by Dan Riley
The Church, especially in the past 50 years, has worked hard to establish a firm doctrine. The Correlation Committee, a group of Apostles, decides the message and works to keep the Church consistent on that message. For example, this Sunday, every Mormon 10-year-old in the U.S. will hear the same Sunday school lesson. Faithful Mormons will only teach and learn about their faith from correlated materials. Thus, mainstream Mormons are commonly known in “fringe” circles as “Correlated Mormons,” “Chapel Mormons,” or “TBMs” — True Blue or Believing Mormons.
Compelled as I was to fully unearth the hidden trove of knowledge I had chanced upon, I was finding it difficult to study online. With the computer quite intentionally placed in a highly trafficked area of the house, I was afraid that my parents might find out what I was reading. I decided to try the local library. They had several non-correlated histories of the Church, which I checked out immediately. I poured through the pages as fast as I could in the remaining daylight in the library parking lot and drove home, leaving the books in the car.
A day or two later, my parents spotted the books — one of them being The God Makers by the infamous anti-Mormon Ed Decker. “I will not have that sort of material in my home,” my dad told me. “It brings a spirit of blackness with it. I don’t want it anywhere near here. I won’t allow it on my property — including the car.”
I was furious. So alien and disruptive were the facts I was discovering about my faith, I might as well have discovered secret documents proving that the Founding Fathers were actually lizard-people in disguise — and here was my dad, seizing the classified documents and placing me in an information quarantine. I immediately began drawing up an escape plan from my perceived intellectual prison.
I can’t imagine what these weeks must have felt like to my parents. At first, they were filled with such pride at the great undertaking of their oldest son, only to be utterly heartbroken by my early and shameful return. Then, just when it looked like I might be redeemed, they saw me starting to take steps away from the Church entirely. Knowing that my curiosity wouldn’t remain at bay for long, they sought out help.
Not long after my parents saw the books, I received a call from a man in my ward whom I loved and respected a great deal, inviting me over to talk. I knew that my parents must have arranged it, but I could see no harm in talking to him — any new knowledge would be worthwhile. As it turned out, much to my surprise, he was a Sunstone Mormon! He took me up to the library in his office and showed me a whole wall filled with books on Mormonism. Over the course of several meetings, he invited me to borrow and read several books that he deemed accurate yet fair and shared his personal philosophy regarding the truthfulness and value of the Church. Though I was far from a decision on the truthfulness of the Church, I was certain that in order to truly make an informed decision, I had to hear from all sides, which was something I couldn’t do at home.
Most of my friends interacted with me sparingly at this point, but there were two who stayed close — one, a lifelong atheist (despite all my best efforts to convert him), and a Mormon who had recently come out to me as gay. Together, the three of us found an apartment only a few miles away and moved in shortly thereafter.
I spent the better part of the next year pouring over every book on Mormonism that I could get my hands on. I studied, I prayed, I fasted, I visited the temple grounds, and I fervently read the Scriptures. Before me were two paths: one to Singapore, the other into the unknown. My life could not progress until I took a firm step in one direction.
I continued to be shocked by the things that I read about Mormonism. I discovered that most fringe Mormons had long abandoned maintaining the Book of Mormon as a historical document. The archaeology didn’t fit the stories. Linguistic analysis showed no trace of Semitic speech patterns in the Americas, the geography didn’t line up, DNA analysis of Native Americans had shown no trace of Middle Eastern ancestry. The more I studied, the more it became clear to me that not only was the history of the Church far from faith-promoting, but the Book of Mormon, the very keystone of our religion, was, at best, a piece of divine fiction.
Having moved beyond reasonable doubt of the truthfulness of the claims of Mormonism, I began to investigate the path of the fringe Mormons. I wanted to determine if could I stay in Mormonism even if I didn’t believe it. I was young and in a unique position to reinvent myself, so there was no social reason, beyond my family, compelling me to stay. As I contemplated what it would be like to raise a family outside the Church, I realized that I had to decide whether or not I believed the Church to be beneficial to people in all circumstances. Living with a homosexual Mormon answered that question for me rather quickly.
Ever since my friend had come out to me, I had felt uncomfortable with the options that the Church presented to homosexuals — to either be celibate or to pretend to be straight. My only justification of the position of the Church had been through its divine mandate. Without that, and by being able to witness what it put my friend through on a daily basis, I realized that I could not accept the Church on that alone.
As my faith was slipping away, so were the remnants of the life I had led. My relationship with my family at that time was strained and painful — my parents wouldn’t even allow me to be around my younger siblings without supervision, for fear that I might share what I had been reading. My grandmother wouldn’t even talk to me; years later, we’re just now almost to the point of speaking again. Beyond the two I was living with, most of my childhood friends would hardly communicate with me, and several had been prohibited by their parents from visiting me. I was nearly financially ruined from the expenses of moving into a new apartment when I received a letter from BYU informing me that my attendance was under suspension pending Ecclesiastical Endorsement from my bishop. Former members of the Church, I knew, could not get an Endorsement from the leader of another faith — if I didn’t repent and return to good standing with the Church, I wouldn’t be able to continue college. I was desperately clinging to everything that I could grasp in my life and losing the pieces one by one.
Though my girlfriend was Lutheran, her parents were furious at us for what we had done and had asked her not to continue to see me. At first, we found ways to see each other, but the guilt began to wear on her deeply — it didn’t help that I became increasingly needy and desperate as my situation became more difficult. One day in late November of 2005, I received an e-mail from her informing me that we would no longer speak. Feeling as if my life was without meaning, purpose, the foundation of support from the people I loved, or the potential for a rewarding future, I considered that I was simply beyond repair. I finally felt that I had lost it all. I grabbed my iPod, put it on shuffle, grabbed a coat, and left my apartment.
I walked and cried for hours in the nearby woods. I felt like I had nothing left — that my family reviled me, that most of the people I loved and respected wouldn’t even associate with me, that I wouldn’t be able to finish college, and, now, that my girlfriend of several years wouldn’t even speak to me. Broken, angry, and without hope, I sent her a message that I was going to kill myself. I proceeded to walk to a nearby freeway overpass.
As I stood atop the highway, looking down on the cars rushing by, fully intending to jump, my iPod shuffled to a track I hadn’t heard before. The piano begins simply, followed by the beautiful tones of a crystal clear electric guitar, with a Wurlitzer organ finishing the wind-up. The song was “Sinner’s Prayer” by Ray Charles and B.B. King. No hymn had ever struck me as powerfully as B.B. King’s slow-hand blues did on the Pines overpass in Spokane. I sat down on the sidewalk, barely able to breathe. Instantly, I no longer felt alone. The blues communicated to me that billions of people had been through horrible things, had hit the bottom, and yet, they somehow had discovered the strength to carry on — and God damn it all, if they could make it, so could I. I stood up, walked home, and, utterly emotionally exhausted, slept deeply.
I woke up to my phone ringing and the straine
d voices of my parents on the other end. I suddenly realized that my girlfriend must have called them. I felt terrible. Of all of the choices I made in my exodus from Mormonism, sending that message saying that I was going to commit suicide is the choice that I regret the most. I can’t imagine how much pain that caused.
My dad asked me to meet him at a local sandwich shop, and I told him everything that had happened and everything that I was feeling. He told me that he wanted me to know that he loved me no matter what and asked what he could do to help. He encouraged me to apply to a different college. Though I believe the Church to be a force of division between families and friends, and though it still feels as though there is a very real wall between my family and me, I’ll be forever grateful for my truly remarkable parents.
At this time, I was still regularly visiting with my local bishop. I was still in trouble with the Church for having premarital sex, and it had not yet been decided that I had repented. My bishop reminded me that if I did not begin to repent soon, he would have no choice but to hold a disciplinary council. A month or two later, he did.
I don’t recall all of the details of the council, since it was an altogether harrowing experience. I was as honest as I could be, telling them that I wanted with all my heart for the Church to be true. I wanted so badly to believe, to return, and to repent, and to go back out on a mission, but I was having such a difficult time with the truth claims of the Church that I couldn’t yet do it. I also assured them that I was fervently praying, fasting, and reading Scriptures and was always seeking an answer from God. They asked me to wait outside so they could reach a verdict. It was all I could do to keep myself from placing my ear against the door.
They let me back in after what seemed like an eternity and asked me to sit. They told me that they believed that my desire to have faith was sincere and that they would suspend any disciplinary action pending a further probationary period. If I attended church regularly, continued to seek after the faith, and did not break any other serious commandments, then the probation would end. If not, they would reconvene, and I could face excommunication.
About a month later, in the spring of 2006, I realized, finally, that I could no longer believe in the Church. It had become clear to me that the Church was not only not based on fact, but that it also did more harm than good. Being excommunicated would feel as if my decision had been made by others for me, and I couldn’t accept that. Thus, I decided that I would ask to have my records removed from the Church. I wrote a long, bulleted list of the problems that I had with the Church and brought it with me to the next meeting with the bishop.
I told him that I had come to the conclusion that the Church wasn’t true, and I just couldn’t will myself to believe it anymore. I showed him my list. As a courtesy to him and my parents, I told him that if he could at least give me reasonable doubt on any two of the issues that I had listed by the next monthly meeting, I would continue to stay and study for another year.
When I returned the next month, he told me that he hadn’t been able to help with the list. He said that whether or not I stayed in the faith shouldn’t be based upon his ability to answer the questions. I told him that I was certain enough. I then took the list, flipped it over, borrowed his pen, and wrote my resignation letter on the back. My affiliation with the Church was officially over.
I received wonderful pieces of mail in the following few weeks — an acceptance letter to the University of Washington and confirmation that my records had been removed from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My life was moving forward.
No longer a Mormon, I suddenly realized that I didn’t know who I was or what to believe. My studies of Mormonism had included a great deal of study of the Bible, so it wasn’t long before I realized that I couldn’t believe in Christianity either. Islam held my attention for awhile, and I liked many of its core beliefs and tenets, but it still shared many of the same moral dilemmas as Mormonism. I began to drift east philosophically, studying Hinduism, Taoism, and Buddhism. Each faith I studied had elements that I loved, but none of them truly spoke to me, and they all had moral stances that I couldn’t fully agree with. I ended up deciding that I was generically theistic, perhaps agnostic or deistic. I still prayed and still felt that there must be a presence above us or at least something more to this life.
Without Scripture and rules, though, I no longer had the moral rudder of Mormonism. I still had a strong desire to be a moral person; I didn’t want to make choices that I would regret, that would harm other people, or would otherwise leave my heart unsettled. I sat down with a pen and paper and began listing all of the rules, prohibitions, and virtues that I had been taught in Mormonism, leaving nothing spared. Some moral questions, such as masturbation, I had already reasoned through and was able to categorize quickly. What about alcohol, though? Drugs? Cigarettes? Coffee? Giving to the poor? Obedience? Tithing? One issue at a time, I built a personal code based on empathy, love, and reason.
I also began reading about atheism as a philosophy, new and old, famous and obscure. The more I read, the more I realized that it fit the patterns that I had seen in my life. I slowly began to realize that a small part of me had always doubted, had always known that I didn’t fully believe. It was the only philosophy I had read that I didn’t have to do mental gymnastics in order to accept. It felt right.
Very similar to Julia Sweeney’s description in her hilarious and wonderful monologue, “Letting Go of God,” I remember the very moment when I let go. It felt as if I said goodbye and watched this little old man fade off into nothingness. It wasn’t sad or mournful, but it did feel nostalgic, not unlike the feeling of putting your childhood teddy bear in a box as you packed your things to move away to college.
I had to let go. I let go of the afterlife, and with it, all of the loved ones I had lost. Letting go of my grandfather was, for me, much, much harder than letting go of God.
It took a very long time for guilt to fade any time I did something I had previously thought of as immoral, such as having a glass of wine. Every time I was struck with guilt, I would bring out my list and reason through the morality of what I was doing, just to be sure.
The most difficult thing to move beyond was the idea that everything that occurred in my mind was observed and that I would be judged for it. I recall being at the mall and seeing an attractive girl walking by in a skimpy outfit. My imagination immediately ran wild before I caught myself thinking, “No, that’s a horrible thing to think. I’m filled with lust, and that’s evil. I have to stop!” I paused for a moment, smiled, and thought, “Wait — there is nothing immoral about thoughts. There’s no rational reason to judge a thought as immoral.” Feeling liberated, I lusted the hell out of that girl and enjoyed every damned minute of it. Honestly, I didn’t even feel that much sexual desire toward her. I was just thriving in the knowledge that I could have sexual thoughts without shame and guilt!
It hit me as I was walking home — I could think anything! I could have any opinion on any subject, and it would be my own! No longer would I have to check against Scripture and other doctrine to make sure that my opinions were in line with God; I could decide my opinions with my own reason! I could believe that humans evolved from apes; I could believe that homosexuality isn’t a choice. Hell, I could believe that we’re living in the Matrix, and no one could tell me I couldn’t. That moment was one of the most liberating, beautiful, and happy experiences of my life.
The next fall, I enrolled at the University of Washington in Seattle. Mormons hold approachability and niceness as a virtue, making it easy to enter a new area and make friends. But without being surrounded by people who exuded that layer of artificial niceness, I simply didn’t know how to act. Thus, for most of my first year there, I was very much alone and fell into a dark and numb state of depression. Believing my pain and isolation to be a result of having been raised Mormon, I became bitter and venomous toward faith in general and Mormonism in particular. If only everyone could know what
I knew, I reasoned, then they all would believe what I believe, and they could all escape their religions before they caused any more pain. Using tactics taught to me as a Mormon, I would bring up religion in totally unrelated conversations in order to share what I knew. This didn’t exactly help me make friends.
I then joined a group on campus called the Secular Student Union. There, I met with other students who were going through something similar, just as estranged from the world as I was. The group held weekly meetings, where we discussed current events, shared stories, and debated moral questions. I was particularly excited to explore questions of ethics and morality from a nonreligious standpoint, and the meetings quickly became the highlight of my week — and sometimes, the extent of my social interaction.
After my first year at the UW, I became president of the Secular Student Union. Feeling once again that I had a mission and calling, I dedicated myself to its growth and establishment. I connected our group with larger, national organizations such as the Secular Student Alliance and the Center for Inquiry. I debated with a local megachurch pastor for a video podcast series and organized Richard Dawkins’s visit to UW, which was the most attended atheistic event in the history of the Pacific Northwest.
Feeling empowered and connected, I also began dating girls and developing myself socially. It didn’t take long, however, for me to realize that the same approach that had brought me success within the non-theistic movement was not nearly as effective outside of it. My venomous anti-theism was usually met with indifference at best and revulsion at worst.
I began to grow in my beliefs and worldview. Atheism started to feel less and less new, exciting, and definitional, becoming merely a part of who I was. I no longer felt like a freed prisoner from a Mormon mental gulag but more as if I had been free all along.