I remember the first time the LDS Church broke my heart.
It was mid-December 2016–a Friday–my last day at my job. The next week was Christmas, a frenzy of packing and then moving to a new town and new job. And that morning, I received the news that the Mormon Tabernacle Choir would be performing at Donald Trump’s inauguration.
It was a gut punch. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised; I know they had performed at other inaugurations and that the church did not consider an inauguration to be choosing sides. They would see it as patriotic, not partisan.
Yet I was still heartbroken, outraged and betrayed. The thought that kept running through my mind was all the times growing up I heard that we needed to avoid not just evil but the appearance of evil–don’t walk around with hot cocoa in a Starbucks cup, don’t run into a bar to use the bathroom. You know the teachings. And yet here was the most public face of my religion–my religion that I loved, that I’d served a mission for and served in the temple for and had just been released as Relief Society president for–participating in the celebration of a man who, to my mind, had promoted evil at every turn in his campaign.
I thought of this recently when reading Sarah Bessey’s newest book, “Field Notes for the Wilderness.” In a chapter on grief and trauma, she writes:
“Stop pretending that your church didn’t break your heart. Stop saying it’s fine that you were betrayed. Stop excusing bad behavior and cruelty and carelessness. Stop joking about your pain. Stop trying to be unmoved by the news or by tragedy. What you think is the right and faithful response could actually be the thing tearing you apart from the inside. Until you learn to stop spiritually bypassing your actual life with your good humanness, you won’t find meaning, let alone healing” (p. 89).
I was sitting in my backyard, in a comfortable chair, on a beautiful summer day, enjoying the sun on my skin and the company of my dog when I read this and was transported back to that gray, wintry day filled with heartbreak and uncertainty. Bessey’s words brought to mind so many other moments–when I went to a temple dedication the day after the fatal Charlottesville neo-Nazi rally in 2017, heartbroken and seeking solace, and instead was reminded that women occupy a lower tier in the church. Or the last time I went to the temple in November 2019, having a good experience up until a stranger reached out, touched my stomach and asked when I was due. I felt the smile freeze on my face but tried to play it off to not make her uncomfortable, then tried to lessen the internal sting by telling the story later as a joke, insisting it was fine, but never being able to forget how I felt being called fat and touched against my will. Just weeks ago, rereading things I had written in the past, looking for inspiration for this post, I was struck by how frequently I preceded or followed up criticism with, “I know they meant well” instead of just allowing bad behavior to stand, on its own, without my propping it up or trying to sand down the painful edges.
There are dozens–hundreds–more examples, some individual heartbreaks and others perpetrated on whole generations and populations. Some are big, others are small, almost inconsequential.
Almost, but not quite.
The problem with the smaller heartbreaks is how often they happen. Each time, each experience reminds me that I do not belong here, that this space is not for me. That I am not safe here. The occasional sting I can brush aside. Knowing that every time I go to church, a speaker will say something alienating, a teacher will brush aside my comment but listen to the man who says it next, a hymn will refer only to men or I will look up at the stand and see the husband of the organist and know that no one objects to his presence, despite him not contributing anything to the meeting. A man on the stand is not distracting, is he?
It’s not fine.
All these “little” hurts really add up don’t they? Thank you for sharing your pain with us. We feel it too.
The LDS church has broken my heart in a thousand ways, too. This is a powerful piece. Thank you.
It’s death by a thousand paper cuts. Rarely is there one big event that destroys everything all at once – it’s usually thousands of incidents (so and you can’t even remember what they all were) that build up to a tipping point. Great post, and welcome as a new blogger! ❤️
“Stop pretending that your church didn’t break your heart.” Amen. So many ways, big and small.
“Field Notes for the Wilderness” just got put on my to-read list.
“I was struck by how frequently I preceded or followed up criticism with, “I know they meant well” instead of just allowing bad behavior to stand, on its own, without my propping it up or trying to sand down the painful edges.” This really hit home for me. Thank you for this great post!
I don’t go to church but for Christmas Parties and special events, some ladies nights. I get reminded on these occasions that my WHY is good enough for me. Even these few times remind me of ALL the many ways I’m inappropriate, I’m a 69 year old disabled woman, and I feel I’ve missed my calling if not told I’m inappropriate at least once. What that means is not enough, not LDS enough, not worthy enough. My daughter is in her fourties’ and has hopes of one day going to Temple and being sealed to her husband and two sons. They aren’t worthy enough now, and too overwhelmed with a 6 year old and an 11 year old to even try now.
I tell her she doesn’t need the churches approval for the afterlife with her family cause God, not the LDS church is in charge of that. And my daughter will not be happy nor feel blessed with what goes on there. I’ve explored it, I’m not interested and don’t need man’s permission to have a good relationship with my heavenly parents, Mother Goddess and Father God. I’ve taken my power back, suggesting you all do the same.
It’s hard to sit with both “I know they meant well” AND “It hurts!” being equally weighted truths (let alone what actions to actually take about the situation).
I see it as the “eternal work of making peace in one’s soul” and that part of “mourning with those that mourn” is weaving together both the perspectives of others and my perspective.
And I spend times on the “I know they meant well” side and then switch over to the “It hurts!” side as part of that weaving process.