This is about my personal journey with organized religion, and what has transpired throughout my life within that realm. This isn’t about what’s right or wrong, or what’s true or false. This is an open and vulnerable share of my own, about how each of the experiences have shaped my spirituality. Organized religion gave me a beginning foundation which I continued to cultivate upon and personally shape not only throughout my childhood, but far into my adulthood, and up until this very moment. As the title of this blog piece states and to accurately emphasize, I came unto the realization not too long ago that indeed organized religion had stunted the capacity of my spirituality. Once I was able to break free of it's limiting teachings, I was finally able to reach the magnitude of spirituality that I have immense gratitude for today.
My hope and purpose in sharing the evolution of my spirituality, is to perhaps provide some moments of clarity to those seeking answers right now in their own lives. Answers regarding their religious stance, hunger for a deeper and unveiled spirituality, or to simply know that they are not alone in their seeking of spiritual truth.
My religious education began at a very young age. It aided in the birth of a yearning for a deepened level of spirituality that was quite evident even back then. My ever-knowing that there was more to this life than the eye could see. Perhaps a bit fantastical in nature. Today, I still believe in God ( a higher power), but my belief is not the same as those who practice any variety of "organized religion". In an effort to hook you the best I can at the beginning of this piece, I'd like to share that while I don't practice nor believe the teaching of any organized religion, I actually believe that Christ did in fact walk this Earth. However, I would detest that he is mankind's saving "Messiah". Eventually, I'll share with you my own belief as to what his existential purpose on this Earth was.
Childhood
When I was young, we moved around the country or inner-state to different cities quite frequently. This allowed my parents to submerse us in many different cultural environments. While I've been to more types of churches than I could count on two hands (Church of Christ, Catholic, Lutheran, Protestant, etc.), I'd really synopsize my religious background in my younger years as Southern Baptist or mainstream Christianity, while my early teens to adulthood was Mormonism.
Surely, some of you reading this will find that last sentence humorous to a degree, as I've heard quite frequently throughout the years how opposing those two religions are when compared to each other (Mormonism and Southern Baptist). Yet, from my perspective I would say in utter confidence that aside from an additional doctrine in the Christian branch of Mormonism, there are a convincing amount of similarities between the two.
Being raised in a Christian household made me kindred if you will, to more than 31% of the world who were raised the same. Since I was a young child I’ve always had an incredible love for God, and it's really a direct courtesy owed to my mother. As it was created from her very earnest and frequent efforts throughout my childhood. One of the earliest memories I have of my mother teaching me about God, is when we lived in Oklahoma. I couldn't have been any older than 5 or 6 years old at the time. As I shift through those memories I can vividly remember it being around Christmas time. I recall this because as I sat rested atop her legs, she was delicately crocheting little bells that she'd later dip in plaster and hang as an ornament on the tree. As she leaned back in my Uncle's recliner, she had somehow convinced me as I sat there on her lap to listen as she read me scriptures from the Holy Bible (King James Version). Of course, I don't remember the scriptures she read to me that night. However, I do recall being insanely bored as much children would be. However those words she read to me that day, and the many more to follow over the years would slowly etch into my mind as rules and guidelines by which I was supposed to live my entire life by.
If I squint my eyes a little, and thoughtfully forage deep within my mind to the furthest most cataloged memories; I can actually visualize two times I was baptized just while living at my Uncle's house with my mother in Oklahoma. Once was in a Church of God there in Lawton, and the second time was just a hop and a skip across street from our home at Northside Baptist Church. Lord knows, you're quite the sinner at 7 so my soul definitely needed that double saving. Of course, no single baptism would have done. At the Church of God, I do recall quite the peer pressure not only from the other children in my Sunday school to get baptized, but from the adults as well. Hidden amidst their gleefully toned songs they'd sing, was a daunting message that if I wanted to get into heaven (a.k.a. not simply rot in the ground or burn in hell for all of eternity) I better get baptized. For the Baptist church however, in that charming 70 year old brick church building it was a quick little dunk in a tub at the front of the meeting hall. Thereafter everyone celebrated my sins being washed away, with their "halleluiahs" and effortless toss backs of tiny Dixie cups that had been filled to the brim with grape juice. Jesus was officially "in my heart".
It was around that same time that my mother met my stepdad. Though we no longer lived with my Uncle, Oklahoma was still home for the next couple years. My mother continued to teach me of the gospel. With my stepdad in tow, we continued to attend either Baptist or mainstream Christian churches most Sunday's. It was sometime around 3rd grade, that my parents made the decision to move to Alaska. My stepdad was getting out of the Army, and had made the offbeat decision to become a bush pilot.
On our way to Alaska, we made a pit stop in Northern Washington where his adoptive parents lived. Needless to say, that visit turned into a stay and we never made it to Alaska. We lived with my "grandparents" for a while, before he started picking up odd jobs to support our family. The free rent was helpful I'm sure, but we eventually moved out of his parents home and into a tiny apartment in the small town of Monroe just northeast of Seattle. By this time we'd been to a few different churches, trying them all "out for size" if you will. As I reminisce, I feel a sense of amusement creeping in at the mere thought of how the same doctrine can be taught and shared so differently. It's all simply based on the interpretation of a man a.k.a "preacher". When you really sit and give intentional thought to the different denominations created from a single book, I struggle to see how that concept alone doesn't create a bit of uneasiness in anyone. Daunting a bit even, when you dwell on the fact that each of us see the world and interpret everything through our own personal interpretations of understanding, based furthermore on the differing experiences we've faced in life. That's an overwhelming amount of varying perceptions. I find myself asking internally, "how can something declared to be innately true, be so easily manipulated by the perception of man?". I guess one could detest that any teachings received by a pastor or alike, should be taken with a grain of salt and scriptures should be studied independently for oneself to find it's meaning. However, for a gospel so true, wouldn't an all powerful God who demanded its disciples to follow ever so faithfully, only allow his word to be practiced in the exact manner for which he meant it to be?
Anyways, I went on a bit of a tangent there so I'll bring it back. It wasn't long after we have moved to Monroe that we met our first "Mormon" missionaries. I remember it was a school night, and I had been in my bedroom when we heard a knock at the door. Being new to town, we didn't often receive visitors so the slight disturbance definitely caught my attention. My little 4th grader legs carried me as I hurried down the hall just in time to see my stepdad open the door. Outside stood two very young women, dressed in Sunday attire with name tags clipped to their shirts. My first thought was that they were Jehovah's witnesses, as there visitations were prevalent in the south and would frequent our doorstep.
My parents offered for the sisters to come in our home, to which they quickly declined. The sisters were looking for family that had been the occupants of our apartment prior to us. Upon their realization that the family no longer lived there, they took that opportunity to share with us their "testimonies" about the "true church". For whatever reason, what they had shared piqued my stepdad's attention, though I had already started to lose my interest in the girls. The four of them only chatted a bit more, before the sisters said their "goodbyes" and informed my parents they'd send male missionaries to visit us later. I don't ever remember the male missionaries visiting the rest of the time that we lived in Monroe, but I do know that we never attended a Mormon church while living there.
By this time I had all 3 of my younger siblings, with the birth of my youngest sister taking quite the emotional and physical toll on my mother. Suffering from severe post-partum, she was hospitalized due to the state of her mental health for a time. Still just bits and fragments, I remember our already undesirable state of living began to decline even more. You see, we were already teetering on the edge of poverty and low income as a family. The odd jobs my stepdad was picking up, weren't enough to support our family. That coupled with everything my mother was going through, led to a pretty stressful life at home. For whatever reason, the most clear recollections I have of living in that apartment, was how much both my parents relied on my young-self to help them with my siblings. Often I would miss school so my stepdad could work, as I stayed home to take care of the kids, since my mother continued to endure her battle with post-partum.
At some point near the tail end of 4th grade or beginning of 5th, we made a short move just a couple hours south to a dingy little town called Centralia. It's a bit difficult for me to remember everything from this time, as I am still healing a lot of PTSD from my childhood leaving many of my memories blurred or scattered. There was a lot of sorrow and pain in that little dilapidated home. My heart heaves just at the few memories I'm able to recall. My mom was still struggling with post-partum, and heated arguments were frequent between my parents. Often I'd barricade my siblings in my bedroom with me, as they'd always cry when they fought.
I'll give my parents credit, for doing the best that they could. Truth be told, they both suffer from severe child-hood trauma that I doubt they'll ever be able to face in efforts to heal in this lifetime. My stepdad was adopted at a young age, after he and his siblings were found in an old trailer in the woods of Washington. They had been left for an undetermined amount of time, and at 8 years old he was keeping his sisters fed with rotted potato's and dandelions. My mother was one of 11 siblings, with no more than of 2 of them being from the same father. My grandmother was born some time in the 1920's, and had faced the well-known severity of a masculine dominated era; where domestic violence was a "private matter" that frequented many homes in painful silence. Women didn't have many rights, and endured significant abuse with little to no rescue. This left my grandmother with a gaping lack of escape from abusive men, that too left her with severe trauma she'd never heal. Unfortunately, her unresolved trauma bled into her children, and she struggled with alcoholism most my mother's life. I remember a story my mother would tell me of when she and her brother of the nearest age, were in a car accident with my grandmother. She said she awoke from underneath the dashboard of the old truck they had, as my uncle was scooping her into his arms. My grandmother had been drinking, and driven them off the road into a ditch in Alabama. My point in sharing this last paragraph, is to provide insight and proof of the trauma my parents both have unresolved. How their lack of a positive environment to grow up as children, didn't leave them with the adequate skills to have a strong foundation to provide their children as parents.
I remember while we lived in that home in Centralia, my siblings and I always feeling the pain of hunger in our bellies. I'd open the cupboards repeatedly hoping to see them bountiful with food, but often there was no more than a single can of salmon, and a nearly empty bag of flour. We continued to live in a state of poverty, with so many of our physical and emotional needs being unmet. I remember it was the last of many trips my parents would take to the Salvation Army to get our family food donations, that they returned empty handed. We were maxing out the portions of food we were allowed to receive, and upon this final visit they had been turned away. It wasn't shortly after, that my parents reengaged with the Mormon church. They were seeking help to feed and clothe our family, and had began to turn to anyone they thought might be able to help provide some matter of relief.
Late one night, my parents crammed my siblings and I were into the back of our Nissan Sentra. We began driving down the road, until we came to a well lit building. On the brick outside, a sign said "The Church of Jesus Christ, of Latter Day Saints". Excited, my parents shared with me that the church had agreed to feed our family, under a few conditions. My siblings and I played on the thin carpet for what seemed like forever, as my parents met with the ward's bishop. I didn't hear the details of the conversation through the thick door, even though an inch of space separated the bottom of the door from the carpet. When my parents eventually finished meeting with him, we hurriedly scooped up more groceries bags of food than I'd ever seen from the kitchen; before we climbed back into our car to head home.
The terms of the agreement the church made with my parents, was that they'd feed us only if we became members of the church. This meant preparing and earning the right to be baptized, and attending church every Sunday while keeping to the guidelines set in Doctrine and Covenants. Our state of living definitely improved through the offerings we received from the church. My parents upheld their end of the bargain and finally the pains of hunger became a distant memory. We began attending church every Sunday and the missionaries would frequent our home for lessons; eventually my mother, stepdad, and I were baptized in the church.
At some point during my 5th grade year, my stepdad decided to reenlist in the army. He was to be stationed in Wisconsin, and to save money my parents had requested to live in military family housing. The closest military base to where he was stationed in Wisconsin, was the city of North Chicago just a few hours south. The Army approved our request, so the 6 of us crammed into that little car and we were on our way to Illinois.
Soon my family had steady income, and our quality of life marginally improved once more. However, though food and clothing were more plentiful than they'd ever been, the emotional health of our family still suffered greatly. Both my parents continued to battle with their inner demons, oblivious to the desperate need for both of them to seek help and healing. Often I was the mediator and/or protector for both my mother and my siblings against the frequent anger of my stepdad. As his only child that was not blood, and my role as "defender"; his moments of anger were often directed at me.
We continued to attend the Mormon church in Illinois. I do believe that the motivation behind doing so, was because we were continuing to receive help through the church. I remember finally having gifts and a Christmas tree that year, when before our tree had been a roughly cutout version made from construction paper we had taped onto the wall. Though my stepdad's income was steady in the Army, it was still only $40,000.00 a year to support our family of 6. You may be wondering if my mother ever worked to help our financial situation; well, she did. Throughout my childhood she would find jobs here and there, but she never stayed in them for more than a just couple months. I never understood why she couldn't hold a job back then, but as an adult I can only attribute it to the fact that her trauma as a child left her quite fearful of the world outside her physical home. I assume she was likely triggered often in the customer service type jobs she held, and emotionally couldn't handle employment.
My parents would have the missionaries over to our home every Friday. As a child I thought it was initiated by a genuine thirst of knowledge about the gospel. However, looking back I think it was the simple fact that neither of my parents had friends, and these young kids provided them a sort of kindness they lacked otherwise. I remember our kitchen table chairs would be pulled into the living room, with my family seated upon both them and the sofa. The missionaries would share their lessons with us upon each of their visits. I must admit their messages and doctrine they would read continued to feel uncomfortably foreign to me. Though their stories were similar to that which I was initially raised on, the telling of a man far more recent than biblical times speaking to God just seemed odd. A man that God had deemed more worthy or privy to a "true doctrine", than anyone else had been in roughly 1,798 years. Damn. Though I detested strongly the messages they'd share, a lot of the kids that came to our home all those Friday's were good people that I genuinely would look forward to visiting. Some of them, my family would stay in contact for years to come.
Our ward in Chicago, was actually in a suburb called "Gurnee". As you can imagine, wards outside of Utah don't sit on every corner. So every Sunday we'd drive about 30 minutes south, to a ward building in a cute little neighborhood. I can't remember how many members we had, but sacrament meeting always overflowed into the basketball court. This meant if we every showed up late, we'd end up sitting on those cold metal chairs that were otherwise hidden under the stage. Oh, Sacrament meeting. Here I thought as a child that scriptures would bore me, sacrament took it to a whole new level. I poke fun here because the truth is as I got older, my favorability towards the LDS faith did not improve.
Allow me to share, why.
My tiny little "Mia Maid" self would sit in Young Women's, and I'd wear jeans since my family couldn't afford an additional cost for church wear. To which of course, the rest of the girls who were far more active in their faith would ask as to why I wasn't dressed appropriately. The YW leaders would hush them, and vocalize a few words to the reality that I was a convert and if anyone had clothes to donate they'd be grateful. "Kill me now", I thought to myself as if I wasn't already feeling awkward and out of place. Kind gesture sure, but I felt so ostracized. I was a "convert", and I wasn't "dressed appropriately". These weren't concerns spoken in the privacy of women who could aid in the other girls accepting me, it was spoken aloud as if a scarlet red letter "A" was pinned on my shirt. Truly though, I don't hold disdain towards these women leaders, because they too were acting out of their on conformity that they held themselves to.
As if my appearance didn't make me feel outcast enough, the lessons were overwhelming. I remember the first stack of books my Mia Maid leader handed me. My stomach and heart sank nearly simultaneously as I gazed upon the outdated covers of each book. I remember thinking, "since when does church have homework?", "I wonder if Primary will have me back". While I can understand the thought behind why they had such work for young girls to do, it remains as incredulous to me today as it was then. To believe in and be of worth to God required duteous study, and boxes to be checked off from years of efforts in tasks like sewing and cooking. Mind you, "I would someday serve a patriarch of the home" and must know my womanly duties. Jokes aside, sewing and cooking (things my southern mother taught me to do at a young age anyways), were the easiest damn things I completed in YW's. Yes, I checked off two whole boxes before I threw the damn books away. Algebra kicked my ass enough as is.
In truth though, it wasn't the booklets, activities, and all similar manner of things to complete that left me feeling so unnerved and out of place. It was the consistent rejection from ALL the girls in YW's; whether it was due to the fact that my parents smelled of tobacco smoke, or the fact that I wore jeans to church, or perhaps the reality I was just a convert. Though few may admit it, there was a certain nobility of being raised in the church. Even more so, the wealthy families ruled. My bishops were Dentists, Anesthesiologists, and hell even a retired Chicago Bears player. This naturally added a layer of shame to the whole experience, as if the rigid guidelines and doctrine didn't do enough of that already. I remember the pressure I'd feel each Sunday, as my YW leaders would call the girls up that had completed certain tasks within their booklets. Showboating them as exceptional women, who Heavenly Father was immensely proud of. God, I remember wanting to just shrink in my chair and disappear. As time passed, I couldn't help but wonder if the girls would cast a side-eye my way wondering when I'd be earning all my fancy pins. It was overwhelming, and it added to the fact I never felt welcome. The whole experience began to make me question religion entirely. I had already struggled with a new doctrine, but for such a "true" church; I was beginning to feel less love than even the churches before. There was far more shame and fear in the Mormon church, and even my young teenage mind could see it plainly. There were so many more more guidelines to adhere to and live by.
At some point during my junior year of high school, either my complaining of not wanting to go to church, or the continued domestic issues at home; my family stopped going to church all together. My mother had ceased entirely, in her efforts to read scriptures to the family. We never attended another church outside the Mormon religion, so really all nature of spiritualty for me as a teen dissipated. I actually remember thinking to myself one day, that I likely didn't believe in God at all anymore.
It was that same year, that the military PCS'd us to Utah. Actually, we were given the chance to move to Utah or American Samoa. For whatever reason, my parents chose Utah. So after roughly 7 years in Illinois, we were packing up again and tracking back to the west coast. My stepdad was to be stationed at Fort Douglas in Salt Lake City, which meant we'd be living in Layton on Hill Air Force base. You guessed it, free military housing.
I remember when we first arrived, we were driving up to the gate to enter Hill, and two F16s flew past us. Definitely one of the most bad ass things I'd ever seen. Utah was beautiful. The mountain's seemed to almost loom over us, and everything was so clean. In Illinois as you can imagine the crime and lack of care for upkeep of the cities was overwhelming. You'll chuckle, but I remember being shocked that everyone was so white. Every where else we had ever lived prior to, had been fairly diverse. To add to the amusement, for whatever reason, girls looked like they had rats nests in the back of their heads. Tangles of hair matted to make their hair taller. It was hilarious to me.
For the tail-end of my junior year, my parents enrolled me into Northridge High School there in Layton just down the road from the base. It was the first time in a public school I wouldn't have to wear a uniform for my own safety. I forgot to mention that previously actually, in Chicago we wore uniforms not because the school was private or charter, but you'd quite literally get your ass kicked and shoes stolen if they were name brand. So they enforced uniforms to keep the children safe, even in elementary school!
It wasn't long after we moved here to Utah, that my parents decided to visit our area ward. I remember them saying something about wanting to get to know a few people in the area, and that seemed to be the best way to go about it. There weren't a lot of Mormons on base, so our ward was actually in the city of Clearfield just outside the base's gates. We were pretty active, attending every Sunday. I don't remember much about the ward, except there seemed to be a dauntingly increased level of righteous attitude compared to Illinois. Don't even get me started on the self-righteousness and ego of "UTAH MORMONS".
PART TWO - Adulthood & Spiritual Awakening...
