Would I Recognize It Now

My post from earlier this week spoke of the passing of Jeffrey Holland. In that post, I made a vague reference to the church turning into something I don't recognize. I want to give some more details on why that is.

I look forward to my visits to my barber because I never know what we'll talk about. We've delved topics like cars, women, married life, his rebellious oldest son, how many of us are just one arrest from poverty, and a host of other things. But a recent visit found us talking about the Mormon church we remember and the Mormon church that exists now.

Even calling it the Mormon church is something can get some people's hackles up since the previous leader of the church, Russell Nelson in October 2018, said that calling it the mormon church in lieu of The Church of Jesus Christ... is a major victory for Satan.

I contrast this against the church I remember under Gordon Hinckley and Thomas Monson as a time when using the term Mormon was a badge of honor. I remember the Meet the Mormons documentary from 2014. While I never watched it, I remember it being a thing. Overlapping this was the I Am A Mormon campaign that ran from 2010 through 2018 and how Lindsey Stirling was one of the prominent members that appeared in that campaign.

As an interesting aside (at least as far as I'm concerned), I searched for Lindsey and found out that one of her shorts from not long ago features her drinking an iced coffee. I'd noticed that her persona has changed a little from what I remember of her and it goes to show how we all evolve.

How I Remember It

I want to include this excerpt from a talk given by Hinckley in 1990, which I remember being quoted from time to time as I was growing up:

More than fifty years ago, when I was a missionary in England, I said to one of my associates, "How can we get people, including our own members, to speak of the Church by its proper name?"

He replied, "You can't. The word Mormon is too deeply ingrained and too easy to say." He went on, "I've quit trying. While I'm thankful for the privilege of being a follower of Jesus Christ and a member of the Church which bears His name, I am not ashamed of the nickname Mormon."

"Look," he went on to say, "if there is any name that is totally honorable in its derivation, it is the name Mormon. And so, when someone asks me about it and what it means, I quietly say—'Mormon means more good.'" (The Prophet Joseph Smith first said this in 1843; see Times and Seasons, 4:194; Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, pp. 299–300.)

I know that some might respond that, because we have living prophets, you can't always take what former prophets have said as the literal truth, even if you did so at the time. The church is progressing, changing, evolving as we learn line upon line, precept upon precept. To that I would say that such rhetoric seems like the perfect way to get people to fall in line when doctrine or policy changes with the current proclivities of the current leadership of the church.

While I'm not old enough to remember other changes like the church's abandonment of the practice of polygamy or the withholding of the priesthood from African-Americans, I can imagine the confusion it caused when established doctrinal teachings are changed.

I remember the church's stance on LGBTQ people and how they were to be loved, but that they were not to be open about expressing their orientation and sexual identity.

I remember California's Proposition 8 and the 2015 decree against the baptism of children of openly LGBTQ parents.

I remember church consisting of three-hour blocks on Sunday. Now church is two hours long.

I remember wearing garments that covered my knees and shoulders. This recently changed for women.

I remember home and visiting teaching. Now they're called ministering teachers.

I remember when the King James version of the bible was the one endorsed by the church and the one from which we read and studied. Now other translations are acceptable.

These are just a handful of the things that I remember from the time that I was a practicing member of the church that I know have changed. From what I understand, there have been numerous changes that would be hard to enumerate fully.

Most fundamentally, though, I remember the feelings of guilt and shame I often had when attending church meetings. I knew that my life wasn't following the path that had been laid out for me. I felt like I was broken because I wasn't progressing the way I was taught I should. I wasn't really happy doing what I was supposed to be doing the vast majority of the time. This despite the promise that keeping the commandments would bring blessings and joy.

I wore my garments because I was supposed to. I mostly didn't see them being anything special though I was taught they were. They didn't seem to protect me like I was taught they would. My understanding was that they were supposed to offer spiritual and physical protection. My experiences taught me I was still just as susceptible to life's dangers as ever.

I struggled to really connect with those I was supposed to home teach a lot of the time and so found it challenging to do.

Slowly, but surely, the majority of my friends moved away, got married, or otherwise slowly faded from my life. Or I faded from theirs. I won't lay the blame fully on either side, though that didn't lessen the feelings of abandonment and loneliness that often found me when I'd sit in a pew more by myself rather than with anybody else.

Eventually, I just stopped going. I didn't make a dramatic exit. There were no grand declarations. There was no great confrontation with doctrine or policy. I wasn't offended. I wasn't actively rebelling. I simply faded.

How I See It Now

As with many other institutions that I once admired and revered, my perspective on the church has undergone some very critical shifts. The most damaging revelation for me has been learning about the systematic handling of sexual abuse cases within the church. Like the Catholic Church scandal, evidence has emerged of institutional cover-ups, including the use of a church helpline that routes abuse reports to church lawyers rather than law enforcement.

Court documents and audio recordings have revealed how church officials used confidentiality agreements and legal maneuvers to silence victims and protect the institution's reputation. With hundreds of lawsuits filed and settlements reaching into the hundreds of millions, it's clear this isn't about isolated incidents but institutional failures.

This knowledge has fundamentally altered how I view the organization I once trusted completely. The same institution that taught me about honesty and moral courage appears to have prioritized its public image over protecting the most vulnerable among its members.

Undoubtedly, there would be those that might say that the church can't be expected to be perfect because it is run by fallible human beings. But to this I would say that a church that is supposedly led by God would not seem to go out of its way to conceal abuse. It would not go out of its way to hide the crimes committed against its members. It would not victim-blame or try to hide under the guise of penitent-clergy privilege.

I think of a scripture that I often heard and even now still recalled rather easily, though I did have to look up exactly where it was.

By this ye may know that a man has repented of his sins -- behold, he will confess them and forsake them. (Doctrine and Covenants 58:43)

There should be no shame in acknowledging that one has sinned as it is something that is inevitable. The truly penitent would lay his sins at the feet of those he has transgressed, not just god or the bishop. They would sue and would beg forgiveness. They would also know that, if the crime is great enough, that they should be subject to being reported to the authorities and serve jail time, if necessary.

While I didn't personally suffer sexual abuse within the church, I know those that have and the way that things were handled were not in line with what I would expect of a divinely sanctioned institution.

Would I Recognize It If I Went Back?

The title of this post asks a question I've been sitting with: Would I even recognize the church if I went back now?

Not just because policies have changed. They certainly have. Not just because the branding shifted from embracing "Mormon" to calling it a victory for Satan. Though that whiplash is real.

But because I've changed.

The institution I left is not the same institution that exists today. Sunday meetings are shorter. Garment requirements have relaxed. The terminology has shifted. The PR strategies have evolved.

But more fundamentally: I'm not the same person who used to sit in those pews.

I see things now I couldn't see then. The control mechanisms. The shame cycles. The way doctrine shifts with leadership while claiming eternal unchanging truth. The institutional protection over individual welfare.

Even if I walked back into a chapel, I wouldn't recognize it now because I'd be looking at it through completely different eyes.

The me who left was confused, lonely, fading quietly. The me now? I understand why I left. I see the patterns clearly. I recognize the harm for what it is.

What I Would See

If I went back, I wouldn't see:

• A refuge of truth in a confused world
• Prophets speaking for God
• Policies that are divinely inspired even when they shift
• An institution protecting its members

I would see:

• A corporation protecting its image and assets
• Men claiming authority they haven't earned
• Policies that change when public pressure or legal liability demands it
• An institution that has repeatedly chosen self-preservation over transparency and justice

I can't unsee that.

The revelations about abuse handling weren't the beginning of my questions. But they absolutely justified my desire to push back against the control mechanisms the church uses.

A church led by God would not systematically protect abusers to preserve its reputation.

A church led by God would not route abuse reports to lawyers instead of law enforcement.

A church led by God would not use confidentiality agreements and legal maneuvers to silence victims.

A church led by God would not pay hundreds of millions in settlements while still claiming moral authority.

These are the actions of an institution prioritizing its survival over its members' safety.

And once you see that, you can't go back to seeing it as divinely led.

The Church I Remember Is Gone

The church I remember—where "Mormon" was a badge of honor, where Gordon B. Hinckley's grandfatherly warmth felt reassuring, where I genuinely believed we were special, chosen, led by revelation—that church is gone.

Maybe it was never really there. Maybe it was always this way and I just couldn't see it.

But whether the church changed or I did (probably both), the result is the same:

The institution I trusted completely no longer exists for me.

Not because policies shifted or branding changed or meeting times got shorter.

But because I learned what it does when no one is watching. How it handles power. Who it protects when protection is needed.

And I can't reconcile the God I was taught to worship with an institution that operates this way.

Would I Go Back?

I have no inclination to return to church. Even if I did, it wouldn't be the same.

Not just because the church has changed. But because I have.

I would walk in looking for things I can no longer ignore:

• Who holds the power and how they use it
• What happens to people who dissent
• How the institution responds to being wrong
• Whether justice is sought or just preached
• If safety matters more than reputation

And I already know the answers to those questions.

So no. I wouldn't recognize it. And I'm not going back.

Not out of bitterness. Not out of rebellion. Not because I was offended or wanted to sin.

But because I finally see clearly what I couldn't see before.

And once you see it, there's no unseeing it.

The bloom is off the rose. The genie is out of the bottle. The curtain has been pulled back.

And I'm not interested in pretending I don't see what's actually there.

The church of my memory is gone. The church that exists now—I don't recognize it as divine, just institutional.

And the person I am now?

I recognize myself in ways I never could when I was trying to fit into something that required me to be smaller, quieter, more compliant than I actually am.

I wouldn't recognize the church if I went back.

But I recognize myself now. And that's more valuable than any institutional belonging ever was.