a mormon memoir part five: manipulated
A clearer vision of Joseph Smith was laid out for me: a martyr he was not. Brother Joseph was just a dude, a charming grifter who’d sunk his teeth into me from well beyond the grave. Motherfucker.
The contents of the CES Letter shook me awake. The degree of deception to which the Mormon church conducted their affairs sincerely shocked me and it was evident that I had been actively deceived. I was angry but I didn’t know it yet. The one feeling I knew I could identify for certain was relief. Piecing together the intricacies of the lies I had been fed by a religion that once consumed my entire personhood made me believe that just as effectively as I had been molded into the type of person the church intended me to be, I could mold myself into something else. I saw the man behind the curtain in all his ugliness and found his vanity to be pathetic. Now I was free to wash my hands of him and for that I felt relief. I was Nicole Kidman after her divorce from Tom Cruise. Free.
What a beautiful gift from… the universe? Myself? Jeremy Runnells and other ex-mormon pioneers? I didn’t have the space to articulate or even care what my beliefs were now. I would figure that out later.
Parts of the letter that were particularly damning to me were the mountains of evidence against the veracity of the Book of Mormon’s truth claims. The anachronisms, the complete lack of supporting DNA evidence, the similarities to the bible and even some of Joseph Smith’s childhood school books showed how silly of a claim it is that this book has any legitimate standing as a historical document. The First Book of Napoleon, View of the Hebrews, The Late War, and other books Joseph Smith was known to have come in contact with contained striking similarities to the Book of Mormon’s prose and canon. I read through excerpts from these books and noticed my brain humming along to the familiar language. Snap out of it, Katrina.
I also learned that there is no evidence of horses existing in the Americas prior to Spanish settlement, which occurred more than ten centuries after events “recorded” in the Book of Mormon had allegedly taken place. Interestingly, the Book of Mormon tells tale after tale of horses used in battles between the Nephites and Lamanites (the two main tribes whom the Book of Mormon claims are among the ancestors of the American Indians). I learned of a Mormon historian, an apologist, who claimed that perhaps the word horse was lost in translation and actually referred to tapirs, mammals native to the Americas and similar in stature to horses. The proclaimed similarities in stature are quite comical, especially considering these would have been battle tapirs. I would soon discover that tapirs have become the endearing symbol of the ex-Mormon community. In Utah, if you notice somebody wearing a tapir pin or jewelry, you can bet you’ve found an apostate.
I recalled how less than a year ago as I tried to read the Book of Mormon with an open mind I’d been turned off by the violent rhetoric and lack of spiritual fulfillment. I was proud of myself for trusting my gut despite all of the emotional manipulation I’d been fed as a child to revere this book. Underneath all the programming there was an intuition and an intellect I could trust.
I remembered being 5 years old and learning a song in primary called “Scripture Power”. The chorister taught us how to lift up our personal copies of the Book of Mormon in pride every time we sang the title of the song. We sang the chorus loudly, “Scripture power! Keeps me safe from sin! Scripture power is the power to win! Scripture power! Every day I need! The power that I get each time I read!” We obediently performed for our congregation and in turn we were smothered with love and belonging and pride.
I remembered being a teenager and feeling the intense moodiness that comes with adolescence. The strong urge to cry over everything and nothing was suppressed by the cultural and familial shame around expressing negative emotions while living such a blessed, privileged life. The respected outlet for emotional expression is tearful testimony. At girls camp one summer I sat alone in the woods with my Book of Mormon and read a passage about the power of the atonement of Jesus Christ. So somebody really knew me and loved me? I cried for the first time in years, letting out years of bottled loneliness, and this emotional catharsis became my testimony of the veracity of the Book of Mormon. At 15 years old I was echoing the inductive reasoning of my forebears: emotions beget the truth. Being loved by a Heavenly Father and a Savior had scratched the aching itch inside of me. So if the church told me this book is an expression of His love then goddamnit it must be true.
It all became so clear now: I was emotionally manipulated to accept this historically, linguistically, and scientifically discredited book as Truth.
It was painfully obvious that Joseph Smith was not who the church claimed he was. In a clearer, more objective headspace I might be impressed by the way his cunning cons had snowballed into a multi-million member (and multi-billion dollar, I would later learn) religion. But I was just mad.
We were conditioned to revere this man. I mean, consider the words to this popular Mormon hymn, “Praise To The Man”.
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!
Jesus anointed that Prophet and Seer.
Blessed to open the last dispensation,
Kings shall extol him, and nations revere.Hail to the Prophet, ascended to heaven!
Traitors and tyrants now fight him in vain.
Mingling with Gods, he can plan for his brethren;
Death cannot conquer the hero again.Praise to his mem’ry, he died as a martyr;
Honored and blest be his ever great name!
Long shall his blood, which was shed by assassins,
Plead unto heav’n while the earth lauds his fame.Great is his glory and endless his priesthood.
Ever and ever the keys he will hold.
Faithful and true, he will enter his kingdom,
Crowned in the midst of the prophets of old.Sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven;
Earth must atone for the blood of that man.
Wake up the world for the conflict of justice.
Millions shall know “Brother Joseph” again.
I learned this song as a child and sang it regularly with my congregation. The group singing was compelling, but what was even more powerful was when the Mormon Tabernacle Choir performed it in the grandeur of the Conference Center. I recalled watching this performance and how my heart would swell with pride at the nobility of this man I’d promised to follow.
Yes, the church used emotional manipulation to gain my devotion. Dramatic docudramas about Joseph Smith’s life accompanied by evocative music were shown to me regularly but none of them ever mentioned the 34+ women and GIRLS he married in secret ceremonies. Their stories were erased and labeled as “anti-Mormon”. I wanted justice for them. What I learned in the CES Letter painted a very different picture of Mormonism’s founder.
“Brother Joseph” was clearly a sexual predator, not a martyr. I felt nauseous as I read about Helen Mar Kimball, one of many dark stains on Mormonism’s not-so-noble origin story. I had never heard of her. In 1842, Joseph Smith coerced 14-year-old Helen into marrying him with the promise of eternal salvation for herself and all her family. He threatened damnation if she refused to comply.
I knew 14-year-old girls and the thought of any of them being coerced into marriage by a guy in his 30s was so obviously creepy and wrong. Later as I humored myself with Mormon apologetics I was disgusted to read that the church justified Joseph’s actions because Helen was “just shy of her fifteenth birthday” and that “there is no evidence of a sexual relationship between her and the prophet”. I was disgusted by this dehumanizing rationalization. So this is how the Mormon church operates? If the CES Letter hadn’t already collapsed my faith in the church, their apologetics sure would have.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that hymn and how I’d been conditioned to love and adore this man who likely would have sexually abused me or my sisters had I been born 200 years earlier. I would soon learn much more about the dark history of polgamy and sexual coercion in the church but just this one story was enough to shatter the shiny illusion of this hero and his church. No wonder my seminary teacher had instilled in us the fear of anti-Mormon lies about Joseph Smith’s polygamy. It was damning.
One of the more fascinating parts of the CES Letter was the section that explained the relationship between the Endowment ceremony in the temple and Freemasonry practices. My only exposure to Freemasonry came from my childhood adoration of America’s national treasure National Treasure, so I was intrigued to learn that many of the handshakes and symbols I was taught in the Mormon endowment ceremony were closely related to the secret “signs and tokens” of the Masonic Temple. Apparently Joseph Smith spoke openly about “receiving his first degree of Freemasonry”. I didn’t know exactly what that meant but it sounded suspiciously similar to the language used in the endowment ceremony. I learned that a mere 7 weeks after Joseph Smith became a Freemason, he “received revelation” from God of the endowment ceremony… Could it be a coincidence that God’s ancient, eternally binding saving ordinance just so happens to share practices with a fraternity’s initiation ritual? I wouldn’t bet on it.
I recalled how bizarre my first temple experience had been. And how in my earnestness I strived to understand the depth and meaning behind each part of the ceremony. But my striving had been in vain! What appeared on the surface to be a bureaucratic and impersonal rite was actually just that: bureaucratic and impersonal. How uncreative and underwhelming, and how insulting to my intelligence.
It was the grown-up-man equivalent of the secret languages I used to make up with my sisters and friends, but at least we had the creative wherewithal to take inspiration from our own imaginations. A clearer vision of Joseph Smith was laid out for me: a martyr he was not. Brother Joseph was just a dude who had successfully schemed his way into getting bitches and gaining Alpha status among his friends. A charming grifter who’d sunk his teeth into me from well beyond the grave. Motherfucker.
My natural, human yearning to belong to the group, to feel like a good person, and to reach self-actualization had been my achilles heel. I had been primed in piety and dulled down enough that by the time of my temple initiation, any ability to make an astute observation of the scene (like, “this ceremony is kind of fucking weird”) was non-existant. Of course I wasn’t allowed to feel any other way, not with my family smiling expectantly at me and my upcoming mission, the Lord’s call, hinging upon my commitments in this ceremony. I felt humiliated. Not only had the Mormon church manipulated me and controlled the most intimate details of my life (my sexuality, my underwear, my finances, my relationships, my dreams, my time, my self-perception), but I praised them for it. I had been such a proud advocate for its practices even in my own pain. The realization was maddening.
More sobering was the section of the letter that pointed out the obvious racism of the church. My gut twisted with shame and discomfort as I saw with new eyes the blatant racism of my childhood religion. How had I read The Book of Mormon a dozen times and not sat with the implications of the following scripture:
And he had caused the cursing to come upon them, yea, even a sore cursing, because of their iniquity. For behold, they had hardened their hearts against him, that they had become like unto a flint; wherefore, as they were white, and exceedingly fair and delightsome, that they might not be enticing unto my people the Lord God did cause a skin of blackness to come upon them. 2 NEPHI 5:21
It finally clicked as I realized why there were so few black members of the church. It is not a welcome space for anyone whose skin is not “fair and delightsome”. I remembered a seminary lesson where my teacher justified why the church didn’t allow its black members access to the priesthood and other saving ordinances until 1978. Something about not wanting to be rejected by dominant society, I actually couldn’t recall how he spun it. But whatever he said I believed it so that I didn’t have to think about it anymore. I was starting to see how my development of moral reasoning had been entrenched in the Mormon Church’s. Blind obedience and deference to authority were favored over accountability and basic human empathy.
I recalled stories told fondly by older members of the church about the “Indian Placement Program” that took place in the 1960s and 70s in which missionaries baptized Native American children and placed them into a church-run foster program to live with faithful Mormon families. The purpose? To teach these impressionable young minds about their “true” history. These little kids were told they were ancestors of the Lamanites, the fictional surviving tribe of the Book of Mormon’s final and bloodiest battle, and subsequently indoctrinated into the Mormon religion. Still today, Mormon missionaries proselytize to Native American people by claiming to know their true history. I even knew somebody who bragged about converting “a chief of some tribe” as he had said.
It was distressing to realize my culture and community had done so much harm. A sucker punch to the ego. As a believing Mormon I viewed the racism of the church as an unfortunate part of the past but something too uncomfortable to think about for longer than necessary. I had never considered how the past was perhaps more than just unfortunate and that it very much impacts today’s doctrine and culture. I had been conditioned into being somebody I didn’t want to be anymore.
By the time I reached the end of the letter that briefly outlined the scientific evidence stacked up against creationism I was more than ready to accept that there is no such thing as a divine creator. Evolution had long been a forbidden topic in my brain. I saw it as something for scientists and religious scholars to debate, not something a future mother should be worrying herself with. I felt insecure about my current lack of knowledge. Here I was, a fresh college graduate, and I couldn’t explain human evolution or basic geological history to a 5 year old. “I just don’t like biology,” I remembered ranting to my roommates, a brief break in the constant conversation about boys and dating. Insecurity fueled rage. The church had coerced me into a role I no longer wanted to play.
Quite immediately God took on a new definition. At my most level-headed I could appreciate God as a story, a manifestation of our collective desire to make meaning out of existence. But the word was too triggering. God had been used to manipulate me. I didn’t feel scared by the realization that there is no father in the heavens with a divine plan for my soul. I felt free, like walking away from a toxic relationship.
“Oh my god,” I whispered to myself with a grin. Taking the Lord’s name in vain is an egregious sin in Mormonism and doing so now felt like kicking “God” in the balls. I was taking my power back.
So… That was the most impactful night of my life. Now daylight, new decisions. First, my relationships. I needed privacy to process my feelings and plan how I’d communicate my new beliefs to a community who’d surely react with hostility. My husband didn’t want to hear anything of what I’d discovered in the CES Letter and he took offense to my newfound antagonism toward the church. My language was brash, I couldn’t help it. “Babe, we’re in a cult.” He didn’t want to hear any more.
I was now embarking on the complicated journey of finding my identity as a multi-generational Mormon turned ex-Mormon. I had so many mixed feelings. The church’s manipulation and harm enraged me and I wanted nothing more than to see this organization crumble. But… What about the people I loved? There was as much ache as indignation in my heart.
I thought about my mother and my grandmothers sacrificing their bodies and young adulthood to birth and raise so many of us in order to fulfill their divine duty. I thought about the sacrifice my father had made to work a demanding job to provide for his many young children and how he’d dutifully paid 10% of his income to the church, believing so earnestly that his contributions would bring blessings and protection to his family. Both genders performing their divine callings to give their children the ultimate privilege: a righteous home. My rejection of the church they gave everything to would feel like a slap in the face.
My family culture revolved almost entirely around Mormon rituals: nightly gathering for scripture study and prayer, watching General Conference together with baked goods and puzzles, a priesthood blessing from my dad before the start of every school year to give me protection and guidance. And almost all of the frequent gatherings with my extended family centered around Mormon milestones: baby blessings, baptisms, temple endowments, mission farewells, mission homecomings, sealings… Without Mormonism, how could I ever feel like I belonged?
I thought of my sisters and cousins and childhood friends, the very people my life orbited around, and how closely they held the identity of Faithful Mormon just as I once did. How could these relationships still thrive? I still loved them. But I absolutely loathed the organization that seemed inextricable from their identities. The guilt and heartbreak I felt while imagining how these relationships would change was suffocating.
Solitude became my solace as I tried to make sense of my new reality and how I would move forward. The internet was my closest friend. I became a very active member of the exmormon subreddit and found belonging among people who were also processing this earth shattering realization and the resulting social consequences. Veterans of the sub gave me helpful advice and I was touched by the wisdom and empathy of people I’d been taught to vilify.
I binged podcast episodes from exmormon therapists who gave advice on how to manage relationships with believing friends and family. I stressed over my “coming out” for weeks, re-writing letters and practicing conversations in the shower. Even so, I knew there was no amount of empathy I could extend or eloquence I could craft that would make the people I loved understand me.
My character was sure to be scrutinized. I would know, how many times had I played my own role as pathologist picking apart the weaknesses of individuals who had left the fold? It was always the most salacious gossip. Mormons are quick to claim that the Apostate Hate Train is a cultural quirk and not doctrine, but I knew that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’d sat through hundreds of hours of sacrament meeting sermons, Sunday School lessons, and General Conference talks that told me exactly why people left the church: they were deceived by Satan, they were lazy, they got offended, they got caught up in the small details of church history, they wanted to sin, they never truly believed in the first place, they were weak in their trials, they were worldly, and more. I could see now how effectively their words worked as a control tactic. I knew I needed to accept that I wouldn’t be able to control what was said about me behind my back after I left. I knew logically that their gossip and hurtful reactions would be a reflection of them and their beliefs, not me. Still, I was scared. I was about to commit social suicide.
Mental health and cult experts confirmed my suspicions that approaching members with anything that could be considered as negativity towards their beliefs would feel like a personal attack and therefore damage relationships. I decided to go for a low-information, feelings based approach. Something like, “Hey, I’ve recently discovered some things about the church that haven’t sat right with me and I’ve made the personal decision to leave. I’m on a spiritual journey and I feel a lot happier this way, but I totally understand if you don’t want to talk about it. I’m here if you have questions but I just wanted you to know that even though I’m out, I love and respect you and would love to connect with you in whatever ways you feel comfortable with.” I rehashed versions of this in my head.
I turned 22 and wished for freedom. I knew my cocoon couldn’t support me much longer but I wasn’t quite ready to leave it. And logistically, I knew I needed to wait until my husband and I had moved into our new apartment. We were temporarily staying with my parents during this life transition and I had zero confidence my family would allow us to remain under their roof if they knew what my new beliefs were. Unfortunately, I’m a terrible liar and can’t hide my emotions for shit. My parents suspected something was off and cornered me. “Katrina, we are worried about your testimony.”
I sat in my childhood living room across a framed printout of The Family: A Proclamation To The World, a linchpin of the Mormon Church. This document, found on the walls of most faithful latter-day homes, reminds mothers and fathers that they will stand before God at Judgment Day and be held accountable for the obedience of their children. That Sunday afternoon felt like my own judgment day, I was so goddamn nervous.
Before I knew it, the sentence, “I’m leaving the church” had left my mouth. That was the only statement I ever got to make.
There is a darkness in you, the light has left your eyes.
You have brought Satan into our home.
You are listening to anti-Mormon lies.
Something is wrong with you, we are going to find a psychiatrist.
You need to see a doctor, something is not right.
You are not well.
I left the room mid-lecture, shaking. It was all wrong, this is not how I wanted it to happen. I had tried so hard to perfect my coming out! But I wasn’t ready! It was all too soon! My husband followed me out shortly after and relayed the message that we had one hour to pack up our things. His family was kind enough to take us in at the last minute and they were so generous with their resources and compassion.
I was in a state of shock. The next day happened to be my first day of my new job and I had to call in late because I couldn’t stop sobbing in the car. Their anger was one thing, that was to be expected. But calling me emotionally unstable? Now that was the most gut-wrenching, humiliating justification they could have come up with. After all the anguish I had suffered at the hands of this institution? It was too much.
Stories spread like wildfire. “Katrina is anti-mormon,” my cousin told me, quoting another family member she’d heard the news from. She was the one family member who actually had the guts to ask me why I left. Most people were too uncomfortable to approach the subject with me and quite frankly, the feeling was mutual. I fumbled through phone calls with friends and we hung up knowing things would never be the same. An aunt and uncle reached out and expressed support. Grandparents expressed their love. A childhood friend wrote me a letter and although it was presumptive and preachy, I was oddly touched that someone cared about my eternal salvation, even if I didn’t believe in it any more.
I received an apology text. I was greeted with an affectionate hug in front of everyone at a cousin’s bridal shower, a public display of extending an olive branch. So this is how it would be, we just wouldn’t talk about it and smile happily like everything was fine.
It hurt like hell but it was also a relief to have the cord cut. And my mind was so alive with excitement and wonder at this new reality I had stepped into. I had freedom and they didn’t! I felt sorry for them and excited for myself. I couldn’t allow the Mormon church to take one more moment of my life. Eternity was dead to me.
Every day felt magical despite the mundane realities of my office job and the pain of my bruised relationships. It actually felt like I was living in my own Celestial Kingdom as I created a new world for myself. A whole universe of art was now available for me to appreciate, R-rated movies, and books and music that explored complex themes. I liked the counterculture in Salt Lake City and enjoyed working downtown. I savored my morning coffee runs with my new co-workers, mostly former or nonmembers, and laughed irreverently with them about the absurdities of the omnipresent cult. I frequented the bar next to my office with coworkers who liked to drink and they introduced me to whiskey and beer. I learned how to make margaritas and aperol spritzes and how to open a bottle of wine. I went to the thrift shop often and slowly built a new wardrobe of clothes that didn’t have to be garment-friendly. And some days I’d just stare at the way the sun hit my bare shoulders and beam with pride at what I had accomplished. I left a cult, how goddamn cool is that?
I hard launched my new apostasy on Instagram with a picture of myself wearing an immodest shirt. The Shoulder Seen ‘Round The World, I giggled to myself before posting it. I captioned it with a quote from Eckhart Tolle’s “The Power of Now”, a book I had read that summer and adored.
This season of novelty and optimism will forever hold a special place in my heart. For the first time I was getting to know myself and the world without my Mormon blinders on and it was truly the most satisfying and exhilarating work I could ask out of life. I knew deep down that there were things I’d have to work through, like my mixed faith marriage and religious trauma, but for now I was content to just bask in the warmth of fire and brimstone.