I was twenty-one the first time I was excommunicated. The second time was at my own request. You may ask, why a second time? Getting excommunicated not just once, but twice, implies I saw the error of my ways – albeit temporarily – and returned to the fold appropriately contrite and willing to subjugate myself to the will of man/God. This is far from the truth. You see, my sin against man/God, was the most heinous of sins. Fornication. Don’t you just love that word? It’s so biblical. According to my Macquarie dictionary, fornication is “voluntary sexual intercourse between unmarried persons”, though personally I find the online Urban Dictionary definition more appealing: “Fornication; see ‘fuck’.” But as exciting a topic as fornication is, the moral of my story really has nothing to do with fornicating, and everything to do with being fucked. Over, that is. You see, I had gradually begun to suspect I
was an accessory to a global movement that sought to oppress women. At the tender age of fourteen I had asked my Sunday school teacher why it was that only men held the priesthood. Why were they in charge of everything? I even adopted a phrase I rather liked that I had picked up while eavesdropping on a conversation between my mother and her friend: “It’s all just one big boys club.”
men’s business of great import was conducted every Sabbath. In the centre of the room was a large conference table at the head of which sat the bishop, his two counsellors and the scribe, also male. I was given the chance to acknowledge and repent of my sin, evidence of which could be demonstrated by my agreeing to wed my co-fornicator on a date determined for me approximately one month later.
I asked lots of questions over the following years. By some I was branded a rebel, which I took great offence to considering I wasn’t the one sneaking out for a smoke in the adjacent park between services. Nor did I ever drink alcohol or smoke pot in secret like my good little church-going friends who were seen as the epitome of youthful innocence and righteousness.
I informed this group of men that I wasn’t there to defend my actions or repent of any wrong doing. In fact I was not in the habit of doing wrong. Surely if I were doing something I thought to be wrong I would stop doing it? No. I was there to state that my membership of the church was dependent on my support of a set of beliefs and rules. Unfortunately I didn’t support them and so it seemed to me that excommunication was the right course of action, in fact, the only course of action if they were to uphold their own beliefs.
No, I just had questions. I was trouble. It was my experience of excommunication that confirmed my suspicions that Christianity was patriarchal, engendered, and thus flawed. I attended my church court willingly. I entered a large conference room – the inner sanctum of the grand poobah’s – where mysterious GROK #4 2013
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But what of my co-fornicator? He felt terrible, ashamed, burdened with sin. I’m sure the bishop was greatly relieved to hear this. To call a church court for my boyfriend, himself a holder of a priesthood title, would have