Having found the post on exmormon.org, it was no surprise to read, “My mission was a testimony destroying event.” That simple statement was sad in any context, but the fact that I probably knew the individual who wrote it, or at least had known him thirty two years ago increased the impact. Whoever he was, our service in the Virginia Roanoke Mission overlapped by seven months. It was his comments about our two mission presidents that I found most interesting.
“For the first 3 months, we had a reasonable man as mission president, McPhie. He was one of those rare leaders in the church who truly cared how his missionaries were and did what he could to lift them up when they were down.”
Indeed President Joseph McPhie was a wonderful man. His was kind. He was loving. His motives were as pure and Christ-like as any I've known. It was interesting that even this apostate could find no fault with President Mcphie. No wonder the man was later called as president to three other missions.
The poster’s toxic assessment of President McPhie’s replacement was not so kind. "A tyrant named Moscon took over. He had the inspiration of a fencepost, the social skills of Sadam Hussien, and he did not care for the feelings or health or safety of the missionaries under him.” Later in the post he referred to President Moscon as an “arrogant slob” and added, “He belittled me constantly because I dared question his stupid policies.”
As I read, I paused and reflected. The words were an exaggeration for sure. But I would be the first to agree they had some basis in truth. Reading of this now ex-mormon’s trouble with President Moscon sent me back in time 32 years when my own life was troubled by the man.
Early summer of 1977 was one of the choicest times of my life. Serving in Hampton Virginia, my companion was Elder James Everton. We were both seasoned veterans of the mission field. Our experience might be summed up in one word. Love! We loved our area. We loved the member families in our area. We loved those we taught. We loved our mission president. We loved the missionaries we presided over in our zone. We were “lost in the work”, which was clearly evident on days when we left our apartment early, got home late, and on occassion even forgot to check our mailbox for mail. Life was good. In mid-July Elder Everton was one month shy of going home. He didn’t want to go. He inquired of a 6-month extension. We were both hopeful, but he was denied. In one month I would see him off at the bus station as he began his journey home….., or so we thought.
Our beloved President McPhie left for home in mid-July. One week later on a Friday, July 22, Elder Everton and I jumped in our baby-blue 4-speed Ford pinto and drove three hours to Charlottesville for a zone leader seminar. It was the first time we met our new president. For the next six hours the mission leadership, consisting of more than a dozen zone leaders and the president’s assistants, sat in conference with our new mission president. It was a sobering experience.
President Frank Moscon ripped us from square one. He chided us for our dress and grooming, for our unpolished shoes and the way we wore our ties. I was singled out early when he pointed and said, “…his belt doesn’t conform to missionary standards.” Perhaps it was a misperception, but it seemed I was singled out throughout the entire meeting. That evening with pen in hand, I recorded in my journal, “Through the whole darn meeting he stood there talking and staring at me. There were about twenty elders there and why he chose me to stare at I don’t know.”
President Moscon’s displeasure at us missionaries bothered me some, but when he berated previously-implemented mission programs, programs conceived and nurtured by President McPhie, I began to seethe. When the new president showed outright disrespect for the man that we loved, the man we would follow off a cliff, when he showed disrespect for the man we would have taken a bullet for, my blood began to boil.
When President Moscon called for a sustaining vote on a new program, all hands went up – all hands except mine. I didn’t realize at the moment what an impact that split-second decision would have on the rest of my mission. President Moscon took note and proclaimed the voting to be "unanimous except one”. Suddenly I found myself to be in a very awkward situation. At the end of the day, as we had a testimony meeting, I stood and bore mine. I admitted to being the lone hold out during the sustaining. I tried to explain my actions and at the same time offer support for my new mission president. Finally the meeting ended.
Walking to our cars in the parking lot, my companion and I talked to the president’s assistants. They too were caught off guard by our new president. Their comments were guarded. They were very careful not to openly criticize a church leader, but clearly they were shocked by the “difference” between the new and the old.
The next day I wrote a letter to President Moscon. I hoped to clear the air, offer my support to him, and try to explain my taking exception to the disrespect he had shown President McPhie. My letter didn’t clear the air at all. It made things worse.
When President Moscon received it two days later, he called. If he was familiar with Christ’s admonition in Matthew, “If thy brother shall offend thee, go and tell him his fault between he and thee alone,” he didn’t heed it. Elder Everton answered the phone. The president didn't want to talke to me. He wanted to talk about me. For fifteen minutes I sat in the room and listened to one side of the conversation. Elder Everton spoke uncomfortably. Occasionally he would say something like, “No President….., he’s a good elder.” When Everton finally hung up the phone, he turned to me and sighed, “That was President Moscon.” I countered, “I know.” There wasn’t much else to say. It stung that my mission president had issue with me, and yet was unwilling to talk to me man to man. What was I to do?
Ten days later a transfer came in the mail. I said goodbye to the missionary utopia I had experienced in Hampton, VA. Gone was the companion and the area I was so fond of. Gone was my title as “zone leader.” I spent the remaining four months of my mission feeling a bit like an outcast in Virginia Beach.
I saw President Moscon several times in the ensuing months at various conferences. My interviews with him were OK, but definitely a little awkward. I finished my two years. I went home.
Two years later I attended the missionary homecoming of my cousin Jim Rice. In an unlikely twist, he had served in the same mission that I had. He spoke glowingly of his mission president, Frank Moscon, and how his inspired leadership had resulted in record baptisms for the mission.
My experience with President Moscon was not nearly as favorable as my cousin’s. But then it wasn’t as bad as the ex-Mormon who proclaimed Moscon to have the “the social skills of Sadam Hussien” Unlike the ex-Mormon, I escaped with my testimony intact. For that I was grateful.
