Tribe-less in a World of Belonging
By: Adam King
Tags: Spirituality, Faith, Hope, Religion, Change

Tribe-less in a World of Belonging

“They are still my people, but I am no longer one of them.”

Photo by Tiplada Mekvisan on Unsplash

It is hard to realize that you don’t fit in. After 30 years as a Mormon, I woke up and didn’t belong. Your story and mine aren’t so different.

“They are still my people, but I am no longer one of them.”

This thought occurred to me earlier today. These last two weeks have been emotional. My wife’s grandfather died, and we had his funeral. He was more a grandfather to me than my own grandfathers were. He was a major influence in my life. I always looked up to him. He was a great man.

He had a tribe. He belonged. I never told him that I no longer belonged. I guess he knows now.

I grew up Mormon. We were, and continue to be, a communal people. We do everything together. We eat together, we serve together, we date each other, and we raise our families together. I love my people.

We have our own words like ward and stake. When we have a potluck, someone makes jello. We call each other brother and sister. Our kids play together after school. We fix each other’s roofs, and mow each other’s lawns. Everything we do, we do together.

My dad picks up a blind and deaf brother every Sunday to bring him to church. On Tuesdays, my mom teaches extra-curricular scripture classes for church members. During the school year, she teaches a youth seminary class at 6am every weekday. It gives her purpose and direction.

Being Mormon includes some weird rules. We don’t drink coffee. We don’t drink alcohol. No drugs, no sex before marriage, no bad language, no rated R movies, and no doubts.

That’s where everything took a turn for me. We’ll get there in a minute.

Growing up I loved the certainty of having a tribe. We could travel anywhere in the world, and be assured of finding people we shared a belief system with. This built instant trust and a network that was reliable.

The coming of age rituals were some of my favorites. At 8, you get baptized, and then at 12, you become a “young man” and receive the priesthood. For me, this was the coolest thing ever. They taught me that when I received the priesthood, I was receiving the authority to act in God’s name. It was humbling and powerful for me.

This weekend, at grandpa’s funeral, I heard story after story of how God had intervened in the lives of people. I heard testimonies of faith and surety. People spoke of a God that reaches out and fixes problems in the lives of individuals. It was moving. I missed that certainty deeply. I missed belonging.

You see, being a heretic is a funny thing. You remember what it was like to believe like everyone else does. Belonging was a gift that you loved. Sharing inside jokes, and deep moving stories was something you looked forward to every week. You know how to look like a member of the tribe, but you aren’t.

Inside you are different and you know it.

The difference for me was not complete disbelief, but an expansion of belief beyond the boundaries set by Mormonism. Where Mormonism sees facts, I see metaphors.

Adam and Eve became symbols of the life of man. Jesus was once my literal Savior from sin. Now I see him as a symbolic guide on my own journey to redemption through the death of my old mind and the resurrection of a higher consciousness. The words of prophets, both old and new, were the mind and will of God. Now, they are the attempts of men to describe that which is indescribable.

They are beautiful metaphors with life changing ideas. But in a world of certainty, metaphors are too weak. The heretic is seen as one who weakens the faith and surety of the tribe. They are a cancer worthy only to be cut out.

They are unacceptable.

Mormons are a jovial people, but if there is anything they are very serious about, it is their beliefs. Every two years, adult members of the church go before their local leaders and profess their beliefs in a one-on-one meeting. If the adult member answers all the questions correctly, they are given a temple recommend, which is a card, that allows them to attend the temple. It also serves as proof of faithfulness when you travel to a Mormon church outside of your area. You are literally a “card-carrying” member.

But I’m not. It’s been almost a year now. It hurts to say it out loud.

It all comes back to doubt. I had been taught to avoid doubt, and to fear it as something that could destroy my soul. Maybe they were right, and now I’m screwed forever. But that’s not how it felt. I had questions that I could not find good answers to. I looked for years. I prayed for years.

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

The tears I shed during that time haven’t stopped flowing. Every few weeks, I just start crying. I love my tribe, but I don’t belong.

As I searched for answers to those questions, I found more questions. I needed answers, but studying created more doubt. After years of studying and praying, I came to believe differently than my tribe.

And in Mormonism, different beliefs are not tolerated.

Sure, you can have different ideas about politics, or pizza toppings. These are trivial in comparison to what matters most. Beliefs surrounding the nature of God, and Jesus, the exclusive authority of the Church and fealty to the leadership of the church are sacred. These beliefs are the foundation of everything the church stands on. From where they stand, there can be no compromise.

They haven’t kicked me out yet. I still go to church most Sundays. The trick is to watch what you say. I’ve learned to be tactful. I love so much of what the church offered to me growing up. It was a wonderful, stabilizing force in my life. I learned about truth and honesty, friendship, love and loyalty. I want the lifestyle, but I don’t belong.

Heresy comes from an old Latin word that meant school of thought. In the early church, there were many different schools of thought. The ones that garnered power killed the others. The problem was that heresies kept coming back from within the flock of the faithful.

Heresies are like blooming flowers in a field owned by grass. Every time one springs up, they send in the lawnmower.

I’ve tried for years to be one of them, to fit in, and be a happy blade of grass.

But I’m a flower.

Watch me bloom.

Photo by Nabil Farook on Unsplash

Thanks for reading and sharing. If you’d like to continue the conversation, leave a comment below or email me at wiseinthemaking@gmail.com

Love and peace,

Adam King.