Salt Lake City --- Tony Garino plopped down to watch Notre Dame play Pittsburgh last fall, but when he turned on his TV, the game wasn't on. Garino had just moved from Sandy Springs to work at the Olympic Village, and knew only a mighty force could knock a prime football game off a Saturday afternoon.
What the NBC affiliate showed instead was a much bigger event in these parts: the General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
It seems that everyone who is not Mormon, as members of that church are called, has a story about feeling left out. No other place in this country features cultural lines drawn by religion to the extent of Utah, which was founded and formed by the Mormons and their strong convictions.
Religion here is much like race in Atlanta --- a force that divides people in their work and friendships and pervades the discussion of public issues. More than 70 percent of the state's 2.2 million people call themselves Mormons; all the U.S. congressional delegation and state Supreme Court justices and governor are church members.
The church's influence on Utah culture is one of the main stories seized on by the world media covering the Olympics.
The relentlessness of the religion issue bothers Games organizers, who have benefited from scores of Mormon volunteers and other church resources.
"It's a distraction to the Games and insulting to many of us putting on the Games, as well as to the Mormons," Games spokeswoman Caroline Shaw said. "We don't ask people's religion when they come here. We see the Olympics as a way to unify this community and the nation. It's not an issue to divide the community."
Yet, like race in Atlanta, religion is not going away. A poll last fall conducted by the Salt Lake Tribune showed that 68 percent of respondents felt there was a divide --- either socially, culturally or politically --- between those inside and out of the church.
Missing a football game may seem like a mere inconvenience, but for those in the minority here, it's just another brick in the wall between them and the Mormon majority.
Restrictive laws mirror Mormon values, such as one preventing teachers from discussing sexual health in class. Mormon seminaries are built adjacent to public schools. There are practices such as Mormon families keeping their children from dating those outside the faith.
Besides those overt signs, a subtle vibe reminds non-Mormons that they are outsiders.
"It's almost like if you are not Mormon you are in a different group than anyone else," said Mike Trang, 19, a Vietnamese-American who grew up in Salt Lake. "It's not like you're ostracized; it's just like you can just tell you are different."
Like racism, religious bigotry can be based on appearances. A clean-cut man with no facial hair is assumed to be Mormon; so are women who dress modestly. Sometimes the giveaway is a bump in their clothing, showing the outline of the sacred undergarments worn by devout Mormons as a symbol of God's protection. Non-Mormon lawyers have been known to wear similar undershirts in order to sway a Mormon-dominated jury.
Then there are the actions that show which side one is on: drinking coffee, tea or alcohol is forbidden for Mormons. People with large families are assumed to be members; someone who plays golf on Sunday would not.
The church recognizes this gap. President Gordon Hinckley, considered by Mormons to be a prophet, preached tolerance to his flock last year.
"We must never adopt a holier-than-thou attitude," he said. "We must not be self-righteous. We must be magnanimous, and open, and friendly. . . . We can cherish our method of worship without being offensive to others."
At least part of the tension arises from the strong bond between church members. That cohesiveness is fostered by a strong belief that they are a chosen people rebuilding God's kingdom, and they are called to profess that belief in moral actions and by taking that message to others.
That mission rankles their fellow citizens who have no interest in joining the church. They are wary that making friends with a Mormon can lead to pressure to convert. And they cannot attend temple ceremonies, open only to believers.
And what about having a cup of coffee at work, or beer afterward? That can be awkward. On the flip side, Mormons can feel uncomfortable sipping a soda at a cocktail party. There's judgment passed by both sides.
There's not a lot of mixing, because Mormons often don't have time. They spend many evenings and weekends fulfilling their spiritual obligations to their family and performing charitable deeds. Also, the church is run by lay people who volunteer their time. "It's ingrained," church spokesman Michael Otterson said. "You don't say no when you are asked."
Worried about the division, a group of civic leaders last year formed Alliance for Unity, which, in the words of mayor and non-practicing Mormon Rocky Anderson, is an effort to "get people out of their isolation."
The religious segregation has some benefits, strangely enough. Non-Mormons can find themselves re-examining their beliefs and becoming stronger spiritually. Some say the church's domination of Utah has kept it from attracting more newcomers and turning it into a more densely populated state like Colorado.
Religious differences here mirror that between Jewish people and Christians at Christmas time. That's the way Garino approaches life among the Mormons. When the next General Conference comes around this spring, he has a new plan.
"The spring conference is a great weekend to go skiing," he said. "No one is there."