It’s official now; I’m walking
without a net. I’ve severed my ties with
that institution that’s as familiar and comfortable to me as my childhood
home. I’m no longer associated with my church. I finally came to the conclusion that my
issues with the doctrine were greater than the social benefits of
membership. I saw many good things in
the church, but couldn’t get over the inequalities inherent in their
doctrine.
After dodging church elders over
and over, finally my husband made me answer the door. He, too, was tired of their relentless quest
to see to the spiritual needs of their wayward sister. I’ve never had any problem with the people in
the church. I respect their beliefs and
I understand that faith in most religions is good for people. But I don’t believe in missionary work, and I
don’t believe that the institutions always have the people’s best interests in
mind. It’s a strange dichotomy in my
mind, the difference between the people who believe they are doing God’s work,
and the institution which may or may not have ulterior motives. This is always in the back of my mind when
the missionaries or church elders come knocking.
On this particular day, it was a
church elder and his son. They were just
making a friendly call to check on us and see how we were doing.
“Just ask them not to come back”
prodded my husband.
So I did. I told them it’s nothing personal, but I left
the church on purpose. I’m not your
typical “jack-Mormon” who just sleeps in on Sundays; I made a conscious
decision to leave, and they really shouldn’t waste their time. I said this to a man my father’s age. He had short, graying red hair and blue eyes. His young son, blonde, blue eyed, and squeaky
clean, looked at me with curiosity. So
naive. They seemed to understand, and
took their leave. A few weeks later, a
letter arrived from the bishop. Peppered
throughout the text were words like, “sister,” and “love.” The letter insisted I was leaving a place of
acceptance and the bishop insisted he loved me, though we’d never met. In it were instructions on how to officially
leave the church, annul the relationship.
I followed. I sent an e-mail to the bishop who professed
his love for me, even though he’d never met me, with a brief, yet thoughtful
explanation. I explained that while I
grew up in the church, have many fond memories of the church, and have a strong
emotional attachment to the church, I don’t actually believe the
teachings. Like many little LDS kids on
Sunday, I gave my testimony during sacrament; I professed I believed Joseph
Smith was a true prophet, that the Latter Day Saints is the one true
faith. But, I told him, I’ve revisited
these teachings as an adult, and I just don’t agree. You say its faith; I must have faith. But, no, I don’t. There are no reasonable
responses to my questions, and I’ve little faith in institutions alone. He responded with a polite e-mail, that he’d
take care of the paperwork. It became
businesslike, as if I wanted to cancel my cable.
Training for the Portland marathon, I often ran nature
trails. The little short ones were very
nice, but it was the long 20 mile runs that were the most fulfilling. Susan, my running partner, and I would run
out of things to say. We’d spend a good
ten or twelve miles complaining about work, ranting about politics, discussing
mutual friends, and when we got really tired, fantasizing about cheeseburgers
and fries and catsup. But on those long
runs, there was always time for quiet.
Time to listen to the rhythm of my footfalls, hear my breath, and pay
attention to myself on the trail. I’ve
always joked that my long runs were my church.
Susan was faster than me – she
still is. She runs fast and hard, and
she doesn’t slow down except for maybe a surgery here and there. It used to annoy me that she’d take off and
leave me, but now I realize those were my best times, the quiet times. Time alone to stop in the middle of the
forest and gaze at the surrounding splendor.
Look at the moss growing off the trees, the ferns covering the forest
floor, the lush green life exploding before me.
Appreciate the way my calves were covered in dirt, and how I smelled a
little bit like dirt, among other things.
I liked those alone times when I had nothing to think about besides
perhaps thanking my legs for bringing me here, to the forest where I can
breath.
The key to trail running is
allowing the trail to dictate your pace.
The hills should slow you down a bit; take shorter stops, be kind to
your legs. Relax a bit on the downhill
sections, and let the inertia of your body push your pace a bit; this is the
time to work on your leg turnover – how fast can you move this body? Trails usually slow runners down a bit. The runner must watch for roots that trip you
up, or the ridges that will cause even the most experienced runner to turn an
ankle. I often just watched the trail
ahead of me, dodging roots and errant branches sticking out over the path. At times there are entire trees over the
trail and the runner must stop for a second to decide over or under. These are moments of tranquility, when
there’s nothing else. No lists, no noisy
neighbors, no papers to grade, no guilt at not having dinner ready. Just a decision about how to navigate the
tree in the path.
This was my weekly meditation. My Sundays in church. My head was clear; I was usually too tired to
think. My spirit was calm, and I felt at
ease. Exhausted as I was, I always emerged
from the trail rejuvenated. The
tranquility of the forest, the softness of the trail, and the natural world
around me soothed my soul and put me at peace.
And isn’t this what church should do?
I suppose it could be ironic, but I
don’t think so. I got so much more
fulfillment out of my weekly long runs than I ever did in church. This has much to do with my leaving. My hesitancy to leave, of course, was
fear. Fear that I’m angering my God,
fear that I’m leaving the one true church as I was taught as a kid, fear that
I’m no longer one of God’s children now…
These are emotional concerns, however.
Reasonably, of course, it doesn’t matter. Whether I was a non-attending member or a
non-member, I was still a doubter and non-believer.
Part of my decision was a matter of
integrity. I won’t lie to myself or to
others and just go through the motions with something so important. This is spirituality; it’s sacred and
personal. My personal integrity is more
important to me than entertaining this idea of belief in a doctrine that
doesn’t speak to me.
When I was finally removed from the
church, I got a final letter. The words,
“sister,” and “love” were absent. It
officially proclaimed me severed from the church in every way, and further, the
church rescinded all of it’s blessings.
They take back their love; they take back their well wishes for my
happiness, health, and well being. I’d
be lying if I said I didn’t care. It
feels like a bad break-up, actually. I’m
the one who doesn’t want the relationship anymore, and my hurt lover, the
church, is now dropping off my things in anger.
Well, I won’t take back my love and well wishes. I see the good that the church does, and I
see how it’s good for it’s followers, yet I confess I'm perfectly fine walking by & not in.
