The Pitfalls of Prescribing Parables
I’ve recently had people express thoughts about my decision to leave the Church that have gone something like this: “You are like the prodigal son. Against the counsel of your parents and others who love you, you’re departing the safety of the Church. I can see that you need to take this journey and learn for yourself. You will probably be back one day after your choices make you miserable enough that you come to your senses.”
I want to say that I feel no ill feelings towards the people expressing this. They come from love, as expressed within the constraints of their moral perspective. I do not begrudge that. They could be bearing down in condemnation, and instead they are processing my decision from a place of compassion that permits them to let me gracefully depart. I appreciate that very much.
Nonetheless, I disagree with this framing, for one simple reason: I am not the prodigal son.
The prodigal son demanded his inheritance and left the company of his father for one motivation and one motivation only: extravagance. He wasted it in riotous living. He drank, gambled, and slept with prostitutes. It wasn’t long before the money ran out, a famine struck, and he was reduced to herding swine, even envying the pigs their corn husks for his hunger. In this moment of extreme deprivation in consequence for his choices, the Prodigal comes to his senses, and returns begging for a place even if just as a servant. To his surprise, his father welcomes him back without reservation as a son.
I am not strictly Christian anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost appreciation for Jesus’s parables. They speak truth to my soul. The story of the Prodigal is no different.
It is not, however, my story.
The simple fact of the matter is that I am not leaving the Church for licentiousness. “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die” is a ludicrous way to live life, and anybody with an ounce of sense knows it. I’m not leaving for the sake of gambling, smoking, drinking, doing drugs, or otherwise wasting my life. That’s not my way, it never has been, and it won’t be now.
I am still the kind and loving Bryce you know. Compassion is the foundation of my ethic. Loving God with all my heart and neighbor as self remains the purpose of my existence. It requires careful commitment to connection and community. It requires a healthy heart and mind. And Mormonism worked on numerous fronts in opposition to my mission and purpose in life.
Sure, I had luminous experiences in Mormonism. These trained my heart to be kind and serviceable to my fellow man. I cherish those.
But here’s the hard truth: they were exceptions. The rest was a nightmare.
It’s really hard to explain this. In some ways I don’t understand it myself. I just knew that I couldn’t breathe. The constant expectations, the unrealistic standards, the perception that I will be condemned by even the thoughts that I think-- for someone as self-aware and neurotic as I am, it was only a natural response to watch every single thought for disobedience and attack with righteous ferocity when they betrayed even a shred of it.
Whatever God I found through Mormonism was a stern, unforgiving taskmaster. Sacrifice everything with which He blesses you, or may bless you, to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, for the building up of the kingdom of God. That’s not just some expectation, that’s the verbiage of the temple covenant, yall.
Given this setup it’s only natural that religious matters absorbed most of my time and energy. The Church wasn’t just the map, it was the ground. It wasn’t just the lens, it was the eye. There was no escape. It permeated everything. It was literally everything to me. It was the only thing I allowed to matter in life.
But we were unequally yoked. I gave the Church much more than it ever gave back. I kept doing what it asked anyway, believing (as I did) that it was the only way to joy and eternal life.
Joy? If that’s joy, I don’t want it. Eternal life? That’s the price? Well, then I respectfully return the ticket. No thanks. There is no hell comparable. It. Was. A. Nightmare.
I never felt good enough. I never felt worthy. I never felt like I could just sit down and enjoy things I liked-- if it wasn’t explicitly approved by the Church then it would never amount to anything worthwhile anyway, so why bother? I couldn’t shut off vigilance lest some errant thought or desire condemned me. I was so afraid of God asking me to sacrifice all that I have and am to the Church that I didn’t let myself develop-- never actively explored my interests, never consciously developed my desires, never took risks, never felt safe to exhibit curiosity, never really knew what I wanted or even who I was. God was going to take it all away from me anyway, so why bother? I genuinely believed that, yall. You can tell me all you want that that isn’t what God wants, that isn’t how God is. I hear you, and I would challenge you on that. With the wording of the covenant, how is what I believed not reasonable to believe?
And all that is gone.
I can breathe.
I’m not leaving the Church so I can indulge. I am leaving so I can breathe. I’m not leaving so that I can self-destruct. I am leaving so that for once, I can just be human. And sex? All I ever wanted was for sexual desire and expression to be a normal, healthy part of life. Just a part! And being gay, the Church wouldn’t even permit me that. I stifled natural and normal attractions for someone else’s vision of eternity, one that I saw no part in and really didn’t want anyway. I experienced the Church’s emphasis on heterosexual marriage as an imposition on my psyche, one that didn’t match my internal sense of who I am and what I want. The Church leaves no room for any alternative. It doesn’t even leave room for exploration! It’s a “my way or the highway” kind of an institution. It’s a “do as we say or sink yourself to hell” kind of institution. It’s a “We’ve found the answer and if your answer doesn’t match, you are wrong” kind of institution. I can’t bear the ecclesiastical narcissism any longer. I tried for so long to make this broken relationship with a stern and unforgiving Church work, and I can’t do it anymore. I have no faith left for the Church to abuse.
I am not asking you to agree with me. These are my experiences and my way of interpreting them. They are ultimately about me. Neither, however, do I apologize for my experiences or my way of interpreting them. I honor and respect those who have faith in the Church-- and I hope that you can honor and respect me even though I no longer do. Part of that is recognizing that even though I am departing, like the Prodigal, that is where the similarities end.
He left to indulge. I am leaving to heal.
Image attribution: Prodigal Son, by Pompeo Batoni.
I want to say that I feel no ill feelings towards the people expressing this. They come from love, as expressed within the constraints of their moral perspective. I do not begrudge that. They could be bearing down in condemnation, and instead they are processing my decision from a place of compassion that permits them to let me gracefully depart. I appreciate that very much.
Nonetheless, I disagree with this framing, for one simple reason: I am not the prodigal son.
The prodigal son demanded his inheritance and left the company of his father for one motivation and one motivation only: extravagance. He wasted it in riotous living. He drank, gambled, and slept with prostitutes. It wasn’t long before the money ran out, a famine struck, and he was reduced to herding swine, even envying the pigs their corn husks for his hunger. In this moment of extreme deprivation in consequence for his choices, the Prodigal comes to his senses, and returns begging for a place even if just as a servant. To his surprise, his father welcomes him back without reservation as a son.
I am not strictly Christian anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost appreciation for Jesus’s parables. They speak truth to my soul. The story of the Prodigal is no different.
It is not, however, my story.
I am still the kind and loving Bryce you know. Compassion is the foundation of my ethic. Loving God with all my heart and neighbor as self remains the purpose of my existence. It requires careful commitment to connection and community. It requires a healthy heart and mind. And Mormonism worked on numerous fronts in opposition to my mission and purpose in life.
Sure, I had luminous experiences in Mormonism. These trained my heart to be kind and serviceable to my fellow man. I cherish those.
But here’s the hard truth: they were exceptions. The rest was a nightmare.
It’s really hard to explain this. In some ways I don’t understand it myself. I just knew that I couldn’t breathe. The constant expectations, the unrealistic standards, the perception that I will be condemned by even the thoughts that I think-- for someone as self-aware and neurotic as I am, it was only a natural response to watch every single thought for disobedience and attack with righteous ferocity when they betrayed even a shred of it.
Whatever God I found through Mormonism was a stern, unforgiving taskmaster. Sacrifice everything with which He blesses you, or may bless you, to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, for the building up of the kingdom of God. That’s not just some expectation, that’s the verbiage of the temple covenant, yall.
Given this setup it’s only natural that religious matters absorbed most of my time and energy. The Church wasn’t just the map, it was the ground. It wasn’t just the lens, it was the eye. There was no escape. It permeated everything. It was literally everything to me. It was the only thing I allowed to matter in life.
But we were unequally yoked. I gave the Church much more than it ever gave back. I kept doing what it asked anyway, believing (as I did) that it was the only way to joy and eternal life.
Joy? If that’s joy, I don’t want it. Eternal life? That’s the price? Well, then I respectfully return the ticket. No thanks. There is no hell comparable. It. Was. A. Nightmare.
I never felt good enough. I never felt worthy. I never felt like I could just sit down and enjoy things I liked-- if it wasn’t explicitly approved by the Church then it would never amount to anything worthwhile anyway, so why bother? I couldn’t shut off vigilance lest some errant thought or desire condemned me. I was so afraid of God asking me to sacrifice all that I have and am to the Church that I didn’t let myself develop-- never actively explored my interests, never consciously developed my desires, never took risks, never felt safe to exhibit curiosity, never really knew what I wanted or even who I was. God was going to take it all away from me anyway, so why bother? I genuinely believed that, yall. You can tell me all you want that that isn’t what God wants, that isn’t how God is. I hear you, and I would challenge you on that. With the wording of the covenant, how is what I believed not reasonable to believe?
And all that is gone.
I can breathe.
I’m not leaving the Church so I can indulge. I am leaving so I can breathe. I’m not leaving so that I can self-destruct. I am leaving so that for once, I can just be human. And sex? All I ever wanted was for sexual desire and expression to be a normal, healthy part of life. Just a part! And being gay, the Church wouldn’t even permit me that. I stifled natural and normal attractions for someone else’s vision of eternity, one that I saw no part in and really didn’t want anyway. I experienced the Church’s emphasis on heterosexual marriage as an imposition on my psyche, one that didn’t match my internal sense of who I am and what I want. The Church leaves no room for any alternative. It doesn’t even leave room for exploration! It’s a “my way or the highway” kind of an institution. It’s a “do as we say or sink yourself to hell” kind of institution. It’s a “We’ve found the answer and if your answer doesn’t match, you are wrong” kind of institution. I can’t bear the ecclesiastical narcissism any longer. I tried for so long to make this broken relationship with a stern and unforgiving Church work, and I can’t do it anymore. I have no faith left for the Church to abuse.
I am not asking you to agree with me. These are my experiences and my way of interpreting them. They are ultimately about me. Neither, however, do I apologize for my experiences or my way of interpreting them. I honor and respect those who have faith in the Church-- and I hope that you can honor and respect me even though I no longer do. Part of that is recognizing that even though I am departing, like the Prodigal, that is where the similarities end.
He left to indulge. I am leaving to heal.
Image attribution: Prodigal Son, by Pompeo Batoni.
I think one reason many of us chose to stay so long is that we are taught that life outside of church is miserable. That those people were see that seen happy and well adjusted are just putting on a facade. It was surprising to me how normal I felt after leaving. I was still me, and I could even be more of who I am without those restrictions and fears imposing on me. When I look back and see my mother, I see so much fear. Fear that she will lose her family, fear that she will lose her parents. Those fears keep her in the church despite everything she knows is not Christlike. My mental health has improved greatly after leaving and allowing myself to be who I am.
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