(Continued from a previous post from Not Quite Enos)
“I sit in church and feel very little desire to be here. I feel completely disconnected from this body of men. And little desire to stay.” This was a little note I penned to myself into my phone on May 5th of last year. I had been excommunicated from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints for about 12 weeks. I hated being at church then. So why did I go? Why do I go?

I was called into the Bishop’s office within the first two weeks of attending the new ward. I remember thinking “here we go again.” It’s the same room, with the desk and too many chairs for the small space and it’s never comfortable to get volunteered into a one on one session with the Bishop. Not ever.

I thought “another schmuck ready to examine me with his all-seeing eye, to offer me advice on a situation he probably hasn’t ever been in, to a person he’s never met and barely knows. This ought to be fun”. The smirk I purposefully wore was intended to convey all of that. I figured if he had any spiritual gift in discernment then he would pick it up. I had no intention on being forthcoming to this stranger, and no hope that our interaction would be meaningful except to further isolate me in my rebellion.

He was tall and heavy with a Santa Claus smile. He had short dark hair and innocent eyes. He looked like the kind of Bishop that you wanted to pretentiously dunk a basketball over, and then give a big loving bear hug to immediately after. He didn’t say too much. He merely asked a lot of generic questions. He said that he hadn’t been told too much and asked if I wanted him to fill any of the leaders in the ward in on my situation. I declined. Each of my answers were brief. He seemed earnest enough, but I was hesitant to let him in on how dead and angry I felt inside. “You wanna stir this all up for me again? You wanna hear how terrible of a person I am?” I’d rather spend a weekend in jail then have to recount all of that to any judging party ever again.

At the end he said that he empathized with me, that he couldn’t imagine how difficult if must be. I appreciated the words. He reminded me of the restrictions of excommunication, which I didn’t need to hear again. But after everything he said he assured me that he did love me. And I felt it. He said that he would come visit with me and my family and that he understood if I declined. I felt as if he sincerely cared. And I’m glad that he did.

I’ve learned that some people care and some people are taught to care but never make the actual connection between true sentiment and duty. The vast majority have no idea what to say to someone like me at church, and most people don’t make a lazy attempt to connect with an acquaintance let alone a less active jerk looking guy like myself. Truth is I’m the guy that the prophet has been telling you to reach out to for the last 5 years. I’m the guy that needs the rescue. I’m the guy that’s swimming up alongside the ship trying to get on board just to get pushed away time and time again by your wake of standoffish-ness and exclusivity.

I don’t care to teach anyone a lesson from my experiences that they could care less to hear. Nor do I care for pity. I don’t care to be a role model. You can see where that got me. Selfishly I write this story for me. It’s a process of self discovery and for anyone who cares to engage this silly little blog of mine might help me evolve further. Why do I go to church? Well ultimately it’s because I know who I am. At the same time I know my Bishop cares about me and if I’m there or not. And I don’t want to let him down.

Next week: what I did…

~Not Quite Enos