When I was 19, I went to Siberia for two years to serve God.  While there, I was beat up, attacked by dogs, robbed, mocked, arrested, dumped and somehow having a great time.  During my two years, I helped to get my church banned by a Communist State and mourned as one of my dear friends was brutally murdered by a drunk Russian.

Now in my mid-30s, I returned to Utah after a decade of moving from coast to coast with my wife and children as my career dictated.  Returning to the state of my birth — and the capitol of my faith — caused or coincided (not sure which)  a sudden and unexpected conflict between my faith and my own personal beliefs.

I am an active Mormon.  I go to Church, I teach classes on Sunday afternoon.  I don’t drink alcohol, tea or coffee.  I do not smoke.  I do not swear.  I am Mormon.

I also don’t believe in God.

This is the story of my Faith.  Not my belief, obviously, since I have none.  But the story of my heritage, my people, my music, my fear, my family.

This is the story of a Mormon Missionary.