Weird Mormon

When I was called into the church office of four adult men one Sunday afternoon, I did not want to go. The ratio alone made me nervous– four adult men and me. I'd attended the same church my entire life and knew these four men well. They were my local church leaders, the "spiritual giants who I could turn to for everything." Yet, I rarely felt I could tell them anything.

Being a Mormon is weird. Being a weird Mormon, even weirder.

In high school, everyone knew I was Mormon. I refused to swear, had an early curfew, and didn't drink alcohol. Many of my peers cussed liberally, stayed out late, and frequently got drunk on the weekends. While I woke up at six AM every day to attend early morning church seminary classes and carried a Book of Mormon with me in my backpack, my peers often slept in till eight AM and often carried the latest issue of Seventeen Magazine or Sports Illustrated. I never attended school or social events on Sundays because I believe in honoring the Sabbath; my friends rarely attended school or social events on Sundays because they were busy sleeping off their hangovers. While I was spending time reading scriptural texts, my friends were not. We lived very different lives.

The Mormon church is known for being peculiar. The church's stance is that we, Latter Day Saints, should embrace this peculiarity and find satisfaction being in this world, but not of it. Various stigmas and stereotypes are to be expected when any body of people joins together to express a common interest, action, or belief. Jews, Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, even Atheists provoke a variety of assumptions and presumptions. Members of society don't often automatically understand the motives, actions, and thoughts behind all faiths. And should they? Can the depth, the underlying spiritual purposes of one's belief system, be adequately explained in a quick verbal exchange with a questioning passerby?

No, being considered different by those outside my faith was never an issue. That, I expected.

I knew what this meeting was about– the status of my Eagle Scout Award. Every good, upstanding Mormon boy in my community is a Boy Scout and recipient of the Eagle Award. At its core, Boy Scouts exists to teach ethics and morality to young men through exploration of nature, community, and self. The title "Eagle Scout" is attained by completing a series of merit badges created to teach hard skills in the outdoors and, even more, to promote ethical values. The ultimate goal of scouting is to turn young men into moralistic people. This goal coincides directly with the basic principles and purpose of the religion itself– to worship God through service, hard work, selflessness, and love for one's neighbor. I was now seventeen years old and the time was finally mine to join my two older brothers, and the entire Mormon male community, in demonstrating my commitment to such principles by completing the Boy Scouts program. While obligations to other extracurricular pursuits kept me from attending a number of Scouting activities during my last two years of high school, I'd already completed the majority of the Eagle requirements years before. I was a few small steps away from earning my award. But did I need an award to prove my morality? Does being an Eagle Scout automatically make a person virtuous and good?

As I walked into the room where the four man sat, I took extra care to stand up straight and look each one directly in the eye, determined to hide the intimidation I felt. I'd never heard of a meeting like this– one where a single youth met alone with four of the church's leaders– and I was nervous. Each man wore a dark suit, a pressed white shirt, and a neutral-colored tie firmly lining the circumference of his neck. I'd never enjoyed wearing a white shirt and suite and, instead, sported corduroys and a green collared shirt with a pink tie.

The room's bright lights created glaringly white walls. My father's dress shoes were wrapped uncomfortably around my feet as I walked firmly across the room's industrial carpet. The tie around my neck, a standard fixture in a Mormon male's church attire, was suffocating me. I'd been in this church office before. I knew all of these men and had worked with them for many years in church and Scouting activities. I wasn't in new territory. Things shouldn't have felt so unfamiliar.

The meeting began with a question– how would I describe my experiences with Scouting and being involved in church activities?

I remained silent for a moment.

I was taken back to a weeklong church Scouting trip in the seventh grade when I was left alone canoeing on the lake because my troop had forgotten about me. I recalled the time when, on a different trip, I was cornered by the other boys and taunted for being involved in "gay" things like plays. I felt the sting of driving past the church one Saturday afternoon and noticing a church Scouting activity taking place that I hadn't been invited to. I remembered the first time I told these men that I'd be leaving Idaho in order to pursue a college degree in the arts on the East Coast and, even more, remembered their response– "What's wrong with the church university here? There is more sin on the East Coast." I felt the ache of Sunday School where everyone in the class, except me, was spoken to by the teacher. I remembered the numbness I felt the first time the bishop's son called me a fag. I was taken back to the time when I'd pitched my tent far away from the other kids at a summer church camp because I didn't want to hear their crucifying words and couldn't understand why my leaders never intervened. As I sat facing these men, silently reliving my past experiences, I recognized that they were not living Mormon standards. However, I also realized how much those standards ask of church members, imperfect humans. The way I was treated by my church leaders and peers was not a manifestation of their Mormonism, but instead a manifestation of their humanness. Their actions didn't deter my faith in my religion, but rather my faith in perfect people.

How would I describe my experiences? "Fine."

Next question– why am I trying to earn my Eagle?

I told them what they wanted to hear. "I enjoy Scouting and know that the Eagle Scout Award honors people who possess strong character."

I did not, in fact, enjoy Scouting and preferred artistic endeavors like singing, dancing, and acting to common Boy Scout pursuits like hiking, camping, and shooting guns. I didn't interact with Scouts who maintained strong character but, instead, experienced isolation and exclusion from my peers. I worked toward my Eagle Scout because it meant something to my religious community and was expected of me, because it's what normal Mormon boys do. I suddenly realized how, for so many years, I just wanted to be a normal Mormon boy.

I sat through the next five minutes of the meeting silent. Each man took his turn speaking at me. The men were disappointed in my involvement with the church. They felt I wasn't putting forth enough effort. They sensed that I didn't quite understand what it meant to be an Eagle, to take on such an honorable title. They told me I had ulterior motives and that I wasn't involved enough with the other boys to really be worthy of this award. They weren't going to let me be and Eagle Scout.

I loosened my tie, freeing my neck from it's suffocating grasp, and looked slowly around at each man. The time was mine to tell them something. Taking a deep breath, I spoke directly to each man in his turn. I told them why the work I've done in the past qualifies me for the Eagle award, how my nightly musical theater rehearsals prevented me from attending many recent church and Scout meetings, and why Scouting made me feel so disconnected from the church's mission of crafting strong young men of integrity. I defended myself as fully deserving of the Eagle Scout Award and the respect of the Mormon community.

And then I stopped.

In mid-sentence, I stood up, thanked them for their time, and calmly left the room. I had nothing to prove.

I am not a Mormon because of Mormons. I'm a Mormon because of the relationship with God I've developed through the principles and lessons embodied in the faith itself- principles of love, respect, acceptance, service, choice, charity, and co-existence. The act of "faithful" people failing to practice such principles does not make the principles themselves any less valid and only makes the discovery of people who do try to fully live the message, real Mormons, remarkably refreshing. I love the Mormon church for the doctrine found at its core, the strong message of eternal and purposeful life that makes up its foundation; it makes sense to me. More importantly, I love being Mormon because of the spirit, stillness, and peace I feel when living gospel principles. The act of people failing to practice the methodology of Jesus Christ they teach is a common occurrence in all religions, not just Mormonism. Because of this, at the end of the day, it is the faith itself that I have faith in.

If being a real Mormon means being a weird one, I'll take it.

Isn't that weird?