following summer, “when the bones had lost all their flesh.” But they didn’t get buried until May of 1859, when Major James H Carleton was given orders to bury them. He placed a pile of stones over the bodies, putting a cross over them with the inscription: “Vengeance is mine and I will repay saith the Lord.”

There are family legends of Brigham Young having the stones torn down, though there’s evidence to refute that. John D Lee recorded that Brigham told him, “The company that was used up at the Mountain Meadowes were the Fathers, Mothe[rs], Bros., Sisters & connections of those that Muerders the Prophets; they Merritd their fate, & the only thing that ever troubled him was the lives of the Women & children, but [this] could not be avoided.”

John D Lee was the guy who told Brigham Young that the Arkansas emigrants had anything to do with Mormons in Missouri and Illinois in the first place - and that was a lie. 

History lesson complete.

My experience.

I stopped in Cedar City to buy water, and looked around the little convenience/gift shop for something I could leave in memory. Flowers would be an obvious choice, but the only fake flower they had had an awful little panda on it, and I shuddered at the thought. I looked for toys. Children’s jacks? A pioneer toy? There were none. (Just lots of Trump hats, and ‘F’ Biden stuff.)

Then I found the hair bows, and knew I’d found what I was looking for. They were white, and beautiful, and when I looked at them, I imagined the little girls who would have loved to wear them in their hair. The cashier agreed that they were beautiful, and she’d love to buy some for her granddaughter.

I cried. I cried on the drive down there. It was Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. I cried because a landslide of truth brought me down. The truth is that my ancestors were a part of a system that did hideous things - things that men didn’t talk about being a part of. Things that left men on their deathbeds crying, “Blood! BLOOD! BLOOD!”

I thought of my grandfather. He may have known these people. What family secrets weren’t told, weren’t repeated, were hidden. I’ve already uncovered a few. The fact that my ancestors hid ANYTHING says they weren’t proud. I felt the weight of family trauma, and knew that my family’s trauma resulted in the deaths of innocent people.

I stopped at the “Women’s Monument.” I imagined what it would feel like to run across that sagebrush field in a dress. I crossed the road and hiked down the highway until I reached a creek bed, where I knew the women’s mass grave was. (It’s not advertised, and it’s only recently been rediscovered.) I left a hair bow on the barbed wire fence, just a hundred feet or so away from the site where their bodies still lay. The ribbons blew in the wind, and made me think of their hair in the sagebrush, and I cried. 

I cried because I slipped on a rock on the way down the creek bed and scratched up my leg, and it was bleeding. I cried because I’d been walking, and THEY had been RUNNING. I leaned on the fence post and just had an almighty bawl, while traffic carried on driving on the highway behind me. 

I don’t know if my family members killed anyone. But I honestly can’t say that I know that they didn’t. If not these people, others? SOMEONE killed them. Some Mormon like me, who was doing what he thought he had to do, and did it without questioning, with blind, unwarranted pride, because that was the only way that he could sleep at night.

…“They don’t actually know what real peace is, until they’ve been baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and received the Gift of the Holy Ghost.”…

I definitely scared some tourists, and I didn’t mean to. The parking lot at the monument overlook had about five or six cars in it, when I pulled up. I wasn’t interested in seeing the wagon encampment site, because THAT monument was put up by the church, which frankly, feels sacrilegious. (“Dammit! They found the skeletons in the closet! Better do some PR stunt so we look like good, enlightened guys here.”)

The overlook had over ten tourists. There were families huddled in groups, looking out over the field where it happened. There were a lot of men in modest shorts and shirts, folding their arms over their bellies as they read the list of names of victims, and mumbling, “So sad.” There were elderly women, reading every sign available along the path, also frowning. 

Then there was me. I was looking at the field. I was looking at the geography I had studied and mapped out in advance. There was the encampment, yes, but there was the valley where they divided the men and women. There was the tree where the call to “do your duty” was yelled, with the men’s mass grave not far from it. Then there was the creek and the road, where the women would have started running, and been scattered. They would have been running across the highway.

I was shaking. I do that. I have an essential tremor, and when I’m a little hypoglycemic and upset, the shake is pretty damned obvious. I was shaking in my shoes. I’d just bawled my eyes out further down the highway, and I was still a wreck. I had stones in my pocket, from the site, and lifetimes full of lies that I was STILL unpacking. 

I don’t know why I talked, but some girl (wearing a tank top!) asked her friend a question, so I answered it. I pointed out the locations, and talked about the mass graves that were recently discovered, but which aren’t written about at any of the site locations. And I COULD NOT stop shaking. My voice shook. I did my best to sound factual, but I’m pretty sure it was obvious that I was about to lose it again.

People left, and when it was just me and an elderly couple, I sat on a bench to read the names. I had another hair bow in my pocket I intended to leave behind, but didn’t want to do it in front of the couple. Embarrassed, I guess. Didn’t want to look like a sentimental litter-er?

The woman had heard me describing the site, so she asked me why it had happened. I gave a brief history lesson, like I gave you, about the federal government and the culture surrounding Brigham Young’s distrust, while DEFENDING that son-of-a-lovely woman to these strangers - that he hadn’t ordered this. They thanked me.

We clarified that the emigrants were from Arkansas, traveling to California, (Not even interested in staying in Utah!) to which the husband responded, “Who would even want to go to California!”

“Oh, it was quite the happening place at the time. I happen to like California.” I defended.

“Oh, WE’RE from California,” the wife explained. “We got out of there.”

“Politics!,” the husband stated dramatically.

I was not ready, and yet I was so ready, all at the same time. I gave him a level stare, and stated, “I happen to like the politics in California,” in a very clear way that shut him down.

What I WANTED to say was, “When you create divisions between groups of people, massacres like THIS happen! When you pretend that we’re different, when you pretend that you’re smarter and better, you can justify any kind of shit against anybody, but we are ALL THE SAME. We are ALL THE SAME. Me, you, Uncle Milan, John the Baptist, and bloody Ulysses S Grant! We are ALL THE SAME.

“I have done terrible things, and I have believed terrible things, and I have said terrible things. But I have never ONCE regretted those rare moments when I can look at someone completely different than me, and TRUST them, and give them the benefit of the doubt, and believe that they are as good and capable as me, and that we all feel the same feelings of sadness and happiness, and we are ALL THE SAME.

“I don’t regret that. Because I can tell by what you’re saying that you’re “Team Trump” just like the woman at the convenience store in Cedar City was, but she loved those hair bows that those massacred Arkansas women would have loved, too! She loved them, too. I know we are capable of coming together! I know that we can! Stop doing this! Just stop!”

I didn’t say any of that part, though. They just kind of nodded and left.

We are all the same. I’m going to do better at seeing that.

Songs That Have Meant Something

I have a playlist on my phone, with songs that I’ve gradually added to it over the years. The first song I added to the playlist was “Machine” by Imagine Dragons. Today I added “Roll Away Your Stone” by Mumford and Sons.

The playlist is called “Mormon Liberation.”

With the exception of Imagine Dragons and Tyler Glenn, none of the artists in my playlist used to be Mormon. Obviously, those two made of the majority of my playlist, in the beginning. I felt their music and the lyrics to their songs acutely. But today’s addition is different.

I haven’t listened to Mumford and Sons for many years. And the last time I listened to their music, I was quite solidly a Mormon.

I used to sing “Roll Away Your Stone” in the shower, when I was on my mission. I remember that London apartment, the rare, ten minutes I got to myself, in the bathroom, and how badly I missed good music. I missed singing, which I’ve always felt shy about, and only done under duress in public, for many years. But I missed my good music, up there in Canada. I missed it, and went through songs I knew and sang by heart to myself in my car, prior to the mission field. “Roll Away Your Stone,” I figured, was close enough to religious. Surely I, as a missionary, could sing that.

And I did. Somehow I managed to make some awesome rocking music a little sweeter. Less drums and stringy banjos. More just, basic, alto.

“Roll away your stone, I’ll roll away mine. Together we can see what we will find. Don’t leave me alone at this time For I’m afraid of what I will discover inside.”

If you read the lyrics to me now, however, this song does not push the Mormon agenda. To me, in honesty, hearing this song come up on a shuffle of “music you might like,” I listened to the lyrics, again, and heard, once more, my Mormon Liberation. 

“You told me that I would find a hole Within the fragile substance of my soul.” (They did.)

“And I have filled this void with things unreal And all the while my character it steals.” (I filled it with Mormonism, and it absolutely did steal my character.)

“Stars, hide your fires. These here are my desires and I will give them up to you this time around. And so, I’ll be found, with my stake stuck in this ground, marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul… You have neither reason nor rhyme with which to take this soul that is so rightfully mine.”

All of the songs on my playlist are like this - full of words that ring true to a heart that’s gone through something grieving and expansive. 

“I’m down on my knees. I’m begging you please. There’s no place in heaven for someone like me. Won’t you open the door and try me once more? Cause there’s no place in heaven for someone like me.”

“So throw your sticks and throw your stones ‘cause you ain’t gonna break my bones. If I’m a sinner then I don’t feel ashamed. Life goes on, and if I’m wrong, I guess I’ll burn in flames. Been up the river, and I’ve been down the drain. Life goes on, and if I’m wrong, I guess I’ll burn in flames.”

“It comes and goes in waves. It always runs back, but it’s never quite the same… When it pulls me under, will you make me stronger? Will you be my breath through the deep, deep water? Take me farther, give me one day longer. Will you be my breath through the deep, deep water? When I’m sinking like a stone, at least I know I’m not alone.”

“We were always made for love. We could always speak in tongues… I think of you whenever I see fire in the sky.”

“Oh, I am tired of abiding by your rules. Causing me to second guess My every single move. You don’t know who I am Or what I have been through, no. So don’t dare tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, ‘cause Not here to lose. Not here for you to choose How who we should be ‘Cause we’re not part of your machine.”

“I was born in that summer when the sun didn’t shine. I was given a name that doesn’t feel like it’s mine. Lived my life as the good boy I was told I should be. Prayed every night to a religion that was chosen for me.”

“Just take that dark cloud, wring it out to wash it down, but Don’t pray for us. We don’t need no Modern Jesus to roll with us. The only rule we need is never givin’ up. The only faith we have is faith in us.”

I remember when I got my first tattoo, driving home on my own, I listened to that first liberation song, Imagine Dragons’ “Machine,” and I cried. 

“Cause I’ve been wondering When you’re gonna see I’m not for sale. I’ve been questioning When you gonna see I’m not a part of your machine. Not a part of your machine… All my life been sittin’ at the table.”

I was mad, and so SO proud of myself, for doing something that felt like a permanent way of owning myself, for the first time in my life. 

As with grief, what it looks like changes from day to day. The angry, triumphant victory of Machine turned to the sorrowing grief of “Burn Out.”

“Sadness is my enemy. I fear time will age him gently. Walkin’ by my side for all these years, Seems that we’ve grown friendly. Happiness is beautiful to see. Won’t you box it up for me? For me? Oh, give me strength and give me peace. Does anyone out there want to hear me? 

It’s just another downpour, don’t let it get the best of you. It’s only up from the floor, light everything inside of you. Don’t burn out, don’t burn out on me. Don’t burn out, Don’t burn out on me.”

“God, I could never be like you. I can’t change, I can’t change and I don’t want to. I’ve been on the run, so I’m not coming Sunday. It’s alright. I’ll probably talk to you at midnight.”

“I might be jaded and delusional But at least I found a home inside my head. This is for all those dreams I believed in. This is for all those doubts in my mind. This is a wild wild world that we live in. I won’t let anyone tell me I won’t survive. I’ll be just fine. I’ll be just fine.”

“I hung my heart out to dry On rooftops under blue skies. No, I never would have grown if I’d never been alone So when I find myself, I’ma bring it on home.”

When you go through grief, you find it everywhere. You find it in songs. You find the anger, the loss, the acceptance, the peace, the isolation, the denial, bargaining, panic, hope.

Losing your religion causes grief. Grief is messy, and I’m grateful for the musicians who have helped me put words to my thoughts, and music to my emotions, every single day.

“I found myself when I lost my faith.”

Presenting the Message

I debated if this was even worth mentioning, let alone devoting a blog post to, so know this one’s gonna be quick. 

On Saturday my family went back to Nauvoo. Are we gluttons for punishment? Perhaps I am. Perhaps there were geodes twenty minutes away. Perhaps there was root beer we missed last time. Perhaps I didn’t get my hands on one of the “Nauvoo” tourist bricks that I’ve so desperately coveted since I didn’t get one last year. Whatever the reason, I wanted to go back.

This time, we went to Nauvoo when everything was open. There were other families wandering around, Community of Christ buildings were open, and we even managed to wander onto a wagon ride!

Seeing sites presented by Mormons, and sites presented by Community of Christ members was… enlightening. And I wanted to talk about that.

One of the first rules they told us, getting on our wagon ride, was, “Photographs are encouraged! But please no videos or audio!” She also stressed multiple times that she wanted us to save our questions for the end, and just listen.

My husband and I shared a suspicious glances, though respected the requests. Instead, we just paid extra close attention to what was being taught. Because, guaranteed, if they don’t want you being able to quote them, what they’re saying is important.

1. They stressed twice that Joseph Smith was jailed despite… *checks notes* “He did absolutely nothing wrong.” 
2. The road which led to the Mississippi River crossing was renamed the “Trail of Hope” by Gordon B Hinckley. This is nothing other than purely inspiring, because of how optimistic the Mormons’ futures would be, and definitely had nothing to do with the fact that they had been calling it the “Trail of Tears.” … O_o
3. “Brigham Young and his wife...” 

That last one is always worth a good laugh. They’ve pulled that one with Brigham Young quite a bit. Teachings of the President Brigham Young, in particular, used that line a lot. 

The whole ride, as an ex-Mormon amateur historian, was wildly entertaining, and would have been more entertaining if we hadn’t been wrestling a baby who was intrigued by horses drawing a wagon for about the first five minutes, and increasingly less so for the last twenty-five.

Suspiciously, though, I don’t know if it was the fact that I was wearing a top that showed my shoulders - scandalous - but generally, their treatment of us was… frightened. Again, I was on my best behavior and didn’t say a word. But they called a couple sister missionaries “on their lunch breaks” to come sit behind us on the wagon ride, as if to keep us under control. Not to talk to us, but to watch us? To stop us from angrily interrupting the tour? Because we’d expressly been told not to talk.

Once we were off the wagon, I did have a question for the tour guide sister, though.

“I noticed the brickyard is closed! We were hoping to get one of those Nauvoo bricks! Where do we go to find those?”

So yes, I jolly well did go to the center to watch the brick demonstration. And I learned how to make bricks, thank you very much. But again? No missionaries running up to volunteer to help us. We had to ask. It was all very… tense.

Then we went to the Red Brick Store, where Community of Christ runs the show. 

We were met with rows and rows of “anti-Mormon literature” books for sale, metal buttons that said “Joseph Smith for President!” And just as many stating “Emma Smith for President!” We laughed with the ladies behind the counters - It’s funny because… he DID run for President… 

They leaned into the honest, frank humor of the history, right along with us. We laughed with them about how we’d just learned about “Brigham Young’s WIFE,” and purchased harmonicas and matching red bonnets for the baby and me. And root beer. Danged good root beer.

Community of Christ stopped trying to hide from their history decades ago. They learned from it, and moved on. Mormonism continues, desperately, to try and hide their history, while simultaneously trying to inspire their membership by a white-washed version of it. And it has made them stiff and scared. 

I was a woman who wanted a brick and some cheap weekend entertainment for my kids, as well as a drive along the Mississippi. I didn’t intend to raise Hell. But by merely existing outside the status quo, with tattoos and shoulders, Hell I raised. (Literally. Sister missionaries babysitting us on the wagon ride, as backup.) 

Thank you, Mormonism, and most especially Community of Christ, for reminding me that authenticity is important. That comfort with yourself and your past is what makes for good company. 

Back to Church

Don’t let the title deceive you. This isn’t happening.

But it did for one day.

A couple weeks ago I kept having this nagging “prompting.” That’s the Mormon word for it, and I’m happy to use that word. After all, I still believe in a higher intelligence that is happy to communicate. 

So, I kept feeling prompted to go to church. 

As an ex-Mormon, this was troubling. 

FIRST, I felt prompted to leave the Mormon church, too.

SECOND, I know far too much to ever be happy in a Mormon church ever again.

THIRD, I have very good reasons for keeping my family AWAY from Mormonism. 

Why on earth was I feeling prompted, then, to go to church? 

Saturday night I confessed my desires to attend church to my husband. As he is ALSO an ex-Mormon, the conversation went something like this: 

Me: “I really want to go to church on Sunday.”

Nathan: “Okay, that’s fine.”

Me: “I mean the MORMON church. I want to go to church on Sunday.”

Nathan: *begins sweating intensely, while trying to seem supportive.* “Um… okay. Is that like…”

Me: “I would go by myself. I don’t want my kids anywhere near it.”

Nathan: *visibly relaxes* “Okay. But, why do you want to go?”

Me: “I don’t know. I just really want to.”

I went to bed Saturday feeling pretty certain I would change my mind in the morning. But I woke up bright and early, and still eager. So I put on a dress, and headed out the door.

The last time I was in a church building was in 2020. My husband had told me he didn’t believe anymore, but attended with me and kids anyway. He suffered through priesthood lessons about “unhappy non-believers” - a lesson that seemed catered exclusively to him, as I’d made the mistake of telling the bishop about him mentally stepping away. We made the decision to move just weeks after that. As someone clutching to the church, at that time, having the church disrespect my husband like that made any hope of religious belonging impossible, there. Then Covid hit.

We moved into a new ward during the pandemic, so we never attended church in the building. I zoomed several services, but thanks to distance during the apocalypse, I’d had the break I needed to evaluate my feelings and own personal beliefs. I saw hypocrisy, and after watching zoom church one day where person after person bore their testimony about the BISHOP, I realized I couldn’t do it - not here.

Then, as I said earlier, I had the promptings to leave. The final break was finding I was pregnant with a girl. That was it, then. It was over. For her, I could do it. We resigned. I didn’t want ANY ties between my daughter and the Mormons - not even being a “child of record.”

We moved to Missouri, then, and never attended.

In college, an FHE brother paid me the sincere compliment that, “You don’t ACT like a Utah Mormon.” I’d appreciated it immensely at the time. But I pondered as I was driving to the church, here in Missouri, that I had no idea what to expect. Would these people be completely different than what I typically expected at church? 

Pulling into the parking lot, I saw that they weren’t very different at all. Women with perfect long hair. Girls in puffy, sweet dresses. Heels on the moms. Ties on the boys. 

All I saw was women trying VERY VERY hard. I put suspenders on my boys, for church, too. I remember that work. And I told myself I was happy, looking prim on Sundays. They were all trying SO hard.

I don’t know how I made it into the church unnoticed. The same familiar scratchy carpet walls. The identical white Jesus paintings in the foyer. 

I sat in the overflow, which wasn’t exactly empty, and managed to avoid the missionaries, as they were part of the group passing the sacrament. No one else greeted me. I had a line prepared, and everything. “I’m just here for academic purposes.” 

Was it purely academia? 

I’d never given Missouri church a chance. But, turned out, Missouri church was still Mormon church. 

I wondered why I’d felt prompted to go to church. The first speaker was all the answer I needed.

I needed to attend my Missouri ward to remind myself, and assure potential future me, just how much this place was NOT, nor would it EVER be a refuge for me, or a resource - even just for community.

The entire first talk was devoted to convincing themselves that non-Mormons and ex-Mormons, like myself, will never truly be happy. I took notes:

“Where do our brothers and sisters who do not attend any church find their peace?”

“Peace comes from obedience to the commandments of God, which commandments are not a few.”

“The gift of peace is given after we have the faith to keep His commandments.”

“I think those that don’t attend church abide in a lesser level of peace and community.” 

         (- Okay, but for the record, that point got me. “A lesser level of community,” is my number one             complaint, after leaving Mormonism. But it’s not like the Mormon church is doing anything to fix that - by giving talks and addresses like this, assuring Mormons that exes and nonmembers are unhappy and broken. Then you never have a chance of mutually respectful relationships with the people from your past.)

“A lot of people who are not a part of a Christian community are wracked by guilt.”

“This (peace) is something the secular world can never offer.”

The real kicker was when the speaker took the movie Nacho Libre, and drew a TERRIBLY incorrect conclusion. I know this, because I LOVE Nacho Libre. 

The speaker described a conversation Nacho has with Steven, his faithful sidekick. Steven tells Nacho he doesn’t believe in God. He believes in Science. And he doesn’t even like the orphans.

Later in the movie, Steven smiles and says that he feels differently now. He likes the orphans!

At no point does Steven say that he believes in God now. Steven learned to love the orphans without listening to a single sermon about God. But the speaker at church stated that Steven’s turn around was because he came to believe in Jesus. 

NOT TRUE.

Fact. Secularists and even atheists can, and DO, love the orphans.

Turns out, the Mormons are alive and well in convincing themselves that everyone who believes differently than them is suffering, and not “really” happy.

Turns out, the Mormons are still fixated on trying to find happiness by earning it, through keeping commandments, rather than doing as the Bible states: “Be still and know that I am God.” 

The greatest peace I ever found was when I acknowledged that I am who I am. I am a good person. I was not born in sin. I am not so horrible that I need to be saved from hellfire. I am known for who and what I was made to be and am. 

“When we do what we are supposed to do, He [God] is bound as well.”

Mormons have a transactional Jesus - a God that must be bought and manipulated to provide peace, through our good behavior. 

After the closing prayer I left before anyone would have the chance to catch me. I left, and went to my favorite coffee shop down the road. I drove home, changed my clothes, and played with my family for the rest of the day. 

I didn’t have to ask God for clarification. I got it, and God knew that I got it. We shared in that experience, and the knowing understanding of it, together. It was in the quiet drive, in the open window, in the cake pop I solidly devoured, taking off that dress, and the playful smiles of my children. Even in their grumpy, snotty yelling, too! 

All children are like that, after all. ALL of them have good days and bad. 

Peace is not a commodity that can be given or earned. Peace is something you can have whenever you choose to have it. Peace is found in stasis, in authenticity, in kindness. Peace is found in any number of ways, and all of those ways are different for different people.

I went to church because God told me to go. Then God reminded me that I never have to go back there again. God is not so small.

Mormons (And Ex-Mormons) in Missouri

Since moving to Missouri, I made traveling to Mormon historical sites a goal of mine. I am a lover of history, and Mormon history, in particular, has great meaning to me. So much of the history of Mormonism has affected my life, my upbringing, my culture of origin, and ultimately, my feelings about psychedelics. 

(Just kidding, but not kidding. That’s a great Mormon history rabbit hole that I will not be addressing today. I’ll just let that wet your palate, shall I?)

Mormon history, ultimately, led me to leaving Mormonism. Much of the trauma of leaving the religion of my origin had to do with “truth.” I have always been much of a “black and white” thinker. If it is true, then nothing else matters. If it is false, then it is not true, and it doesn’t matter. TRUTH has been a lifelong motivator. 

As I came to recognize that my church did not always behave morally, I wrestled with truth. If the church was TRUE - truth and authority for salvation restored by God - momentary human-wrought mistakes didn’t matter. The truth mattered, and the correct, or TRUE, method of “making it right” by God was of ultimate importance. 

Learning about the church’s history, however, convinced me this was no “restoration” act, but rather, a series of predictable, manipulative actions by an intelligent conman, carried away on his quest for power and dreams of grandeur. 

His grandeur is still spoken of, by the LDS Church. It’s in the retelling of “inspired” stories - his refusing alcohol for a leg surgery as a small child, or welcoming people off the boats of the Mississippi River into Nauvoo, personally. The LDS Church has a great vision for who their prophet is and was. Studying history gave me a different perspective on Joseph Smith Jr. Here was a man who was a tad bit lazy. He was prone to violence and lust. He didn’t seem to feel it was wrong to deceive people to achieve his own ends. 

My trip to Nauvoo was a trip to study Joseph’s lust. I wrote about that dishonesty. Heck, I’ve FELT that dishonesty, and the sexism it bred in the society and culture that followed. This last weekend, however, I took advantage of a couple school holidays and brought my children (and mother!) to visit Kansas City and church sites there. The Mormons’ experience in Missouri is a different kind of study and lesson that can be learned from. Try as I might, I can’t think of a better descriptor of the lesson than this - FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, Joseph, just SHUT UP!

To provide some history - 

New York, Kirtland Ohio, Jackson County (Independence) Missouri, Caldwell County (Far West/Adam-ondi-Ahman) Missouri, Nauvoo Illinois, Utah. (This is extremely simplified, but that’s your Mormon Locations Timeline.)

The Saints moved from Kirtland to Independence at the recommendations of Oliver Cowdery and others, who found a place on the western frontier that they felt the saints could settle, in relative safety and independence. Jackson County was already inhabited, however, and the saints arrived and immediately did not make a great impression with the locals.

Slavery was a part of it. Jackson County had slave owners. The Mormons were not huge into slavery at the time. In the “Mob Manifesto” of July 1833, which detailed the reasons behind the mob uprisings against the Mormons, they waste no time waxing long in their racist concerns regarding Mormons “inviting free negroes and mulattoes from other states to become ‘Mormons,’ and remove and settle among us.” The Jackson County citizens were rightly concerned that this would inspire their slaves to revolution. (While, simultaneously, racist-ly mentioning that “we are not prepared …to receive into the bosom of our families, as fit companions for our wives and daughters, the degraded and corrupted free negroes and mulattoes that are now invited to settle among us.”)

Hands down? This is a great reason to dislike the Jackson County locals, and side with the Mormons. No doubt, this is pretty racist and ugly, and, like I said, they didn’t mention this concern casually in the Mob Manifesto. Oh, they elaborate. This was a big deal to them.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t their only concern about the Mormons, though. They were not a fan of the Mormons’ religion. They viewed the Mormons as fanatics. They note, however, “If they had been respectable citizens in society and thus deluded, they would have been entitled to our pity rather than to our contempt and hatred.” They felt that the Mormons were lazy and idle. They felt that they had brought nothing with them to Missouri, and continued on, contributing nothing but social strife. 

“They declare openly that their God hath given them this county of land, and that sooner or later they must and will have possession of our lands for an inheritance.” 

A contemporaneous revelation from the Doctrine and Covenants stated: “Wherefore, the land of Zion shall not be obtained but by purchase or by blood, otherwise there is none inheritance for you.” (D&C 63:29). 

David Whitmer warned against the publication of this revelation, foretelling that the citizens of the county would kick them out, in defense of their families and property if it was published. Whitmer recorded that in response to his warning, Joseph and Sidney (Rigdon) laughed at him.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, Joseph, just SHUT UP. 

But no. So, sure enough, the mob kicked the saints out of the county. The Mob Manifesto addressed the desired protocol for removal - “…After timely warning, and receiving an adequate compensation for what little property they cannot take with them, they refuse to leave us in peace, as they found us - we agree to use such means as may be sufficient to remove them.”

You can debate for a long time if this was fair - and honestly, I can see both sides. The Mormons, however, were not innocent. They claimed “dibs” to land that was already inhabited, and stated that it was rightfully theirs, and they would take it “by blood” if necessary. 

I would kick that kid off of my bus, too. 

What followed was the Mormon Missouri War, and the beginning of my historical sites trip. 

The site I wanted to see more than any other? The Battle of Crooked River.

The Battle of Crooked River (October 1838) was far from the first act of aggression in this war, but it was solidly not a good one, on the part of the Mormons. It was also one that I read about, early on in my deep dive into “not LDS approved literature” history, which shattered some of the illusions for me. 

At this point, there were ex-Mormons, who were fleeing Caldwell County for their safety, from a group innocently called “The Daughters of Zion,” who would eventually be more popularly known as Danites. The Danites were formed for the purpose of driving these ex-Mormons out of their community - ex-Mormons like Oliver Cowdery and David Whitmer. The Danites swore an oath, under the direction of Joseph Smith Jr: “I do solemnly obligate myself ever to conceal, and never to reveal, the secret purposes of this society called the Daughters of Zion. Should I ever do the same, I hold my life as the forfeiture.” Thus, members of the society swore, under penalty of death, to keep their secrets. “Instruction was given by Joseph Smith Jr that if any of them should get into a difficulty, the rest should help him out; and that they should stand by each other, right or wrong.”

Joseph Smith Jr had given public addresses, noting that the Mormons “had been an injured people,” and then provided an anecdote about a captain who wanted to buy potatoes from a Dutchman, who wouldn’t sell him any. The captain charged his company, several times, “not” to touch the Dutchman’s potatoes, and by morning, the Dutchman didn’t have any potatoes left. *wink wink, nudge nudge* Joseph Smith followed it up by telling the people that “the children of God did not go to war at their own expense.”Lyman Wight, additionally, in testimony, was reported to have commented that, per the Mormon’s goals, he thought they would be in St. Louis before the end of winter, and “take it.” The Mormons were preparing for war, and not just in defense of their county. Joseph Smith had compared the church to the stone mentioned in Daniel - “the dissenters first, and the State next, was part of the image that should be destroyed by this little stone.” 

Shops were looted then set fire to in Gallatin and Millport. The Daughters of Zion set up articles which, upon reading, look very much like the beginning of constitution-like documents for a theocracy. Sidney Rigdon gave the “Salt Sermon,” which inferred the ex-Mormon dissenters were salt that had lost its savor, and should be trampled out - which Danites knew was their duty to do. Farr West was practically under marshall law, with members being told that they ought to take up arms, or lose their property. 

Lives were being threatened. According to reports, the people of Daviess County fled, as the Mormons moved on it. People were terrified, and the state militia was put on alert. Captain Samuel Bogart was given orders to protect the line between Ray and Caldwell Counties, and prevent invasion into Ray County by putting down violence or persons in arms, any means necessary.

Bogart responded by taking weapons and “hostages.” We have the names of the “hostages,” but no information about why they were being held. I am inclined to believe that they were likely threatening in some manner. To take hostages for personal, stupid reasons, seems unnecessary and unwieldy, given the circumstances. Captain Bogart would have been within his rights to suppress violence, and take violent prisoners. But the Mormons interpreted this action as cause for battle, and marched on Bogart, who, for reminder, had a “state appointed” militia. They were official. So while the Mormons had their own militia, technically, they were attacking one that was government sanctioned.

At daybreak on the 25th, 150-200 Mormons marched on Bogart’s company at the Battle of Crooked River. Ultimately, four lives were lost - three of which were Mormons, but Bogart’s company scattered when the Mormons charged on them, crossing the river. It sounds like a fairly mild battle - only four casualties - but a small action that followed, at the end of the battle, changed my mind about the goodness of the parties involved in the battle.

When my family drove to the location of the site of the Battle of Crooked River, we found the site inaccessible. An old road had completely grown over with weeds and small trees, and the field was fenced off. But, in this picture we took from the road, the battle would have taken place just behind the tree line in the background. 

The Battle of Crooked River shocked me, because of the story of Samuel Tarwater. Samuel Tarwater was a member of Bogart’s militia. Tarwater was injured, and fell unconscious. The Mormons, then, did something that I, as an active Mormon, wouldn’t have expected. They mutilated him. 

Parley P Pratt and other Danites proceeded to slit the unconscious Tarwater’s throat, break his lower jaw, and cut off his cheeks. Then they left him for dead. Tarwater did NOT die, and actually became the first person to collect a pension in the state of Missouri - $100 a year, for the injuries he sustained in the Battle of Crooked River. He died at 93, and his obituary brags that despite the Mormons mutilating him and leaving him for dead, he managed to outlive even Brigham Young! 

I was horrified to read that Parley P Pratt slit the throat of an unarmed, unconscious man, and THEN mutilated him further. That cute little Mormon missionary?!? 

Further digging into Pratt led me to discovering that he was murdered in Arkansas by the angry ex-husband of Pratt’s 12th wife, which ultimately was a contributing factor in why the Mormons treated the Arkansas migrants of the Mountain Meadows Massacre as they did. (True history is always much more exciting, when it comes to Mormonism.)

But Pratt’s actions during this battle helped me reframe all those church movies for myself. I loved the church movies. Joseph Smith, always so handsome and gentle. The Missourians, always growling and cursing, and usually shown drinking with a gun in hand, yelling and mocking in gnarly voices, “Prophesy, Smith!” 

Reading about this battle was a huge turning point for me, in my understanding of Missouri and Mormon relations. Because, it turns out, the church movies were wrong. Joseph Smith was calling himself a General, was encouraging people to loot and steal, and had plans to take over territory in Missouri - by bloodshed, if necessary. He encouraged violent thinking. It was Mormons burning homes. It was their own violent speech and aggression that led to retaliation by Missourians, defending THEIR homes and families. It was after this battle that Governor Boggs issues the extermination order. Ironically, Sidney Rigdon had used the term “extermination” in regards to what the Mormons would do to the Missourians several months prior, in a Fourth of July speech. Mormons, just SHUT UP…

The Haun’s Mill Massacre took place AFTER the Battle of Crooked River, and has been termed a “Mad-Dog” killing in response to that battle. The Missourians, who had been driven from their homes and watched as the Mormons took over more and more land with looting and burning of buildings, and now bloodshed, including mutilation, viewed the Mormons as the dangerous aggressors. Do I think shooting people at Haun’s Mill was justified? No, I don’t. I’m actually opposed to violence in most situations. But I do see the Missourians’ actions as UNDERSTANDABLE. 

The Battle of Crooked River helped me understand that the narrative of victimhood was not accurate.

What happened, after all of this violence? Liberty Jail - the next stop on my personal family tour.

When we got to Liberty Jail, there were actual people present, and not just dirt roads and countryside that I had been dragging my children and mother through, looking for one specific spot on “some crooked river” that was important to me. 

The boys were thrilled to get out of the car and run around, and as always, there were lovely senior missionaries at the site, who always deserve an A+ on working with small children. I was a bit more impatient, this church history trip. When the sister missionary put us in a room to watch a “short video,” it turned out that it had nothing to do with Liberty Jail, but was, in fact, a video on the Plan of Salvation. 

I’m an ex-missionary, too. I knew the video, and didn’t feel it was helpful or appropriate for my children, who are now an age where I’m feeling VERY protective of them and the messaging they are receiving. So we left the video room and I politely informed the missionary that, “We really just wanted to see the jail, if that’s okay.” So she brought us in. 

Liberty Jail was the first maximum security prison in the country. The walls were designed specifically so that if a prisoner was tunneling out, once they hit the loose rocks in the center, the jailers would hear them and be alerted to the problem. Joseph Smith was one of those situations, apparently. He had attempted to tunnel out, but when it was discovered, he and his party were moved to the basement dungeon, and subsequently had fewer visitors and worse conditions. Again? Joseph, SHUT UP. He brought the conditions on himself. 

The missionary began explaining why Joseph was jailed. “Charges of treason.” Smart-mouthed me remarked we had just come from the Battle of Crooked River site. The missionary was ready to tango in historical facts, apparently! “Only four lives were lost in a battle that took less than five minutes - three of whom were Mormons!”

I’ll sum up a few conversation key points, in my own words.

“So you don’t believe Joseph Smith actually WAS guilty of treason?” (I’ve read the Senate document (189) from his trial for treason and crimes against the state.)

“They didn’t even let Mormons testify.” (They did.)

“What do you think of quotes where Joseph Smith states that the laws of man no longer apply to him?” 

“Those are misquoted and inaccurate.” 

(“When God sets up a system of salvation, he sets up a system of government. When I speak of a government, I mean what I say. I mean a government that shall rule over temporal and spiritual affairs.” OR, from the senate documents in his treason trial - “Smith said he had been before courts some twenty odd times… and that made him of age; and he would submit to it no longer.”)

“How did Joseph eventually escape from the jail?”

“They let him go.” (He bribed the guards during a prison transfer.) 

It was triggering that this woman had more than your average knowledge, when it came to the Mormon Missouri War, but that she continued to ignore and discredit credible sources, to put the Mormons in the best light possible. We left relatively quickly, as a jail is a jail, and I didn’t want to hear her boo and woe about how cramped tall Joseph Smith must have felt down in that cold dungeon he put himself inside of. I also didn’t want to be mean to her. (I can tolerate some oversimplification of Mormon history, but not from people who have more knowledge, and STILL make Joseph a victim.)

After Liberty Jail, we went to Independence - the location where the Mormons started out, in Missouri, and the location where the Mormons believe they will eventually return, some day. The Visitor’s Center there reminded me of the Visitor’s Center on Temple Square - complete with cute little houses and videos about families and temples for children. I met Sister and Elder DeMille - related to me through Freeborn DeMill, but through the other son, Oliver. We went through the historical tour downstairs, where I informed my children that these were stories about their ancestors, and about their ancestor’s beliefs. They didn’t talk war, but general Book of Mormon, which I was fine with my children hearing about. The guide was wonderful, and catered her presentation to the children, telling them about the homes of the time period, and showing them how books were made from printing presses. My children had a great time playing in the pioneer house, and on the horse and wagon which their ancestors would have traveled by.

Independence and other portions of Missouri were simply lessons, for me, in what the Mormons COULD have had if they had just learned to SHUT UP about how great they thought they were, and about how God wanted them to have what other people had, and how they’d take it by force, and recruit the indigenous Americans to help them go to war to take what wasn’t theirs in the first place, because GOD said that…

SHUT. UP.

SHUT UP and focus on love. SHUT UP and stop focusing on your differences, and what you think makes you better. Joseph Smith, just SHUT. UP. and stop making your people suffer because of your stupid big fat head and all the things you want. Just SHUT UP. 

When my children are older, I will answer their questions about all of this myself. 

And I hope that they DO ask questions. I hope they ask every question they can think of, and that they don’t take my word for it, on any of my answers. My children will be raised by ex-Mormons, who have had their pasts inescapably painted by this religion. I want them to know for themselves the questions we wrestled with, the decisions we made, and why. I want them to know that everything I did, I did for them. I want them to be able to make informed, free decisions for themselves, without fear of manipulative social, familial, or eternal repercussions. 

I know these children, and they are good. They are better than the supposedly good men that they would have been taught to follow if I had remained a Mormon. Their futures don’t need to be tied to faulty visions of the past. They can be their own men. (And woman!) And I am so proud to see what they choose to make of their own lives, by their own authority, with their own goodness. 

Clever and Independent

Some days I feel clever and independent. Some days I feel more clever and independent than other days. Some days I feel neither clever NOR independent.

Today I’m average. 

I think I told a witty joke at work training, this morning, but that was the extent of my cleverness. So far as independence goes, I don’t feel much like that at all, really. It’s hard to feel independent when you’re not the bread winner in your family, and you have several small children dependent upon you for life necessities. Arguably, I’ve never been so “forced” into dependence as I am now, with children. To insist on perfect independence at this point would feel immoral. I chose these children, so now I will see them through, in raising them. (Happily. Happily, in my case, I should add.) 

An old Elder Holland quote from 2003 has resurfaced, in recent days, attached to a picture of “modern” Holland, where Holland accused people who leave the church and lead others away from “faithfulness” as wanting to be “clever and independent.” It is an odd accusation, but milder than the more recent President Nelson accusation that those who leave the church are “Lazy Learners and Lax Disciples.”

I’m still trying to figure this quote out. As often happens, you can say a lot of words that sound nice, but have layers of interpretation, often with nefarious insinuations. So forgive me if I’m interpreting this differently than you. Jesus taught in parables, so that we could learn what we were ready to learn. Maybe Holland is attempting the same.

But per my interpretations, and past experience, it looks like, in addition to name calling, they’ve also additionally said that when we leave the church, we are selfish in our “faithfulness” decisions, in some kind of petty popularity ploy, and that we are damaging our children (and others) through our selfishness.

But I have to ask. Are “educated,” “logical,” and “discerning” the same as “clever?” Does the church still consider “intellectuals” their enemies? Is it really so wrong to look at the church - the history, the present, all of it - and form intelligent and fully-informed conclusions? Does that make us “clever”? Who knew. I guess I DO want to be clever.

I can assure, my cleverness was also discussed between me and God, at length, when I was having my faith crisis. It was God who guided me in my conclusions, and ultimately, my decision to leave the church - “away from faithfulness.” So God must be fairly clever as well.

Then the attack on independence. 

I’m trying to piece this together. Is Holland stating that parents who move “away from faithfulness,” (which, in Mormonism, any move away from THEIR specific church is), are parents who are resentful of their dependent children, and are parents who wish to be independent from their children’s needs? Or, in the case of “others,” are we considered resentful of natural community group psychological needs for togetherness and belonging, so we dump “faithfulness” in our efforts to achieve independence? And inadvertently take others with us? 

I love that I can be accused of “just desiring independence.” It sounds like Holland accused people who leave the church of “just doing it for attention,” or “to be special.” 

It’s true. When I left the church, I wanted to be independent. It was a major part of why I removed my name formally. I didn’t want to be controlled, or threatened with hellfire by any man who might take it upon himself to do so. So yes, I wanted to be independent. I wanted my salvation to be worked out with fear and trembling in my own hands, not in check marks on paperwork in some corporate office building. 

Strange, that a desire for independent faithfulness would be considered a “bad” thing. 

Trust. If Elder Holland genuinely believed what he was saying here, it shows a complete lack of trust in people to have personal revelation, or personal relationships with deity, that they can work out on their own. 

The ability to choose is something that church doctrine preaches as being a principle so valuable it was the reason behind the war in heaven. Christ, and so all of us, fought for the ability to retain our agency - our ability to choose right and wrong. We fought for the ability to fail. Do we genuinely doubt God so much so that we do not believe God can save those who choose what they genuinely feel to be right? Do we doubt God’s power so much that we doubt His ability to save the children of those who have “been led astray”? Did God’s original plan not account for actual agency, that now we need to remind everyone that they don’t actually have “the license” to act on their own consciences? Their own revelation? Their own spirits? 

I think what we see here is telling. Someone brought up this old 2003 quote, attached it to a present day picture of Elder Holland, to make it seem more presently important, and resurfaced the quote. 

But why?

The church is losing membership at an alarming rate. At this point, it’s an undeniable fact. (Wheat and tares, sure, comfort yourself how you will, but I will see only the failed interpretation of prophecy of a stone cut from the mountain without hands.) Someone, somewhere, saw this quote, and thought it applied to today’s situation, and resurrected it. But what does this quote do? 

Guilt. Shame. Threatening. Otherizing. 

These are terrible ways to encourage a congregation to “stay in the church.” It is blatant manipulation in the very least, but likely also spiritually abusive. 

If people disagree with US, there’s something wrong with them, and they are bad, and not as good as US. Right? 

Every time some church leader quote pops up, like this, it is infuriating. “You can leave the church, but you can’t leave the church alone,” you may say. Damn right. Because of my family. Because I have siblings and parents who Holland was addressing, here. Frankly, Holland was addressing ME, and it made me a terrible bigot, who couldn’t see past her own religion to view the non-Mormon people in her life as GOOD.

Today, this quote made me mad, because it brought up all of my ever-present concerns about my family. Because although this quote is from 2003, it is literally still being taught today. 

The church is telling my family that I am self-absorbed, and just doing this for attention.

The church is telling my family that I am stupid, and looking for excuses to sin, because I LIKE to sin.

The church is telling my family that I never even really cared about people, by being a good disciple of Jesus, anyway. I don’t even care about anyone other than myself.

The church is telling my family that I am hurting my children.

How do you think this affects my relationships with my family? 

Family - Isn’t It About Time? Or is that just for families who toe the line, follow the leader, hand over their money and submit to their husbands? Family is only important, to the church, if none of them “get any ideas,” or seek for even the smallest authenticity and honesty in their worship and belief. No, there is no room for “independence” in the Mormon church, or the Mormon family.

So today I’m mad, again. I have a right to be mad when my family is being hurt. Because, thanks to social media quote resurrections, once more, my family is being reminded that I’m a terrible person. Even if they aren’t listening, or didn’t see this quote posted, the words of the apostles have and will always shape the culture of the church, which is what my family is entrenched in, and which is, arguably, what most Mormons are getting exclusively. 

So damn the church. Damn them for what they have done to my relationships with my friends and family. Damn them for what they have done to mine and others. 

A prophet would have seen this, and stopped it.