The Wisdom of Wombats

I

When I came out at work, I simply changed my pronouns in my email signature and on zoom. Immediately a co-worker reached out and asked if I changed my pronouns, and I said yes and she was excited for me.

Within two days others noticed too and the reaction was professional and compassionate--I felt seen, supported, and safe. My people manager and I met and we discussed the systems in place and the resources available, she didn't really understand what being trans or non-binary really was, but she knew what policies of inclusion had been put in place by corporate and in our local office to support me. She was open with me and always supportive--even after she left for other opportunities, we still stay in contact.

It was not perfect. Bathrooms were tricky, due to the lack of single occupancy options. Some if my co-workers still mis-gendered me. But I've had people apologize when they get it wrong and do better. And knowing I have the support of so many that I work with helps me navigate the small group of less agreeable co-workers (and to be clear, I've never had anyone aggressively disrespect me).

But the real proof in the pudding is how non-performative the support is. I am not the "token office trans", I am part of the team, fully integrated. My opinions and questions are considered and appreciated. People have told me they enjoy collaborating with me. In many ways, despite transitioning in plain sight, I have never felt that it was a source of burden or concern in my workplace.

II

When I came out at church, I wrote a letter. It was detailed and gruesome. It highlighted my disphoria, my anguish, my pain. I had seen the stories of other trans people crushed by the wheel of leadership roulette and knew I had to be clear and deliberate in my language. The letter was hard to write and hard to read, so I am told. I needed to focus the reader on my pain in attempt to appeal to their sympathy.

I sent the letter to my Bishop; I was Ward Clerk at the time. He was kind. He genuinely took my letter and read and thought and prayed. He prayed for two weeks, and I prepared for the worst. Obviously, the temple recommend would be gone, with it the calling. Hopefully, there wouldn't be too much blowback on my family.

Finally we met, and we spoke for hours. His position was that he didn't feel like this should matter--in his mind being non-binary was fine and I was still worthy of a temple recommend. He said he had read the handbook so many times (which at the time was pretty sparse on how to work with non-binary people, arguably it still is) and felt like he wasn't sure what to do. Due to his upbringing as a non-member he felt like he has known many queer people who were good and deserving of love and he wished the Church were different. He is one of the good ones, but even still, I was at his discretion and thankfully he was benevolent.

My Stake President needed a month with my letter. He has never known a trans person before me and admitted to being at a loss. He, too, prayed and read the handbook and also felt the same confusion my Bishop had expressed. We had only one meeting, where he said that my femme presentation was not in alignment with holding the priesthood and would not sign off on my recommend. He was kind, but firm and I was frank in return. I asked him to draw the boundaries and lines--could I speak in classes? Could I pray, if asked? What callings could I hold? Could I give talks? Bare my testimony? Wear garments? Take the sacrament?

I could tell he was uncomfortable with my questions, but I needed to know so that I could be safe. I let him decide, and he was generous, I could do all those things, just not hold a temple recommend and my calling.

My Bishop was upset at the news. We would meet more times and he would express his frustration at the outcome. I was released from my calling, which felt like a public shaming, and I wasn't ever asked to pray, or speak, or teach. My new calling was to prepare the weekly bulletin--and I did, and I made sure that all my quotes were from female leaders (a fact that no one ever noticed).

I was thanked profusely for showing up and staying. People were kind but uncertain and it showed. Some were kind in ways that felt unnatural and disingenuous. My Bishop often told me of the complaints he got for not being harsher with me. A couple told him they would no longer attend while I was permitted to come and take the Sacrament. Another man told him the I suck the spirit out of the room just by being there.

There were some who were angry for me and how things had unfolded. There were a mix of people with a mix of reactions. They had no guidance or support in how to integrate me into their community. I was at their mercy. I didn't feel empowered to participate, I felt like a problem needing to be dealt with.

III

I share these two experiences to highlight a disparity. My workplace experience has been smooth and a delight. Policies were in place to give direction and support to those who needed it and I was still treated as a respected member of my team. When I asked my team leaders if they wanted me to not interface with clients, they said if that ever was a problem to talk to them and they would handle it.

My experience at church was the opposite. It was grueling, exhausting, and soul crushing. I watched people struggle to know what to do with me. It was messy and frustrating.

In one of our many conversations, my Bishop mentioned that he has clients that he works with that use they/them pronouns and he tries to be inclusive. It made me realise that many of the people at church likely come from workplaces similar to mine that have policies, guidance and systems in place for trans clients and co-workers, so they know how to behave in the work place. But at church, it was everyone for themselves, and it was disappointing.

At church, a lot is said about the world, the great and spacious building, Babylon. We are told to fear it and to believe that the world is mocking us and trying to do harm. But I have seen a world that behaves with compassion, empathy, and love--one that I didn't have to fight for acceptance or give my agency and pain away to a man across the desk from me.

The great and spacious building has come up with a lot of the philosophies our Church has rejected and now is trying to catch up to. But it pains me when people say that the members and leaders don't know any better--because they need only look up and outward to find places of inclusion to model themselves after. My workplace did it, likely without God's inspiration, so why, with God does it take us so long?

There are places of refuge out here in the world--community is what you cultivate. Our leaders and members are not innocent lambs ignorant of what is around them--but there is a cultivated ignorance that permits them to wallow in the mire of their biases. I was there once too. It is comforting to never have to open your eyes or confront your ignorance--but the world can help us do it.

I would like to dig into the idea of "love" a little bit. This word gets bandied about quite a bit and I fear we all mean something different.

Part 1: Anita

After the oranges but before the cream pie to the face, Anita Bryant (an infamous anti-gay advocate in Dade County Florida) gave us these delightful words: "I love homosexuals. Its the sin of homosexuality that I hate" and "I don't hate homosexuals. I love them enough to tell them the truth: that God puts them in the category with other sinners".

Anita's "love" for the LGBTQ+ community prompted her to advocate against their basic human rights to employment and housing without discrimination in the 1970s. And her "Save the children" campaign was largely successful--at least in Dade County. Her influence can still be felt today in a lot of right wing canards (you can even see her shadow in the 2024 LDS policy of exclusion).

There is something compelling about Anita's version of "love". She loves the "sinner" enough to tell them the truth, to teach them, to coerce them back to righteousness. She loves them enough to hand them the tough realities of life.

Anita could probably point to scriptures and religious thinkers to support her brand of love. Sinners don't fare well according to the bible, so wouldn't our "love" motivate us to try and save them? Wouldn't you want to spare a loved one or even a stranger the horrors of eternal damnation and suffering?

Parents intercede for their children to keep them out of harms way. Isn't it loving to tell kids that cigarettes are harmful? Isn't it loving to remind children of the dangers of drinking and driving? Don't parents owe it to their children to protect them from harm from external or internal sources?

A cogent reader might be able to spot the difference here. There is a difference between loving someone by "informing of harm" and advocating for a removal of rights. Further more, this "love" is being conflated for control (however well intentioned), and learning to love without controlling is probably the most challenging part of parenting. But even more, our positions on cigarettes have shifted as science has provided more insights into their harm, similarly, as evidence has mounted showing the positive impacts of living authentically as an LGBTQ+ person, so to have publicly held stigmas and misunderstanding changed.

But, crucially, to Anita, she would maintain that she loves gay people and was motivated by love. It is not her problem that you may not agree with her definitions.

Part 2: Joanne

Before the Cyber bullying lawsuit and after the wild success of Harry Potter, JK Rowling published her attempt at "explaining" the maelstrom of social media debate that had sprung up around her. In the halcyon days of the early pandemic, JK Rowling tweeted almost-compassionate sentiments towards trans people such as: "I respect the right of every transgender person to live life in a way that makes them feel authentic and comfortable with themselves. I would march with you if you were discriminated against because you are transgender."

And in her "essay" published in July of 2020 (which was at one point entitled "TERF Wars" I'm almost certain, but has since been renamed), she specifically cites a transgender acquaintance whom Joanne calls "wonderful". And yet all this lip service to "respect" and "wonderfulness" has yielded some rather caustic twitter discourses, significant contributions to a increasingly transphobic political culture, and even some good old holocaust denialism.

Joanne's "love" (or she would call it "respect") seems to come if she deems it earned. My read is that for Joanne, transitioning should take a long time, require extreme levels of vetting (both internally and externally), and will only be achieved adequately by a relatively small number of people. Besides, if this population is so tiny, then we shouldn't have to accommodate them at the expense of everyone else's comfort. Love, it would seem, is a numbers game.

I do think Joanne's point about knowing a transwoman personally, should not go unremarked. She herself admits that she has met young trans people who she finds "adorable". And yet, even as we cheer for Brene Brown's "it's hard to hate someone up close", Joanne's behavior seems to suggest otherwise. She does know and respect the wonderful and adorable trans people in her circles, but that does not mean that they should have space to exist comfortably.

Joanne shows us that loving someone on a personal level is not the same thing as loving the group they represent. Furthermore, we all love someone close to us but don't agree with every thing they do. We question clothing choices, food preferences, parenting techniques, movies watched, books read, time wasted. To Joanne loving someone does not mean you need to advocate for then.

To Joanne, love is a limited resource and so who is loved and how they are loved must be chosen carefully. Joanne believes to make space for trans people comes at the expense of woman and girls, and don't woman and girls need to be loved too? There are more cis woman and girls than trans people. When love is scarce, than it follows that certain groups must be dismissed and harassed, I suppose.

Part 3: Dallin

Before his inevitable ascent to become the next prophet and after worriedly writing in the 1980's that "one generation of homosexual "marriages" would depopulate a nation...Our marriage laws should not abet national suicide", Dallin H Oaks gave a rather love-focused address in the most recent general conference (Oct 2024, Saturday morning session). He urged for us to remember the first two commandments and to avoid political contention by being peacemakers, despite the fact that he was involved, at least in part, with the recent transphobic policy put in place by the Church a few weeks ago.

My fear here is Dallin, lawyer that he is, has left a lot of words to be defined by the listener. What does it mean to be a peacemaker? What does it mean to avoid contention? And what does it mean to love?

From talks given in the past, Dallin's position seems similar to Anita and Joanne. Dallin's concern is getting people to the celestial kingdom which means that certain people need to be reminded that the way they are will not be compatible with that place. This is a thought birthed from love--he loves people enough to tell them what God expects from them! He's also keenly aware that there is a gulf forming in society and he's got to choose which one to protect because love is scarce, and given the voices he chooses to amplify (see the letter he reads in this young adult fireside), he stands with his more conservative base.

Dallin's love may be short sighted and biased, but he probably doesn't think so. He thinks his motivations are on the side of the angels and who am I to disagree, arguably he knows heaven better than I do.

But you may not find Dallin's version of love very uplifting or meaningful. You may find it motivated more from fear or bias, and perhaps your version of love has space for inclusion and multiple paths, but here is the kicker: your definitions and positions on love have limited reach.

Dallin's love is amplified in multiple languages all over the world every six months at least. When he speaks, people listen and to some degree internalize what he's saying. Dallin knows gay and trans people, he has a grandson that is openly gay, and still he shows his love this way.

Dallin has power and influence in this community and so his version of love gets elevated and replicated. Every six months we get the privilege of grappling with his love and decide what to do with it. Dallin's love comforts a certain subset of the audience while alienating others. His influence will eventually fade, but then we will need to move on to someone else's version of love and that is always a gamble.

Part 4: You

In queer spaces the individuals I have mentioned are often heavily criticized. And from my perspective rightfully so. Their actions and words have costs and inflicted damages our community routinely has to bear. But we need to be aware that our criticism that they should be more "loving" might not land where we would hope it does. They do, in their own definition, act out of love.

Their definitions certainly don't align with most of ours, but we don't often take the time define what we mean by love. And in writing this, I have come to realise that love contains multitudes: both good and bad--and holding people to my definitions just leads to unmet expectations.

What I have learned from this review is to acknowledge the differences in what love can be--I am less interested in love now but motivation and impact. Much of what I do in "love" is actually more motivated by a desire for "safety", "acceptance" or "belonging", which can have mixed results. I need to demonstrate, not to Anita, Joanne or Dallin, but to those in my life that the outcomes of certain "love" can be damaging and negative for me. I now know to avoid or be skeptical of the outcomes of Anita's, Joanne's and Dallin's love, but I also know that they don't think themselves unloving, so trying to convince them to "love" more is a fruitless exercise.

I had the opportunity to go to the Gather Conference this year hosted by Lift & Love. It was an amazing experience.

This year I was determined to make connections, hug more people, and get out of my comfort zone--and it made for such a sensational weekend. The people I met are on such different journeys, but it was nice to meet other trans people in person, to stand with them, to go to lunch with them, to know that there are real tangible people going through similar experiences to me.

The conference allowed for the trans and non-binary communities to hurt and heal and be honest about the new church policy. There were honest conversations that needed to be had. It was focused on the future but acknowledged the pain in the present.

We need both. We need people willing to stay and people willing to leave.

To you who stay, be the one people can get to know. Show that trans people can't be forced out. Foster a spirit of inclusion in your local communities. We need people to speak out at pulpits, in classes, in ministering moments. We need you to lift where you stand and invite people around you to do the same. Good will come from your efforts.

To you who leave, create community where you travel to. Find spaces of inclusions and leave markers on the trail for others to find. It will be hard to leave the Church, but your absence will be noted. The institution will feel the squeeze of smaller congregations and less tithing. We need you to lift where you will end up standing and invite people around you to do the same. Good will come from your efforts.

We need both. If you need help deciding to stay or go, know that you can always change your mind and do what feels healthiest for you today. If you have the strength to stay, do so; if you have the courage to leave, do so. If you just need to spend today in bed, and make the decision in the future take the time.

We need both. If we all stay, the institution can interpret that as acceptance of their horrible policy. If we all leave, then who will help our local wards support the inevitable generation of trans youth and adults?

We need to let people do both. We need to let those who stay feel the support of those who leave and vice versa. Both roads are challenging and we will need each other as we navigate them. Both paths are valid, honorable, and good. Both can and will inspire change if we can remember that one is not better than the other.

I know what will happen too--in 6 months, 6 years, or 60 years this transphobic screed of a policy will be reversed. The reasons being "light and knowledge" or "God told us to do both". We'll scramble to ascribe meaning to the pain and hurt and anguish, try to put it in the past as quickly as possible. Forgive and forget.

But are we forgetting too quickly? How many minority groups have to be dragged through shit before we'll finally be on the right side of progress for once? Why do we frame the 1978 decision to reverse the racial priesthood ban as a win that handwaves over 100 years of harm? Why don't we talk more about the ramifications of the "Lamanite Program", that pulled Native American children away from their families? What about the ban on letting women pray in sacrament Meeting from 1967-1978? Or the policy of exclusion for gay and lesbian people and their children (2015-2019)?

Why was I surprised, when there is a clear pattern? Over and over and over again. And when we shift from transpeople, who will be next? Who will the ire of the Brethren turn to next?

Yes, continual restoration. But why don't we start by asking God what he would have us do, because trying it on our own doesn't have the best track record?

But imperfect leaders! Yes, yes, but that only explains, it does not excuse! And imperfection does little to comfort those who have been wronged.

God will judge them! I don't actually care. Their eternal outcome is of little consequence to me. And what comfort will it bring me to believe they will someday maybe suffer. Their suffering doesn't change a thing and feels petty and vengeful on my part. Also this isn't about individuals, this is about the system that continues to do this.

But this is how we grow! Find another way to grow that is not at the expense of marginalized groups.

But it's bad everywhere. That is false. No where is perfect, but many institutions and groups try and improve themselves. The church can do better, and I will not let some other group that is worse than us be the standard.

But the members love you. How nice. But I don't need an army of people who guard the door while I pee, I need an army of people who see that this is another blip in a long string of marginalization that seems to be at our very core.

But here's the hardest part: how do we hold our leaders accountable? The average member has such little power. We can work on ourselves. We can identify the racist, ableist, sexist, homophobic, and transphobic beliefs we were taught and reject them. We can love more and let these policies hold less sway on us.

In the version of the first vision that is most frequently quoted by church members, I find the question posed by the 14 year old, soon to be prophet, rather telling.

He does not ask a personal question, such "how can I be a better disciple of Jesus Christ?" Or even more biblical "what lack I yet?"

Nor does he ask a more general question like "how can I help people more fully come unto Christ?"

The question he poses is an institutional one: "Which of all the sects was right, that I may know which to join." (JS History 1:18)

It should be noted that this account was not drafted until 1838, and is likely not a perfect recounting of events but rather a recounting with a purpose. If you are trying to convince people that a church is the one true church of God, the question that initiated the vision had better be about churches.

I think, however, this institutional focus looms large in our church, exacerbated by correlation efforts in the latter half of the 20th century. In many ways, the church has survived and thrived off its institutional design.

As I see it, the church has two aspects that constantly create tension: the centralized institution (think church headquarters) and the local congregation (think your ward or branch). Historically, the church has oscillated between different approaches: at times highly centralized, others more localized. In the modern church, it has struck a rather successful balance between the two, and landed in what I like to call the "franchise model".

My mother likes to say she loves that church is the same no matter where she attends. And generally that's true--she knows she can share her testimony on the first Sunday of the month, she knows what class to attend for second hour, and she knows when to sit, stand, sing, and say amen.

In truth the structure of the church on this tightrope between the top down approach of the centralized church and the bottom up approach of the localized church is a marvel. The average member feels empowered at the local level while supported by a larger framework maintained by a centralized group. Local leaders are volunteers (sort of), so less likely to be swayed to corruption, while the central leadership is full time with the capacity to address sweeping and large issues.

But these two structures pull against each other too. Local congregations can veer too far from the comfort of Central planning and can have their autonomy reduced (see women on the stand in California). Central leadership can implement policy that is difficult to enforce at the local level that will just kind of be forgotten (see the countless examples of leadership roulette).

Central leadership's goal is to maintain the institution and keep the train on the tracks, where the local congregation's goal is to foster community. And between the two is the estuary of middle-management who are trying support both at the same time (a confusing and thankless task if there ever was one).

These goals can be tricky to support and are often contradictory but can be advantageous to the church as a whole.

You've probably seen this in action. If someone in your ward mistreats you and you offer this as reason for no longer attending, you are often reminded that the church is more than the local community, it is a global Church run by God and you shouldn't abandon it because of a less than stellar ward environment. Similarly, if Central Leadership proposes a policy that marginalizes you or othes, the defense is to remember how great a community of saints exists and how much you are loved.

This makes it difficult to criticize, advocate or create positive change in the church. While grassroots movements can work, it is important to see how both sides of the church work and in what ways they are interconnected and how they are separate. A movement solely focused on improving the community does not change damaging centralized policy or teachings, likewise even perfect policy will not create the desired effect if the local community is hostile or otherwise unable to implement it.

The Church is like Phoenix, Arizona.

I recently moved away from Phoenix after living there for a few years. I have fond memories of people and events that happened while living there. But having been away from Phoenix for a few months, I can say I needed a change.

The city itself is nothing short of a monument to human stubbornness and by most metrics it is thriving. And those who stay swear up and down there is no where else they'd rather be.

But the weather was hard for me--year round sun, blistering summers that seem to stretch forever, with too short, albeit pleasant winters. The landscape is harsh and the wildlife ready to sting or bite or attack in order to survive. The dirt there can literally give you a chronic illness and water is always a concern.

But there are those who love it. Who embrace the desert and find beauty in it. Who thrive on dry heat and do not want to deal with frosts. They find harmony amongst the javelinas. The have risen to the challenge and could not imagine leaving.

The church is like Phoenix, Arizona.

When you arrive, people welcome you in and apologize for the heat. They do not promise you'll get used to it, but they will absolutely support your attempts. They know that it's hard to adjust to living in Phoenix, but they assure you the winter will make all your discomfort worth it.

They are keenly aware that not everyone can make it in Phoenix. They know that many will leave after a time and that is just how it goes. They know that they are the butt of jokes or seen as crazy for staying, but it's home, it's where family and community is and so they double down--they insist that they are made of stronger stuff or built different to last in the desert and they make sure you know how much courage it takes to stay for as long as you can manage it.

The church is like Phoenix, Arizona.

I left Phoenix because I needed seasons and clouds and trees. I needed rain and pleasant summer evenings. I needed to not worry so much about the water. I needed to be closer to family. I needed community I couldn't quite build there.

Phoenix wasn't the city for me. It was for a time; it gave me what it could give me and I am grateful for it. But it wasn't the right fit, and I was privileged to seize an opportunity to take me elsewhere. But I'll be honest, while I know that Phoenix didn't work for me and I know it works for others, I can't help but feel like I failed. That I wasn't good enough. That I just didn't have the strong moral character needed to stay.

And in my even less charitable moments, I do even wonder how anyone could truly love living in Phoenix. How could a place that so firmly missed my needs, so perfectly fulfill the needs of someone else? But maybe we are all different and that's why we living in so many different places so we can, hopefully, find the place that best suites us.

The church is like Phoenix, Arizona.

But are all cities equally good to live in? What if my life would be better by staying in Phoenix? What if authorities in my life said Phoenix was the best place for me and my family to live? What if the hardships of living in Phoenix are intended to make me a better person? What if the people of Phoenix claimed it was the closest city to God?

Would it still be okay to leave? Would a better person than me stay? What if I can stay and make it more habitable for others? Is there anything better than Phoenix out there?

In truth, nobody cares what city you choose to live in. You find what works for you and make it work. No city is perfect and you'll have to work to fix those flaws (or adapt to the things you can't change), but that secret is finding the place where the benefits don't outway the flaws.

II

Phoenix, Arizona is not like the church.

For some, selecting an institution of spirituality is similar to selecting a city to live--does it meet my needs? Is this a community I want to participate in and give back to? Is there room for me and others to grow? Does the doctrine and ideals taught by this institution resonate with my soul?

But this universalist approach to church membership is often not offered to those in the LDS tradition. Which creates a lot of tension between those who choose to stay and those who choose to leave. At best we begrudgingly wish those who leave "all the best" and hope they don't rage too hard against the church (or at us). At worst, we fear for them, we envy them, or we feel insecure. And those who leave often seem to have difficulty moving on and often use the worst the church has to offer to erase any good it may do.

Because at the heart of this is a concern: which of all these cities is the correct city to live in? This question presupposes that there even is a "correct" city to begin with? If there is a "correct" city to live in, then it stands to reason that we should want to live there regardless of discomfort or personal need.

Applying this framing to selecting a city to live in feels ridiculous, but in the context of the unknown of the afterlife, it seems a popular mindset. If this is the "one true church back to God", then we must stay regardless of any discomfort or pain or systemic mistreatment and we must stay with no promises of any improvement. Often to leave because "it's not supporting my needs" feels selfish and faithless.

Pride has never felt like mine--it always felt like it belonged to others: those who have been fighting since childhood, those who have lost nearly everything, those who have a cogent path to activism.

I came to my queerness too late. Being asexual is hard to determine. Being trans wasn't in my vocabulary in childhood and finding it as an adult was too weighty. Now my queerness is something I must constantly unpack and wish I had discovered this about myself sooner. Perhaps my pride is in healing.

I have benefited from the work of those who came before me. Those who threw the bricks, who threw the pies, who threw it all away for something better. Due to actions and losses and gains from others, the consequences of my coming out have been comparatively less. Perhaps my pride is in gratitude.

I get easily overwhelmed by what changes still need to happen for some many in this community. I have so many thoughts about paths to activism: can we do more than vote? How do actually create change? How to keep the progress we have already had? How do I change systems and institutions in my life? Should I even try? Perhaps my pride is in the questions.

While reading about this group, I got a bit nervous. Does the Church of Jesus Christ associate with the WCF. A quick Google made me very worried. The Church News website cites at least two different occurances of sponsoring the annual WCF conference, once in 1999 and again in 2015. Another conference, for the International Congress of Families (finding any direct information about the WCF is difficult as they frequently rebrand, abandon websites, or just don't make an effort to make themselves generally accessable) was sponsored by the church in 2024.

According to a 2015 Report by the Human Rights Campaign, the church is a sponsor of the WCF as well as President Oaks being a board member.

So, who cares? Of course, the Church would rally behind a Christian-based group fighting to protect the family from the phantasm of gender. The institutional church has never been quiet on their views on family and LGBTQ+ issues. And in truth, decisions made by the institutional church are so far out of my control it seems pointless and tiresome to bring them up.

But!

What made me stop short was the discussion of funding and sponsoring and lobbying. Due to a frustrating lack of transparency it is nearly impossible to know how much tithing money has gone to the WCF through church sponsorship. Neither the Church nor the WCF seem to want to make this information available. But the fact remains, that money has exchanged hands and that probably means tithing funds were used (I suppose to be generous these donations and sponsorships could be happening using investment profits, which might be slightly better? But even still there is no evidence in either direction on that.)

But this makes me uncomfortable. I don't know how tithing gets spent, some have speculated, but I have no way of knowing if my tithing money is going to causes that I find ethical, moral, or timely. The church asks for a significant amount of money and claims they are only responsible to God on how they spend it. But I could use the money to support causes more pressing and certainly ensure that my dollars do not go to a group like the WCF!

They never address Mormonism outright in the way it plays on the fears of gender and sexual minorities--mostly because they do not need to. The Vatican and other evangelical groups beat us to it, they wrote their proclamations on saving the family before we did, and used language shockingly similar to what we use.

Butler points out that "The Family" and its defense has become a smokescreen or scapegoat where religious institutions do not have to address real tangible issues (like the climate crisis or the perils of late stage capitalism) but instead can just say: "we were right--allowing the gays to marry and the transfolks to have rights IS causing the collapse of our societies!"

What is surprising to me, is how disappointed I am in our lack of originality. Did we really need to copy and paste this fear-based bigotry into our own church?

The truth is, of course it's unoriginal and of course it's man-made. The fear of the lgbtq+ community (and let's be honest most feminists too) is the threat we pose to the powers that be. Who gets the priesthood in a world where gender isn't set at birth? How does marriage work if one gender is "by devine design to preside over the home"? What if women realize it's better to be married to another woman than a man???? What if women really can do it all? What would become of the men????

And how do we convince them otherwise? They are anxious about a reality that does not exist but could threaten power, structure, and systems? And in truth LGBTQ+ concerns are not easily addressed without sizable redesigns, much of which would likely require divine intervention to get right.

And doesn't that all seem like too much work, when the majority of active members aren't really affected by systemic mistreatment of the LGBTQ+ community? Plus, so many have also bought into the phantasm (that's what Butler calls the fear of "gender"), that they are ready to defend "The Family" from it's various attackers (imaginary or real), and such redesigns could cause many unaffected to react negatively.

I feel stupid, mostly, for believing that our bigotry was somewhat unique. I foolishly thought that leaders were somehow interpreting spiritual promptings through a biases lens. But, it's so disappointly borrowed from congresses and committees benefitting from enforcing the same fear for the defense of the "Natural, Divine and so so delicate Family".