OK, I admit it: the problems I listed in my earlier post are not the real reasons I am no longer a practicing and believing Mormon. Here are my true motivations, in no particular order:
I was offended. Once my bishop called me “Monty” by mistake, and I seethed quietly for months. Eventually, I began focusing on the faults of my church leaders, noticing, for example, the high priests group leader’s bad breath and the Relief Society president’s incessant repetition of “ya know?” I figured that if Bishop Bittman couldn’t get my name right, how was I supposed to have any faith in Joseph Smith? I’m still mad at the bishop. Dirtbag.
I had a secret desire for sin. It’s shameful to admit, but I am afflicted with the same deadly temptation that tormented the late Troy McClure: a marine mammal fetish. Try as I might, I couldn’t control my baser instincts, and soon I found myself wandering aimlessly around Sea World in San Antonio. I knew I couldn’t live out my fantasies and still be a Mormon, so I left.
I never had a testimony. When I’ve spoken about intense spiritual experiences I’ve had in the temple, on my mission, and in answer to prayer, I was lying. I made it all up. After all, if I’d had a testimony, I never would have left in the first place, would I? I guess I’ll always be a cucumber, and never a pickle.
I’m too proud. This one is obvious. When you start feeling like you have some reasonable answers as to why things in Mormonism don’t add up, you know it’s pride working on you. It has to be pride when you start thinking that God’s prophets are wrong about such things as evolution, the flood, Lamanites, and same-sex marriage. I admit it: I excel in pride. It’s one of my more endearing qualities.
So, let this be a warning to others who would think to stray from the path. The flaxen cords of apostasy lead only to misery. Not really, but some people like to think that.