Leaving My Religion

Kellyn Baker

Some of my earliest memories involve watching my brother, Trevin, do backflips and karate in our backyard. It was a fairly big yard, with a sandbox, swingset, and a little grassy area where we had our trampoline. There were also a few trees back there. My favorite tree was the biggest one. I would climb it as high as I could, and watch Trevin do parkour across the yard. While he was doing that, my oldest brother was drawing incredible hyper-realistic portraits. Kaydin was an incredible artist, and he was a genius. Trevin was a bad-ass karate-kid. I would have been around the age of five to seven, and they were both somewhere between twelve and fifteen. I have nine siblings in total, but it was those two older brothers that I worshiped. 

Some part of me knew I could never be as impressive and influential as them because they were boys. I was just an over-emotional, weak little girl. They were strong and apathetic, They were pensive and intelligent. I knew I was smart, but I would never be as smart as them. And I would never be as loved as them either. At the time, I could not identify where this deep-rooted misogyny came from, and why I had latched onto it so strongly. Every Sunday at church, old men would stand behind the pulpit telling me what to believe, reminding me of my role as a woman. I remember my dad talking about the Priesthood—something I could never have. Only men could have it. Well, only “worthy”  men could have it. It was one of the many things, I had noticed, that was exclusive to men. It seemed as though God had so much more in store for men. 

Every Sunday at church, old men would stand behind the pulpit telling me what to believe, reminding me of my role as a woman.

The Priesthood in Mormon culture is almost like a superpower. It gives men the power to “heal the sick” and “cast out evil” and “talk to God.” If this sounds a little unhinged, that’s because it is, very much so. However, as a child, I thought it was very real and very cool. Many times I would ask Dad why I couldn’t have the Priesthood. The response was always “Well, your job is to have kids,” or, “Women just have other roles,” or, “You don’t really want it; it’s too much responsibility.” My brothers, however, could talk to God, get their dream job, and be distant fathers with faithful stay-at-home wives. Perhaps if we had not lived in Utah, the chosen land for Mormons, I would not have felt so trapped. However, these beliefs were everywhere, and they were not questioned. 

Our house at the time was not small, but it certainly felt small with so many people living in it. It had three floors, but the basement was an unfinished project, so we never went down there. There were three staircases: two leading upstairs on either end of the house, and one leading to the unfinished basement. The kitchen was positioned to the right at the end of the entry hallway, and was where my mom and my grandma spent much of their time. Grandma had lived with us for a while, and it did not seem like she was leaving any time soon. One day, after school, I walked into the kitchen where my grandma sat watching my mom. She was always watching us. Waiting for something, but I never knew what; it seemed even she was unsure of what she was waiting for. Grandma noticed me there in the kitchen and asked what I learned at school. 

“Well, they showed us a video about an asteroid hitting Earth and breaking off a chunk of it and then it became the moon.” For whatever reason, this was not what my grandma wanted to hear. 

“Let’s go upstairs and read a little something.” So, upstairs we went. My room sat at the top of one of the staircases. In my room, three twin mattresses sat on the floor. One for me and my sister, Rylynn, to share. Two more for Maryn and Fabiola, my other sisters. Grandma and I sat on my shared mattress, and pulled out her Bible. She turned to Genesis something-or-another, and read a verse. “On the third day, God created the plants and land, you see?” 

I did not see. 

She looked at me as though I were Satan himself. (Luckily, Satan is a man. I could never be him either.) “So you don’t believe in God’s plan?” 

I tried to identify what this conversation was and why she was suddenly upset. At six years old, I couldn’t have said anything too terrible, right? I couldn’t think of anything, so I just nodded and said, “Oh right, uh, yeah, God is right.” That seemed to satisfy her enough. I remained confused, but relieved. Scenarios like this were quite frequent whenever evolution, the Big Bang, or black holes were mentioned. Sometimes met with more hostility, sometimes simply ignored. Questioning God’s word was not acceptable, and it earned you the silent treatment. 

The funny thing about Mormonism is that “the word of God” can be found in so many places. The Bible and the Book of Mormon are the most obvious places, but any man in church who speaks from behind the pulpit is also preaching God’s word. At the General Conference, a global broadcast where the leaders of Mormonism would preach to all Mormons who owned a TV, old white men would stand behind the pulpit and share what God had told them to tell us. “Vote against Gay marriage. It is not of God, and is sinful,” and “Women, do not let the evil forces of this world convince you that you are not valued here. Your place is in the home, and that is sacred,” and “Sex is evil, unless you are married in the temple.” The few times someone did question any of these things and the church leaders found out about it, that person was given two options: confess to their bishop that they were sorry for trying to lead people astray, or get ex-communicated. So, I learned to hate members of the LGBTQ community, I learned to hate being a woman, and I learned that sex was evil.

At this point in my story, I would like to point out that Mormons are not evil. They are not all malicious, misogynistic, brainwashed fools. Many of the people I know through my time as a Mormon are amazing people: kind, charitable, and loving. The leaders, however, I cannot speak for. I don’t know if they are consciously offering God’s protection for money and devotion. I do not believe that people are inherently evil. They will tend to look for the good in the evil. “Sure the church wants $10,000 from me every year, but it also provides my family with a systematic plan for salvation, through love, kindness, and charity.” You see, Christianity, specifically Mormonism, teaches people how to reach paradise after death. Is that not something we all want? I was very content with the idea that if I acted as Jesus did, I would go to heaven. As far as I knew, that was all anyone was trying to do. I still remember the lyrics of my old favorite primary song:

I’m trying to be like Jesus

I’m following in his way

I’m trying to love as he did

In all that I do and say

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My family has moved in and out of nine houses since living in our Utah house. We left Utah for financial reasons, and ended up in North Dakota for about nine months. It was a strange change in scenery: from mountainous deserts to desolate plains. In Utah, every city was connected to the next. It was impossible to tell when Ogden became Layton became Salt Lake City. It all blurred together. North Dakota was the opposite. We could drive through empty stretches of land for what felt like hours. The church, in fact, was just one long, empty-field drive. It took about one hour to get from our house in Mott to the church in Dickinson. Mott had six hundred forty people living in it. It had exactly nine Mormons: my family. Fabiola and my grandma stayed in Utah, so our numbers were lower. It was quite the culture shock for me. Every kid in my class took the Lord’s name in vain. My second-grade teacher did not seem to understand how blasphemous this was. I tried to inform her, but she simply did not care. It was like she wanted her students to rot in hell. 

Every kid in my class took the Lord’s name in vain. My second-grade teacher did not seem to understand how blasphemous this was.

Living in North Dakota was a surreal experience: I only saw my dad once a week because of his new job, church was not constantly discussed by the citizens of Mott, and most of the kids in my class made a point of telling me that I worshiped Joseph Smith and was not a Christian. One day I spoke up: “I am too a Christian. I believe in Jesus!” I was met with “It doesn’t matter. My dad told me that Mormons aren’t Christian.” Your dad? My dad has the Priesthood. He’s basically Superman. 

One Sunday, I asked my primary teacher if Mormons were Christian. “Yes, of course we are. Anyone who tells you we aren’t is just trying to take away your faith.” Of course, these eight-year-old kids are taking away my faith. Despite my vilifying these kids who did not understand my religion, I couldn’t help but question why the leaders of my church seemed to look down on non-members so much. I couldn’t help but question why women were less than men. I couldn’t help but question why the founders of our church had multiple wives. I couldn’t help but question the silencing of questions. Questioning, however, was bad. Questioning God was the opposite of having faith in Him. Try as I did to stop them, though, my questions grew and my faith diminished. 

Throughout high school, I could feel my desire to reach the patriarchal heaven lessen more and more. Still, I held onto the “iron rod.” I went to seminary every morning before school, I went to church every Sunday, and I went to youth group every Wednesday. One day, in freshman year seminary, a substitute teacher came in to teach about chastity. 

“One of the worst sins you can commit is having sex before marriage.” One of the worst? She continued on, “Anyone who has committed this sin must go through years of repentance and confession to the bishop.” 

I walked out in the middle of class. It was strange. I did not feel a gradual buildup of anger toward her teachings, just a sudden clarity that what she was saying felt wrong. It felt controlling. I almost felt brainwashed, as though I had been fed this information all my life just so that this organization could control my actions. Still, I continued in the church. That same teacher taught a class my junior year on a different topic. I believe it was something related to living a “righteous” life in a world of chaos. At some point during the lesson, the teacher began sharing personal details of her life that slightly chipped at my resentful heart. 

“I have struggled with depression for quite some time. After my first pregnancy, I became suicidal. God helped me through these times. I’m not sure I would be here today without His guidance,” she confessed. 

The words she shared that day resonated very strongly with me. She, just like every other human, just like me, had felt alone. She had felt afraid and lost. That was why she was here. But why was I here? I often felt alone and lost sitting in these classes, or attending youth groups, or, especially, watching old men behind a pulpit tell me who I was and what my purpose was. I cannot perfectly describe the understanding that came to me that day. It was not a clear, vivid enlightenment. It was a small seed planted in my soul; a small seed of autonomy, of hope, of contentment, of confusion. It only grew from there. Slowly, everything unraveled, including myself.

Leaving the church was painful. I remember my first day of senior year. My dad rushed upstairs and swung my door open at about 7:15 a.m. The seminary students would have been mid-way through the first class of the year. 

“Why aren’t you at seminary?” he asked in one of the angriest tones he had ever spoken to me in. 

“I’m not going this year.” 

My dad has never yelled at me, and I have never heard him curse, but I could physically feel his anger that day. Dad and I did not talk much that year. He was resentful toward me, and a little part of me understood why. After everything he had done for me as a father, this was what he got. 

My mom was going through her own religious deconstruction at the same time, so we grew much closer. I needed that. A little part of me wonders if God, or whatever higher powers there are, sent us on that path together for a reason. Who knows if either of us would have left if we were alone. I know, that is an ironic assumption to make. Perhaps I am completely wrong. 

The thing is, I feel okay with not knowing why I left, or if leaving was the right thing to do. Despite the issues my leaving the church has caused my family, despite my parents now frequently talking about splitting, and despite my no longer believing much of anything, I feel right. I can feel my body letting go of tension. I can feel my headaches lessen. I can feel my anxiety fade. Most importantly, I can feel a love for myself as a human being in a scary world. I have no “purpose” as a woman,” and I am happier because of it.

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