I'm fleshing out the MTC experience of my exit story. I'm jumping around, so if you didn't catch the parts about me going through the temple the first time, they were too naughty to post here, but I have them archived in the place where I archive all of my stories.

Here's the prequel to the the MTC.

"The Setting Apart-ening."

The night before entering the Missionary Training Center, I went to visit the Stake President as was standard procedure. When a man receives the Melchizedek Priesthood in Mormonism, he is ordained as an Elder. However, this isn't quite the same thing as being an "Elder" when you become a missionary. I'm too lazy to look up why that is, probably something to do with protection from status ailments like "fear," "dark," "staggered" or some stupid shit. Oh wait, it's because being a missionary is a very particular "calling" and because of this, you are "set apart" by another priesthood holder who is spiritually superior to you - the Stake President.

Being "set apart" means that you sit in a chair and the Stake President stands behind you and then places his hands upon your head. Other Melchizedek priesthood holders are allowed to also place their hands upon your head to join in the fun, but the Stake President is the one to "set you apart." He prayed to Heavenly Father and left a message on the machine letting him know that I was now a missionary for his church and I was so by the power of Greyskull, er, the Melchizedek Priesthood, and in the name of Jesus "Hol(e)y Hands" Christ.

God screens his phone calls and sometimes a "setting apart" is simply that, but other times god picks up the line to let you know through the Priesthood holder's mouth that he loves you and he's very proud of you, but he doesn't have time to talk to you directly. He's got to go. Netflix just uploaded a lot of new shit to the instant view.

As soon as I was done being set apart as a missionary, I was considered a missionary and had to start obeying the mission rules. The first of which was that I no longer had a first name anymore. I wasn't Raptor Jesus, I was Elder Jesus and would remain as such until I was "released" from my missionary calling. I was to call myself Elder Jesus, and instruct others to call me that too. There were quite a few other rules that I was supposed to obey now including that I was forbidden to watch television or play on the computer. The Stake President gave me a copy of the mission rules that come in a little white handbook and is sometimes referred to as the "white bible." It contained all of the rules that I was supposed to obey for the next two years, and I was supposed to keep it on me at all times possible.

I won't share everything in the "white bible" because that would be boring, but I will give the highlights. As well as not having a true personal identity anymore, missionaries are expected to obey the following:

Never be alone. Always be with your companion - and this companion will always be chosen for you.

Look, and dress a certain way.

Only read Church sanctioned materials. Nothing else. Study these daily.

After leaving the MTC, you can only talk to your family through weekly letters. Phone calls are only allowed on Christmas and Mother's Day.

Obey every other directive of your spiritual superiors.

Follow all the guidelines about what you are supposed to do each day (i.e. wake up at 6:30am every morning, scripture study for 2 hours, proselytize for 10 hours, be back in the apartment at 9:30pm, be in bed by 10:30) rinse and repeat.

At this point the reader (that means YOU!) is probably saying, "Wait a minute, Raptor Jesus, that sounds like a cult."

Well, first of all, what the fuck did I just say? I'm a missionary now so it's ELDER JESUS. And second of all, this is the only true church on the earth, and missionaries are going out to spread the word that people can only be truly saved by joining this church and giving this church their money. Now, does that still sound like a cult to you?

Yes? Well, they're right and your wrong because it's god's church. Don't you fucking dare criticize that otherwise you'll be criticizing god. And god will rape your face with flesh eating worms.

Now that you've stopped fucking interrupting me, let's move on with story time.

I was a missionary, and tomorrow would be the first day in the MTC. I went home, didn't watch television, checked my packed bags again to make sure I didn't forget anything and stared up into the darkness for most of the night.

Two fucking years.

Lucky you RJ. There was no fucking in my 2 years of slavery.

Ugh, I still have the holy white babble. I keep it as a reminder of all the horriblness in mormondom. Well, Elder Jesus keep spreading the word.

Well, at least you didn't have to have an interview with a GA (mine was Hartman Rector) and tell him how many girls you'd fucked and how you spanked your bacon until it was raw. I think all converts had that one.

Sorry you hated your mission, but I enjoyed mine. After 4 years in the service (Viet Nam era), it was like a vacation and R&R.

Just sayin'...

Ron

I had already had those interviews before leaving.

And I think the crux of the situation was that I didn't want to go, but I was a boy and a believer. I didn't feel like I had a choice.

I would have rather been in school. Doing what I wanted to do, and not what I felt like I HAD to do because of what god wanted me. Blah, blah, blah.

It was pretty embarassing to burst out laughing while reading this in the office. Thanks a lot RJ. I think it just hit too close to home.

I was scared, but excited the night before entering the MTC. I was scared but excited the night before flying out to the foreign country. A couple of nights later I was in total despair staring at the ceiling knowing that I still had to repeat the horrifying cycle (don't do anything fun, never take a minute's break from work, get yelled at by a bunch of strangers, go to bed) for 670 more days or my eternal salvation would be in jeopardy.

I wasn't excited at night again for 669 days.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 05/02/2011 05:51PM by raptorjesus.

Sounds like my mission: "...repeat the horrifying cycle (don't do anything fun, never take a minute's break from work, get yelled at by a bunch of strangers, go to bed) for 670 more days..."

Could never figure out how the phrase "...best two years of my life..." was ever associated with being denied family contact, denied normal contact with the world, denied emotional support, forced to work long hours performing a smothering religious duty, all while existing and being condemned under a set of double-bind rules; which rules deny that you have any human needs.

Well for some tbm they consider it the best 2 years because they are doing the Lord's work and focusing all their efforts on that with no concern outside of missionary work. It's a simple life and many yearn for it when they return to the real world of vying priorities.

For me there were down and up days during the mission and of course I strived to make sure Pdays were special me days, by dragging out my comp somewhere fun. Of course it helped that I was in Europe. It was torture when I was visa waiting state side and the only fun thing missionaries wanted to do on Pday was go to the chapel and play basketball.

I did look forward to P-Days, but mostly because those were the only days I was allowed to take a nap. I was a heavy sleeper at the time, and would get completely behind if I didn't get 9 hours (the missionary schedule allowed for no more than 8, if that).

We were also supposed to do all of our shopping, cleaning, and letter-writing on P-Days. I tried to keep in contact with a number of family and friends, which included writing 2-6 letters per week. At least 1 for my mom, regardless.

By the time my sleeping, shopping, cleaning and letter-writing were done it was usually time to go back out to work for the evening. I was in Europe, but rarely found time to see the sights.

I'm certain e-mail hasn't always been available while some of you were on missions, but they also get to e-mail loved ones as opposed to only writing letters. They can text people who investigates, etc.

Email is recent. I'll address that in my stories. And cell phones too.

Holy White Bible?? Not familiar with this.

Only guessing. We called it something like that.

And in the end, like 30 years later, I got a good-paying job because of my mission. Pay-off at last.

I went during a gentler time, and besides, my mission president was a Casper milk-toast. We were largely unsupervised with great distances separating us from the mission office during a day when The Telephone was a rare and expensive thing in an Italian home. (Today it's cheaper than in the states.) To a large extent it was fun. When we transfered, we'd get in a taxi, wave good-bye to the other elders, go to the train station, board a train, and often travel all day before getting to the next city. (Once, when I transfered from northern Italy to Sardinia, it took me a day and half, plus overnighting in a berth on a ferry to Porto Torres, and take a train the entire length of the island to Cagliari. it was exciting and beautiful.) Then we'd grab a taxi again and go to the new apartment--all on our own, no interference, no assistance. It taught me a lot of valuable lessons I still use today (I'm currently working in Indonesia and have had to do all the same things I learned on my mission transfers).

But my heart goes out to my own son. We sort of forced his hand as so many parents tend to do. He wasn't altogether unwilling to go, either, and he did get a foreign language out of it. But I remember the god-awful preparations, and how different it was for him than for me. I flew to SLC on my own to the very old mission home and was set apart by an apostle, that big guy--can't remember his name. My mission home experience was mercifully short, and then I went to BYU for the old LTM language experience. Compared to the MTC, it was sweet.

The stake presidency was supposed to set apart my son, but had forgotten. They got themselves together, finally, and came by at midnight all embarrassed and sheepish, and set him apart. We had to get up like at 4am the next morning and fly off to SLC. He was supposed to wear a suit the whole time, and he felt stupid and it was a hot and uncomfortable trip. We spent the next few days buying him the other required crap, which he promptly threw away when he got to his first location and found that no one wore. He had a very rough go of it, psychologically, but had some fun, too. He learned how to do bootlegger turns (where you throw on the hand brake and spin 180 degrees, then take off again), and donuts with his mission car. He had at least one royal a$$hole for a companion.

He came back home active, went back to Ricks, even sang twice in General Conference (we saw him on TV when we were stationed in Italy!), went off to the U, and left the church. At first I was burnt over it, but I left soon afterward myself. He was not the pioneer, though, because one of my other sons left first. He was the better example. I hope my son doesn't hold it against us too much. I've tried to make good with him.

As for me, the difference between missions now and back then is almost night and day.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 05/03/2011 02:54AM by cludgie.