Sisterhood for a Season
It was September 11, 2022. In addition to being a day of national solemnity, this day also marked the eighth year since my mother had passed away. And it was the day I would attend Relief Society as Jennifer for the first time.
As I applied my makeup, carefully selected a dress and accessories, and styled my wig, I wondered what my mother was thinking of me, her fifth son. Mom was always a stylish woman, so I hoped she was pleased with my outfit choice and overall appearance. More importantly, I imagined she was pleased to learn that she had more than one daughter and glad that I was finally experiencing wholeness and peace.
After one last careful appraisal in the full-length mirror, I headed out the door. My emotions were a jumble of excitement, nervousness and anticipation. My loving and supportive wife — who is on her own faith journey — no longer attends, so I needed to do this on my own.
As I drove to church, I reflected on the past year. With hopes of initiating conversations that would lead to greater awareness and understanding, I had come out to ward members that I identified as being on the transgender spectrum. But in order to ensure everyone else’s comfort, I continued to attend only as Dave. I learned firsthand that, as a rule, we are not a very curious people. When there is no compelling need for people to address sensitive and challenging topics, like gender identity, they simply avoid doing so.
it was the day I would attend Relief Society as Jennifer for the first time.
Whenever LGBTQ-related topics arose in lessons or discussions, I would offer my thoughts and insights. But it felt to me as if this just made it all too easy: ward members could feel that they were being warm toward and inclusive of the trans community by virtue of having (mostly superficial) interactions with me, their token trans member who always spoke respectfully while wearing his white shirt and tie. It didn’t seem like my coming out was accomplishing much in terms of actually increasing understanding and acceptance, and it was growing increasingly uncomfortable and disingenuous for me to ensure that no aspect of Jennifer was ever manifest at church. So, seeking to both provoke more meaningful engagement and to address some of my own discomfort, I started attending my ward meetings exclusively as Jennifer. That definitely changed the dynamic!
Walking into the building for the first time as Jennifer was a profound experience for me. For over 50 years, I had equated taking any steps to explore and express my feminine feelings as sinful. After much internal struggle and personal growth, I had finally moved beyond feeling shame and guilt about who I was. Coming to worship as Jennifer, as my fully open, vulnerable and complete self, brought me closer to God than I had ever experienced before. I felt such peace and affirmation to know my Heavenly Parents love and embrace all of me, the feminine as much as the masculine.
When I entered the chapel, a few ward members, mostly sisters, were immediately warm and welcoming, and some came to sit by me. But many others couldn’t even bring themselves to look at me. I was embarrassed, and my confidence was shaken. The shame that I had fought so hard to vanquish tried to worm its way back in. It was pretty rough, but I successfully resisted the temptation to flee.
Over the next several weeks, things gradually began to improve. Eventually, I discovered that by taking the initiative to approach people I knew with a bright smile and warm words, their hesitancy and concerns melted away. Sensing progress, I sent an email asking the Relief Society presidency how they would feel about my attending and received back a warm invitation to join them. (Thankfully, this all took place under the Church’s 2020 transgender policies, which afforded local leaders much more latitude than now.)
Though my priesthood leaders knew I had long been presenting as female in other settings, showing up at church as Jennifer prompted them to end their policy of benign neglect. I was released from teaching the gospel doctrine class, had my temple recommend revoked, and was told that certain (though not well-specified) membership restrictions were being imposed. Fortunately, this did not include a prohibition on receiving the sacrament, giving prayers, contributing to class discussions, or attending Relief Society.
For the first time in my life, though, my membership was not in good standing. This was certainly painful, but neither surprising nor as devastating as I thought it might be. It helped that in recent years, having become more aware of how painfully patriarchal our temple rituals are, my enthusiasm for temple attendance had waned. It also helped that I had finally come to understand that the institutional church neither defines nor controls my relationship with God. Through hearing firsthand accounts from other queer members who were dealt with quite harshly, I realized that my own discipline was not so severe. Given all of this, I actually felt a sense of honor to be joining many others in taking a hit on behalf of Team Trans.
The anticipated day for my Relief Society debut had finally arrived and sacrament meeting was ending. My nervous anticipation was building during the closing song and prayer. “Amen” was spoken, the postlude music began, and it was time for me to start the long walk down the hall to the Relief Society room.
I was soon flanked by sisters who knew where I was going and wanted to make sure I got there. Entering the room, I half expected all conversation would stop as heads turned to stare at me. Mercifully, my entrance seemed to create no stir at all. Smiles and greetings were directed at me just as they were to all of the other sisters. I was officially welcomed at the start of the meeting and then it was (I assume) business as usual.
I had attended portions of Relief Society several times in the past, but always as a priesthood leader. Then I was “just visiting” — attending in order to conduct business, deliver a message, or, in rare instances, lead a discussion. But this was a whole new ball game. Now I was here, absent any authority or mantle at all, as someone who hoped only to be regarded as one of the sisters.
Initially I was hesitant to participate in the discussions, but as weeks passed, I became more comfortable doing so — mindful, always, of the need for me to offer comments sparingly and respectfully lest I come across as patriarchal or as a “mansplainer.” Many of the sisters seemed to instinctively understand the trepidation that I was feeling by inserting myself in their midst, and they went out of their way to reassure me and help me feel welcomed.
Despite what the signs on the exterior of our buildings proclaim, it is abundantly clear that people like me are no longer welcome.
While I can’t say that I always enjoyed the Relief Society curriculum (all conference talks, all of the time), I sincerely enjoyed spending time with the sisters and especially appreciated and admired how honest and vulnerable they are with one another. They know how to show solidarity and support through knowing nods, tender smiles, a gentle touch or a prolonged hug. I loved being able to offer a sincere compliment on a sister’s cute outfit or hairdo, slide over to sit with someone who had nobody close, and make connection while listening to a sister describe something especially happy or sad — all things that would be considered inappropriate for a man to do.
Things seemed to be going along quite well. It was extremely affirming for me to feel like I was truly a part of the sisterhood. I loved being greeted with a hug or a warm smile and being fussed over about how cute I looked. I could tell that the sisters were interested in the perspectives that I had to offer. I felt welcome to join them in activities and outings. Interactions with my ward family had greatly improved as well. Where once they couldn’t even make eye contact, now we were chatting before and after the meetings. Twice I was invited to offer prayers in sacrament meeting, each time being announced with my female name. I was never intentionally misgendered. The power of proximity had yielded much good fruit in their learning to accept and be comfortable with me as a transfeminine individual.
And then, in August of 2024, the Church released its revised policies regarding transgender members.
The Church now regards people like me as a danger to children and youth, a threat to anyone using a restroom, not trusted to teach or lead a discussion, and no longer allowed in Relief Society. Despite what the signs on the exterior of our buildings proclaim, it is abundantly clear that people like me are no longer welcome.
During the next few days, I cycled through many different emotions — all of them intense. Sometimes I felt dismay and rejection and just wanted to turn my back on the Church. Other times I felt angry and defiant, as in, “Nice try, but you can’t get rid of me that easily!” And in between, I struggled to try and understand what could possibly have prompted Church leaders to make such draconian changes. It felt as if they were willfully ignoring all of the relevant data and taking their cues straight from the playbook of the far right’s culture warriors. Could they not have foreseen the level of pain, anger, sadness, division and loss that would ensue? Were they alarmed at the powerful, positive effects that proximity was having? Did they view “normalization” of relationships with trans people as a threat to the established patriarchal order?
A bishopric member reached out to inquire if I was aware of the revised policies and to acknowledge the pain that I must surely be feeling. A few days later, our bishop stopped by, unscheduled, to see how I was doing. I was grateful for his gesture, but was left feeling hollow when the only solace he could offer was to acknowledge that “this is hard.”
At my request, he and the Relief Society president granted me permission to attend Relief Society one final time so that I could personally thank the sisters for their kind and loving acceptance. There was a stipulation, however, that I not say anything disparaging about either Church leaders or the new policy. While it was never my intention to use my final time in Relief Society that way, this stipulation felt like salt in an open wound.
In that final Relief Society meeting, the president announced that, due to policy changes from Salt Lake, this would be my last time with them and gave me a few minutes to share my feelings. Deep and poignant emotions made it difficult for me to speak. I expressed sincere appreciation to the sisters for the warmth, kindness, and inclusion that they had offered to me. I acknowledged that they had been instrumental in helping me feel the Savior’s love. I said nothing about Church leaders or the policy itself. For the remainder of the meeting, I worked hard at maintaining my composure but was not always successful. (I get it now: it really is a bother to worry about mascara running and making a sloppy mess!) Many sisters were hearing about the policy changes for the first time, and some seemed genuinely upset by it. But staying true to the stipulation placed on me, I held my peace. After the meeting, I said some tender goodbyes and then quietly left.
That afternoon, I reflected on this journey I am taking to experience authenticity and wholeness. There have been many costs, to be sure. I willingly surrendered the privileges of patriarchy, the status and accolades of a senior priesthood leader, my temple access, and even some friendships. And now sisterhood was being pulled away as well.
I had such high hopes that by coming out I could show “The Church,” my ward, and my friends that we trans folks are not scary, dangerous, or depraved. Surely they would realize that regardless of what I’m wearing, it’s still me: the one who served in so many callings, who prayed over and prayed for, the one who mourned with and comforted, who encouraged and consoled, who truly loved them all. I want to say, “I’m still the person who you once trusted, respected, perhaps even admired. It’s still me. There is just more of me to know now.”
My perspectives and my understanding have broadened so much. I am learning how to love and respect those I used to judge, sometimes harshly. I’ve learned how shame, fear, and guilt are pernicious, especially when used to control people — including ourselves. I can now perceive the waters of patriarchy that I’ve been swimming in for so many decades. I see the harm, the loss, and the waste that comes from it. I yearn for true partnership as a replacement for patriarchy.
While it’s clear that the institutional Church has not yet learned to be more accepting of the trans community, I know that some of my ward members, especially the sisters, have. And what I gained from my two-year association with the Relief Society sisters is priceless. Notwithstanding the costs incurred thus far and others yet to be paid, I have no regrets.
Jennifer Thomas (who is also known as David Andersen) enjoys chronicling her rapidly changing perspectives as a recovering patriarchist. She lives with her loving spouse of 45 years in the beautiful town of Forest Grove, Oregon.
Stylized portrait of the author, Jennifer Thomas
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