Say More: At Last She Writes It
No. 18 | June 2024
Descending into Desert
by A. E. Johnson
*TW: child abuse, kidnapping*
When I was five years old, a wild tale circulated
amongst our church community. It involved a young girl who had been kidnapped, supposedly, and had been driven out far into the Southwestern desert. It was assumed that the kidnapper’s intent was to molest and murder the girl, and this part was spoken in hushed horrors. But for some unknown reason, so the account goes, the kidnapper left the child unattended for a period of time. Seeing this scene, God, in his all-knowingness, found this girl to be particularly angelic and pure, and was distraught that she might come to harm.
They said a man showed up and gestured for the girl to follow him. She did, walking some distance behind him—for it was understood that they were forbidden to speak to each other. The man walked her back into her home town, and eventually to a grocery store parking lot where she would soon be recognized. As the man began to leave, the girl asked to know his name. “You know my name,” he responded, and walked away, disappearing into the horizon.
The story concluded with everyone nodding in agreement. This had to be John the Beloved, apostle to Jesus himself, blessed to walk the earth until Christ’s return, now bidden to rescue a girl from ruination.
I was unworthy now, my logic went, but I wondered, could I change my appraisal?
This story bewitched my little mind. I kept it on repeat for months. It seemed vital to decipher its codes so I might know how to manage my own situation. The story revealed that a girl could be treasured by God—so much so that she was saved from corruption—and I desperately wanted to be saved too. You see, by this time I had been ruined many, many times by a trusted priesthood leader, whom I both loved and feared. I now understood that since God had not stopped it, he had seen impurity in me. I was unworthy now, my logic went, but I wondered, could I change my appraisal? Perhaps. Once achieved, God could bestow powerful protections upon me, and that seemed worth any price. And so this tale propelled me into decades of hyper-vigilant repenting, trying to change God’s mind about me. Impurity, mine: unfortunately, it wasn’t a new revelation to me. By five it was an old hat—one that my parents had placed upon me from my earliest memories. I forgive them for it.
They were products of their own time and childhoods. It does not, however, reverse that their limitations imposed a nearly fifty year penalty that I served faithfully without parole. My yoke included years of therapy, with a dozen therapists, digging for a root evil to excavate. When one therapist could not find it, I moved onto another. I threw in endless offerings of devotion and repentance: fasting, prayers, doubled tithing, offerings paid with credit cards, weekly temple visits, restitution letters filled with money plus interest for taking an extra lollipop from an office jar as a child, confessions to perplexed bishops who were not prepared to counsel me on how much meat, exactly, is prohibited by the Word of Wisdom, or if going over the speed limit on occasion made me a dishonest person, unworthy of a temple recommend. I yanked every weed, toiling the ground, back and forth, over and again.
It wasn’t all bad. Much of the work I was involved in allowed me to develop sound health practices, and a mind that looked for opportunities to serve and grow. It certainly helped me to avoid dangerous side trails that I wasn’t equipped to travel well, especially because my wounds encouraged extreme thoughts and behaviors. But, all these good projects were not transformative. Instead, they were intermittent distractions from the agonizing pain of feeling so flawed that even God could not tolerate me. What I think I really needed was for my parents to show up to say: “It is enough. You are good. We didn’t know it when you were little. We are sorry. It wasn’t your fault.” Because it turns out that the god I was trying to make peace with most of all was my parents.
The reassurance, the loving reflection I hoped for, never came from a parent, spouse, friend, therapist, church leader, or temple visit. It uncoiled, sluggish, nonchalant, as it often does, by marching into the worst blow of my life—a laceration so unjust it should have been impossible. The details are for another time. While they are important to me personally, the vast experience of dropping into the desert of myself is what matters here. And because this desecration was so great, I was forced to walk a barren land for many years, disoriented and lost. It now seemed irrefutably true, that I was in fact a corrupted defective, inescapably cursed by God for some unnamable wrong. It was the final punctuation in a lost fight for my goodness. No divine being came to save me. Condemned, I was stranded. Vultures attended me on occasion, voyeuristically feeding upon my pathetic life, gleeful at my imminent demise.
Human angels wandered out to visit me too, when they could spare a moment. They reached for me, but did not have the power to save me. I’m grateful they tried although I could hardly tolerate their presence. I just could not fathom how to live in my post nuclear world while it seemed the rest of the world danced on undisturbed. Each inhalation stung. And when I closed my eyes for respite, reality bashed against my skull, pulsing my brains to mush.
Time passed in this manner until my body and soul were scorched, unsightly and crude. Piles of rot, my own flesh, landscaped the terrain, and yet I was alive. How was it possible? This enigma sought my attention. And so I began to inventory what was left—the parts of me that it seemed could not die, no matter the mutilation.
Love compels you to believe bizarre notions like you are good just as you are, for no reason other than that you are.
Gradual as it was, I observed that the leftover debris flickered, resplendent. More still, I recognized its glow. I had seen this countless times before, only emanating from others—an abiding, irrefutable sacrosanct part of all life. Something that caused me to weep over a kitten born without breath, not even my own kin, and then rejoice when she finally wailed her first complaint. An essence, a manifestation of love, wonder and possibility, formed irrevocably in this particular gift of existence. A trust which sings in me no matter how often I shush it—an assurance that despite the hell we create for one another on this swirling planet, our life, and what we do with it, matters very much.
The leftovers were the truth of myself. I had seen their luster in others, and here it was in me too. What else could these be but the marks of divinity; the emblems of God? Only this was not the unpleasant, scolding dictator I had been taught to appease. Rather this God evidently tends to all creation, loving and pronouncing them good by their existence alone. This God proclaims that their love cannot not be corralled, and that any attempt—any suggestion that love is fragile, selective or stingy—is blasphemy. Somehow their love is a protection too: a love that protects us from what has been done to us, or what we have done to ourselves, to revoke what God has declared good.
This is excellent news to be sure. But I had spent decades molding this false idol of myself. Who was I if not garbage; how would I know myself? Although I could now see that God had protected my goodness from being annihilated, it was also true that I was attached to a chronic belief that I was inferior. Now God was asking me to surrender my tools of alienation and misery, the very tools that had once kept me alive. It seems even hopelessness can be a survival tactic.
But love is a strange suitor, wielding its force with gentle precision. While the mind fights against its logic, love dissolves pain, or at least devours its potency. Once you step into love’s corner, like a sponge, it absorbs all else, pulling even your broken shards into itself. Love compels you to believe bizarre notions like you are good just as you are, for no reason other than that you are. It reminds you there is nothing you can ever do to annul your goodness, and that flaws do not make you defective.
And so the desert, the very place I had wanted to be saved from, held for me the love and protection I had been seeking since childhood. I had been striving to purify myself by mining an erroneous antidote for clues, hoping to earn the acceptance of my parents, and be saved by a cruel god. Ultimately I failed. I failed because the love and protection I sought were too narrow. Being abandoned in that desert taught me that God’s love, like the desert itself, is vast and unrelenting. It shows up in surprising places — including moments of ruination, when it seems there is nothing left but pain and torment. The desert also showed me I do not have to blot these stains out, as if I ever could. There is space for it all; for all of me. It sucks that it took half a century to find something that was mine all along, but it cost what it costs. It was worth the price. And slowly now, I am venturing back toward town, hoping to find my people. No external guide needed.
Could, Should, Would
by Jen Altman
Priestesshood
by Andrea Neahusan
I don’t know what I’m more scared of in the future:
1. Women in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints given the opportunity for priesthood ordination,
OR . . .
2. Women never being granted priesthood ordination.
I’ve grappled for years with what gender equity would feel like in the LDS church. It’s hard to articulate. What would it feel like to have the authority to give my own children blessings, to pray over my own sacrament emblems, or to have my own decision be final without approval/denial by a man? That feels glorious and yet so out of reach. These don’t feel like selfish desires, far from it. It’s so hard to describe what it feels like to be limited in the ways I can serve, bless, and minister to others. Through all of my contemplation,
I’ve decided one thing:
I do not want to hold the priesthood.
It’s not for me, and I believe it’s not meant for any woman.
Priesthood power is for men.
The hierarchical priesthood structure is made by men, for men, to men. It connects them to our Heavenly Father. It is of Christ. From the outside looking in, it feels firm, strong, powerful, stoic yet loving, externally given, service driven, a stewardship of duty—all good things, the masculine side of things. Priesthood imbues a very specific type of energy, one that doesn’t feel natural to me. I still believe in the need for it, in the beauty of it, and the mystical power of it from God, but it’s not for me. I also believe priesthood power is NOT meant to be used to be held over the heads of others, to preside over, to practice “righteous dominion” over, or to claim more authority over others. Too many in the LDS church use motherhood as a false equivalency to priesthood. The fact that I can biologically birth children shouldn’t mean that men are automatically privileged to preside over me. Priesthood authority is also not a spiritual crutch (another common LDS fallacy). Men are not inherently less spiritually minded than women. They do not need God’s priesthood to balance the spiritual playing field. It’s not a contest.
This man-made, benevolent patriarchy is not of God; it is not the eternal structure that I imagine.
What do I imagine, if I don’t want Priesthood?
I imagine instead, “Priestesshood.”
I believe priestesshood dwells inherently within each of us women, directly bestowed from our Heavenly Mother. As I’ve explored and strengthened my relationship with Her, I’ve discovered Her energy, and it feels different from the Father’s. It’s softer, gentler, more internal, fluid, elastic, fueled from within, felt in nature, driven by compassion and empathy, a stewardship of care—all good things, the feminine side of things. Priestesshood power flows within ALL women, connecting us directly to Heavenly Mother, intended for the nurturing of all. It is no weaker or stronger, of no greater or less importance than men’s priesthood power from Heavenly Father. Their energies just feel and work differently, but together they are harmonious, completely cooperative, not competitive. Their synergy compounds exponentially into one great whole, a godly combination, an eternal pattern, a full partnership.
Yes. Full partnership. This is what I envision.
I imagine a divine partnership structure in the eternities. No need for patriarchy, matriarchy, or hierarchy—only egalitarian partnerships. I believe our Heavenly Parents plan together, design together, co-create together, parent together, love us together. Together. These eternal entities counsel together with equally strong and valued voices in their decision making. Their divine power works hand-in-hand, complementing each other, and strengthening their process. Their power, their love, their insight, their teamwork knows no bounds. This is the eternal structure, the eternal family I long to be part of.
The different perspectives and influence from both our Heavenly Parents will fill the gaps we are missing today in our leadership structure.
I don’t think we have to wait until heaven to be part of a partnership structure like this. I envision something similar here and now in our church institution. Maybe this is what our prophet and apostles have been trying to articulate for years now. No, women don’t need external ordination to priesthood. We already have our own internal power from Heavenly Mother. Therefore, our ability to tap into the feminine divine should be valued as equal to that of male priesthood holders. This means no more need to segregate leadership responsibilities based on gender. ALL are qualified for the task because we ALL have direct power from the divine!
So how could this look institutionally? I envision full-gendered bishoprics and leadership councils. Two Bishops could partner together in each ward, one priesthood holder, one priestesshood holder. These leadership partners counsel together, call both men and women to church positions, and minister to their ward with assistance from other organizational co-ed presidencies. This same partnership structure can work at the stake level, area 70 level, all the way up to the worldwide leadership level. Women can lead in any capacity with their priestesshood power. And of course we would be led by both a male and female prophet who regularly collaborate together with the 12 male and female apostles.
Young women, starting at the age of 11, can start serving others by virtue of their priestesshood, right alongside their young men counterparts. Many opportunities can be given to our youth and young adults to practice developing their divine authority. The different perspectives and influence from both our Heavenly Parents will fill the gaps we are missing today in our leadership structure. The beautiful energies from both priesthood and priestesshood power have the potential to meld seamlessly in compassionate servant leadership.
Compassionate partnership will heal Christ’s church.
After all, Christ was the master example of using both masculine and feminine energies to bring healing to humankind. Christ never wavered in spiritual strength and conviction. He spoke to the masses and taught with conviction, yet tenderly blessed the marginalized and afflicted. He nurtured children and wittily rebuked pharisees. He embodied the fullness of both the masculine and feminine divine. He truly had the externally given power of the Father and the internal, inherent power of the Mother, and he used both equally! If we are to follow Christ, we must find a way to embrace a balance of both of our Heavenly Parents’ characteristics and lead Christ’s church as He did, with a more full-gendered, godly approach.
And it came to pass that she breathed fire
by Gena Pratt Carpenter
Why I Stay, Why I Leave
by Francesca
I’m frequently asked why I stay.
I’m frequently asked why I’ve left. I’m frequently asked why I’m not “all in,” because fence-sitting is not an acceptable option. But I don’t understand why I have to be either in or out when both ways I’m surrounded by my spiritual family. Choosing would diminish my opportunities to learn.
The Mormon tradition leads us to continue a path of us vs. them, and helps encourage the belief that we alone have the truth. Reasonably, that cannot be true! There are too many people for one very small group to have the only truth. I find bits of truth in so many places; in other religious beliefs, in philosophy, in nature, in the words and experiences of those different from me, in my own thoughts. How can I ever be in or out when there is truth everywhere? Could I really be a daughter of God and be out somehow? I cannot imagine being Their daughter, and being considered away from or less than because of my current location in my faith journey. They want me regardless of where I happen to be standing.
When people ask if I’m in or out, we all know what they’re really asking. Am I going to wholeheartedly and blindly support the church organization I belong to, or am I going to voluntarily look for spiritual darkness and perhaps tear down everything this organization works for? It cannot be simplified so far. If I’m in, I will not and cannot continue blindly. As I age, my faith in God grows, but my blind trust diminishes in people who refuse to look at and adapt to new knowledge. There’s too much ease and figurative “washing our hands” in following blindly to be safe. If we never look up to see where we are, we will never see the beautiful scenery of our lives. As we look up, we have the benefit of looking to see from where we’ve come, where we are now, and what is coming ahead. Why on earth would I want to close my eyes and ignore everything around me? This is my only chance to see it.
Why am I staying? Because I need God. Why am I leaving? Because I need me.
Why am I fence-sitting? Because this way, the two collide and combine. As I’m sitting on the fence, I’m looking around at all I can see, and the view is beautiful.
1. My husband and I teach the Sunbeams. This past week we were teaching them that they are children of God, and I wanted so badly to talk about Heavenly Mother, but feared I might lose this calling I love so dearly.
2. My friend is a returned missionary who sent her boyfriend out on a mission, but since he has been gone, he has been incredibly short in what he says to her. Granted, they broke up before the mission, but my friend is hellbent on marrying this boy either way. She asked him recently if they were even still friends, and he responded with an incredibly impersonal and noncommittal email. I wish I could tell her that she doesn’t need to rationalize his behavior by saying that he’s focused on serving The Lord. There will always be extensive callings, work, and school. She deserves someone who will keep their relationship a priority regardless! Even if it’s something as little as a genuine email.
My husband and I served missions at the same time, and kept our relationship alive! I know how much guilt and shame you can feel for having a relationship while you’re on The Lord’s errand, but if you know you’re going to be eternally sealed to someone, you’re missing the big picture by burning bridges. —Mary
Contributors:
A. E. Johnson
Jen Altman
Jen, a mother of five living in Maryland, is passionate about true Christlike service. With purple hair, multiple piercings, and tattoos, she embraces her unique style. When attending church, she often wears pants and a cross necklace. Over the past several years, she has strived to grow in empathy and understanding, particularly towards the marginalized. She sincerely tries to love everyone and extend grace as Christ would, no matter where they are in their journey.
Andrea Neahusan
Andrea is a wearer of many hats: mother, wife, grandmother, survivor, friend, writer, creator, scoutmaster, transporter of precious cargo, player of many games, appreciator of natural beauty, bold questioner, even bolder answerer, and eternal explorer of the spiritual. Find her here.
Gena Pratt Carpenter
Creative thinker and doer. Advocate. Storyteller. Mother of four and second-career law student seeking to make the world a better place. No, really. She is.
Francesca
Francesca is a wife and mother in Utah Valley, but like all women, she’s so much more than that! She is empathetic (sometimes to a fault), eager to devour new information and ideas, and driven. She believes books are meant to be read in one sitting, mostly because she can’t put books down. As a survivor from multiple traumatic experiences, she understands how complex life can be, and she’s grateful to learn how to let go and find her path by wandering, rather than intention-led force. When asked to say something interesting about herself, she can’t ever think of anything, so she gives something boring instead. It’s usually that she puts on sock shoe, sock shoe, and eats all the non marshmallow part of Lucky Charms first. Life is too boring to not end with marshmallows.
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Wow. I am amazed and humbled every time I read these contributions. Absolutely beautiful, vulnerable, heart wrenching sharing. I’m in awe that I get to be a part of this community, even though I only absorb and reflect 🥰
Well said ladies! I felt a personal connection to each contribution. ❤️