Priesthood, Agency, and the Fallible Mortal

I, like so many women who have been affected by a loved one's sex addiction, have had both good and bad experiences with the men called of God to counsel with me in times of crisis.

The good: I will forever be grateful to Bishop Brown, who 13 years ago refused to grant my husband a temple recommend. J spent months pressuring and pleading, hoping to attend his brother's upcoming wedding without anyone being the wiser, but the Bishop held firm. J was forced to confess the reason for his unworthiness to me; something he'd had no intention of doing-- ever. 

During our first separation, J and I had an amazing Bishop that was incredibly versed in addiction. The first thing he said to me when we met together was, "J is going to feel elated in the next few weeks, but you are going to feel worse. Addiction is like sitting in a pile of manure. As he confesses his actions to you, he'll start shoveling himself out of the crap-- but he'll be tossing all of it on to you instead. He might be indignant that you aren't pleased with his progress-- but how can you be? You're sitting in a big pile of manure that he dumped on you. Be gentle with yourself. If he's really going to change, he'll have to learn to be patient and empathetic to the pain he's putting you through."

That Bishop sent us to an excellent therapist and introduced J to the ARP and the SA programs. He told me, "Any man that claims to have repented but has never completed Steps 4 and 5 are lying to themselves."

I know that no man, even a Bishop, can make an addict change, but I still give Bishop C a lot of credit and gratitude for his inspired guidance, firmness, and encouragement.

Unfortunately, I also carry the pain of thoughtless remarks and bad advice from other Bishops, including my current one. 

Watching J not be held accountable for his actions by men who have the authority and obligation to do so was and is incredibly deflating. It always invalidated my pain and left me questioning my leaders' worthiness. It did J a disservice, as suddenly he felt reinforced in his position that his addiction was "a normal guy thing" and that the mere fact that he was even acknowledging it, let alone trying to do anything about it meant that he was far superior to other men. 

After his last relaps, J adopted an attitude that said I should be lauding his nobility. I should be grateful, not traumatized. He grew increasingly confident and complacent.  He'd discovered the problem in our marriage, and the problem was me. 

I went to our current Bishop several times, asking why, if J was still active in his addiction, in his lying, and in his denial-- why was he being told to go to the temple more? Why wasn't he being disciplined? 

I was told that he would only be able to stop filling his soul with darkness if he was given a chance to fill it with light instead. 

I stared, dumbfounded. 

"So, let me get this straight. If he were trying to stop smoking, would he also be permitted to enter the temple unworthily so that he could "fill himself with light" and gain enough strength to become worthy? 

"What if he were shooting up heroin? What if he'd been drug free for 6 months, but then relapsed and had been lying about it for the last 6 weeks? Does he still get to enter the temple in order to quit? 

"What if instead of bringing these vile images into the home he shared with his wife and children, he'd simply hired actors to enter our house so he could be a voyeur and pleasure himself to their performance? Is that worse? Is it more shocking? Does it sound more unseemly? Because it shouldn't. It's the same thing. 

"How," I asked, "is his behavior any different than that? It's still breaking covenants of chastity."

The bishop looked at me pityingly and said, "I know this feels like an affair to you..."

Not feels like.  IS.  It is an affair.  

And yet there I was, being told that I was overreacting. That if I felt it unjust that J be allowed to enter the temple, I was bitter and unforgiving. That the problem in our marriage was me.

I am not the only one who has been a victim of her husband's infidelity. I'm not the only one who has had the pain of betrayal compounded by priesthood men who have failed them. I am not the only one who has had to reconcile a deep and abiding belief in the Savior and his restored Gospel with the imperfect and damaging way His fallible human leaders have conducted themselves. And since I am not the only one, I want to share the beliefs that have sustained me over the last few months:

I believe that God does not set us up for failure. When he calls someone to be a Bishop, it means that they have the capability, choice and every possibility to serve well and honorably. 

However, God also will not thwart agency. Even if there is an equally strong possibility that that man will accept a calling unworthily, serve poorly, or cause heartache, God will not deny him the opportunity to succeed simply because he might fail. It is the only way a man can be judged justly. If he is to be accountable for failing as a Bishop (or as a husband or as a father), it stands to reason that he must first be given an opportunity to BE a Bishop (or a husband or a father.) 

I believe that I can sustain my Bishop and also follow my own promptings and inspiration. I believe I have a right and a duty to give my Bishop the opportunity to serve and counsel, but I have just as much a right and duty to disregard teachings that are not in line with what I know to be true. I believe that voicing my concerns to the Stake President or the First Presidency makes me a truth teller, not unfaithful. I believe that no matter what my Bishop says or does, he does not have the power to shake my testimony in the Lord's church. 

Likewise, I believe that when J and I married, he had just as strong a chance of becoming an honest, noble man as he did of being a selfish, dishonest one. I believe that that is why I was given spiritual confirmation of my choice to marry him. I don't think I was given the prompting to leave until J had used his agency to cut off completely the possibility of us having a celestial marriage. 

I think that is why I wasn't ever told to leave sooner. Up until now, we had a chance. J had an opportunity to succeed. He didn't choose that, and now he will be judged fairly for abusing and failing his wife and children. He could never have been held accountable for actions he might have committed toward us if we'd left before he could commit them, so part of our suffering was to satisfy justice.

But I also believe in mercy. 

I believe that Heavenly Father consecrates every painful thing we experience in mortality and allows it to change us for the better. 

My marriage was hard. 

Divorce has been hard. 

The ignorant and willfull failings of my priesthood leaders have been hard. 

But each of these hard things have been crossroads; opportunities to either become inured by the perceived injustice or meekly submit to His will and figure out what I'm being given the chance to learn. 

Mara of A Blog About Love calls this aligning with the divine and pursuing virtues.

Victor Frankl calls it finding meaning in suffering.

My mom calls it planting a garden in a concentration camp.

C.S. Lewis calls it being broken down and built up.

And I call it beautiful.


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Togetherness Project

All else will either fall into place or drop out of your life. 

The phrase echoed and replayed in my mind endlessly as I located the envelope containing my patriarchal blessing among the journals and sketchbooks in my bedside table, then sat to re-read the words I'd been given when I was only 14 years old. 

I was searching for the familiar, repeating phrase when my eyes lit apon a different passage. In it, I was advised to carefully consider, ponder, and pray over the decision of who I would marry. He should be ready and willing to take me to the temple, and together we would teach and raise our children in light and truth. 

Reading those words, I felt my stomach lurch. My mind was flooded with images and impressions of what was being described. A union full of hope and refuge; a marriage united in bringing our children up in strength and testimony; a home filled with respect and safety. Those words did not describe my marriage. Those words did not describe my husband. 

I sat, reeling. 

Where had i gone wrong? Hadn't I fasted and prayed over my decision to marry J? Hadn't I had strong, spiritual confirmation of my choice? Hadn't I turned to God after J's first disclosure? Hadn't I asked then if the marriage was a mistake? Hadn't I turned to Him every step of the way since? Hadn't I felt prompted to stay? Hadn't I been compelled to give up the dream of a loving, fulfilling marriage? 

I had. 

I had done all those things simply because it felt right, and now I was being confronted with a promise that I knew had not been fulfilled, and showed no signs of ever being fulfilled.  

I'd had to let go of a deeply held, tender dream! I'd only survived the last 15 years by convincing myself that the image I'd had of marriage was a fairy tail. Unrealistic and entirely unattainable in this life. But here it was, painfully in front of my face. Promised but still out of reach. 

I felt bereft, angry and trapped.

During the entire 9 hour drive to Utah the next morning, I cried, prayed, yelled, and cried some more. 

What do I do now? Is there no coming back from this?

Please don't tell me I have to keep doing this! Please don't make me live this pain indefinitely! 

What about my kids? How is it fair that pursuing my safety ruins their lives?

But I can't keep going! I have nothing left! 

What more can I do? How can this possibly end well?

Please God, what about my kids? 

At my arrival, I collapsed on the hotel bed, my eyes red and puffy, and slept the deep sleep of the emotionally spent. 

At daybreak, my parents joined me from Idaho. I clung to them like a river-swept woman clinging to a rock. I felt shattered and unmoored. 

Together, my mom and I sat through hours of classes and presentations, each dense with information, validation, and support. Though much of it wasn't anything I hadn't already heard, I took copious notes, desperate to divine any hint of direction on where to go or what to do. There had to be a magic formula. A miracle. A third option. 

My memories of the conference play like a highlight reel. 

I remember listening to Rhyll Croshaw describe what her relationship with her husband-in-recovery looks like now. The triggers. The still-present shame. Enforcing boundaries. Him occasionally sleeping in a separate room. 

I remember it sounded hard.

I remember a presenter talking about surviving a horrific divorce and what her second marriage looks like. Introducing a bachelor to parenting. Juggling culture clashes (he's German) and the difficulty of blending two strong personalities.  "The grass isn't greener on the other side," she said, "it's orange. But even though he's not perfect, he's perfectly transparent."

I remember that remarriage sounded hard as well.

I remember a woman behind me asking how to stop having feelings of love, attraction and hurt every time she saw the husband who left her for another woman. 

I remember realizing that I didn't have that problem. It had been years since I'd felt anything but dread and trepidation at the thought of J walking through the door.

I remember A Wife Redeemed saying that she stays in her marriage despite how antagonistic and unsupportive her husband is about her sharing her story, "because all the rest of the time, he's my best friend."

I remember thinking that I have not been able to say the same of J for almost a decade. 

I remember stepping in to the massive ballroom full of vibrant, faithful, beautiful women and realizing each and every one of them carried the pain of betrayal. That for each shining face I saw, there was a husband, boyfriend, brother or father that was breaking covenants and destroying lives. 

I remember having to remind myself not to hate all men. 

Most of all, I remember my mind, body and soul aching with the weight of the decisions I had before me. I felt drained and just as lost as I'd been from the start. I knew what I wanted, but it felt impossible to choose without the Lord's explicit approval.

That night, I asked my dad to give me a blessing of comfort and guidance. As he laid his hands on my head, I shook with anxiety and barely repressed tears. But in moments, I felt peace flow through me from my scalp to my toes. 

You are becoming certain, I was told, and you will be even more so as you examin the last 15 years in its entirety. 

Do not worry about your children. 

There is much happiness ahead. 

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No Good Options

Over the last decade or so of hellish trials, I've come to be very upfront with God. He can take it, and somehow allowing myself the luxury of unfiltered words and thoughts helps me to feel more open to moving past them when He asks that of me. 

The night before I was to leave for The Togetherness Project in Midvale, Utah, I sat in the temple and prayed. 

J's nowhere near entering real recovery, I told God. And I know I don't have the reserves to go through this any longer. 

I need an increased capacity for pain if I'm to continue with this marriage. 

I pictured us separated for years, struggling just to approach a level of trust and safety that would allow us to start having a genuine relationship again. The enormity of that journey left me feeling daunted and discouraged. 

But I know what recovery looks like, I told God, thinking of the 6 Behaviors I had listed. I'll know real recovery when I see it. 

And then it hit me. 

I did know what real recovery looked like.

It looked like a man laying in bed with his frightened, weeping wife; taking her in his arms, looking her in the eye, and saying "I have been prompted by the spirit to tell you that there is nothing going on...."

I felt a chill run through me as my stomach became lead. Yes, I'd seen what recover looked like, and it had all been a lie. 

God, I don't know how to come back from that! I said, despairing. 

I will never be able to trust him again! I will never be able to feel safe with him again! 

Am I wrong? 

I began to weep, overcome. I felt trapped between two hopeless-sounding scenarios. 

In one, I stayed with a man whom I would never be able to be vulnerable with. I would have to shore up my heart and drop any remaining expectation I had of what a marriage actually was. Our lives would be like our trip to Europe-- traveling our own paths to our own destinations in our own ways. Married in name only. 

In the other, I divorced. I would have the comfort of unequivocal boundaries. J would no longer hold claim over me or my body. But our children, who up to this point remained relatively unscathed by our dismal union, would be plunged headfirst into the stormy seas of change. I agonized that I would be sacrificing their security for my own. 

Is there a third option? I pleaded, Is there a miracle waiting around the corner that could somehow heal all of this? 

In reply, I felt peace settle over my shoulders and the words, "Follow the Lord and all else will either fall into place or drop out of your life" whispered in my heart. I recognized the phrase from my patriarchal blessing, and resolved to read it again. 

I sniffed, dried my tears and went home to pack. 

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