Ordain Women - An Apology

Dear Sisters,

I'm writing to tell you I'm sorry I can't stand with you. I'm sorry, and not in the snide “sorry/not sorry” way. I don't doubt your experiences, or motives, or that you hope for a more fair, welcoming, accepting Church. I understand that's where you're coming from, but I just can't wrap my head or heart around this thing, and due to my experiences, I can't stand with you. I'm sorry. I wish you well.

I believe you're fighting for equality. I believe you're asking some deep questions along the way. I get that. I have had a different walk though, and I'd like to explain my point of view.

I was raised in an LDS home, but it was anything but ideal. My parents were abusive. My father was a downright bully, and in a home with five daughters, he “disciplined” physically. I frequently had welts that I know I didn't deserve, even as a toddler. I remember hiding under the couch or in closets to escape his wrath. He was never a daddy. My mother was physically abusive as well, but the emotional scars she left go deeper. She was probably bipolar, but undiagnosed. She had moments of cruelty, and neither she nor my father loved us unconditionally. Both of them told us this.

My two escapes were school and church. I did well in school and studied voraciously. On Sundays, I sang and listened and prayed. I learned to love giving talks, and remember as a young child learning of the Plan of Salvation, of doctrine, of our mission here. Although I believed in Heavenly Father and Jesus, it sometimes seemed too wonderful that I could have a Father in Heaven who would love me no matter what. Vengeful God seemed more familiar. I learned to fear authority figures at home. It would take a lot for me to even believe that I could be loved, let alone unconditionally. It took me many years more to finally believe that God could love me even when I made mistakes. I had never experienced that in this life. It took so much effort for me to trust anyone, even Jesus, the true and faithful himself.

Where there is darkness, there is often compensation. Sometimes people are compelled to be humble, and because of that, are ready to receive a little more. I was rejected by my peers (especially the “good” LDS ones) because I was awful and awkward and didn't fit in. I was brought through the valleys of depression so many times before ever learning the word for it. I have felt so low that I desperately sought for strength – any strength – so that I could hold on. I was able during this time to read all of the standard works, Church history, and also found some anti-Mormon literature. Ironically, it was the last of these that drove me to my knees. It would have been so easy to walk away from the church of my abusive parents and the cruel young people. It would have been so simple to declare each a hypocrite and burn that part of my life to ashes. Some in my family have done these very things. I love them deeply, and pray to a just God for mercy. I know what they've been through.

But for me, I needed to know. For myself. With literature pointing accusatory fingers at the Church in one hand, and lingering doubts about family, community, myself, and God's very nature in the other, I knelt to pray. No angel. No fanfare. Nothing instant. I kept at it. I worried. I thought. I weighed what I could believe and what I couldn't. Slowly, I was led toward an answer I didn't expect: patience. As dark and lost as I was, I was being asked to be patient. Would a loving Father do that?

Yes. By receiving the answer slowly, I was driven deeper. I started feeling greater peace as I studied and prayed. It is because of the literature I didn't just read the scriptures, but I dissected them. I cross-referenced the Bible and Book of Mormon, found Church history, found ancient cultures, and eventually found my answers.

Meanwhile, I was exposed to virtually every question about the Church under the sun. I could not answer all of the claims. Where there were questions, I chose to trust God by asking Him. Sometimes I received peace. Sometimes I was driven into the scriptures more. Sometimes I didn't get an answer. I don't know why I couldn't get it all at once, but over the long process, I learned to trust God's timing. I learned to hold on, especially when the answers don't come right away. And I learned, finally, that God is indeed loving, and He would not cast me off, neglect, abuse, or forsake me, as others have done so many times. Learning that was a miracle in my life.

Time passes. Sometimes I'm still asked to wait. I've never been married, and it seems like I may not be in this life. I understand the hard road of patience. I know that it's like to be denied. I know the envy of looking at others and wishing for righteous blessings. My arms have ached for a husband and children. I know the pain of sitting in Relief Society when a well-meaning sister proclaims that men have the priesthood and women get to be wives and mothers. I have neither. I've painfully had to separate the true Gospel from the culture, the stereotypes, the well-meant falsehoods, and occasional lies I've been taught. I've had to learn to believe when it was insane to believe.

The longer I live, the more I rely on God's mercy. Perhaps a bit of the shame and fear of my childhood still linger, because I still go through bouts of fear that God will reject me. Every time, he lovingly begs me to come back, even when I feel so distant, alone, incomplete, stained, or worthless. I have learned that even though I sometimes can't see what he's doing in my life, he hasn't left me. It humbles me to the core to think that He still loves me.

The longer I live, the less I look at my parents as semblances of God (or the devil). I realize how flawed they are, and how in need of God they are too. I no longer reflect on the scorn of my youth at the hands of “righteous” young women or “stalwart” young men. These too are just people. I no longer see those things because I'm focused strongly on the completely incomprehensible mercy of Jesus Christ, and how far I am from Him. Everything else disappears in light of that relationship.

In my weakness, He has given me knowledge from time to time. Revelation. He has blessed me to be healed when none placed hands on my head. He has let me call down blessings on my loved ones. He has shown me deep and eternal things, and sometimes in my lowest state. He has taken this fully rejected creature and has promised me everything. And daily, he fills me with just enough hope to endure the pain of a failing body, disease, crippling depression, loneliness, heartache, unfulfilled dreams, anxiety, fear, self-loathing, and disappointment.

Sisters, I know you're hurt because of inequality. I know you want more. I know you mean well in this endeavor. I do understand some of these things, but I cannot stand with you. I cannot focus on the relationship between men and women in the Church, because I don't see how that will help me draw closer to Christ. I once saw the world through the eyes of an abused person, and I don't want to see people as oppressors and oppressed anymore. I see beloved sinners, both men and women. Sinners because of our nature, and beloved because of our Redeemer. Do I know why men hold the priesthood? No, but I have some guesses. Are there abuses, inconsistencies, unanswered questions, troubles, and everything else? Yes, but that's mortality. We strive for better while doing the best we can. 

We strive for patience in our pleadings. We realize our own shortcomings and beg for mercy. We receive Christ, and find something higher to focus on.

Fellow beloved sinners, I don't know your hearts. I have never met you. I'm sorry you are hurting. I'm sorry that you feel short-changed in this church. I'm sorry I don't have any good answers for you. And I'm sorry I can't stand with you, but my feet are called a different direction. My steep road of patience tells me that answers will someday come, but rarely as requested. Sometimes the answers may break your heart, but as I've learned to trust God, I've learned that some of those heartbreaks are the kindest answers of all. And always, eternally, he calls all his children home. I hope to make it, and I hope to see you there.