Day 74: When I stopped going to church (the first time)

One Sunday morning after sacrament, I just walked out. Stepping onto a larger campus, I plugged in my earbuds, lay myself down on a sunny and wood-slatted bench, listened to the stories of searching people.

Because I said I can’t hear. All that noise from the pulpit telling me my self — this thing with its eyes and ears, its synaptic pathways — just couldn’t be trusted. Or didn’t exist at all. Feelings that aligned? The Spirit. Feelings that didn’t? Satan.

Where was me then?

Satan and the Spirit, the Spirit and Satan. Figuring they both must be me, I stood up and walked out, away from the pulpit and the classroom, giving each some room to breathe, to speak up and be heard, hoping to god that somewhere in the ensuing debate — or the silence that followed, devil and angel exhausted — was a me I needed to (but couldn’t now) hear.

(This is Day 74 of a 100-day project. For more about When I Was Mormon, read the introductory post. To access older posts, visit latest stories and scroll down.)