As a kid in primary, I was in awe of the bishop. He was the trusted authority figure, the one who knew how things should go. The awe faded somewhat as I became a teenager, but I still remained firmly convinced of his inspiration. If he felt that we needed a talk on morality (the code word for chastity), for example, it was because that was what God wanted. Full stop. To some degree, I saw church leaders as infallible.



This was especially true on the general level. I bought in, a bit, to the cult of the GA’s. I managed to question much of the nonsense taught in seminary and at BYU Education Week, but to some extent I adopted their rock-star view of General Authorities as those upon whose every word we should hang. It didn’t even matter if the GA in question explicitly said he was expressing his opinion—as the CES-trained teachers saw it, why would you possibly disagree with the opinion of a GA?

I slowly grew more skeptical of this mindset, especially as I encountered teachings on gender that made absolutely no sense to me, but I found myself surrounded by it at BYU as well. I remember roommates stating only partly in jest that they wouldn’t wash their hand again after they’d shaken the hand of an apostle. I took one of the most bizarre classes there is, “Teachings of the Living Prophets,” which quite frankly more than bordered on idolatry. I found that class jarring enough to make me call into serious question some of its assumptions. But probably the biggest factor in bringing me to see the GA’s as human beings, flawed and fallible, was the September Six. I simply couldn’t idolize those who were cracking down on dissent in this way and not even owning their own role in it, or who were labeling me, a feminist and an intellectual, as an enemy of the church.

But while I grew more wary, I didn’t give up my belief that church leaders were inspired—particularly when it came to the local level. While I certainly wouldn’t have labeled my local leaders as infallible, I was still very hesitant to challenge them. Not so much when it came to church teachings—I had many a debate with priesthood leaders about feminism. But when it came to things like callings, I genuinely believed they were inspired.

In one particular case, this proved disastrous. I was in a vulnerable position because I had just returned to church after months of inactivity, with a renewed commitment to do what the church asked of me, to be serious about my membership. I was given a calling that there was simply no possibility of my fulfilling, for reasons both personal and practical. But I wasn’t in a mindset where I could say no. I accepted the calling and completely failed to do it. I felt overwhelmed with guilt, but unable to ask to be released. Eventually, I just went inactive.

If this all sounds ridiculous to you, you have to appreciate the extent to which it had been drilled into me that these things were inspired. I wasn’t just failing the church; I was failing God. This was reinforced both by local leaders who explained their actions in terms of inspiration, and General Authorities who proclaimed that every calling came directly from God. I was giving the church a chance, on its own terms, and it had terrible consequences for my faith.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the role of the personal voice, of personal experience, in Mormonism. There are certainly aspects of our tradition which emphasize its importance, most notably our belief in the importance of personal revelation, and the idea that every individual both can and should go directly to God for answers. Yet I also see situations in which Church members are encouraged subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) to not trust their own feelings, experience, and perceptions. Sometimes “exercising faith” gets equated with ignoring or dismissing your own thoughts about what is happening or what makes sense.

All too many statements made over the pulpit go something like this: “every person who does activity x has experience y.” Every person who sincerely prays about the Book of Mormon receives a divine witness of its truth. Every person who goes to the temple comes out a better person. Every person who embarks on regular scripture study receives an increased measure of peace in her life. And so on. This kind of discourse places individuals whose experience does not follow the master narrative in a difficult situation. If your experience is that doing x is having a spiritually detrimental effect, but you are told over and over that doing x is spiritually beneficial, what do you trust? You might conclude that something is wrong with the formula. But you might also conclude that something is wrong with you—that you are not trying hard enough, that you are doing something wrong, or simply that your experience/interpretation of what is happening is not to be trusted. This wreaks terrible spiritual havoc in people’s lives.

When it comes to the secular world, we teach the importance of discernment, of not just going along with things, of making judgments about right and wrong, helpful and harmful. But we don’t often teach that this skill is also vital for spiritual survival in the church—that it’s okay to disagree with our leaders, to say no sometimes, to take our own experience seriously. That just because something takes place in a religious context doesn’t mean we don’t need to be discerning about it.

I still believe in the possibility and the reality of inspiration in the church. I’ve encountered it. But I don’t believe that God micro-manages us. And I think that if we are going to take seriously the doctrine that we have the ability to make judgments, to distinguish between right and wrong, we can’t bracket that out of our interactions with the institutional church. This goes beyond saying that questioning is okay. It means that questioning is actually essential.