Everybody Wants To Be The Prophet

A few months ago, I went on a date with a man who was very proud of the fact that he was an elders quorum president. He lamented the fact that he had been a Sunday School teacher for so long and shook his head in anger at the mere idea of the laidback president who came before him. After an unfortunate mishap with a locked door at the end of the date, I reluctantly took his suggestion for a late night drive. I’m not sure what I expected, but half an hour later I found myself in an empty parking lot far up Provo Canyon. 

I felt my back inching towards the passenger door while he explained: “This is my prayer spot. I come here when I need answers—it’s like my own personal Sacred Grove.” My thoughts returned to our dinner conversation, during which I asked him what he wanted to do with his life. He confidently responded, “I want to be the prophet.” He had also told me about how he’d been working through anger issues for the past several years (a worthwhile pursuit—until he revealed that the catalyst for his anger is when the people around him don’t live up to the potential he set for them). I remember my eyes trailing the movement of the shadows of the parking lot and my voice muttering an excuse to go home. 

His boldness shocked me, although I’m not sure why. Living in Utah means being surrounded by Church culture and the resultant hierarchies. Instead of using networking to gain public influence, some members of the Church view callings as rungs on that social ladder. But it’s not just the favor of acquaintances—some people use ascending callings to gain the favor of God.

Last semester, I lived with a random roommate for the first time in my college career. She was a homeschooled theater fanatic from a small Texas town, and I remember being intrigued by her initial charm.  The night after I met her, I asked if she’d like to get ice cream with my friend and me. I asked about her previous roommates and she dove into a dramatic narrative, exclaiming that they didn’t like her because she had served a mission, and how that was alright because they were all sluts anyways. We hadn’t even gotten to the ice cream counter. After describing how she had dropped out of her university’s theater program on account of it being “too gay,” her face turned solemn. “If we’re going to be friends, there’s something that you need to know about me.” My best friend and I looked towards each other, apprehension in our eyes. “I’m incredibly homophobic.” She then returned her attention to her ice cream like she hadn’t just committed a faux pas so shocking that it made my palms sweat.

After general conference, my roommate caught me in the kitchen—the only way I would speak to her for extended periods of time. I retrieved ingredients from my cabinet, resolving to make a quick dinner. “So I got this prompting during one of the speakers…” She trailed off, waiting for me to look at her and smile. “I felt like the Spirit was telling me not to be so judgmental. But if I’m judging in the name of God, aren’t I more righteous because of it?” She looked perplexed at my silence, but I legitimately couldn’t think of a single word to say. We had tried before, me and others in the ward, to speak in a language she would listen to. Surely, she wouldn’t ignore a commandment straight from the scriptures to not judge others. Surely, she would listen to the words of the prophets she revered. Each time she would shrug her shoulders, assuming the advice was reserved for others. My roommate felt such ownership over the Church that she felt her personal values triumphed over the official teachings.

My family tree is the same old story: pioneer ancestry and Mayflower immigrants and American blood and Mormon values through and through. One notable exception—my great-great-great grandfather—had even the prophets denouncing him. John Hyrrum Koyle created the Koyle Dream Mine in Salem, Utah after claiming to be led by a figure in temple clothes throughout the mountain on his property. He claimed that he would provide for the Church until the Millennium with the nine rooms of Nephite gold he would find there. Around the same time, he got called as a bishop. After hearing of his prophecy, men from his ward came to him and begged to be allowed to work in the mines. It was assumed that these men would act as shareholders in the property, but no agreement was formally reached, leaving John with free labor and impatient onlookers. They found little more than platinum ore in the following fourteen years, until John claimed that he had misunderstood the prophecy and moved the operation to a different mountain. Shortly after, he claimed that he was visited by two of the three Nephites, who instructed him to move back to the original mountain. By now, almost everyone was skeptical of him. But it was too late for the countless men who had bought stock (including many of the prophets and apostles of the day, whose posterity most likely still hold shares just like my family does). 

Eventually, John was excommunicated from the Church—not because of his scam, necessarily, but rather because of the missionaries who would travel to different countries to preach about his mine instead of the gospel. John and his family moved to Burley, Idaho and my family stayed there (away from public opinion) for generations until my grandfather moved to California. Even now, John has a band of faithful followers who believe that it’s only a matter of time before the gold is revealed. There’s even a Facebook page with lists of his prophecies and how many have come true. They posted regularly up until 2020. Their last post read, “Bishop Koyle prophesied that his grandson would be president of the company when the gold was found. Sadly, his last remaining grandson died this month.” I guess fake prophecies are easier to spot in hindsight.

I tell you these stories not to brag about the crazy experiences I’ve been a part of or complain about the strange expressions of faith I’ve seen, but to ask: why are people so drawn to being the chosen son or daughter of God? This is not a new concept, what with the personal revelations from the Marriot Center bomber, the murderers of Brenda Lafferty, Lori Vallow, even countless examples in the Bible itself. Those who don’t belong to the Church are starting to notice, creating TV series like Under the Banner of Heaven and Keep Sweet: Pray and Obey. There is a fringe inclination in Mormonism that leads individuals to fanaticism, leads them to believe that if they cannot be God’s chosen one, they are nothing.

My question is not only why the culture of the Church leads to fanatical ideas, but why people with these ideas are so often promoted into positions of power. What is the line between genius and heresy and why does it seem so thin when personal revelation is put on the line?

In truth, I don’t think there’s a simple answer to these questions. My first thought led me to our idea of personal revelation—a truly beautiful doctrine if utilized correctly. The idea that God can speak to each one of us personally, that He cares about each one of us down to directing the minutiae of our days, is beautiful. But taken even one step further, it can lead to self-destruction.

Whether we want to admit it or not, religion is about hierarchy. And I say this as a person who believes in God wholeheartedly, but religion is about control. It’s hard to control people who believe that any thought crossing their mind could be a line directly from God. It’s even harder to control those who confuse their hunger for power with divine directions.

Many members live in insular communities full of people who watch each other like hawks. When everyone knows the standards they’re supposed to be keeping, it’s easier to criticize (and assert yourself as better than) the people who are nonchalant with their commitments. In order to justify this judgment, individuals might raise the bar impossibly high, coming up with rules that didn’t have a scriptural background to begin with.  In this case, I think we can draw from Matthew 10:39: “…he that loses his life for my sake shall find it.” These individuals may feel that if they sacrifice their entire life, God will grant them blessings of prosperity and power.

I return to the idea that we have to earn God’s love: how many members of the Church assume that God loves their stake president more than He loves the Primary teacher? Does attaining more priesthood keys allow God to see and bless someone more fully? Every part of me rejects this notion. God “denieth none that come unto him… all are alike unto [Him].” But how many of these grasps at power are, at their core, pleadings for love and support?

In principle, I would love to end this essay on a note of hope, giving the benefit of the doubt to those who grasp for notoriety in the Church and push ideas that have no basis in Jesus’s life or teachings. But in reality, I hate that as a child, I was taught more about the importance of accepting callings than I learned about God’s love. I would love to point to our abundance of insular communities as a place of strength that allow us to fearlessly live our standards, but I spent so much time trying to avoid judgment that I forgot that having joy is a commandment too. I would love to laugh off the comments my roommate and the elders quorum president made, but I tell these stories because I think they perfectly encapsulate the fact that there is a dangerous undercurrent in our religion that leads anyone from visionary nineteenth-century bishops to retired theater majors into extremism. Maybe that just comes with the territory of believing in a Being that has all power and knowledge—we start to feel like we’re entitled to it too.