By Joël René Scoville

Everyone remembers where they were when significant and historical moments happened, both good and bad—when Kennedy was shot, when the Berlin wall came down, when the Towers fell on 9/11, and when President Obama was elected as the first African-American president of the United States. We remember these moments because of their historical merits and also because of the emotional impact on us and those around us.

Now before I continue, despite what I write, this is not intended to be a political essay. Nor is it intended to belittle people’s political affiliations. But this is about how those affiliations have affected me, my family, and other members of our faith.

I was never much for politics prior to 2008. I voted, but I didn’t follow things closely. As a Black American, I knew it was my civic duty but more importantly, my obligation due to the fight African-Americans worked so very hard to win. But I still didn’t really follow politics because I’m an artist (actress, writer, librettist, and lyricist) and lived in a liberal bubble. And up until a few years ago, my art was solely for entertainment purposes. Even as an actress, the roles I performed were considered musical theater fluff. I always shied away from political statements, tense conversations, and any type of perceived activism. I believed, and still do, in separation of church and state despite going to religious schools as a child and even BYU for a stint in college. I believe that everyone has a right to their opinion, and I treasure being able to live in a country where we can speak and live freely. But something changed in 2016. Something that I wasn’t prepared for and have never quite gotten over. And to be honest, I’m not sure if I ever will.

I converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints my freshman year at BYU. It was somewhat simple and straightforward despite having been raised and bred in the Southern Bible Belt and having my grandfather being my pastor. But after three patient sets of missionaries and nearly eight months of discussions, I was baptized and never looked back. Sure, I had my trials of faith, like any convert. And I will still never understand marrying someone after a blind date, but to each his own. Conversion is difficult for anyone. But I would be misleading if I didn’t state that it can be extremely difficult for Black people. If anyone is confused about that, consider life in the Church as a person of color pre-1978 and how much faith it took for members to join a religion that in a sense deemed them less than until President Kimball’s 1978 proclamation (canonized as Official Declaration 2).

Aside from spiritual convictions, one of the main reasons I converted was the love, kindness, and Christlike attributes I had grown to know and expect from LDS people. The immense generosity, the eagerness and willingness to serve, the unwavering faith, and the idea that we are all brothers and sisters in Christ. I keep going back to that name, Christ. To be Christian is to be a follower of Christ and a doer of Christ’s teachings. When we take the sacrament we promise to take His name, Christ’s name, upon us. We commit to follow His example, but also to be His disciples, doing the work of our Savior.

Being a Christian in the entertainment industry can be challenging. Being an LDS Christian? Well, it’s never without entertaining conversations: “Do you pray to Joseph Smith? Do you celebrate Christmas? Why do you have funny underwear? Is it magical? What number wife are you?” “Did you like The Book of Mormon musical?” I have heard these and many more interesting questions like them. I have also heard more personal questions: “How can you be LDS when they think less of women? How can you be LDS when they don’t like gay people? How can you be LDS when they don’t like Black people?” These have been the harder questions to respond to. Mainly because up until 2016, I was always able to say with assuredness that that was not true. But in 2016, my entire understanding and belief in what we as LDS people uphold and prophesy about came into question.

My husband and I are an interracial couple with three bi-racial sons. My eldest was on his mission during that infamous election. My other two were in high school and attending seminary. For months, I drove by member’s houses that had “Make America Great Again” signs in their front yards, wore hats to church activities, and laughed about the future around us. I listened as they said, “He’s not really racist.” I listened. I listened as my ward family told me that “racism no longer existed” or that “it’s way better than it used to be'' and even, “some slaves wanted to stay with their masters because they treated them well.” I also listened as they said future policies would never affect my boys because they were “well spoken and dressed nice.” I listened and ached inside. 

On the day before the 2016 election, my sons came home from seminary and told me how the kids they had once called friends had turned into mouthpieces for hatred. On the day after the election I kept them home because we were uncomfortable with the intense zeal for the new president. I remember that I received numerous phone calls from ward members saying that nothing would change. They still loved me and my sons and they were sure “things won’t be so bad.” Their assuredness was a privilege I did not have. I wish I could say this happened in the deep South, but this happened in Las Vegas. And even though I no longer felt safe or respected in my ward, I never allowed it to turn my faith. But church attendance was becoming a chore.

Two years later, I moved and was in a different ward. I had one returned missionary, one in the field, and one finishing up his senior year of high school. My youngest son never quite got over what he experienced in seminary and even in Sunday school, and eventually he felt that the hypocrisy at church was too great for him. Of course we can say, “Our testimonies must be rooted in Christ, not ward members, a leader or even a Young Men’s president, but in Jesus Christ.” But the damage had been done.

So, it’s 2018, and I am now in my new ward’s Relief Society class. The lesson in class was on being followers of Christ. Prior to the lesson, one of the sisters got up to make an announcement that the school board was having a town hall to hear from parents regarding non-gendered bathrooms, trans youth bathrooms, etc. A city official who happened to be a member of our ward spoke and told everyone that although she was not allowed to write anything for them or speak on their behalf, she was more than happy to help them form their comments in an effective way to prevent these bathrooms from happening. I sat in the room and felt my chest beating. I squashed the feeling and tried to focus on the lesson. I am in the entertainment industry, so I am very comfortable and unbothered by the LGBTQ+ community. I believe in and fight for equal rights for everyone. I don’t think who you love, how you identify, and which bathrooms you use is any of my business.

As the teacher spoke, comments from the room were about being an example, standing up for Christ, etc., but my heart continued to pound. I was finally beginning to understand the term, “wrestling with the Spirit.” I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want there to be any contention, and I didn’t want to derail the lesson. I even quietly prayed, “Please Heavenly Father, please leave me alone.” But then I heard someone comment on religious persecution, and I suddenly could no longer deny the fire burning inside. I raised my hand and made a deal with God, “If she doesn’t call on me, it means I am not supposed to speak. And well, I tried.” She called on me. I was annoyed but also very scared. I took a breath and spoke very slowly and carefully. I was truly relying on the Spirit to guide my words. “We have been talking about being followers of Christ and taking His name upon us. Does that not also mean being Christ-like? We are The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints; at what point did we become a church of exclusion as opposed to inclusion? When did we ignore the lessons in the New Testament when Christ spent time with the meek, the lowly, and the ones society deemed worthless? When did we forget that Christ said suffer the little children and let them come unto me? When did we decide that cruelty to children who are already struggling was ok? If you do it to the least of these you do it unto me. When did we decide that people that do not share our LDS beliefs are not good, kind, and worthy of love? When did Christ make us the judge of others?” The room was silent. Too silent. I spent the rest of the lesson internally chastising myself for speaking. I cannot expect people to see life as I see it. Doing that makes me no different than those who force their views and beliefs onto me. Right?

After the closing prayer, I jumped up and was nearly out the door when I felt someone grab me. I turned around and was met with a relieved face. A woman stood there, holding my hand as if for strength. “My sister left the church because she no longer feels welcomed. I didn’t have the courage to say anything today, so thank you for speaking for me…and for my sister,” she said.

By the time I reached my car, a few other women had stopped and thanked me, and a couple of weeks later another woman spoke to me. It was then that I began to wonder, when did we as members of the Church of Jesus Christ stop representing Jesus Christ? Christ has not left us, but as time has passed, between 2016, Black Lives Matter, and even still today, I fear that the Church, or rather some members of the Church, have left Him and everything He stands for and somehow have mistaken dogmatism for discipleship.

A few months later, I moved to NY for my artistic career. Since being here, I have experienced the Church in a completely different light. And that light has affected my work as an artist. My work is now rooted in stories about those from the many marginalized communities that the Savior would have fellowshipped with. My hope is that through my art, life will be easier for those that come after me and that as an LDS artist, those that have had a negative experience with religion and the Church, will have hope and see a glimmer of Christ.

I came to the Church because of the example of the members around me. I stayed because of my testimony. But I now fear that the divisive behavior of some members will not only deter people from investigating the gospel, but will also continue to drive our most vulnerable members away. Not because a large portion of the Church is politically conservative, but because I fear that the current brand of conservatism has moved them farther from Christ and His teachings, and more importantly, His empathy. As members we always say, “Don’t worry. Have faith. It will all work out.” But I hope we remember that it only works out if we do the work. And that work is working back to Christ to do His work. Otherwise, what are we even doing?