The effects of the patriarchy within the church structure and culture has been a slow trickle my whole life and now- in my late thirties- I am realizing that the slow trickle has actually etched out a huge canyon in my soul. And it isn’t a beautiful canyon with layers of earthy colors with an awe-inspiring view. It is a dark chasm of confusion, shame, and loss.
Growing up I do not remember having any feelings of concern about male privilege in our church. I had spiritual experiences as a result of my activity in the church and never questioned whether or not the church was true. I was excited to get married in the temple and then have children very soon after that (the decision to not put off having children was based on our reading what church leaders said about it, and a quote from Elder Oaks was what made us decide to try to get pregnant right away.) I never questioned that it was the right thing for me to stay home with our baby after finishing college; I never even considered trying to maintain a career. I was very smug about the fact that I finished my bachelor’s degree even though I birthed my baby after my sophomore year, and even more smug that I was choosing to be a stay-at-home mom (“look at all those ‘poor’ girls that have to work and can’t dedicate their lives to mom-ing”). My husband and I graduated from college on the same day and were both offered jobs in our respective fields, but of course, I turned my offer down. There was no question in my mind that I would stay at home with our children. While I was grateful to be able to be the main caretaker for our daughter, I felt a deep jealousy watching him get all dressed up to leave for work in the mornings. I kept this to myself.
My first awakening to the inequality of women and men in the church had come shortly after I received my temple endowment. My husband and I lived within half of a mile of the temple and made it a point to attend weekly (for the first 9 months of marriage before our baby was born). I started to have feelings of sadness after we did endowment sessions as I reflected about me having to veil my face for prayer, and the wording of Eve covenanting with her husband and not directly with God. By the time these aspects of the temple experience were changed, we had multiple daughters. And I breathed a sigh of relief that they wouldn’t have to see and hear those things in the temple like I had.
Life went on and I dulled the voice in my head noticing all the little ways that men dominated my church life: determining which callings I’d serve in, those I wanted to call when I was president of the primary or relief society (why ask me to pray for revelation about my counselors and then tell me “no” about those I was prompted to call?), temple worthiness, etc.
Then when COVID caused us to have church at home, the chinks in my testimony started to come hard and fast. My husband and I enjoyed leading our little family church services together, but it was mainly directed by me and his role was to be the one blessing and passing the sacrament. I had taken it upon myself to help prepare the sacrament so it would all be ready for him. Privately and reverently, I had spiritual experiences as I got out my nicest platters and a linen cloth and little cups, bread and water. I felt connected to Jesus in a way I’d never had the chance to feel. I knew I wasn’t supposed to pour the water into the cups or break the bread, because I’m not a man who holds the priesthood, but I loved the preparation part. It helped me feel close to God. One day I was talking to my dad about this and he (kindly) said that according to the scriptures I shouldn’t be involved with the preparation of the sacrament at all. I was suddenly so sad. How could doing something that resulted in real spiritual experiences for me, be breaking the rules? I continued to help facilitate the sacrament in our home, but in a less involved way, and I felt sad every time.
Not long after this, our youngest daughter was around six years old and she got a stomach bug that caused her to be quite sick without much rest for a whole night. I asked my husband to give her a blessing. She got better. A few days later I took my girls on a trip during their school break, and my husband couldn’t come with us due to a busy time at work. On our trip, my daughter started to feel sick to her stomach and was scared of being as sick as she’d been a few days prior. She innocently looked at me and asked me to give her a blessing. My heart broke a little, knowing I could not put my hands on her head and pronounce a priesthood blessing, just because I’m her mom and not her dad. I didn’t turn her down, and took her in my arms and said a prayer while holding her close.
Now we are a few years farther down the road and my oldest daughter has left the church, my second daughter has serious concerns, and my third daughter recently cried to me recounting a lesson they had been taught in young women about how only men can hold the priesthood. My soul crumbled as she asked with tears in her eyes, “why can’t we?”
A few days ago my youngest, now ten years old, asked me if only men can be bishops. I told her, “Currently, yes. But I think that women would make great bishops!” I said this with a smile, and died a little inside as I watched her sweet and simple acceptance of my explanation.
How can I, a feminist mother who has taught her daughters to stand up for themselves and held up examples of brave, rebellious women for them to admire, continue to sugarcoat the hard and glaringly unequal parts of the church to my daughters? Why can’t I rip off the Band-Aid and boldly tell them — this is wrong! You should not sit quietly by and let the church tell you that boys and men are more fit to lead and make decisions than you! I can see the huge canyon of pain and disillusionment that I’ve come to, but I (like a coward) can’t bring myself to shout a warning to my girls, my world, my everything.