In the movie “Heretic,” Hugh Grant tells the two Latter-day Saint missionaries, “You will witness a miracle.”
The trailer portrays two female, or “sister,” missionaries trapped in a prison-maze house with choices of doors that are supposed to test their faith. The movie, yet to be released, strikes me as a visceral allegory, bringing to life a claustrophobic feeling I experienced as a Latter-day Saint missionary. Though I neither experienced — nor feared — being kidnapped or trapped by an unhinged stranger, I was nevertheless locked in the house, so to speak.
I listened to Grant’s words. The trailer flashes to the image of a maze, then to the women trying to escape. When I saw those images, I was transported to the suffocating feelings I had on my own mission on Salt Lake City’s Temple Square. I did not experience any literal horror movie tropes, though I did endure the ravings of one man who claimed that the Latter-day Saint prophet and apostles were part of a secret conspiracy called “The Triad.”
I did, however, fantasize about suffering an injury minor enough not to maim me for life, but major enough that I would be sent home honorably. And I’m not the only one who felt that way. I’ve spoken with many former missionaries who entered into the obligation reluctantly or yearned to escape it without shame. My husband, who served in Venezuela during a coup attempt, fantasized about it devolving into a bloody civil war so that maybe he could come home early.
The film’s name, “Heretic,” offers a clue. A heretic is someone on the inside who is undermining the beliefs of other people. The heretic isn’t the Hugh Grant villain. It is, I would guess, the missionaries themselves. They may not escape on their own terms, on their own timeline. They must submit themselves to a character-building program and an outside authority who will ultimately judge whether they have adequately performed their duty before releasing them.
Like the sisters in the movie, I believed my worthiness and my ability to return to the Celestial Kingdom (the highest Mormon heaven) after I die was predicated on my obedience and willingness to endure to the end. I believed in patriarchy. I believed my male church leaders had all the answers. I was trapped by my baked-in belief that I needed to listen to my priesthood leaders. When I was in poor physical health, I approached my mission president. He responded that I don’t have enough faith, and that everything would be OK if I would read my scriptures and pray. I prayed, read my scriptures and returned to him. I shared that I wanted to go home. He responded that I must stay unless I could find someone who wanted to marry me. He asked for a name, and I gave him one. He called this young man and returned to me stating, “Sister, he does not want to marry you.” As I heard his words, I felt the dread as if I were back in middle school and completely naked in front of my peers.
Looking back, I was clearly depressed, and caught every passing virus as a result. What began as a simple ear infection cascaded into me eating my feelings, gaining 40 pounds and cutting off all of my hair. I was breaking the rules.
At the time, missionaries could only call home on Mother’s Day and on Christmas. One January, I made secret phone calls to my mom — she was not a rule breaker — who inevitably asked my brother to call the mission president and ask him to stop me from calling home.
Abandoned by my family, the visitor center became my prison. My escape was hiding in the labyrinth of tunnels under Temple Square and long trips to the bathroom, where I would sit on the floor and lock out my companion.
Sure, one could easily dismiss me and say, “Well, this is not a typical missionary experience. She was obviously mentally ill.” Go ahead. I think my experience was more common than we care to acknowledge. I did not know how to leave. I felt the walls closing in, just like I did watching the “Heretic” trailer.
I would offer that the terrifying ordeal in the movie’s maze represents the institutional authority that missionaries, and especially female missionaries, are beholden to — and their powerlessness in its face. Hugh Grant’s character is merely a channel for a test of faith and dedication that these servants of the Lord must endure. It’s a test that ultimately will sanctify them.
The feelings I had when I was a missionary seem to be the feelings missionaries have now. Though, with their access to the internet and social media, they are not as isolated. Nevertheless, it is my observation that missionaries still feel trapped. They are locked in by social pressure to not come home early, lest fellow members think they failed. The shame missionaries experience when they do go home might send them right back to the horror house.
On Temple Square, I could have left and walked to the food court across the street. I was an adult. But my choices and my worthiness were predicated on my ability not only to stay on my mission but also to tell everyone it was the best 18 months of my life.
It was not the best.
I wish today’s me could go back and tell the heretic, sister-missionary-me, “Walk out the door, and you will be free.”
Beth Adams is a travel consultant and writer whose work can be found at CrazyUs.com.
Beth Adams and her family reside in Salt Lake City and enjoy extensive international travel. She is a travel consultant and writer whose work can be found at CrazyUs.com.
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