Author’s note: Apologies for the length, but even my summary comes out in an unabridged format it seems. I’ll have to split this up into parts. Part 1 covers childhood to mission.

Let’s start with my heritage, that seems safe enough.

My mom was a lifelong member of the LDS church. Her mother was as well, but her father converted when they were married. My own dad converted when he went away to college. He came from a pretty rough home and I think it was the sense of community and belonging that brought him in more than the doctrine, but he committed fully, even served a mission before transferring to BYU.

Our home was very Mormon. Scripture study and Family Home Evening happened regularly and were structured more like Sunday school lessons than casual activities. Because of this, I learned a lot about the church at an early age. I’d even read through the Book of Mormon at least twice by the time I was baptized. I knew all the stories, the names, and the places, not just from the BoM, but from the Bible and early church history. By the time I finished seminary, I thought I knew everything there was to know about my church.

Fast forward to after high school. I was working, saving money to go on my mission. While I wasn’t really pumped about serving for two years, it was never really presented to me as a choice. It was just the next step, what was expected of me by everyone — my parents, my LDS peers, even God. Throw in that I was the oldest son and maybe you’ll get an idea of the mission pressure cooker I was roasting in.

Not going had crossed my mind, but at this point I had already seen two of my siblings leave the church and the pain and disappointment it caused my parents. I didn’t want to be the cause of more heartbreak or become the next family pariah, so I put my selfish thoughts aside and committed.

It’s probably important to note that at this point, despite doing everything I had been told I needed to do to gain a testimony, I had never received what I would have considered a spiritual witness or confirmation. Being Mormon was just part of who I was and who I’d always been. I told myself God hadn’t given me an answer because he knew I already knew it was all true. I didn’t know I would soon be using that rationale to help convert people to the gospel.

I finally got my call in 2009 when I was 20 years old. Stateside. A major city. Speaking English.

I was totally disappointed. I had hoped to at least leave the country, learn a language, or experience a different culture. No such luck, but I put on a brave face and accepted the call.

I don’t think I’d ever seen my parents so proud of me. It almost made it worth it.

We went to the temple a week before I reported to the MTC. The initiatory ordinance was different, but no big deal. The endowment sent my head spinning. The secret handshakes, signs, chants, and ridiculous outfits were absolutely foreign to me. I had not been prepared in the least for that kind of experience. I remember having the thought “we are a cult” flash through my mind throughout the session. I kept looking to all the people I knew in the room, doing the same thing I was, to try to reassure myself that this was all okay. That it was some kind of normal. My shelf gained its first item that day.

But I was all in at this point. Going back would have been humiliating.

The MTC was where I decided that if I was going to survive this mission experience and not hate every moment, I needed to completely immerse myself in it. I wanted so badly to trust in the promises of spirituality and happiness that had been made to me. I threw myself into every aspect wholeheartedly. I studied more, I prayed harder, I made myself cry during lessons, convinced that was evidence of my being in tune with the Spirit. I didn’t just drink the Kool-Aid, I downed the whole pitcher.

Anyone who’s served a mission knows how exhausting it can be. If I could describe my mission experience in one word, that would be it. Absolutely exhausting.

I was dedicated and I worked hard. I tried not to be a dick. I sincerely wanted to be the best, most balanced missionary I could be. And while I still wish I could have used that time to be working on my degree or working a normal job and getting paid, my time there did help me grow and mature, and for those experiences I am grateful.

A few significant events happened while I was in the field. I was a little more than 3 months in the field when a recent convert told me about a book he had just bought about Joseph Smith. He said it was a great read, very interesting. I had been through all the approved missionary reading twice, so I took him up on his offer to borrow the book, Rough Stone Rolling.

Wow. Talk about a mind opener.

I thought I knew about the life of Joseph Smith before, but I was wrong. I knew the narrative that the church liked to publicize, which I quickly learned was not the full picture.

I learned about the magical worldview adopted by Smith and his family, the treasure hunting, the inconsistency of his revelations, how the Book of Mormon was really translated, the polygamy and polyandry, how he ruled with an iron fist and quickly stamped out any opposition, and so much more. The pristine image of Brother Joseph I had nurtured was shattered. This new knowledge actually made me feel sick to my stomach, it felt wrong.

Later on I would identify that sick feeling as cognitive dissonance. Turns out your brain does that when you are presented with information contrary to your established worldview.

I tried to talk to my companion at the time about what I was learning and feeling. He was skeptical at first, then critical. I tried to explain the confusion I felt and he quickly jumped to the conclusion that those feelings were not of the Spirit. Following church logic, that meant the information was not true and I should return the book.

I just wanted that feeling to go away. I decided my more experienced companion was right. We returned the book, along with a warning of avoiding evil masquerading as good. God, we were so confident and self-righteous. I feel bad about that.

So I buried my concerns deep and threw myself back into the work. I was more committed than ever.

Looking back now, I’m ashamed at some of the tactics I used when we taught. When investigators told us they didn’t receive an answer to prayer, we would have a lesson on “recognizing the Spirit.” In that lesson we would basically latch on to any emotion they felt and told them that was the Spirit speaking to them. I would bear testimony about how I had never had a big, emotional answer because the Spirit spoke to me by telling me I already knew it was true.

I wish I could say my motivation was the pure love of Christ in all this, but I wanted to baptize. I had been taught to equate success with how effective I was at getting people into the font. We looked for the “low hanging fruit” — part member families, inactive parents with baptismal age kids, boyfriends or girlfriends of members who were coming to church or youth activities.

We were told that doing missionary work that way was the Lord’s plan for us in this mission. We didn’t need to knock doors because God had prepared these people and placed them in our path.

I know I can’t really accept full responsibility, I was a product of the Mormon missionary machine. And even though most, if not all, of my converts are now inactive, I feel responsible for pushing lies onto them and promising them things I couldn’t guarantee. Hindsight, right?

Anyway, so by the end of the mission my mission president had convinced me to go to BYU. I wasn’t pumped to be going to a church school, but figured the dating scene would be great and tuition was cheaper than the state university I was planning on attending. After a summer of doing door-to-door sales (a story for another time) to fill my empty college fund, I made the trek to Provo to continue my predetermined journey.