Episode 73: Catching stones, not throwing them with Jeff Andersen, Part 1

Hey everybody, welcome to the Beyond the Shadow of Doubt podcast. You are going to be so jealous when you hear who I have with me today — the amazing Jeff Anderson, also known as LDS Stone Catcher on Instagram (and maybe Facebook too, though I mostly interact with him on Instagram).

I have to say, if you don’t already know who Jeff is or haven’t had the chance to visit his Instagram account, you are in for a treat. He’s not only an ally, but a true disciple. He shares so much wisdom, intertwining scripture with modern-day experience in some of the most unique and compassionate ways. Jeff, you’ve blessed my life — and judging by the comments on your posts, the lives of many others as well. It’s such a privilege to have you here today. Thank you so much for your time.

Thank you. I’m really glad to be here with you as well.

So, let’s start by having you share a bit about your background — your upbringing, your faith of origin, your family, your story, your profession — anything you’d like. And then we can segue into your faith journey.

Sure. My story isn’t extraordinary in any way, especially in the beginning. I was born in Utah and have five brothers and sisters. I live close to one of my brothers now, which is great. I was raised in an active Latter-day Saint family — we fit the mold, you could say. It was a good upbringing.

I served a mission, came home, and married my wife, Jessica, a couple of years later. We lived in Utah for most of our married life, where I was also born and raised. We have three wonderful kids. We’re definitely still figuring out parenting, but I love it. My kids have been visiting family the last couple of weeks, and they get back tomorrow — I’m really looking forward to that.

Life felt pretty steady, pretty “normal.” Faith-wise, we were very orthodox. Both of our fathers were in church leadership, and we approached our faith in a very traditional way. We were married in the temple, and it worked for us for a long time.

Career-wise, I’m an accountant — which probably fits with how structured and steady things were in our lives. Nothing too dramatic, just a good life.

That’s a great story — not bland at all!

Ha, you might be one of the first people to say that, but thank you. Life really has been good. We fit the mold, things worked well for us, and we felt very fortunate.

Before we hit record, you mentioned living in the UK for about a year and a half. Was that for work?

Yes, it was. We lived in London for about 18 months around 2015–2016. It was an incredible experience. We loved being surrounded by so much diversity, history, and culture. Our kids loved school there — their classes had students from a dozen different countries and faith traditions. It was an amazing opportunity that really shaped our family and, for me personally, was a significant part of my faith journey.

When we returned, we spent a few more years in Utah before moving to the East Coast, where we are now. We love it here.

My heart has a soft spot for London too. I studied abroad there during college, and it absolutely changed me. It broadens your perspective — you can’t help but be different afterward.

Exactly. We were absolutely changed.

You said that time in London was when you noticed your faith journey begin to shift — or as I like to say, pivot. We all experience those moments where we’re faced with something that pushes us out of our comfort zone and forces us to think differently or question things we hadn’t before. I’d love to hear more about what that looked like for you.

It actually started a few years before London. I’ve always loved reading, especially about church history. I even worked at Deseret Book after my mission and bought more books than I probably should have.

Over time, I ran out of material from church-published sources and started reading from independent publishers — ones that talked about harder topics that you wouldn’t necessarily find in the official curriculum. As I read more, I came across things that were really difficult — stories and events that didn’t seem to match the picture of inspired leadership I’d always believed in.

It was jarring. The more I read, the more unsettled I felt. The church had been such a solid foundation for me, and suddenly it felt like the ground was shifting beneath me.

I remember seeing friends on social media leave the church over these same issues. I even remember the exact blog post a couple of them wrote explaining their reasons. I read it in secret — I wasn’t telling anyone, not even my wife, that I was struggling. I didn’t want anyone to know I was doubting.

But I felt the same questions they did, and I didn’t know what to do with them. Eventually, I had to tell someone. I finally opened up to my wife one night, and we stayed up all night talking and crying. It was one of the hardest nights of my life.

We all use different terms for this: faith crisis, faith transition, faith expansion. At that time, it absolutely felt like a crisis. It felt like the world was collapsing. The church had shaped so much of our lives — our routines, our community, even our identity. And suddenly I was asking, what if it’s not true? What if we’ve built everything on something that isn’t real? It was devastating.

Thank you for sharing that. This is exactly why I started this podcast — to normalize the fact that we all have faith journeys, and no two look alike. One isn’t better, more righteous, or more correct. They’re just different.

And you’re right — it’s so emotional. You used the words “really hard” and “really difficult” several times, and I felt that deeply. I remember feeling the same when I was trying to reconcile my faith with my experience raising an LGBTQ+ child. It can feel soul-crushing.

I also noticed that you said you didn’t want anyone to know you were having doubts. That’s so common. There’s so much shame around questioning in many conservative faiths, not just LDS. So thank you for naming that — you’re not alone.

It’s true. It’s all-consuming.

You mentioned sharing your doubts with your wife. That’s such a big step — and not every relationship survives that moment. What was that like for the two of you? How did you process everything as you began to navigate those doubts?

Looking back, the way I approach it now is so different from how I handled it then. That first night was incredibly hard. I think it was the hardest thing we’d ever faced as a couple.

To be fair, I had promised her before we married that this was our shared foundation — that we’d build everything on it. Then six years in, I was telling her I wasn’t sure anymore. That must have been terrifying for her.

I had been wrestling with my doubts privately for over a year, trying to make sense of everything. When I finally told her, it came out all at once. She was kind and compassionate, even though it was clearly hard for her too.

After that, I basically had to rebuild from the ground up. Everything I believed in was suddenly in question. I didn’t know if I believed in the church anymore. I didn’t even know if I believed in God. I believed in kindness, in being a good person and a good husband — but theologically, I was empty.

Still, I decided there must be answers somewhere. So I kept reading, but I expanded my search beyond LDS sources — into broader Christianity, theology, even other faith traditions.

In the meantime, I kept attending church with my family. I wasn’t sure what I believed, but I didn’t want to make any sudden decisions. That was the right choice for us, at least at that time.

Gradually, something shifted. I started to reconnect with the idea of Christ — but in a new way. Less about rules and worthiness, and more about grace, love, and divine mercy that’s not dependent on belonging to a specific church. That version of Christianity felt true to me.

Eventually, my bishop asked if I would teach in elders quorum, the men’s group at church. I told him I wasn’t sure I was the right person for the job because my beliefs were shifting. But he encouraged me to do it anyway, so I agreed.

I remember teaching a lesson about grace and emphasizing that salvation is a gift, not something we earn. A few members didn’t like that message and pushed back hard. It got tense. Afterward, I went to my bishop and asked to be released. I didn’t want to teach in a way that caused contention, and I felt my views didn’t align with what people wanted to hear.

After that, I started attending FAIR conferences — that’s an organization that provides faith-based responses to difficult church history questions. I think I was searching for reassurance that everything could still fit together somehow, that maybe the doubts had answers.

That searching phase was exhausting but necessary. I think I was still trying to find “the one right way” to believe in God.

That’s such a relatable part of the process — the searching, the trying to make sense of it all. And you’re right, sometimes we don’t get answers. But maybe leaning into the uncertainty — being open, curious, and humble — is its own kind of faith.

I’m curious, what was it like to continue attending church during that time?

Honestly, it was incredibly lonely. I’m not a naturally outgoing person, and that didn’t help. When I taught those lessons, I didn’t get much feedback. Maybe people appreciated it quietly, but I mostly felt isolated. I felt like I didn’t believe the same things as the people around me and didn’t know who I could safely talk to.

When I asked to be released from teaching, I didn’t share many details with my bishop — just that my lessons didn’t seem to resonate and that maybe someone else would be a better fit.

Mostly, I just remember feeling alone.

That breaks my heart. That was around 2015, right?

Yes, right before we moved to London.

It’s wild to think how much has changed since then — both culturally and within the church. You mentioned that things feel different now when you share in your congregation. What’s changed?

The biggest difference is that I’m more confident in what I believe and more comfortable with the fact that it doesn’t always align with the mainstream. I’m okay with people knowing that my beliefs are different.

Because of that, I’ve been able to connect with others who also think differently. We don’t always agree, but we can have real conversations. That’s been healing.

Social media has helped too. It’s given people a place to share their experiences and feel less alone. When I first started my Instagram account, I wasn’t public about my views in my local congregation. But once people found my page, I figured I might as well own it. And honestly, that’s been freeing.

I know not every congregation is like that — some are still not safe places to express questions or nuance. But for me, being open has led to connection.

That’s so powerful. And yes, I’ve had the same experience — sharing something heartfelt and then immediately seeing hands go up to correct or counter it. It’s such an ingrained reflex.

Exactly. I think it’s human nature — and cultural conditioning — to defend what we’ve always known rather than just listen. But the real growth comes when we can sit with someone’s story, even when it challenges us.