Cancelled: Resigned LDS Mother of Trans Child Forbidden from Singing in Christmas Service

READER POST: I come from pioneer Mormon heritage on both sides. I’m deeply Mormon. I graduated from early morning seminary where I watched many a vibrant sunrise while driving to the stake center. I graduated from the institute program in college, a program designed to take four years, but I finished in two (curtsy). I graduated from BYU in Provo, Utah. I was married to my husband in the temple of the Lord. I feel Mormon deeply in my soul. My oldest child (age 17) is transgender, and he is good and holy, and the binaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints don’t work for him. After a few years of trying to make it work for me and working so hard to educate my leaders on how they can be more inclusive, and moving millimeters, I came to the realization that if it doesn’t work for him, it doesn’t work for me. We are a package deal. 

A couple of months ago, I decided to have my records removed from the Church. I didn’t want triggering texts about temple worthiness interviews, and I certainly didn’t want church building cleaning assignments. Those were the invitations I was getting, and they didn’t feel good. But I wasn’t loud about my resignation. I just quietly emailed the bishop on my own and asked to have my records removed. He said no problem, and I got my letter from church headquarters letting me know I resigned. 

Come early December, I had a friend reach out and ask if I wanted to sing with her on Christmas Eve. We had sung together many times, and she was so kind in how she asked. After a day of thinking about it, I decided I would like to participate in the music at church for the Christmas season. I told her yes. I did not mention my membership resignation as I didn’t see a reason. I would be participating as a visitor, and it says “Visitors Welcome” on the outside of every building. We were making plans, she told me it was a quartet, she wondered if my husband would want to accompany us. We had not practiced yet, the song was a theory. A few days after making these plans, I got a call from my former bishop. I did not answer. He sent a brief follow-up text telling me he needed to discuss: 1. the removal of my children’s church records, and 2. the Christmas Eve sacrament meeting services.

In a subsequent text, he let me know I was not allowed to sing in the quartet in Sacrament Meeting. The bishop of my former ward viewed my resigned membership as a reason not to allow me this type of participation. 

The handbook mentions resigned members not being allowed to pray or lead a lesson. He indicated he interpreted singing as “a prayer of the heart” when others challenged his decision. The stake leadership supported his decision. My interpretation of this is that it’s an act of spiritual abuse: twisting scripture and abusing power. I posted about what happened on Facebook, gaining a great outcry of support.

This has led to close friends and family being put in an awkward position. I want support as I have now been told I am not welcome. I shared the story online, seeing as having a voice is imperative to my integrity.  I’ve demanded support by sharing the details of this great injustice.  I was interviewed on The Natasha Helfer Podcast within two days. I have over 300 comments on my post (it isn’t public), and I’ve received support from strangers, friends, and people far away–both people in the church and out of the church.

The most jarring lack of comment, the silence that hurts, comes from my parents and my mother-in-law. Since I publicly shared my disagreement of the decision, they get to decide whether to support leaders they’ve never met (in this case, a bishop and stake leadership) or their daughter/daughter-in-law.

Strangers on Reddit who read my story fell on one of two sides: It’s either “What did she expect? Of course she can’t sing. You can’t go back after you resign.” Or “Wow, that’s a very strong overstep of ecclesiastical leadership.”

For family, it’s murkier. It’s muddled. It’s complicated. It’s not quite clear. I think this is interesting.

I felt this when my child first came out as queer. The murkiness and muddiness. So you are telling me you are queer, what’s the next step? One of the first people I talked with about my child coming out with was this same bishop. I thought he might know better than me. (He didn’t know anything, but he was concerned and caring. I felt supported).

I was wrong: nobody else can know better. The bishop only knows what’s best for himself, and I know what’s best for me. I’m not looking through a glass dimly on this matter any longer. The further I go along, it’s clear how my child needs to be loved. I adjust and twist and make mistakes, but I’m not torn up about it or how his gender identity fits with the theology, or how my family can be together forever, or how I can best convince ward members that my family is actually good and worthy. We are good. And we are worthy. I’m growing and for this, I’m so glad.

A couple of weeks after the event, I had a tearful phone conversation with my mother. My Christmas was dismal. I stayed in bed as long as possible, my children opening gifts without me. “Tell me when it’s over,” I said to my husband while my face was buried in my pillow. It was a very sad day where I wasn’t sure about Jesus, and I didn’t feel the jollliness of community worship. I had been uninvited. I told my mother how much it hurt that she hadn’t offered support during this time of being outcast by my local religious community. 

“How can I support you?”

I offered her three supportive choices: leave the church, stop paying tithing, or say, “the bishop made the wrong call.” She would rather have donated her kidney.

The first two, I knew she wouldn’t do. She is a temple worker and lives her life for church service as the ward choir director. She did offer for me to sing in her choir, but I couldn’t travel. I suppose, in her way, this was what she could do on her own. 

When leaders go unchallenged, they are free to make more mistakes. They may mistakenly think that they actually speak for God. I am sure God had no problem with me singing a Sally Deford arrangement of “What Child Is This.” My participation would have been quite harmless and maybe even lovely and of good report.

Leaving the church is so hard. I can’t tell you how many tears I’ve shed over this decision. I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay. My queer children don’t fit. My gender doesn’t give me access to policy changes. I felt like I was being stabbed by tiny daggers each Sunday as I sat in my pew and cushioned chair. I tried to bandage myself up over the week and then show up again the next week. Leaving isn’t easy, but it became necessary for my mental and emotional health.

I would like to be supported in this decision by my parents. I would like them to see that I am good, worthy, and doing the right thing for me. This would actually alleviate the strain in the relationship and help us acknowledge and heal from hurt. Not speaking creates emotional tumors and unsung pain–yet another song that we cannot sing because church leaders told us we can’t. How many more songs will we allow to be silenced?

~Evelyn~

Evelyn has a bachelor’s degree in English literature (Brigham Young University), and a Master’s degree in public health (New Mexico State University). Mothering five awesome children, Evelyn has had a wide range of experiences to navigate, including her own religious deconstruction in order to effectively understand and support her transgender son. You can listen to her discuss her child’s coming out on Latter-day Struggles Podcast, episode #105.

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