Why I Couldn't Make It Work

Ted is my best friend and always has such beautiful words to share. I'm so happy he decided to write another post. Options for gay Mormons often feel bleak and impossible because, well, they are. Ted talks about that struggle and why he "couldn't make it work." Enjoy.

Hayden Hall and Gabi Svozil of USGA (Understanding Sexuality, Gender, and Allyship) recently published the first article in a series on the history of BYU and LGBTQ issues. The timeline, pieced together by Elijah Bickmore, details the evolution of the private university’s 70-year honor code from a student-led organization for academic honesty to the rubberbanding list of rules and regulations of today that marginalize LGBTQ students by design. The articles were published prior to Rainbow Day, where you may have noticed the Y suddenly being washed in rainbow light. BYU’s prompt response was “BYU did not authorize the lighting of the Y tonight. The Y is BYU property and any form of public expression on university property requires prior approval.” As the article points out, BYU has a long history of approaching LGTBQ behavior with the same policy: “requires prior approval.” Throughout the Honor Code’s history, LGBTQ students have been subject to the ever-changing sentiments towards homosexuality and gender by the straight, cisgender leaders of the Church. While I experienced firsthand the unfriendly environment for LGBTQ students wishing to explore their sexuality and gender, I never knew all the ways BYU targeted and harmed LGBTQ students.

Seeing the Y lit up reminded me of all the time I spent at BYU avoiding the Honor Code Office and Church discipline by conforming as I was told to do. At the time, I didn’t consider that I was motivated by fear of sin or punishment until I met with a BYU CAPS counselor who offered a suggestion that seemed impossible: “Why don’t you leave the Church and date men?” I was shocked. I asked him, “Are you supposed to suggest that to me?” He simply said, “I don’t know, but I am.” That was a turning point for me. The point when I decided to finally consider what my life could look like after ecclesiastical endorsements. Faced with that future, I finally had to consider who I was living the Gospel for: Was it truly for me? Was I actually becoming a better person by striving for heterosexuality, or could the Gospel be erasing who I am?

I ultimately made the decision to leave the Church and remove my records after graduating. However, that decision didn’t come without years of thinking deeply about all of my options, all the while coming out to, sitting next to, studying with, living with, attending Church with, and taking classes from people who unwittingly supported a system that wished to erase me. The effects of my time in the closet remain, and it’s been important to me to understand what made me stay committed for so long.

The possibility of violating the Honor Code alone was enough to convince me that I didn’t need to push my luck by experimenting with my sexuality. But also, I found the Gospel program for LGBTQ members so enticing: live a cisgender heterosexual life and you won’t regret it. Accepting the program meant I could fit in, avoid harm, and be rewarded for complicity. At no point did I understand that it was never my responsibility to change who I was. I can look back now and see the mechanisms of a system that is set up to oppress and to erase people like me, but at the time all I saw was a message that solved a problem (admittedly, a problem that it also created).

Pushed to conform after coming out, I considered all the ways that I could “make it work” within the Gospel program:

• Option One: I could continue to live as an out gay man and marry a woman, comforted by knowing I didn’t have to worry about my place in the Plan of Salvation. Inherent in this choice would be sacrificing any homosexual relationship that would potentially be more fulfilling physically, sexually, and emotionally.

• Option Two: I could continue to live as an out gay man but remain celibate. I considered this would give me time to see if doctrines change with new Church leadership, with the hope that someday homosexual unions could be included within a gospel context. Inherent in this choice would be denying myself sexual connection with a man or a woman, possibly forever.

• Option Three: I could remain in the Church and date men, without remaining celibate. This would be openly violating the Law of Chastity, which means I would inevitably encounter Church discipline at some point. In addition, at the time I was considering this option, gay marriage would have resulted in my immediate excommunication, per the Church’s exclusion policy. However, I considered this option with the the hope that the policy could be overturned (which it was in 2019). Either way, I’d be living against the clock.

When I considered these three options, I wanted to believe I could manage being authentic in at least one of them. Instead, all of them left me feeling unsettled. Each one carried a level of reward but also significant sacrifice, if not total erasure of who I was. I thought deeply about the sacrifices each option required and I contemplated what that sacrifice would mean to me.

Option One: Marry a Woman

This was the option I chose when I first came out in 2012. It was the most “by the book” and made me eligible for all the rights and privileges available to worthy Priesthood holders. So, I tried dating women for four years, but personally found it difficult to fully invest in those relationships. At the same time, I developed distracting crushes on male friends. Comparing these feelings, I couldn’t deny that my feelings for men were not only stronger sexually, but also emotionally. The men lived in my mind rent-free, but it was a struggle to hold space for the women. Knowing this, I wondered if it would always be that way. I tried to imagine what it would be like in an eternal marriage with a woman if that were the case: Could I be enough for her? Is this marriage truly fulfilling for both of us? Is this simply a means to an end for me? No matter what, the version of myself I imagined in that heterosexual marriage scenario seemed like a different person to me. I didn’t know if I could authentically be him. I didn’t like thinking I’d be entering into something that would be potentially nothing more than a way to get into the highest tier of the Celestial Kingdom, not when my feelings and the feelings of another person were at stake. If I were not entering into a partnership that I truly authentically enjoyed, I considered it might be better not being in one at all.

Option Two: Remain Celibate

That thinking led me to explore the next option: remain celibate. This option would allow me to hold most Priesthood callings and maybe even date men from time to time, but never violate the Law of Chastity. This option made me think a lot more about sex than I ever had before. Prior to considering this option, I never contemplated what sex meant to me, always figuring I would find out someday once I was married. But, after taking marriage off the table, I had to consider sex as a separate experience — and what that experience would mean to me. I decided that my sexual side was indeed just as worthy of cultivation as any other aspect of myself, which meant this option would not work for me. But even if it could, it wouldn’t be a permanent solution, as I would still need to marry heterosexually at some point in order to enter the highest tier of the Celestial Kingdom. There seemed to be no “making it work” here without accepting something short of the full Gospel program as celibacy was not the route for me.

Option Three: Date Men

Finally, it was time to revisit what my counselor suggested: To imagine what it would look like to actually date men, sex and all. I imagined I could spend a lifetime dating men, even partnering with someone, and maintain a full membership status except for violations of the Law of Chastity. I might still qualify for the Celestial Kingdom, albeit a lesser tier. In addition, any homosexual marriage I did enter into would not be valid in the eternities according to the Plan of Salvation, even if it didn’t result in my immediate excommunication. As I considered this option, I tried to imagine living a life with someone but never marrying. I thought I might be able to sacrifice marriage, but I kept being brought back to the thought: “What if none of this is true?” In response, I thought: “Then I’d be delaying a lifetime of happiness and positive sexual and emotional experiences for nothing.” Did I really believe in this gospel enough to sacrifice my authenticity, my sexual development, or a partnership in exchange for Church rights?

I didn’t want to think about this question, but there was no other logical step forward. While this was the faith that raised me and influenced my entire value structure, I had to finally accept that it could not offer me everything that it did my straight brothers and sisters. I owed who I was to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, but if I had to strip myself of authenticity, sexual development, or a partnership in order to fit into the Plan of Salvation, I no longer felt like the gospel was developing me. I always considered sacrifice to be a noble principle, but this wasn’t sacrifice — this was erasure. The full Plan did not want me as I was, but as a version of myself that would been so edited that I felt physically ill thinking about what I would go through to maintain him. It was finally time to consider my own plan.

I had to stop waiting for the Gospel program to finally embrace me. Besides, how could I justify staying if I was not in love with my Church as it was, but a version of it 20, 50, or 100 years from now? In fact, all I had was a promise from the Brethren that this would never change. There had to be a more authentic way, even if that meant leaving it all behind.

While my active friends and family are incredibly accepting and supportive, we are left with two vastly different experiences with the Church. Where I see a gospel that tried to erase me, they see a gospel simply going through growing pains. There may never be a consensus on how the Church should move forward in regards to LGBTQ members, but without the pressure to conform, I’ve felt free to explore other ways to practice the principles of the gospel that I still find to be helpful. There’s no going back for me now, but only because this is the only way for me to progress. Going back in time would mean erasing who I’ve become, and that plan doesn’t work for me.