To be fair, I have a very strong ick when it comes to interacting with power and authority in the church. You would too if you once experienced a well-meaning, but ultimately harmful series of bishops who reacted poorly to your baby feminist ways. You know that scene in Moana where Moana discovers they used to be a seafaring people and naively thinks that if everyone just learns about their history, they’ll be as excited as she is? That’s it, exactly.

A good 5 years and a whole 3k miles away from those past ward experiences, my primary strategy for sustainable engagement now is avoidance. No stake people, no ward leadership, no area authorities, and any general conference talks must be highly curated.

With this boundary in place, and a general habit of attending church twice a month, I feel empowered to practice my faith in a way that works for me and to do the local work of striving with a body of imperfectly perfect saints on equal terms.

This last month in church has tested me. A bishopric counselor, the Sunday following the election, casually and yet confusedly mentioned “you seem agitated,” when I came up to the stand to conduct. Well yes, I was. And no, when he suggested that testimony meeting might help me, I couldn’t quite respond that a fast and testimony meeting with MAGA in the audience was not the right cure for my agitation.

I can strive with my ward because no one actually got up and gave a politically motivated testimony that day.

The next Sunday hit the double whammy with ward conference. The stake Relief Society president decided to do a lesson on the Family Proclamation and I decided to hit my emotional limit with othering in this church because I just could not with one more lesson along anti-LGBTQ and feminist themes.

I can strive with my ward because they know me and how strongly I feel and speak and they can take it.

I took the next Sunday off. It helped.

But this is the backdrop of the baptism of my 8-year-old daughter over the Thanksgiving holiday, when family could visit us to join in.

She consistently and continuously asked to be baptized over months and months, so despite any mixed feelings I have as her parent, baptized she was. We had created the program together, with my daughter picking out who she wanted for talks and prayers and music. She asked her favorite pianist in the ward to play and invited a dear friend to sing (Our ward is small enough and our stake remote enough that baptisms are still a one-off event).

But when the Bishop asked for the program, the old ick reared its head.

Having done all the preparation of setting this thing up, ensuring my daughter actually wanted this step in a developmentally appropriate way, which parts would the Bishop decide to ax?

It was conducting, because the handbook says a bishopric member has to conduct. My daughter had asked one of the adult women in the ward that she loves to conduct, but alas, we must make space for the men.

The problem with that is now there was window for a person with no relationship to my daughter taking over. They get the right to decide when to speak, to be the last word, and to potentially nullify the whole experience.

I can strive with my ward because the bishopric counselor who conducted the baptism stayed in his lane as much as they can.

The baptism was beautiful. She was happy. She was glowing. She was enthusiastic. She was surrounded by love. I hope that will always be her experience in church. Realistically, her experience in the church is still mostly curated by her mother (i.e. our scripture study is Girls Who Chose God) and she will someday have to engage with the wider church on its terms.

 The beauty of the church is the imperfect perfection of people in community working together. The challenge of the church is misused and misplaced power and authority in the form of hierarchy.

This month, at least, I was able to strive somewhere in the middle. 

Photo by Kate Laine on Unsplash