Religious Upbringing
I was a very religious child. Until it was deemed an offensive term, I was occasionally called “Molly Mormon” or “Peter Priesthood.” Interestingly, the nickname shifted from innocent to offensive because of the word “Mormon,” rather than the commentary on my personality, but that’s neither here nor there.
Primary
From as early as four years old, I was encouraged to share my testimony in Primary and Scout meetings. Despite not fully understanding what I was saying, I recited the familiar lines: “I know the church is true”, “I know Heavenly Father loves me,” and so on. In church meetings, we sang songs that emphasized my belonging to the church, my future role as a father, and the infallibility of prophets. Even before I knew what a mission was, I sang about my hopes of being called on one. I loved singing and dancing to the primary songs; I recently found a home video of my three-year-old self belting “Follow the Prophet” at the top of my lungs.
After I turned seven, the adults in my life became concerned about my upcoming baptism. My parents worked to help me understand the importance of what I was doing. However, given the somewhat complex theological concepts involved, I’m not sure I truly comprehended the full weight of that decision.
I learned that I would be held accountable for my sins starting the day I turned eight. I remember secretly hoping I would die before by birthday so I would never have to worry about sinning. The night before my birthday, I laid awake, staring at the clock until midnight. I prayed fervently for God’s help to avoid committing any sins now that I would be accountable for them. The following day, I was baptized, and my awareness of all of my sins amplified.
Priesthood
When I turned 12, someone from church visited our home to explain that I would soon be ordained as a deacon. They provided me with a laminated map of the chapel and instructions on how to properly pass the sacrament. They told me about my expected duty to collect fast offerings, going door-to-door on the first Sunday of each month. Shortly after, I was officially ordained and began participating in these responsibilities.
I remember receiving praise for making the decision to receive the priesthood. However, I don’t recall ever making that decision – it simply seemed to be an expectation that came with growing up.
Several months later, we moved to a new ward just a few blocks away. In the first Sunday School lesson in the new ward, I learned more about the significance of the priesthood I had received. I was told that when I passed the sacrament or collected fast offerings, I was acting in God’s name, as if Jesus himself were performing those duties. The priesthood I received at 12 years old gave me more authority in the church than any woman could ever have.
In the new ward, I started receiving calls to meet with the bishop for interviews. I was always instructed to attend these meetings alone. I felt confused years later when the church began allowing parents to join. These interviews typically began with casual questions about my life – how was school going, what were my hobbies, and so on.
At my first worthiness interview at age 12, the bishop explained that I could now enter the temple to participate in baptisms for the dead, something I hadn’t heard about before. He said he needed to sign a recommend for me, but he first had to interview me. He began reading the series of standard interview questions from a huge binder.
Some of the questions, like my belief in God, Joseph Smith, and the current prophet, were ones I hadn’t fully figured out yet. But I could sense the “right” answers he was looking for, so I simply said what I thought he wanted to hear, not wanting to disappoint anyone by being the only young man who couldn’t go on the temple trip.
The bishop asked whether I obeyed the law of chastity. He asked if I understood what that meant, and when I responded that it meant staying pure (that was the only explanation I had heard on the matter), he told me not to worry – he could explain it to me. He explained that sometimes people take photos and videos of sexual activity and put it in a magazine or on the internet. At this point, my understanding of sexual activity was limited to the poster of things we weren’t allowed to do in the middle school hallway. He told me in a hushed voice that sometimes, people look at those photos and videos and do sexual activities with themselves.
He gave me a detailed description of the mechanics of masturbation, then informed me I was never to “abuse myself” in such a manner. He told me he knew I didn’t have any problem with chastity because I was such a good kid, and he winked. I felt embarrassed for my lack of understanding, but there seemed to be no way to stop the conversation, and he was supposed to be a trusted adult, so I just nodded along while he explained.
After that initial interview, I was understandably reluctant to meet with the bishop again. However, I continued to sit through these interviews every six months, not wanting to be the only one excluded from temple trips with my peers.
Scouting
It was abundantly clear in every young men’s meeting that God wanted me to be an Eagle Scout. I tried to be a good sport about scouting despite relentless teasing from fellow scouts and leaders. I hated Scouts with all my heart. But I put a smile on my face and went anyway since it was what God wanted, and I was told I’d never find a worthy wife if I wasn’t an Eagle Scout. I even got second-degree sunburns spending a week at a Scout Encampment because it was what Thomas Monson said to do. You can imagine my confusion when the church cut ties with the Boy Scouts.
I even went so far as to get second-degree sunburns during a week-long Scout Encampment, all because it was what then-prophet Thomas Monson had instructed us to do. You can imagine my confusion, then, when the church suddenly announced it was ending its longstanding relationship with the Boy Scouts of America program.
Looking back, I recognize the immense pressure I felt to conform to these rigid expectations, all in the name of pleasing God and securing my future. When I was young, impressionable, and disassociatively compliant, I perceived little choice but to participate fully, even when it meant enduring experiences I deeply disliked.
In hindsight, I wish my church had empowered me to pursue my own interests, rather than simply accepting its youth programs as divine commandments.
Mental Health
After I was baptized, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of shame, guilt, and anxiety every time I believed I sinned. Would Jesus have spilled some water from the sacrament tray? Would He have arrived at church a few minutes late? Would God Himself have laughed at an inappropriate joke? Yet, no one at church seemed to talk about feeling anxious or guilty. Instead, the constant refrain was about the guidance of the Holy Ghost, described as a divine conscience helping us discern right from wrong.
During my formative years, I became an expert at interpreting my own feelings of shame and guilt as direct inspiration from the Holy Spirit. I wasn’t just ashamed of myself – God Himself was ashamed of me.
When I reflect on my teenage experiences in the church, the dominant emotion that surfaces is fear. I was absolutely terrified of making any misstep or failing to be a perfect, Christlike example. I walked the halls of middle school in a constant state of anxiety, worried that hearing one too many curse words or off-color jokes would somehow corrupt me. I didn’t dare allow myself to develop even the slightest crush, as the church’s interpretations of scriptures like Matthew 5:28 and Alma 39:3-5 had convinced me that attraction was akin to the sin of murder, especially before I was allowed to go on (group) dates at 16 years old. It wasn’t until my 20s that I realized the anxious voice in my head was my own inner critic, not the Holy Ghost protecting me from sin.
Compounding these issues, I am autistic and introverted. I felt deeply ashamed every time I was asked to speak in sacrament meetings, participate in missionary activities, go home teaching, or lead class discussions. My peers and church leaders would use scriptures to imply that my struggles with social interaction meant I was a disappointment to God, my church community, and my family. I was regularly asked how I could possibly serve a mission if I couldn’t talk to people. Despite the church’s teachings of universal welcome, it became clear that I was only truly accepted if I could perform in the ways they expected.
I saw myself as one of God’s “factory seconds”, not the outgoing, charismatic leader that the straight, white men in the church were supposed to be. I was convinced I was letting God down at every turn. Looking back, I was one of the most privileged members of the church. I fall in nearly every majority group, I was raised in a middle-class family, and I came from generations of church members. And still, I didn’t feel welcome. I cannot imagine the harm this pervasive culture of perfection, guilt, and shame does to people who aren’t as lucky as I was, and I feel a great deal of remorse for the work I did to perpetuate a culture of exclusion.
As I advanced through the priesthood offices with each passing birthday, praise and support from family and church leaders only reinforced the notion that I was doing what was expected of me. When I turned 14 and became a home teacher, the prospect of sitting on someone’s couch, trying to make conversation with 30-year-old parents of four, filled me with dread. But because God Himself had commanded it, and out of fear of disappointing Him, my parents, and my church leaders, I went.
Called to Serve
The church had assumed I wanted to be baptized and receive the priesthood, and they similarly assumed I wanted to serve a mission.
I had been taught since primary that failing to serve a mission would disappoint my family and community and likely result in being berated or shunned by other church members. I was told I wouldn’t find a wife if I didn’t serve a mission, and I knew the young women in the church were taught to only date returned (with honor) missionaries.
I attended mission preparation classes and activities, but when I turned 18, I still felt unprepared. I had spent my whole life in the church, yet I still found its doctrine so convoluted that I couldn’t make sense of it. I had prayed for years about the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, and the truthfulness of the church, but I never felt anything. I determined God was holding off or I was not righteous enough to receive a response. If everyone around me said the church was true, it must be – I was likely the missing link.
At 17, I received a phone call from the ward secretary asking when I would like to meet with the bishop to start my mission paperwork. I was not given a chance to opt out of this meeting, and when I arrived, I learned my papers had already been started. I was given a list of tasks to complete along with deadlines, and told what date to set as my availability (July 1, to beat the summer rush and get home in time to start college in the fall).
My mission call arrived by mail about two weeks after I submitted my papers. My mom texted me about it while I was on a school trip; I’d have to wait a couple of days to open it. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I brushed off the feeling as excitement, but I was terrified. I had spent years hearing I was too shy to be a good missionary, and that if I didn’t improve my social skills, I’d get eaten alive. I had also heard my dad talk about how stressful, exhausting, and abusive missions can be. But I felt I had no other choice – people who didn’t serve missions became social pariahs, and I was already on shaky ground socially. I didn’t want to be “Landon, the one who didn’t serve a mission”. If I wanted to marry a worthy woman, earn respect in the church, and be a decent father, I had to serve a mission.
When I finally opened the call, I was shaking so much I could barely get the letter opener into the envelope. There was a giant map of the world spread over the kitchen counter with circles where people predicted I would go. My parents set up the video camera to record the moment, and we later streamed an announcement on Facebook. Even now, my heart rate elevates and I start to sweat when I recall that experience. It has been the center of many nightmares since. In the moment, it was an exciting day, but it’s saddening that it was so thoroughly soiled by the trauma of the rest of my mission.
My mission call was the same template letter many of my friends received. God had supposedly told a church leader where I should live for the next two years – I was assigned to the Honduras Tegucigalpa mission. After some research, I learned it was statistically one of the most dangerous places in the world. I reached out to someone from my neighborhood who had recently returned from the same mission, seeking advice.
Her email was friendly and helpful, but it was terrifying. She mentioned that Honduran people are some of the kindest and most generous in the world, which I will readily attest to. But she also gave me some alarming advice. She hinted that missionaries often didn’t have enough money to eat properly. She said the missionary apartments were usually cheap and insecure, so I shouldn’t bring any valuables in case of break-ins. And she mentioned I should bring my own medications, as the ones supplied in the mission apartments were often out-of-stock or expired.
Into Adulthood
Of course, it would be unfair to view my religious upbringing in a strictly negative light. While I believe the church ultimately caused me more harm than good, I am grateful for the positive aspects it did provide. Through scouting, I learned the value of developing a diverse skillset. I also gained important interpersonal skills, including the surprisingly useful ability to teach a class or give a speech without much advance preparation. Additionally, my experiences taught me to be cautious when communicating with young people, as it is all too easy for an impressionable mind to internalize something that can cause needless shame, guilt, and long-lasting pain.