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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