Jesus: An Easter Speculative Profile

I was settling back into the swing of things, getting used to life again, when Cec burst in, talking a thousand miles an hour.

“He’s back! JC! Joshua! He’s…he’s…he’s back, I saw him, he’s here, he’s alive, he’s the same, but different, uh, like, JC IS ALIVE!”

I was dumbfounded.

“Alive?” I say slowly.

“YES. Alive! Like back from the dead! Like a zombie, but ya know, less…gross.”


I didn’t know what to think. Obviously, I believed Cec, but I couldn’t believe it. It was too much. I couldn’t bear to be disappointed again. No. I can’t fully let myself believe until I see him. The cost of hope is too high.

I sat, overcome with the feeling of hope that I couldn’t stop myself from feeling, no matter how hard I tried. How could I not believe my wife?

I look over at the clock.


“Shit. Babe, we’ve gotta get going or we’ll be late!”

We hurry to gather our things and H— before rushing to church.

As we’re hurrying we pass a middle-aged woman in disrepair, looking in need of a shower, holding a piece of cardboard with, “2 kids. No work. Need food. Anything helps.” scrawled on it. I scrounge for some cash and hand her five bucks without stopping.

Clouds are starting to gather above us.

We pick up the pace and make it inside, just as the rain starts to pour. The tall heavy wooden double doors of our old school chapel closing behind us.

I breathe a sigh of relief and the three of us find a seat.

We’re next to an older gentleman in the congregation, who is notorious for talking through the entire meeting. Immediately he starts in on some meanderings about a dog or a horse and the farm and a broken tractor and I’m trying to pay attention to the meeting while nodding and “uh huhing” along with the story so he doesn’t feel ignored.

This went on for a few minutes and then I glanced over at the old man and his eye twinkled.


I startled. Wait is that….no. It’s just Wilford. Just Wilford. What am I saying. Even as ye have done it unto the least of these. The woman from earlier flashed before my eyes. I’ve been failing you, JC.

I turn to Wilford and truly listen to him. As I turn, his eyes are welling up with tears, he’s talking about loss and pain and loneliness. I simply lock eyes with him and put my arm around him before pulling him in close. We stay like that for a moment, the rest of the chapel fading from view. He pulls away, and whispers, “Thank you.”

Thunder rumbles.

We sing some hymns, as I continue to ponder what has happened and what I’ve done.

I repeat the refrain that’s pulled me through the grief thus far.  

Lord, I believe.

Help thou mine unbelief.

The organ swells and the prayer’s about to start when thunder booms throughout the chapel, echoing along with the trample of the rain. The prayer begins and before the last “amen”, the sound of the thunder and rain ramps up and the doors begin to creak open.

I look back.

A tall, dark-skinned figure, head bowed, hair covering his face dripping with rain, pushes both doors open, in shadow, until he stands tall, moving his head out and to the right, shaking his long hair out of his face. The shorts and floral shirt are too good to be true. It can’t possibly be.

“Well, God surely does send down rain on the just and the unjust.”

His eyes twinkle, the smile that crosses his lips filled with renewed energy that I haven’t seen in months.

I climb to my feet and leap over the pew to run to him.

He opens his arms wide, grinning with his whole face, his whole being.

We embrace.

I’m cheering.

Tears stream down my face.

We hold each other close.

My friend. My brother. My king.

Jesus: A Saturday Speculative Profile

We had all gathered together. The old crew. All the places were laid and we were just getting food out (Cec and I were hosting so that we could step away and help out our daughter if need be). I was counting the places set one last time to ensure that we were totally covered.

“Twelve! There are thirteen of us, remember?”


He’s gone.



The grief catches me in surprising moments like this. I think that I’m totally fine and have come to terms with his absence when all of a sudden it hits me. He’s not here and I’m waiting.

Back to the wilderness.

I sometimes wonder if I’d be better off now if I’d never known him. If I never saw him heal. If he’d never ministered unto me. If I’d never felt my soul on fire with his teaching.

And then I can’t stand the thought. I can’t stand thinking about the ways that my life could have been better without JC. After all he did for me. For us.

I hate myself for even daring to think such a question. He’s fresh in the ground and I’m already wondering what all this was about and if it’d be be possible or even beneficial to imagine a world where I wasn’t wracked with guilt at every absence that I noticed.

Could I have arrived here without this pain and suffering? Or was this an essential part of my adult life experience?

But the grief is debilitating. Worse than before I met JC, because now I know what connecting with the divine is like. Back to seeing through the glass darkly. What am i supposed to do? What is the point?

What was true that he taught? What am I supposed to do with his message now, in the wilderness? He taught so much and promised so much that now seems impossible. How can the Kingdom come if the King is dead?

Even now with his loss the memories of being with him are starting to fade. Some of the things we saw seem impossible. Each passing hour changes what I feel and how I remember. Perhaps the Divinity and truth that I experienced wasn’t. Perhaps it was something less, some kind of trick.

God, how could this happen? How could you let them take him? We needed him? His work wasn’t done. We’d only just started, and now…

I need to keep him near me. Somehow keep him here. Remember him. Honor him. Serve him. I thought he said I’d see him again or that he’d be back or that this wasn’t the end, but I don’t know what he was talking about.

I wait.

I mourn.

I ache.

I suffer.

I need JC. I need him. Where can I find him?

Lord, I believe.

Help thou, my unbelief.

And still, I wait.

Jesus: A Friday Speculative Profile

There he was again. JC. Dressed in that damn orange jumpsuit. I tried to come every week, but life had gotten busy and it’d been awhile. But time was running out.

I looked up at him through the glass, his brown face looking back at me, long hair touching his shoulders in loose ringlets that he’d brush back every once in a while. His beard was trimmed pretty closely (from the trial, he’d refused to cut his hair, the help of an attorney, and even to say anything in his defense, but did clean up his beard a bit).

He was just looking at me. Those big, kind, eyes always felt like they were giving me a hug, when he was the one that needed comfort.

“It’s good to see you, Conor.”

“Good to see you too, JC. How are things?”

“My end is near, but things are good.”

I close my hand into a fist, squeezing my nails into my palm in anger and pain, hoping to stop the tears I could feel welling up.

“Why? Why couldn’t you just defend yourself? Or run away…we could’ve got you out of here…what are we going to do without you?” I trail off, looking down and off to the side before turning back, locking eyes, his gaze clearly never leaving me, “What am I going to do without you?”

His lips turned up into his familiar smile, weaker than usual.

“I am, who I am.”

“C’mon, JC, they’re going to fucking kill you and you’re…you’re being all cryptic and shit…”

“Hey. Conor.”

His hand was placed on the glass, splayed out and inviting.

I reluctantly bring mine to rest against the other side of the glass.

“I’ll be back. This isn’t the end. It’s only the beginning.”


“You’ll see.”

“But why why you? Couldn’t it be someone else? Anyone else? This isn’t right. You don’t deserve this, you…you…you”

“Does anyone here deserve this?” He asks, gesturing to the other inmates around him, “If they can’t have justice, why should I?”


“It’s good to see you, Conor. You’ll be here tonight?”

Tonight. Tonight was the end. The execution. Tonight they were going to kill JC. An innocent man.

I paused.

“I’ll be here.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you.”

He placed the receiver in its cradle. And started standing up before sitting back down and picking up the phone again.

“At least if I end up in Hell, I’ll be prepared to search for my book of life for eternity, right?”

I chuckle.

“Right,” I say with a soft smile.

He finally places the receiver in its cradle. And stands up to leave. He’d turned to walk away, but looked back to shoot some last finger guns at me, his eyes wearily twinkling as he walked back.  

I sat. Stunned.


It was time.

I was back at the prison. I’d dressed up, not sure why, but it felt right to witness JC’s final moments looking my best. Even though he rarely changed out of his patterned shirts and board shorts. I chuckled to myself remembering all the times we’d had — the fish sinking that boat, that wild snow storm, that night with H—. What am I going to do without you, JC?

They walk me back to the observing room. The chair is in the center.

I’d tried to stop myself, but I’d been devouring everything I could find on lethal injection and my stomach churned thinking about how fucked up the whole thing is.

They walked JC out, in chains.

They place him in the chair, and strap him in.

The doc is preparing the injection to the side.

This is it. The End.

The injection is placed, but before it can enter his blood stream, JC cries out, “God, where the hell are you hiding?”

The injection enters.

He slumps, twitching.

I gasp.

I stare dumbfounded.

It was finished.

Jesus: A Thursday Speculative Profile

JC and I walked in for dinner, pretty late. I hadn’t been home since I left early that morning, leaving Cec alone with Baby H— hours longer than I tried to.

It wasn’t that unusual for JC to join us. He didn’t really have anywhere else to go and often found himself at our table, which we were always grateful for. He was a delightful dinner guest, always ready with a witty retort and deep thoughts on everything (though to be honest, I sometimes felt a little like he was operating on a different plane than the rest of us, just seeing a totally different world than we see).

So, JC was over. But something felt different about tonight. He seemed preoccupied, some heaviness weighing him down.

We traded pleasantries and dinner was ready.

JC’s mind was clearly elsewhere, so Cec and I caught up on how each other’s day was, with JC occasionally chiming in. All of us taking turns with H— as the meal went on.

As we wrapped up, JC cleared all the plates and did the dishes (all of them, even the ones from days ago with food crusted onto the pots, pans, plates, and bowls). An unexpected kindness.

As he was finishing, he turned to me, “Conor, I know you’ve got work in the morning, but can you stay up with me? I’m waiting to hear from a friend and…”

“Of course, JC, I mean, Cec’s tired and I’ll probably need to help with H—, but I’ll be just in our room, awake, if you need me.”

His eyes filled with a gratitude, barely masking the pain and longing that was beneath.

“Thank you.”

After bustling around for a couple of hours, we left JC out on the couch, thumbing through Steven Peck’s A Short Stay in Hell, while we went to put H— to bed. Cec was out immediately, exhausted after caring for H— all day.

I woke up to JC, shaking me, my body splayed out across the bed, hand holding a pacifier in H—’s mouth.

“Conor, I’ll never shake the angst about eternity from this book!”

“……wha…..what….what book?” I slur out, still practically asleep.

“This one!” He whispers with necessity and excitement, brandishing Peck’s novella he’d been browsing earlier.

“Mmmmmm, it’s good…huh,” I manage to slip out before my eyes close.

H— is screaming.

My world is spinning. Something is happening. I have to do something. What is that noise? GAH, I scramble for my glasses and my phone to piece together what I’m experiencing.



I blink rapidly, trying to prevent my eyes from closing involuntarily. I reach over to H— and touch her chest, making quiet, calming noises, while I try to wake up enough to help her.

Cec is already awake, checking for a bottle or a diaper. Stumbling around.

“Babe, it’s ok, I’ve got her. You sleep,” I tell her, still feeling some guilt for leaving her alone with H practically the entire day before.

I picked up H— and tried to calm her down, when JC walked in, and I realized that I’d left him totally alone with the existential angst of Hell and felt awful.

“JC, I’m so…”

He simple shook his head, his long curls gently jostling, before reaching out for H.

“Hey, H—…” he trails off, lifting her from my arms and looking deep into her eyes. “Sleep, Conor, I’ll take her.”

“Are you sure?”

He looked at me with that same bone-weary, yet kind look.

“I’m sure.”

“Thank you…” I mumble as he turns to leave.

I get one more look at H— and got the strange feeling that she was helping him as much as he was helping her.   

Jesus: A Wednesday Speculative Profile

Nothing was ever quite the same after I met Joshua. He had a knack for upending life, bringing in the unexpected.

I was in the middle of teaching a class when he first came in. We were talking about rhetoric and the ethics of persuasion and finding common ground, when all of a sudden the door opens, which wasn’t that unusual, and this guy looks in. He’s a little wild looking, but overall, he’s fairly nondescript. I couldn’t give you a clear physical description of him.

I stop and turn, leaving space for him to jump in with his question if he had one and there’s nothing. I wait expectantly.


I turn back to my students, “So, how can you use appeals to pathos ethically?”

“Come,” the stranger at the door beckons, “follow me.”

He then bounds off, the last thing I saw of him before he was out of the classroom, was a knowing smile, with a twinkle in his eye.

I didn’t.


I was out with some friends on the lake. We were sorta fishing, but mostly just wanted to hang and laze about in our boat. I kinda hated fishing, to be totally honest. I’d fished a handful of times with scouting as a kid, but it was so boring (and then you had to kill and gut the fish, which was gross and smelled awful). Anyway. We were fishing.

We’d been out all day and were about to come in. Nothing to show for our efforts. Which is the absolute worst. Usually, we at least had some fresh fish to fry, but nothing. Just vaguely smelling like worms and lakewater.

Then, suddenly, there’s a guy on the shore. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t totally recognize him at the distance (not to mention the angle the sun was at).

He calls out to us, “How’s the fishing?”

“Rubbish!” I yell back, as my friends mock my persistent and haphazard use of British slang.

“Try it once more! Cast all your rods on the left side.”

We all look at each other, rolling our eyes, but something about this exuberant guy made me want to humor him.

So we did. Expecting nothing.

I held my rod lacklusterly, not paying attention, until it suddenly jerked and pulled me forward before I caught myself.

As I braced myself against the deck, I looked around and realized that everyone else was experiencing the same thing. We started to reel in our respective catches. As we’re all reeling and reeling, straining against what felt like a blue whale, I look back at the shore and the man has his hand to his mouth, trying (and failing) to stifle laughter.

I land what I think is going to be some monster fish, as do all of my friends. The deck is groaning under the collective weight of these massive fish, when an entire school of fish leaps out of the lake and onto the deck, flopping everywhere. Where suddenly swimming in fish. Slipping and sliding as I try to get out of the ankle-deep pile of fish. The boat is now taking on water, and we’re desperately trying to navigate back to shore, fighting off untold numbers of fish, and the man is now doubled over in laughter.

We land the boat and all manage to get off, pulling fish out of our pockets and sleeves.

As we struggle to figure out what is going on, I finally got a look at this stranger, wearing bermuda shorts, sandals, and a floral shirt, unbuttoned showing his dark brown chest. He had some sunglasses that he pushed up to rest on his black, flowing, shoulder-length hair, revealing the same face that peeked into my classroom. He reached out his hand, saying through an ear to ear grin and barely recovered from his laughter, “Hey, I’m Joshua.”

“Get the hell away from me, man. I cannot handle whatever it is you’ve got going on,” I retort, pushing his hand away.

“Oh, come on, I’ll make you fishers,” he paused, that twinkle in his eye back, suggesting he was very pleased with what he was about to say, “of men.”

I left.


This was a mistake.

The storm raged all around us. Shit. We’re going to die.

We were stranded in the midst of a wild snowstorm, off road, wind and snow blowing in all directions. I couldn’t see anything. Anywhere. We’d tried to walk through it earlier, but fell through the snow banks that were everywhere, not to mention, just being utterly unable to keep our feet steady with the wind and snow.

The snow was starting to bury our truck. Soon we would be unable to open the doors.

A figure was up ahead. Somehow walking eerily through the storm.

“Uh, guys, you see that?” I ask, nudging Andrew next to me, pointing out at this vague person-like figure moving in our direction.

I don’t believe in the abominable snowman or yetis, but damn, what else could be here?
As the figure got closer, the colors were bright, florals maybe?


Everyone looks at me slightly shocked, but awaiting my explanation of what could possibly cause such an exclamation given the near-rock-bottom place we already were.

“It’s that Joshua dude.”

“No way, it can’t be. No human could possibly survive this storm, especially be walking like that. Ask him.”

I look incredulous, but after some more cajoling, figure, what do I have to lose?

I roll down the window and stick my head out and yell, “Who are you?”

“C’mon, man, I’m Joshua! Just look at me!”

He had a point.

But for some reason, felt possessed to say what came out of my mouth next.

“If it’s really you, Joshua, ask me to come to you.”

“Alright, Conor. Come.”

I did.

Jesus: A Tuesday Speculative Profile

I was late. I had to finish up some things at the office before I could leave for the day and my manager kept piling on tasks that I had to finish. It was exhausting. We had our regular meeting of the fringes that night and I was looking forward to actually doing something about all these systems of oppression that surrounded us. Seize the means of production and all that.

I hopped off the bus and quickly walked through the last couple of blocks to get to where we were all meeting. The place was packed. Sports cars and even some sort of law enforcement vehicles were out front. People were everywhere, many of whom I don’t think I’d ever seen before. Something didn’t seem quite right about all of this.  

I walked inside and there was JC, at the table, surrounded by some of our regular crew: John a gay spiritual leader, Pete the sort of violent anarchist from Southeast Asia, and Mary the black, queer activist and pioneer. Yet, there were others I didn’t recognize at first. But as I looked closer, I was bewildered. An ICE agent in the corner chatting with a regular, Carlos. Then there was a crowd of Wall Street types, dressed to the nines in suits that probably cost more than I made in a month. A handful of others were scattered throughout the room that I’d never seen before, that looked somewhat uncomfortable with the crowd.

What was happening.

We were supposed to be planning a protest for this weekend against the very sorts of oppressive forces that these newcomers represented. How could we do that with them all around us? What the hell was JC thinking?

I was fuming.

My fists were clenching, unbidden. Breathe. Calm down. There’s gotta be a reason for this. I was just calming myself when one of the Wall Street bros (he looks like a Chad, he’s gotta be a Chad) came over to JC and hands him this bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet that cost more than I had made in my entire life. Combined. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.

I lost it.

I stormed over and snatched it from the dudebro’s hands, as JC was reaching for it.
“Now, look, man. I know you probably don’t realize this, but we could do so much more good with the money you spent on this bottle. Think of the poor! What are you even doing here? Do you even know what JC is about?”

He was flabbergasted. Stumbling over his words, as I clenched the bottle, a miracle that it didn’t shatter into a thousand pieces (or a testament to my scrawniness).

JC reached up, gently removing the bottle from my death grip.

He nods apologetically to Wall Street, as I turn to look at him, deflated and hurt.

“JC, what’s all this? We were on the cusp of SOMETHING. We were about to do great things. Great things! And now…” I trail off as I wave my hand at all the partying and gluttony that surrounded us, “this.”

JC looks at me, then to the bottle in his hand and turns it over, drinking in every detail of the craftsmanship. Hyperfocused.

He gestures for a couple of glasses, opens the bottle and pours two glasses.

He hands one to me, which I refuse, putting my hands up in front of me.

He shrugs and purposefully swirls the wine beneath his nose, breathing in.

He sips, letting the cabernet flow gently throughout his mouth.


“I…I…I don’t understand. I thought you stood for the marginalized, the oppressed, the sinner, but these…”

“I do.”

“But, how can you stand for all of them, when you’re, you’re here, eating and drinking with the enemy! The oppressor! The very thing we’re fighting against! Drinking their wine!”

“It’s a mighty fine wine.”

“JC…that’s the point. We could do so much good with that money, instead of squandering it on wine. Typical Wall Street…selfish.”

JC moves his hand to my shoulder. He reaches for the glass of wine he offered me earlier and offers it again. His eyes steady, looking directly at me. That mix of steeliness and joy that is so damn intoxicating. His lips turn up in a weary smile.

I take the glass.

“That is a mighty fine wine.”

I join him on the couch.

“Conor, are these not all sinners? All need what we preach. Even the oppressor, the sinner, the enemy.”

“But, but, how can the oppressor and the oppressed sit and eat at the same table? Doesn’t that fail to really bring about justice?”

JC sorta shrugs and looks meaningfully to the bottle of wine on the table.

“Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”



JC looked up from the ground, where he’d been drawing in the dirt with some kids.

“What’s up?”

I looked sheepishly around.

“Can you heal this woman’s daughter? I tried and…” I sighed and lowered my head, “nothing happened.”

“Bring her here.”

I mouth, “thank you” as I go with the woman to bring her daughter to JC.

As we enter the woman’s house I’m struck once again by how little they have. There’s a beat-up laptop on the table, open to a GoFundMe page, trying to raise money for treatment for Rebecca, the woman’s daughter. Brochures for various alternative medicine are scattered throughout the house. The woman, Kristina, looks like she hasn’t slept well in months. Lines of worry crease her face.    

“Sorry about the mess,” she says to me after we’ve been in the house for a few minutes, as if she just realized the disarray and disaster that surrounded us.

“Don’t worry about it. What’s going to be the best way to get your daughter to JC?”

We figured out how to get Rebecca from the house to JC (Rebecca’s wheelchair worked most of the way and then we cobbled together a ramp and some other things to make it the final stretch).

As soon as Rebecca wheeled up to JC, his face lit up.

“Your sins are forgiven you!” He shouted, arms raised to the sky, before crouching down and kneeling in front of her, clasping her hands in his, their eyes locked, whispering earnestly “your sins are forgiven you.”

Weeping, she breathed, “Thank you, brother.”

As JC straightened and turned to return to the children, she caught his shirt, “Wait.”


He stopped and turned to face her again, waiting.

“Heal me.”

He nodded and crouched again, placing his hands on her knees, and pressing his forehead to hers, “Rise, and walk.”

Kristina and Rebecca embraced, mother and child, as if for the first time, holding each other. Tears streaming down their faces.

JC grinned softly before jogging over to the kids playing, his hair flowing in the wind.

Jesus: A Monday Speculative Profile

“Guys! Guys, GUYS

A chorus of what’s, huh’s, and vaguely interested sounds picks up in response.

Joshua is thrilled about something. He’s beaming from ear to ear, his eyes lighting up against his brown skin.

“The prophets were the shit. Those guys, they just really knew what was up. Preaching truth to power and all that. A true inspiration.”

We all muttered affirmatively. John started to “well, actually…” but the rest of us realized that Joshua was about to be up to something. And one always wanted to know what precisely Josh was on about since he never seemed to really make sense. Speaking in riddles.

“They were talking about us. I mean, me, but all of us. We’re all involved in these prophecies, from the beginning.”

Joshua would get like this sometimes. Just wildly animated about scripture. He hungered for it. He thirsted for it. He lived and breathed scripture. We figured that was why he sometimes said things that the rest of us just didn’t quite get.

We all dug into the sections that Joshua was looking at, but couldn’t quite make sense of them.

“Joshua, we get it. You’re incredible and blessed beyond measure, some holy treasure sent down to grace our presence,” I said somewhat snarkily, ribbing him.

“Conor, beware the leaven of podcasters and CES instructors.”

“Josh, is this about the bread I forgot the other day because, I swear, it won’t happen again.”

“The Son of Man will be delivered into the hands of men, but will rise again the third day.”

“Hey, Joshua, is this a red pill, blue pill situation because I think I need to go down the rabbit hole to get any sort of sense out of whatever the hell you’re saying…”

Joshua wasn’t listening, He was just doodling in his notebook. He was like that. He’d drop this wild, impractical ideas and then just zone out. Like everything was clear and simple and you just had to feel it out and you’d arrive at the truth too,.

I often feel confused around Josh. I feel something deep and beyond myself, but I’m not sure what it is or what to do about it.

Joshua is a puzzle. An enigma.

“Hey, guys, come follow me!”

Joshua was up and out of there, leading us on the next grand adventure. I still wasn’t clear on what the first one or two or adventures we’d all gone on together were all about, but something about his riddles keeps me going.

To riddles, weird happenings, and gusto for the scriptures. That’s what kept me coming back, I think.

PoX and the Crisis of Revelation

On November 5, 2015, one of the most challenging and painful moments for my relationship to institutional Mormonism, The Church, occurred. A Policy (labeled the Policy of Exclusion or PoX) was leaked that explicitly labeled same-sex married couples as apostates, subject to excommunication. The Policy continued to define children of those couples ineligible for baptism and other official saving ordinances until their 18th birthday, or with First Presidency approval.

I’ve written more than once about the PoX in the years since. I felt then, and reiterate now, that the PoX is harmful, and I cannot believe in the God that would reveal it. For a couple of months, I felt hurt and upset, but could pretty comfortably label the PoX as “policy” and therefore more from man than God. That all changed in January 2016.

Pres. Nelson at a youth devotional explicitly went out of his way to describe the PoX as “revelation.” Suddenly, the “policy” was elevated to something explicitly coming from God (for some this move was immaterial, but it felt significant to me and instituted another wrestle with the PoX and God, trying to suss out if I was wrong. I concluded I wasn’t and that all I could do was to continue to love my fellow queer Mormon comrades and be there for them whatever they decided to do).  

Today, 4 April 2019, the PoX was reversed. Mostly without fanfare. Less than four years after it was first put into place and barely over three years after Pres. Nelson explicitly described it as revelation.

So where does that leave us?

As Paul taught, seeing through a glass darkly. Once again. Perhaps even murkier than before.

To be clear, I’m glad the PoX is gone. It is a good thing to no longer have. But we never needed it in the first place. And countless queer Mormons and their families and friends have had mental, emotional, and spiritual violence done to them by the PoX. Married queer Mormons were excommunicated, cut off from their covenants. Their children were denied access to holy, saving ordinances. Others felt pushed out and unwelcome by language that described their hoped-for future as “apostate.”

No apology for this harm was to be found today.

I ache for my queer Mormon comrades who were told that they were unwelcome and have unceremoniously been given the smallest entry point without a word concerning their pain and suffering.

I sorrow at the continued pain and suffering my queer Mormon comrades experience at the hands of the institutional Church and its members.

We can and must do better.

I celebrate for those that will never know the pain of the PoX, but ache for the pain of those that have and are already being forgotten. We must remember what we have done. We must never forget. We must be better.

Where is God in all of this? What is God saying and to whom?

We, as a culture, are facing a crisis of revelation on multiple fronts. This crisis has been ever-present in the Church, but seems to be boiling over in ways I have never seen (but certainly have some historical precedents).

At the root of this crisis is one of the fundamental paradoxes of Mormonism: the Liahona and the Iron Rod, or personal revelation and institutional authority (Terryl Givens’ book People of Paradox and David Frank Holland’s essay “The Triangle and the Sovereign: Logics, Histories, and an Open Canon” from The Expanded Canon: Perspectives on Mormonism and Sacred Texts are insightful reading to this tension, as well as Richard D. Poll’s two essays in Dialogue: “What the Church Means to People Like Me” and “Liahona and Iron Rod Revisited”).  

The institution gave us PoX, explicitly describing it as revelation. I received what I can only describe as personal revelation, that the PoX was not, in fact, God’s will.


Where do we go from there? I was in conflict with the institution. I spoke up about the PoX on my blog a few times, on twitter, and in personal conversations. I was never in a position of authority where I would be called upon to enforce the PoX, and even before I was married had straight-passing privilege. My queerness is of a more subtle variety that makes the overt navigation of these moments easier (even if it does little to ease and may even aggravate my inner turmoil and navigation. There’s more to be said about that and the luck of my straight-passing marriage and the guilt and lack of belonging I feel in the queer community, but that’s for another day. May all queer relationships receive the respect, love, and institutional support that mine has received).

Today, what was once described as revelation has been repealed, implicitly describing the decision as revelation and explicitly referring to the revelatory nature of the process by which the decision was arrived at, which leaves us, dear reader, with many questions.

Was the PoX ever revelation?

If so, why did God change His/Her/Their mind?

If not, did Pres. Nelson lie? Or did he sincerely, yet wrongly, believe that it was revelation?

Was it right to oppose the PoX from the beginning, like I and countless others did?

How are we supposed to navigate the messiness of personal revelation and institutional authority?

If the PoX was never from God, why is there no open acknowledgement that it was wrongly presented as God’s will?

How does a Church that believes in continuing revelation maintain continuity?

How do we allow for continuing change?

How do we create a culture of prophetic fallibility without totally crumbling the authority of the institution? A culture that allows for loyal opposition, that calls out harm and pain caused by ideas and doctrines, even when they come from the highest echelons of the institution?

How do we empower people so that they no longer need to be commanded in all things and build their own personal, spiritual autonomy?

How do we heal the wounds caused by the missteps that we have taken along the way?

How do we continue to heal and grow as we inevitably make mistakes in the future?

How do we hold powerful people and institutions accountable for the pain and suffering that they have caused? How do they make restitution?

I don’t have answers, but these are the questions that I can’t quite shake.

I’m reminded of the opening verse and chorus to the powerful Jack’s Mannequin tune, “The Resolution”:

“There’s a lot that I don’t know

There’s a lot that I’m still learning

But I think I’m letting go

To find my body is still burning

And you hold me down

And you got me living in the past

Come on and pick me up

Somebody clear the wreckage from the blast

And I’m alive

And I don’t need a witness

To know that I survived

I’m not looking for forgiveness

I just need light

I need light in the dark as I search for the resolution”

This shift is some of that light and it illuminates the wreckage from the PoX’s blast. That light is in the truth that my queer Mormon comrades live and breathe every day, that they and their relationships are holy and good. That light is in our scriptures that remind us that “all are alike unto God.” That light is in art and music and film and literature. That light is truth. That light is love.

May we all be and shine some more of that light as we join together to search for the resolution.

91st Oscar Best Picture Pairings

The past year or two I’ve put together some pairings of films for all the Best Picture Nominees. Generally, to highlight films that I really enjoyed during the year that were mostly or completely ignored during the Oscars and awards season broadly. So, without further ado, here are my film pairings for this year:

A STAR IS BORN— like tragic love stories? With women that rise to the occasion? Swap the music for a heist plot & watch WIDOWS

BLACK PANTHER — like films that blend fantasy and reality with spiritual & political messages? Watch A WRINKLE IN TIME (Netflix)

BLACKKKLANSMAN — like films about complex racial dynamics that have sharp humor but also wild, gonzo, imaginative third acts & fierce politics? Watch SORRY TO BOTHER YOU (Hulu)

BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY— like 60s/70s aesthetics and music narratives about redemption, but want more violence and mystery? Watch BAD TIMES AT THE EL ROYALE

THE FAVOURITE — like women doing wild stuff and taking vengeance against men with immaculate production design and an abundance of deadpan? Watch THOROUGHBREDS

GREEN BOOK — like films about race that involve music, but prefer black people to be centered in those narratives? Watch the best film of 2018, BLINDSPOTTING

ROMA — like films about quiet, everyday women, but prefer them in color with a strong dose of atmospheric horror? Watch ANNIHILATION (Prime & Hulu)

VICE—Like political dramas but want a more traditional filmabout a democrat? Watch CHAPPAQUIDDICK (Netflix). Like political films but wanted more humor & distance but keeping the zany bits? Watch THE DEATH OF STALI


Eighth Grade (Prime)
Leave No Trace (Prime)

The Hate U Give

Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse

Jane & Emma


Come Sunday (Netflix)

A Quiet Place

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

The Miseducation of Cameron Post

First Reformed (Prime)

Crazy Rich Asians

Isle of Dogs

PS Here’s my ranking for the 2019 OSCAR BEST PICTURE NOMINEES, in order of my preference for their respective wins:



Black Panther

The Favourite


A Star is Born

Bohemian Rhapsody

Green Book

The Theology of Radio

Embracing the Given Good

I used to hate the radio. Frustrated with constant commercials and an inability to ever find exactly what I was looking for, it seemed outdated—a thing of the past that our modern era of immediate satisfaction and constant customization should have replaced. For years, I have had the pleasure of avoiding the radio at all costs. My car allowed me to plug-in my phone and choose whatever my heart desired. My music and podcasts were at my beck and call, I was the King, the God of my creations.

A few months ago, that all changed as the adapter I was using broke. Suddenly, my only choices were to drive in silence or to return to the radio.

I begrudgingly ceded my authority to The Radio. No longer the Master of My Fate.

I struggled for a few weeks with feeling frustrated that I couldn’t listen to what I wanted as I drove. Every time I started the car I was reminded of what I couldn’t do. My expectations were frustrated. The expected good that I had come to enjoy had been taken from me.

Yet. I eventually began to realize I had gained something.

I was driving home from work and flipped the radio away from NPR where I usually kept it to avoid the pain of commercials and switching between stations to hear as little of them as possible. I settled on a classic rock station and a familiar bass and drum beat that I couldn’t quite place played over the radio.

I was drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, memories of listening to Arrow 107.1 in Idaho Falls as I drove around stirring and mingling with my view of I-15 as I returned to Provo. Suddenly, a saxophone joined in with a riff I’ve heard countless times, before Daryl’s voice begins crooning and then I was all in, the lyrics flooding back as if I’d memorized them the day before, “she’ll only come out at night…”

I totally lost myself in the song and the song after that and the song after that, until I was pulling onto our road and that unparalleled listing of historical figures and events graced my ears, so I park and rock out with Billy until the song finishes, fading out to calls of fire burning and the world turning.  

I had rediscovered the joy of radio, the bliss of the Given Good.

Often I find myself distracted by what I expect to happen. I read the scriptures expecting to feel or respond a certain way, I apply for jobs expecting to quickly receive offers left and right, I apply to PhD programs and expect to be accepted and given generous stipends and aid packages. I expect justice and equality in how my fellow humans are treated.

Sometimes these expectations, through no fault of their own and perhaps in spite of the righteousness of them, block me from accessing the good that I am given. I miss what has been given because I am so focused on what I expect.

The radio teaches me to do otherwise.

I can embrace the Given Good. H was born two weeks early. That was not expected. Cec and I were a little flustered that everything we had planned for was for naught and that we lost out on the way we were hoping to spend the remainder of our holiday.

However, we tried to let go of what we had expected—a baby arriving in early January, when we had fully prepared our home and I had crossed a few more films off my theatrical watch list (If Beale Street Could Talk, Aquaman, Mary Poppins Returns, etc.)—and embrace what was given. My brother was going to be able to meet H much sooner than anticipated (he lives across the country currently and it probably would have been six months or more until he met her otherwise). Tax benefits. Near-perfect timing for me to maximize time off work between holidays and my paternity leave. Cec spending two fewer weeks pregnant. Convenient timing for a baby blessing in the next little bit.

Expectations are valuable and helpful even. We need the Expected Good to drive us and to motivate, to help us recognize when things aren’t right and could be improved, to help us find where to better the world. Yet I’ve found that I need to temper that desire. I cannot focus so much on what I expect to happen that I lose sight of what is happening and the Good that has been Given.

The Given Good may not be definitively better than the Expected Good, but it has been Given. And who’s to say that it isn’t better? I cannot know what is not, nor how I would respond to what may have been, but I can strive to embrace what I have been given and to find the good in it. To see the opportunity that is in front of me rather than noticing the absence of what I thought was awaiting.

Perhaps this is all another iteration of the serenity prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference

That to me is The Theology of Radio. That is grace. That is embracing the Given Good.