This is bonus Part 7 in the original 6 part series on the impact of religious purity (worthiness) culture on midlife relationships and identity. Earlier installments explored the fear of not being enough, when values become a barrier, why intimacy leaves you feeling used, the readiness nobody talks about, the tyranny of choice, and what you are actually looking for. This piece stands on its own but will land differently if you have read those first.
She is, by any reasonable measure, a woman of deep faith — active in her ward, known in her community as someone who shows up. She has not done anything wrong. She has not been called in. There is no reason to think she is in trouble.
And yet, on the Sunday morning when she notices that the bishop has asked to speak with her after sacrament meeting, she feels it immediately: a tightening in her chest that begins before she has formed a single conscious thought about what it might mean. Her breathing changes. Her stomach drops. She sits through the closing hymn with her hands folded in her lap, performing calm, while something older and faster than thought runs quietly through her body asking a question she cannot quite name.
She is not afraid of anything specific. She is afraid of the category.
This essay is about that tightening. About what installed it, why it persists, and what it costs — not only in moments like this one, but in the longer and quieter project of becoming someone capable of genuine intimacy, authentic self-knowledge, and a love life that belongs to you rather than to the system that shaped you.
The Word at the Center of Everything
Start with the word itself.
Worthy. Its opposite: unworthy.
In most contexts, these are comparative judgments about value or merit. In the theological and institutional context of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they are something with considerably higher stakes: access credentials. To be worthy is to belong. To be unworthy is to be excluded — from the temple, from certain ordinances, from full participation in the community that has structured every significant relationship and milestone in your life.
This would be consequential enough if worthiness were simply declared once and then held. But it is not. It is assessed. Repeatedly. By designated authorities. Beginning in childhood and continuing indefinitely. And it is assessed not through observation of a life lived, but through direct interrogation — a private, one-on-one interview between a member and a priesthood leader, in a closed office, in which the member is asked to give an account of their inner life, their physical behaviors, and the state of their relationship with God.
The institutional name for the person conducting this interview is significant. The bishop is formally sustained in LDS theology as a common judge in Israel — a title drawn from Doctrine and Covenants 107:74, which reads: "And also to be a judge in Israel, to do the business of the church, to sit in judgment upon transgressors upon testimony as it shall be laid before him according to the laws, by the assistance of his counselors."
Judge. Not shepherd. Not companion. Not witness. Judge.
The following is not a critique of individual bishops, most of whom are genuinely kind, pastorally gifted men who approach these interviews with care and compassion. Some have moved deliberately away from the language of worthiness altogether, framing these conversations as check-ins rather than evaluations, prioritizing the pastoral over the judicial. Those men exist, and their instincts are right. But they are working against the architecture of their own calling, because the institutional framework within which they operate does not give them the authority to abolish the judgment. It only gives them the discretion to soften it.
And discretion is not protection.
The Architecture of Surveillance
To understand what the worthiness interview system does to a person — not what it intends to do, but what it actually does — it helps to understand how surveillance works on the human mind even when the surveillance is intermittent, even when the surveyor is benevolent, and even when nothing bad ever happens.
Michel Foucault's 1975 work Discipline and Punish introduced the concept of the panopticon — a prison design by Jeremy Bentham in which a single guard tower at the center of a circular cell block allows any cell to be observed at any moment, but in which the prisoners cannot see whether the guard is actually watching. Foucault's insight was that the prison does not need a guard present at all times to function as a control mechanism. It only needs the prisoners to know that they could be watched. "Hence the major effect of the Panopticon," Foucault writes, "to induce in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power." (Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 1975, p. 201)
The prisoner becomes, in time, their own guard.
This is not a metaphor being stretched to fit. It is a precise description of what the worthiness interview system produces in the people raised within it. The interviews are scheduled at specific intervals:
- Baptism at age 8
- Annual youth interviews with the bishop beginning around age 11 or 12
- Biannual interviews with bishopric members
- Interviews for new callings, which every member is expected to have
- Mission Worthiness and Eligibility
- Ecclesiastical endorsement to attend a church-owned college
- Monthly Personal Priesthood Interviews (PPIs) conducted by quorum leaders (recently replaced with quarterly ministering interviews)
- Temple recommend and renewal (every two years)
- Various other ordinance-related interviews throughout a lifetime
For the actively participating member, the interview is not an occasional event. It is the recurring rhythm of religious life.
But that is only the scheduled architecture. Bishops also hold what might be called discretionary authority: the ability to request an interview with any member at any time, for any reason, including a hunch.
I know this because I served as an executive secretary to a bishop. Part of my responsibility was scheduling those interviews — including the ones that were not routine, the ones where the bishop had a sense that someone needed some help or some accountability. The intention, in every case I was part of, was genuinely pastoral. The bishop cared about his people. He was trying to help.
But here is what I also know from that experience: when a member of the congregation received a call from the bishop's office asking them to come in — with no further context — the response was almost never calm. It was fear. A particular kind of fear that arrived before any rational assessment of what might be wanted. A fear that said, without words: I have been seen. Something is wrong. I am about to be found out. Or I am about to be asked to perform.
When the Nervous System Learns That Belonging Is Conditional
To understand why that fear is so immediate and so physical — why it manifests as a tightening chest, a changed breath, a dropped stomach rather than a thought — we need to spend a moment with the neuroscience of belonging and threat.
Dr. Stephen Porges, whose polyvagal theory has become foundational in trauma-informed psychology, demonstrated that the human nervous system maintains a continuous, largely unconscious process he called neuroception — the detection of safety and threat in the environment. This detection happens faster than conscious thought. The nervous system is reading social cues, relational signals, and contextual information at all times and making preliminary assessments about whether the current situation is safe, dangerous, or life-threatening. (Porges, The Polyvagal Theory: Neurophysiological Foundations of Emotions, Attachment, Communication, and Self-Regulation, 2011)
Critically, Porges's research established that for human beings — who evolved as profoundly social animals — social exclusion and threat to belonging are processed by the nervous system as survival threats. The loss of social connection does not merely feel bad. At the neurological level, it activates the same defensive cascades as physical danger. Ostracism, rejection, and expulsion from the group register in the same neural territories as physical pain. (Eisenberger, N.I., & Lieberman, M.D., "Why Rejection Hurts: A Common Neural Alarm System for Physical and Social Pain," Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 2004)
Now hold that finding against what a child raised in LDS culture learns, explicitly and repeatedly, from their earliest years of participation in the faith community:
Your belonging is conditional. It is conditional on your behavior, your compliance with a specific set of rules, and your ability to give a satisfactory account of yourself to an authorized interviewer. If you are found unworthy, you will lose the right to take the sacrament. Your family and peers will see that you are not taking the bread and water as it is passed down the row — and they will know. You will lose access to the temple, the physical space that houses your most sacred ordinances, your family sealings, your connection to eternal life. If the finding is serious enough, if you are disfellowshipped or excommunicated, you will lose standing and the ability to participate fully in the community that contains nearly everyone you love and trust. You will lose, in ways that may be permanent, the identity and the narrative about your own eternal significance that you have been building since you were old enough to understand the plan of salvation.
This is not theological abstraction. To a child's nervous system, this is the end of the world.
And the interview is the moment when the verdict is rendered.
What Gets Installed
Bessel van der Kolk, in The Body Keeps the Score (2014), one of the most rigorously researched and widely read books on trauma of the past 30 years, documents how threat responses that are learned early in development do not simply go away when the original threat is removed. They become encoded. "Trauma results in a fundamental reorganization of the way mind and body manage perceptions," van der Kolk writes. "It changes not only how we think and what we think about, but also our very capacity to think." (van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score, 2014, p. 21)
What is installed in the person raised in a worthiness interview system is not simply anxiety about church attendance. It is a trained threat-detection reflex that equates self-disclosure with danger, that associates any authority figure seeking information with the possibility of judgment and exclusion, and that monitors the self — constantly, automatically, below the level of conscious thought — for anything that might be found wanting.
This is what psychologists and researchers in the field of religious trauma call hypervigilance. Dr. Marlene Winell, a psychologist and former fundamentalist Christian who coined the term Religious Trauma Syndrome in 2011, describes the pattern this way: "The person has internalized the [religious] culture's standards and continues to police themselves even after leaving the religion, because the neural pathways associated with shame and fear were laid down in childhood and adolescence when the brain was most plastic." (Winell, "Religious Trauma Syndrome," Cognitive Behavioral Therapy Today, 2011)
The self-policing is the ghost. It does not require the church to be present to operate. It does not require the individual to believe anymore. It runs on the original installation.
The Shame Distinction — and Why It Matters
Not all emotional pain from religious systems is the same, and the distinction here matters enormously for both the argument and the healing.
Dr. Brené Brown, whose research on shame and vulnerability at the University of Houston spans more than two decades, draws a precise and crucial line between guilt and shame. Guilt, she writes, is the feeling of "I did something bad." It is focused on behavior and is associated with the motivation to repair, to apologize, to change. Shame is something fundamentally different: it is the feeling of "I am bad." It is focused on the self, not the behavior, and it is associated not with repair but with concealment, withdrawal, and the collapse of self-worth. (Brown, "Shame v. Guilt," brenebrown.com, 2013)
June Price Tangney, whose research on shame and guilt at George Mason University is among the most cited in the field, found in repeated studies that shame — unlike guilt — is strongly correlated with aggression, denial, and the inability to take accountability for one's own behavior. The person who feels shame is not moved to do better. They are moved to hide. (Tangney, J.P. & Dearing, R.L., Shame and Guilt, Guilford Press, 2002)
Here is where the worthiness system creates a particular kind of damage: it is structurally designed to produce shame rather than guilt.
When the assessment is of your worthiness — not of a specific behavior, but of your fundamental status as a person eligible for belonging — the question being asked is not "did you do something that needs to be addressed?" The question is "are you the kind of person who is allowed to be here?" That is a shame question. It locates the potential problem not in an action but in the person. And it places the answer in someone else's hands.
A system that periodically asks you to prove that you are worthy of belonging is a system that consistently implies, whether it intends to or not, that the answer might be no.
This dynamic may help explain something that is often treated as a paradox: the unusually high rates of pornography use and sexual compulsivity documented within communities where the law of chastity is most strictly enforced. When sexual transgression carries not just the ordinary weight of remorse but the existential cost of unworthiness — potential loss of temple access, family standing, and eternal identity — the shame of struggling becomes so unbearable that the struggling goes underground rather than toward repair. The person does not seek help earlier. They hide longer. Shame does not produce repentance. It produces concealment. And concealment, in a high-stakes worthiness system, is the only rational response to a problem you cannot afford to have anyone see.
The Discretionary Interview and the Open Ceiling
The scheduled interviews — the ones tied to ordinances, age-based programs, and temple recommend renewal — are only part of the picture. What makes the system a true panopticon rather than a series of known checkpoints is the discretionary interview: the bishop's authority to call any member in at any time, for reasons that may not be communicated in advance.
This is not an abuse of the system. It is a feature of it. The bishop, as judge in Israel, has stewardship over the spiritual welfare of every member in his ward. If he discerns — through observation, through a conversation, through the report of a concerned family member, or simply through a sense that something needs attention — that a member would benefit from counsel or accountability, he has both the authority and the perceived obligation to act on that discernment.
The pastoral intention of this is clear and, in many cases, genuinely helpful. There are people who have been reached by a timely, compassionate conversation with a bishop who noticed something and cared enough to act.
But the effect on the broader congregation is something else. Because the discretionary interview exists, and because its triggers are not visible to members, there is no ceiling on surveillance. The scheduled intervals at least have the virtue of predictability — you know that the mission interview is coming, that the temple recommend will expire in two years. The discretionary interview removes that predictability entirely. At any point, for reasons you may not be told until you arrive, you may be called in.
For someone whose nervous system has already learned to associate "the bishop wants to see me" with a threat to belonging, the mere possibility of that call is enough to maintain the vigilance. You do not need to be called. You only need to know that you could be.
When the Interview Enters the Bedroom
The surveillance does not stay in the chapel. For people still actively practicing the faith while also navigating dating and intimacy in midlife, the worthiness framework is present in the most private moments of their relationships.
This is what several women have described independently — not as a metaphor, but as a lived experience: a third presence in their most private moments, monitoring for compliance long after any interview has ended.
For practicing members navigating romantic relationships, the worthiness framework creates a permanent third presence in every intimate encounter. Not a person, not a voice, but a trained internal monitor asking in real time: Is this allowed? Is this worthy? Will I have to account for this? The intimate partner is not just relating to the person in front of them. They are relating to a person who is simultaneously managing a silent, involuntary bishop's interview in their own nervous system.
This is not a failure of faith. It is the predictable consequence of decades of training. And it belongs in the conversation about why intimacy in this community so often feels monitored, managed, and just slightly out of reach — even between two people who genuinely want to be present to each other.
The Self-Surveillance That Follows You Out the Door
What happens if a person formed by this system decides to leave the church, or stop attending, or begins the long and complex process of faith transition that is so common among midlife singles in this community?
The answer, documented repeatedly in both clinical observation and personal testimony, is that the surveillance does not leave with the institution. It was never housed in the institution. It was housed in the nervous system.
Dr. Winell's description of Religious Trauma Syndrome includes what she calls "post-religion" symptoms that persist long after a person has formally separated from the religious community: intrusive thoughts framed as worthiness assessments, hyperarousal in contexts that resemble authority relationships, difficulty trusting one's own perceptions and desires, and a persistent sense of being watched or evaluated even in the absence of any actual observer. (Winell, "Understanding RTS," journeyfree.org)
This last symptom — the sense of being watched — is the internal panopticon operating exactly as Foucault described. The guard tower is empty. The member has left the building. And the self-monitoring continues anyway, because the original installation did not distinguish between "the bishop is watching" and "the watching is real." It encoded watching as a permanent condition of existence.
For midlife singles attempting to date, to be intimate, to choose partners, and to build new lives after divorce or faith transition, this ghost is not a historical artifact. It is a present-tense participant in every relationship they attempt.
What It Does to Intimacy
This is where the systemic argument becomes intensely personal.
The capacity for genuine intimacy — physical, emotional, spiritual — requires a specific internal condition that psychologists call authentic self-disclosure: the ability to allow another person to see you as you actually are, including the parts you are uncertain about, ashamed of, or still figuring out. Research consistently shows that this kind of disclosure is the primary mechanism through which emotional closeness develops. You cannot build real intimacy by presenting a curated, acceptable version of yourself. You can only build it by being seen. (Collins, N.L. & Miller, L.C., "Self-Disclosure and Liking: A Meta-Analytic Review," Psychological Bulletin, 1994)
A person formed by a worthiness interview system has been trained, from childhood, to approach self-disclosure as a risk. The interview itself is a structured form of self-disclosure — you are asked about your interior life, your behaviors, your compliance — in which the outcome is judgment and the stakes are belonging. The lesson the nervous system extracts from repeated exposure to this structure is not "sharing myself leads to connection." It is "sharing myself leads to evaluation and the possibility of exclusion."
That lesson does not stay in the bishop's office. It travels into every relationship the person forms afterward. It is present in the dating app conversation where something real almost gets said and then doesn't. It is present in the bedroom where physical presence is easier than emotional presence. It is present in the long-term relationship where one partner has learned to perform acceptability rather than risk authenticity, and both people eventually wonder why they feel alone together.
This pattern is visible in microcosm in the way midlife singles from this background phrase their dating questions. In online communities and Facebook groups for LDS and post-LDS midlife singles, one of the most common post formats is the "Would you date someone who..." question — followed by a disclosure of some behavior, history, or circumstance. The format itself is revealing. It is a worthiness interview, crowd-sourced. The person posting is not simply looking for a partner. They are submitting themselves for evaluation, pre-screening their own acceptability, trying to determine in advance whether their history makes them worthy of pursuit. The ghost is running the post.
This is not weakness. This is not a personal failing. It is the predictable output of a system that taught a person, over many years and at the level of their nervous system, that being truly known is dangerous.
A Story That Should Not Have to Exist
In the mid-1990s, my younger sister was 16 years old when she was raped by a man 10 years her senior.
She did what she had been raised to do. She went to her bishop.
What she received was not pastoral care. She was told, in essence, that she had been naive — that she had "blown through stop signs" she should have recognized. And she was placed on probation. Not her rapist. Her.
This is an extreme case, and I want to be careful to say that. Many bishops would have handled this with compassion and appropriate referral. This bishop did not. But what the story illustrates — in its most brutal form — is what happens when a system built on worthiness assessment encounters a situation in which no assessment of worthiness is appropriate. My sister did not go to her bishop because she felt unworthy. She went because she was traumatized and needed help. The system had no adequate response for that. It had a framework for judgment. And so it judged.
The message she received was encoded at the deepest level: even when something is done to you, your worthiness is still in question. Even in the moment of greatest vulnerability, the evaluation continues. Even here, you may be found wanting.
She has spent years doing the work of healing from that conversation. She is willing to share this story because she knows there are others like her, and because she believes, as I do, that the silence around these experiences is itself part of the damage.
The Bishops Who Are Getting It Right — and Why the System Still Needs Examination
It would be dishonest, and ultimately counterproductive, to write this essay as an indictment of individual bishops. Most of the men I have known in that role were doing their genuine best. Some were extraordinary — warm, humble, and wise in ways that had nothing to do with institutional authority and everything to do with who they were as human beings.
There is a growing conversation within LDS pastoral practice about how to hold the judicial and pastoral dimensions of the bishop's calling in appropriate tension. Some bishops have explicitly moved away from worthiness language, describing their interviews instead as "how are you doing?" conversations — genuine pastoral check-ins rather than compliance assessments. The instinct behind this shift is sound. It reflects a real understanding that the point of the interview should be connection and growth, not interrogation and judgment.
A significant and genuinely welcome policy change in recent years now allows parents to be present in interviews with youth. This matters. Those who defend the current system will rightly point to it as evidence that the church is responsive to concerns about interview conduct. They are correct that it is a meaningful protection.
But it does not fully address what is documented in the historical and ongoing record. The Exponent II blog has catalogued accounts from women who, as young girls, were asked by bishopric members questions of explicit sexual detail — questions about masturbation, oral sex, anal sex — at ages as young as 11. One account describes a young woman at her pre-Young Women's interview who did not recognize the terms being used, at which point the leader explained them to her, "clinically, but explicitly." At age 14, the same woman was told by a counselor that she had an "immodest body type" and was "naturally provocative" — that others would need to be protected from her. (#hearLDSwomen, Exponent II, exponentii.org)
Perhaps most troubling is a 1978 report cited in the same documentation, attributed to President N. Elias Tanner, acknowledging that a youth had engaged in sexual acts only after learning about them through a bishop's graphic interview. This was known at a leadership level nearly 50 years ago.
The parental presence policy is a step. The structural question — why these questions are being asked of children at all, and what worthiness framework makes them feel necessary — has not been answered by that policy. And the nervous system of the woman sitting through that closing hymn with her hands folded in her lap was not formed last year. It was formed across decades of an institutional culture that the policy has not yet reached.
The problem is not the bishop in the room. The problem is the cumulative architecture of a system that has been telling this person, since childhood, that their belonging is something they must continuously prove.
The Impossible Navigation: Desire, the Spirit, and a Trained Nervous System
There is a particular confusion that haunts midlife singles from this background that is rarely named directly, even in therapeutic contexts.
When you have been raised in a system that trains your nervous system to monitor your desires for compliance — to ask, of every want and impulse, "is this worthy? is this approved? will I be in trouble for this?" — you lose, gradually and often invisibly, your ability to simply know what you want.
This is not a minor inconvenience. It is a profound navigational disability in the domain of relationships and intimacy.
Consider the challenge facing a midlife single from this background who is now attempting to choose a partner. They are trying to hold 3 streams of information simultaneously:
What do I actually want? This requires access to genuine desire — the kind that lives in the body, in attraction, in the intuition that says "this person is right for me." But genuine desire has been associated, since childhood, with the possibility of sin. It has been the subject of worthiness interviews. It has been implicitly suspect.
What is the Spirit telling me? For someone of faith, this is a real and important question. But after decades of training to suppress and report desire to an external authority, the signal that was supposed to be the Spirit's voice and the signal that was supposed to be trained compliance have become very difficult to distinguish from each other. Both feel like an inner voice. Both can be experienced as conviction. Both can produce the same somatic sense of certainty.
What is my nervous system demanding? A hypervigilant nervous system trained in a worthiness culture will generate powerful signals — anxiety, urgency, the need to comply, the need to perform acceptability — that can feel indistinguishable from spiritual prompting or genuine desire. The person who has been taught to override their own wants in the service of compliance may now find that they cannot tell the difference between "I want this" and "I am performing wanting this so that I will be acceptable."
This triple confusion — desire, Spirit, and trained hypervigilance all generating signals that look and feel similar — is one of the least-discussed but most consequential outcomes of a worthiness-based religious upbringing. It makes dating, intimacy, and self-knowledge simultaneously urgent and bewildering. It is explored in more depth in the earlier installments of this series, particularly in Part 6 — on naming what you actually want — and Part 5 — on why choosing feels so difficult.
For Those Who Are Still Running the Old Software
If any of what you have read here sounds familiar — not as an abstract description of someone else's experience, but as a recognition of something you know from the inside — I want to say something directly to you.
The tightening chest before a conversation with any authority figure. The hypervigilance about what you are allowed to want. The inability to separate your genuine desires from the trained voice that asks whether those desires are acceptable. The sense that being truly known is a risk rather than a relief. The difficulty trusting your own perception of what is right for you.
These are not character flaws. They are not evidence that you are damaged beyond recovery. They are the output of a system that was installed very early, at a very deep level, for purposes that had more to do with institutional coherence than with your personal flourishing.
None of this is universal. There are people raised in exactly the same system who navigated it differently — whose family environments, temperaments, particular bishops, or sheer resilience protected them from the deepest encoding. And there are people who have done significant healing work, through therapy, through alternative modalities, through community, through the simple and difficult practice of learning to trust themselves again, who have quieted the ghost considerably.
The pattern is common. It is not inevitable. And it is not permanent.
But it can only be addressed when it is recognized — when the person living with it has language for what is happening and understands where it came from. The goal of this essay is not to produce outrage at an institution. It is to give that language to people who need it.
The Thesis — and an Invitation
The LDS worthiness interview system does not merely screen for sin. It installs, at the earliest stages of cognitive and emotional development, a surveillance architecture that equates social belonging with behavioral compliance — and encodes the withdrawal of that belonging as a threat that the nervous system cannot easily distinguish from the threat of death.
The consequence is not simply religious anxiety. It is a trained internal observer that monitors desire, complicates authentic selfhood, and makes genuine intimacy — with oneself, with God, and with another person — harder to access than it should be.
For midlife singles attempting to rebuild identity and relationships after faith transition, divorce, or the long slow accumulation of disconnection that this culture can produce, this pattern is probably still running in the background. And until it is recognized — named, examined, and met with something gentler and more honest than judgment — it cannot be adequately addressed.
The healing is real. It is available. And it begins, almost always, with the same first step: telling the truth about what it felt like to be in that room, and understanding, for the first time, that the fear was never actually about you.
Christopher Roberts is the founder of Unchaperoned Life, a community for midlife singles navigating relationships, identity, and intimacy after faith transition or divorce.
If this series has brought something up for you, the full archive is available at unchaperonedlife.com. Part 3 — on why intimacy so often leaves people from this background feeling used — addresses the relational consequences of purity culture in more depth and is a natural companion to this piece.
References
- Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Translated by Alan Sheridan. Vintage Books, 1977 (original French: 1975). p. 201.
- Porges, Stephen W. The Polyvagal Theory: Neurophysiological Foundations of Emotions, Attachment, Communication, and Self-Regulation. W.W. Norton & Company, 2011.
- Eisenberger, Naomi I., and Matthew D. Lieberman. "Why Rejection Hurts: A Common Neural Alarm System for Physical and Social Pain." Trends in Cognitive Sciences 8, no. 7 (2004): 294–300.
- van der Kolk, Bessel. The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Viking, 2014. p. 21.
- Winell, Marlene. "Religious Trauma Syndrome." Cognitive Behavioural Therapy Today, 2011. See also: journeyfree.org/rts/understandingrts.
- Brown, Brené. "Shame v. Guilt." brenebrown.com, January 15, 2013.
- Tangney, June Price, and Ronda L. Dearing. Shame and Guilt. Guilford Press, 2002.
- Collins, Nancy L., and Lynn Carol Miller. "Self-Disclosure and Liking: A Meta-Analytic Review." Psychological Bulletin 116, no. 3 (1994): 457–475.
- The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Doctrine and Covenants 107:74.
- "#hearLDSwomen: My Bishop Asked Me Sexually Explicit Questions I Didn't Understand, So I Researched Them. I Was Eleven." Exponent II Blog. exponentii.org.