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 I discovered that most fringe Mormons had long abandoned maintaining the Book of Mormon as a historical document.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 strained 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.