When Prophets Die, and Violence Strikes: Holding Complexity in Mormon Transitions
A Heavy Week in Mormon History
These last two weeks have been heavy for anyone with ties to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Russell M. Nelson, the church’s oldest-ever prophet, has died. By tradition, Dallin H. Oaks now steps in as interim acting leader while the church prepares to name its next prophet. Oaks has long been known for his sharp emphasis on obedience, authority, and doctrinal rigidity.
The very next day, tragedy struck: a shooting and fire inside a Michigan LDS meetinghouse, leaving lives lost and communities shaken.
For many, especially ex-Mormons raised in Utah where the church saturates every layer of culture, these events are more than headlines. They are tremors that shake the ground of memory, stirring grief for some, anger for others, and a strange mix of numbness and fear for many who have already left or are beginning to leave the LDS church.
And all of it unfolded just days before General Conference, the semiannual gathering where millions of Latter-day Saints tune in for prophetic counsel and institutional reassurance. For believing members, this year’s conference carried the gravity of transition. For ex-Mormons, it stirred old rhythms and memories of weekends once marked by reverence, obedience, and the ache of belonging that no longer fits.
A Brief Note About General Conference
Those memories are not just nostalgic— they’re layered with the echoes of messaging that shaped them. Within the church, leaders often insist that shame does not come from God but from Satan, yet their language tells another story. Through lessons, testimonies, and talks from bishops, elders, and even apostles, members are warned that stepping away from prayer or church activity invites darkness; that to stop believing is to let Satan claim you.
These veiled threats of spiritual abandonment are framed as loving caution, but their subtext is clear: those who leave are no longer safe, no longer whole, no longer guided by God. For many ex-Mormons, these messages echo long after they’ve walked away, keeping fear alive in the very spaces where freedom should live.
Russell M. Nelson: Prophet, False Prophet, or Something In Between
To some, Nelson was a modernizing prophet. He presided over sweeping temple-building, reshaped church programs, and insisted on moving away from the nicknames “Mormon” and “LDS.” For believing members, he was a man of vision.
But not everyone saw him that way.
Many ex-Mormons named him not as a reformer but as a deceiver, and a man whose teachings deepened shame, preserved patriarchy, and fractured families.
In ex-Mormon and Christian forums, voices rose with a sharper edge, describing his life as one “dedicated to deception,” elevating the Book of Mormon above the Bible, and leading millions astray.
Some accused him of acting while knowing the church was false; others said his principles alone were enough to drive them away from faith more than any other prophet.
The responses span a wide spectrum. Some mourn his passing. Others breathe relief. Still others feel only anger at the years lost beneath his shadow, and anger at the harm they believe he perpetuated.
The divide is raw: for some, Nelson’s death closes a chapter of harm; for others, it brings sorrow and complicated grief.
Community Reactions: Grief, Anger, and Divergence
Outside the institution, responses fracture along jagged lines.
Some speak of respect; the belief that even in disagreement, kindness should be shown in death. Others refuse to soften their words, calling Nelson a false prophet and noting that, if nothing else, he can no longer spread the lies they believe caused so much harm.
Between these poles, many hover in ambivalence: sorrow for his widow, unease with his legacy, prayers that his fate rests in God’s hands.
Compassion sits alongside bitterness. Relief walks beside lament. What emerges is not consensus but divergence; a chorus of voices, layered and unresolved.
As the community’s grief and anger settle into uncertainty, attention turns toward what comes next: the man expected to lead the church forward, and what his rise might mean for those still inside and those who have left.
Dallin H. Oaks: A Harder Hand
By seniority, Dallin H. Oaks now serves as interim acting leader and will likely be sustained as the next LDS prophet. His name alone evokes unease for many who have left the church. Known for obedience-centered leadership and his uncompromising stance on LGBTQ+ rights, Oaks represents continuity of control, rather than the possibility of change.
If Nelson’s era left ex-Mormons divided between grief and rage, Oaks’ rise feels like confirmation of their deepest fears: that the church will retreat further into rigidity, double down on authority, and demand loyalty above all.
The Michigan Meetinghouse Attack: When Violence Shakes a “Protected” Space
As if leadership transitions weren’t enough, violence erupted the very next day. A shooting and fire tore through a Michigan Mormon meetinghouse— a space long held as sacred, protected, chosen. The attack, marked by tragic loss of life and injury, is being treated as a targeted act of violence against the Mormon community.
For believing members, the tragedy collides with the narrative of divine favor. In Mormon teaching, faithful members are promised blessings and protection through obedience. Temples are called “houses of the Lord,” where evil cannot enter, and meetinghouses are seen as dedicated spaces where God’s Spirit dwells and safety is assumed, expressions of divine favor extended to the faithful and, by extension, to the spaces they inhabit.
When that story fractures, the dissonance is sharp. Some frame the violence as God’s will, a test of faith, or a mystery to be endured, not one to be angry over. These explanations often silence trauma in service of testimony.
For ex-Mormons, this response feels hauntingly familiar. Watching suffering minimized to preserve faith echoes their own histories; moments when pain was silenced, questions dismissed, and harm reframed as holiness. The building may burn, but the institution insists it stands untouchable.
Within Mormon narratives, anger is often cast as one of the worst sins, a failure of faith, a sign that the Spirit has withdrawn, and darkness has crept in. Members are taught to distrust voices that challenge authority and to listen only to the prophet or church leadership. This moralization of emotion makes it nearly impossible to express outrage or grief without fear of spiritual consequence. For many, even after leaving the church, the act of naming harm still feels dangerous, as if voicing anger might expose them to judgment or align them with the very evil they were warned against.
In a single week, loss and violence converged— the death of a prophet and the burning of a meetinghouse, faith shaken both from within and without. Across the community, unspoken emotions began to surface.
For Ex-Mormons, Why This Moment Cuts Deep
For those who have left the faith, these events are not abstract. They press into old wounds, stir buried emotions, and reopen questions once thought to be resolved.
Old wounds reopen. Memories of authority, obedience, and guilt resurface uninvited.
Closure and betrayal. Some feel grief, others relief. Both are valid.
Fear of retrenchment. Oaks’ leadership signals a harder hand, heightening anxiety and fear.
Trauma resurfacing in unexpected ways. Not only through the Michigan violence, but in echoes of shame and fear carried in the body.
Family tension. While active relatives frame this as a sacred passing, ex-Mormons may feel pressured to perform grief they do not feel, or silenced by the knowledge that their truth may not be heard.
To be ex-Mormon in this moment is to live in contradiction: grief for what was once home, anger for what was endured there, indifference that feels heavy all the same.
Holding Complexity: Caring for Yourself in This Time
This is not a moment with easy answers. Leadership shifts and acts of violence stir grief and fury; they reopen questions of faith, belonging, and memory. For ex-Mormons, the weight is not only in what happened this week, but in what these events awaken in the body, the family, and the past.
Name your truth. Whether grief, rage, or indifference, your story matters in its fullness. You are not wrong for feeling what you feel; your emotions are not sins to confess.
Step back when needed. The news cycle does not need to dictate your healing.
Protect your boundaries. You are not required to echo the responses of believing family or community.
Find spaces that hold you. Ex-Mormon communities, trusted friends, or trauma-informed therapy can help you carry what feels heavy.
Shape meaning. You do not have to inherit the church’s story of these events; you are free to decide what they mean in your own becoming.
Moving Forward
Moments like these remind us that leaving a high-control religion does not mean leaving behind its impact. The death of a prophet, the rise of a stricter leader, violence in a house once called sacred, are not distant or detached events in the news. They stir memory, fracture belonging, and call us to reckon again with what it means to heal.
If you find yourself caught in the weight of these events, therapy can be a place to weave your story into something new.