The Myths That Make Me: Part 7

After the Bible camp experiences (read here) and the traumatic excursion through drug use (read here), I tumbled into the throes of high school. Girls and social groups became the most important items on my list. I was lucky that my good Christian-natured self didn’t abandon its foundation entirely. I still approached life with kindness and love. I still skewed toward spiritual groups and conversations, but I began to wear my association less and less on my sleeve. Only admitting my devotion to those I thought might understand, or even listen.

I began to witness the spiritual flicker in other kids’ eyes slowly but surely be snuffed out as popularity became a new sort of religion. I didn’t quite know what I was or what group I belonged to. I played sports, did school plays, loved art, loved the tech and computer classes, loved English and writing, and also loved student council and leadership groups. I started to develop my jack-of-all-trades mentality. Flowing in and out of social groups and friend circles.

This proclivity eventually led me to making friends outside of my own high school. This exploration introduced me to my good friend Tom.

Tom, from my perspective, was a cool kid from another high school. I wasn’t sure if he’d like me at first given his elevated status, but we eventually became good friends. One of the greatest summers I ever had—filled with memories I’ll never forget—was spent with Tom. He was the first to get his license, so we would spend our evenings and free summer days driving to lakes and rivers for adventures. Crashing parties and chasing girls all over town.

But aside from the normal boy activities, Tom and I had one important thing in common: we spoke openly about God (when the right people were listening - which wasn’t often).

Tom had been born into a Mormon family and, though he was in a fair-weathered season of church attendance, he admired the familial sense of community and the depth of faith within the church.

I’ll clarify quickly for anyone unaware: the current and “true” church of Mormons is called The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and holds the nickname “Mormon.” Many will associate this church with the more sensational labels like polygamists or the reality show Sister Wives. There are still “Mormons” who practice these things, but they aren’t associated with the Latter-day Saints. They are two different sects with the same origin story.

Tom belonged to the Latter-day Saints and insisted the church was not polygamist. He didn’t attend church every Sunday, but he would now and again. He was in his own contemplation over his relationship with spirituality and was questioning his own faith. We spent many sleepless nights debating the scriptures or teachings of God and Christ and how they applied to modern life. These conversations were always a joy for me to explore, and I think part of why Tom and I became so close—paired with our insatiable need for adventure.

Tom had mentioned that there were other kids I would know from the church, one in particular being a beautiful, popular girl from another of the larger high schools in town. We’ll call her Nicole. Her reputation preceded her as being one of the prettiest girls in town and an aggressively devout Mormon. Her father being the bishop presiding over the local church.

Eventually, Tom asked if I’d be interested in going to a Sunday service to see what it was all about. I happily agreed.

The service itself was stunning. Filled with passion and liturgy. It held aspects of the Catholic ceremonies that felt a bit drawl, but it wasn’t without sincerity—not only from the leadership holding the ceremony but, as I looked around the audience, from the members of the church as well.

The people of this congregation cared. Really cared. They were attentive and intentional. Even the kids, for the most part, paid attention to the ceremony with interest.

After the initial full communal address, the members would split into smaller groups with lessons and talks geared specifically toward them—all led by community members charged with preparing a lesson for that week. Young kids, teens, young adults, and adults split into groups. The group attendance wasn’t a requirement, so Tom and I decided to leave after the initial ceremony.

I’d spent sixty percent of my time that morning listening to the lecture. The other forty percent ogling over Nicole, seated in the second row with her family. She was stunning, and a woman of God.

I was smitten almost immediately but understood the roadblocks between us. Her being Mormon as one, and her being beautiful and popular, the other.

As Tom and I exited, we shook hands with the bishop, and Tom went to make small talk with Nicole. I was introduced, hands likely sweaty and shaking.

The summer rolled on, and Tom and I would attend the odd Sunday service. I would talk more and become more acquainted with the families, and Nicole.

One of the founding principles of the Mormon church was recruitment, so having a young, enthusiastic Christian boy attending services was like catnip to the congregation. I gleaned a lot of “potential” attention—I didn’t mind it. Not when it came from Nicole and her family.

Through service and other church social events, I ended up becoming close with Nicole’s family. They were the idyllic nuclear God-fearing familial unit. They were beyond kind to everyone. They had built intentional devotion into their home. Praying constantly, volunteering, family Bible studies. These were all things encouraged by the church but not always walked out—Nicole’s family was the Mormon Poster Family. All beautiful, all incredibly Christian, and all obedient to the teachings.

I became infatuated with what they’d created. A home that loved God, a home that didn’t feel nerdy or recluse because of that love. A place to succeed and be known and have a foundation in spirituality.

I began to spend more time with the family than with Tom. I became close with Nicole’s brothers, with her parents, and with her. Slowly I started to integrate into their family. Attending dinners throughout the week, family movie nights, Bible studies, and attending church nearly every week with them. Not only had I been welcomed into a picture-perfect family, but also one where every member spoke openly and freely of God without hesitation.

I would stay at their home for days and weeks on end.

Another important foundation of the LDS church was missionary work. For young boys, it was especially important. A rite of passage for any Mormon teen. I had begun looking into the act of service and exploring my own desires for it.

I was enraptured by the scripture, the new version of the story of Christ, by this group of people who were so incredible, so loving, so normal, and yet so devout. Not to mention, my feelings for Nicole were being stoked each and every time we’d spend time together. I’d, through subtle and not-so-subtle advances, explained my admiration to her (as best as a boy struggling through puberty could), but they were always turned down. Kindly, though heart-shatteringly. I didn’t want to compromise our friendship or my relationship with her family, so I respected the outcome.

Over time, my love of the church grew, and the desire to serve a mission grew as well. The caveat being I couldn’t serve unless I had been baptized into the church.

It wasn’t a difficult decision for me to make, and eventually I took the plunge. Dressed in all white, with Nicole’s father overseeing the initiation, I chose the LDS church and committed myself to the church teachings. I was beyond thrilled at the community I’d found. The family I’d found. The life filled with God that I’d found.

And as a glorious cherry on top, one night, sitting alone snuggled up on a couch, Nicole and I shared a kiss that blossomed into a thrilling relationship. Abstinence before marriage would be at the heart of our dating, but that didn’t stop our passion for being as close to one another as clothes would allow.

For the first time in a long time, I felt truly aligned. I had God in my life, I had a community that loved and supported me, I had a girl who was beyond stunning and funny and ambitious and loving and God-fearing. I had purpose and direction.

I was happy. Really happy.

There was only one problem.

The teachings themselves.

For anyone who doesn’t know, Mormonism is an off-shoot of Christianity. The foundational belief being that there were many divinely inspired events happening on the American side of the world at the same time as the Old and New Testament. Most notably, after Jesus’ crucifixion, he appeared and ministered to a people named the Nephites. Over time, these collections of stories were gathered and abridged by a man named Mormon (hence The Book of Mormon). He wrote the stories—organized in books similar to the Bible—on golden plates and had them buried by his son. Then in the early 1800s, a man named Joseph Smith was visited by an angel and shown where these plates had been buried. He translated the stories into the book that’s seen today.

The LDS church, by this definition, is one of the newest religions on earth and, with an aggressive focus on missionary work, has grown quite significantly.

For me, all of this was fine. I had no issue with immaculate intervention. Catholicism and Christianity were filled with wild tales all the same. Christ and God were full of miracles.

The Mormon church had other rules that were strictly enforced: they didn’t drink caffeine, didn’t drink alcohol or smoke or do drugs, didn’t approve of homosexual relationships, and—much to my chagrin—abstained from sex until marriage. I didn’t think a truly loving God would have these rules, but I was still subscribed to my heart being sinful, so I kept steadfast in my faith in hopes of winning God’s approval.

(I will say that a lot of members turned a blind eye to the homosexuality aspect, and other rules. Another crack in the church’s foundation. Members would just brush it off as their own opinions conflicted with that of the book.)

Where I felt myself shudder and resist the most was against one of the main talking points of missionaries around the world: that the LDS church is the one and only true path to God.

This had always been my sticking point. It was such an audacious and prideful claim. That there was one true path to salvation and that, if not followed, you would suffer in eternal damnation.

I’d been raised in a house that accepted all paths to God. That endorsed a God who loved truly without exception. And by a mother whose love permeated deeper than anyone I’d known, not only for me but for anyone who had the privilege of meeting her.

Was I to claim that she would be burning in hell after all this was said and done?

It simply wasn’t an option. She was more committed to God than any member of this church. The crunch in my chest ached as I prepped for serving my own mission.

Over the next several months, a fissure began to form inside of me. I was in love with Nicole in a way I’d never been in love before (teenage infatuation). I had a family who loved God. I was getting attention from church leadership for my enthusiasm and how valuable I’d be as a missionary. I was excited about the exotic places I might travel to on my mission.

And yet, I was being untruthful.

I couldn’t bring myself—literally—to speak the words “This is the one and only true path to God.” I couldn’t in good conscience tell a young gay teenager that I’d pray for him to turn straight. I couldn’t grasp why following God meant denying life. Denying experience. Why God wouldn’t love me if I had a beer.

I began to drift. I began to spend less time at Nicole’s house. I began to skip going to church. And, like a coward, I began to ghost Nicole. I began looking at girls who weren’t so bound by their religion. I began to rebel. Subtly, quietly, but it crept in.

Though the LDS church can be encumbered by the same distortion as any major religion (and there is much I didn’t touch on), I’d never regret my time there. It was a community of deep support and familial foundation. For people in the season of their soul where instruction and structure are needed, it can prove to be a safe haven.

My heart, however, swooned for a God who loved without condition. Loved one’s journey through lived experience. Loved without control and rule. A God that allowed you to return to Her instead of forcing you. And a God clever enough to speak the language of all paths, to guide the soul through whispers far broader than one interpretation.

I’d continued to witness the arrogance of man plunge its fingers into the dealings of the Divine, and I wanted no part of it.

Coming next: I go inward and cultivate “The Church of Isaac”