From the Annals of the Turley J. Hinton Institute....

[_Bob Bobberson]

From the Annals of the Turley J. Hinton Institute....


Apostasy in the Afternoon

by Bob Bobberson

PART I: A Summons

It was a bright, beautiful morning at the end of August, and at last the heat had begun to break, and there was a sense that thunderstorms might be coming later in the afternoon. The entire Orem neighborhood smelled of freshly mown grass, and LDS apologist Hiram Sanderson was walking his dog, a 5-year-old Affenpinscher named Heraclitus. He paused near a yellow fire hydrant and let the dog lift his leg and do his business, and then they continued on.

Earlier that morning, Hiram had awoken and eaten a breakfast of sunny side-up eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, orange juice, and hot chocolate. Then he took his daily medication and kissed his wife Judy goodbye before she left for work. The couple's two oldest children were grown and the two youngest were back in school: a freshman and a senior in high school. As for Hiram, he didn't have to teach until the afternoon, and he'd spent a good portion of the morning perusing MormonDiscourse.com before deciding to take Heraclitus for a walk.

Hiram had been participating on LDS-related message boards and list-serves for a long time. He was, in fact, one of the pioneers in this arena, and he was the one who first suggested to Howell Lambeth, Merlyn Young and the others that the evolving cyber-Mormon landscape was worth writing about and addressing in the pages of the Journal of HIDM. Hiram had posted on the more LDS-centric boards, and he'd posted on the bloodcurdlingly hostile anti-Mormon boards. Nowadays, though, everything seemed to have coalesced around MormonDiscourse.com, which had something resembling a balance between believing Latter-day Saints, and people who were antagonistic towards the Church's truth claims. Hiram appreciated the opportunities he got to dispel anti-Mormon lies, and during his more candid moments, he was willing to acknowledge that he enjoyed making the apostates look stupid.

But there were problems with the board, too. Hiram sometimes found himself feeling resentful towards some of the other Latter-day Saints who posted. They struck him as being hopelessly naïve, and even borderline illiterate at times. He wished, at times, that they would shut up. And on this particular morning, for whatever reason, he found that he was dwelling on the completely false and libelous argument that he and his Hinton Institute colleagues were actually doing harm to the Church. He tugged on Heraclitus's leash to get him to heel, and he trudged on, thinking.

The very first time he'd heard the charge, Hiram had been bothered by it: "You and the other apologists have caused dozens of apostasies," but by now he tended to dismiss it as little more than anti-Mormon baloney. He'd seen it said on the message boards more times than he could count, and the critics making the claim never backed it up with any real facts or data. If this assertion was true, what were the names of the people who'd left the Church on account of him? If there were scores and scores of people, surely they could name just one name, couldn't they? And yet they never did. It was enough of an issue that Hiram's best friend and Hinton Institute colleague, Merlyn Young, had written about it in one of his editorials in the HIDM Journal: "Bada-Bada Bing-Bang: The Anti-Mormon Witch Doctor Comes to Cyberspace."

It was complete nonsense, and yet for whatever reason, Hiram was troubled by it this morning. He wondered if he was meant to regard it as some kind of prompting from the Holy Ghost. When he looked up, he saw that Heraclitus was eating something and he snapped the leash taught:

"No, no! Hey, shame on you. Don't eat that garbage!"

The dog put its ears back and Hiram squatted down and swept his finger around the dog's mouth, hoping to dislodge whatever it was he'd been eating.

"Gross. Just gross," he said, and he wiped his finger on his sweatpants.

They continued on through the neighborhood, strolling past house after house, each immaculately painted, with perfectly groomed lawn, save for the lone house at the end of the cup-de-sac that had a withered and yellowing lawn, and a flowerbed that had seen better days. Hiram didn't know the people who lived there, but as he understood it, the house was owned by a couple that had stopped going to church.

"You reap what you sow," he muttered to himself, and he paused as Heraclitus curled up in order to defecate on the inactive couple's shriveled lawn. He felt around in his pocket for a plastic bag, and he realized in a brief moment of embarrassment that he'd forgotten one.

"Well, all right then," he said, and he tugged the dog along, leaving the mess to bake in the rising August sun.

After a while he made his way back to his house, and down the way, he could see the postman's truck, and so he went to get the mail. It was the usual junk: catalogs, bills, offers for new, low-APR credit cards. But there was something else here, too, and it took Hiram a moment to realize what it was. It was a rather thick, official-looking envelope, and the return address indicated that it was from some court in California. Hiram tucked the junk mail under his arm and tore open this letter and began to read, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow.

The top page was boilerplate legalese:

To: Defendant(s): Hiram Sanderson, The Turley J. Hinton Institute for the Defense of Mormonism

A lawsuit had been filed against you.

You have 30 calendar days after this Summons has been served on you to file a response...

He scanned over the rest of it, and saw the name, "Hillis McDonald Raymond."

"My God," he said, and he began to walk slowly back to his house. Hillis Raymond was an Evangelical anti-Mormon who operated a ministry out of Barstow, California, and roughly a year ago, Hiram had published a tough-minded but honest defense of the Church in response to some of Raymond's pamphlets. Apparently, Raymond was so thin-skinned that a little criticism had gotten his dander up such that he was now going to sue for defamation. By the time Hiram reached his front door, he was red-faced with anger. What a baby! he wanted to say. Hillis Raymond is trying to shut us up. He thinks he can abuse the law in order to trample on my right to free speech. He wanted to put his fist through a wall, or smash one of the lamps in the front room, he was so angry. He was half tempted to tear up the court summons into tiny little pieces.

Instead, he clenched his eyes tightly closed, put his fist to his forehead, and drew in several deep breaths. When he re-opened his eyes, he saw Heraclitus, happily wagging his tail and patiently waiting to be let off his leash. Hiram unbuckled it from his collar and the dog trotted off to go and sniff its water and food bowls.

Hiram took another few breaths, and then he headed into the other room. He would have to make several phone calls. Meetings would be convened. And they would have to work double-time to prevent the internet apostates from capitalizing on this news. Hiram knew immediately that they would attempt to spin this development to their advantage, and he would have to do everything in his power to prevent that from happening.

And so he picked up the phone and dialed.


...To be continued in Part II: Counsel from Above

[_Bob Bobberson]

Part II: Counsel from Above

Hiram reached out and laid his hand on the doorknob, and turned it very slowly, and opened the door to the conference room at the Hinton Institute. He looked down at the ground and walked inside, hesitant to meet the gaze of his colleagues, who had all risen to their feet as he entered.

"Well, Hiram," said Howell Lambeth. "You've really done it this time. You'd best come in and take a seat. But first thing's first."

Hiram looked up and saw that Howell was grinning from ear to ear, and that he'd extended his hand. He reached out and before he knew it, Howell was pumping his hand and slapping him on the shoulder and the rest of the men in the room were chattering with delight.

"You showed 'em, Hiram," said someone.

"Yeah, you sure showed 'em."

They were laughing and they all took turns shaking Hiram's hand and congratulating him on his accomplishment.

"I'll admit it," said Nephi Clark, "that Merlyn and I had a little bet going on which of us would be the first to get sued. And boy, you sure scored a surprise victory with this one."

Everyone was smiling and laughing and Hiram felt a palpable sense of relief. In fact, he wondered why he'd been worried in the first place. He noticed the conference phone sitting in the center of the table, and then Howell was calling for order and everyone took their seats.

"Now, now," said Howell, holding up his hand. "There is still the matter of actually dealing with this so-called 'lawsuit.' Oswald has agreed to take the case pro bono if necessary, but my sense is that either the Church or BYU can pick up the tab for this." He raised his fist to his mouth, apparently stifling a burp. "Excuse me," he said, and he went on: "But there's still the matter of you-know-who." He pointed to the conference phone, which sat squat and triangular in the middle of the table. Howell reached over and pressed a button. "Sister Higgins? Is he ready for us?"

"Yes, Dr. Lambeth. I'll patch you through."

"Thanks so much," said Howell.

They listened intently: there were a few clicking sounds, and the whirring noise of connections being made, and then the gravelly voice of Elder Ephraim D. Gladstone, of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles, came over the speaker:

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

"Good afternoon, Elder Gladstone," said Howell.

"Who else is in the room with you?" said Gladstone, and Howell told him.

"Good, good," said the Apostle. "Herb, I understand that your daughter was just accepted into Brown. Congratulations to you."

"Thank you, Elder Gladstone."

"It's not the Lord's University, but it will do."

"Yes, I agree, Elder Gladstone. Thank you very much. I'll be sure to tell her that I spoke with you about this today."

The General Authority cleared his throat and let out a sigh. "Now, there is a matter that needs to be dealt with. A delicate matter. Now, Elder Lambeth, you know that the Brethren and I support the scholarly work that you're doing. Elder Hinton would never have lent his name to this institution if this was something that the Brethren as a whole did not support. I want to be perfectly clear about that."

At the end of the table, Howell had begun to roll his eyes, and Bert Gelhorn was attempting to stifle a laugh.

Elder Gladstone continued: "I understand that a lawsuit has been filed. The Brethren expect contention. It's something that has followed our people since the time of the Prophet. But we also have adversaries that would look upon this lawsuit as a means of damaging the reputation of the Hinton Institute, and BYU, and the Church itself. That's not something that we want. Is what I'm saying making sense to you?"

"Yes, Elder Gladstone," said Howell. "Crystal clear."

"That's good. Now, my understanding is that the case has little merit. This is a disgruntled anti-Mormon, and the judge will surely throw it out. The sooner this is over and done with, the better, in my view. With that in mind, I will see to it that the legal fees are taken care of."

"Thank you, Elder Gladstone: that's very generous of you."

"I'm happy to do it. But as you know, Dr. Lambeth, you and the others who write for the Journal of HIDM sometimes go to far. There isn't a need for such sharpness. It's unbecoming to some of the saints, and it needs to be put in check."

Howell had made one of his hands into the shape of a duck's mouth, and he was flapping it open and closed, as if it was saying, "Yap, yap, yap!"

"I completely understand and agree with you, Elder Gladstone," he said.

"That's good," said the Apostle. "I trust that you'll take my advice to heart and that we'll soon be able to put this matter behind us."

"Absolutely."

"Well, then. It was nice chatting with you. Keep up the good work," said Gladstone, and he hung up.

Howell let the dial tone buzz for a few seconds, and then he pressed another button on the phone. "Elder Pitt, were you able to hear all of that?"

"I was," said Elder Pitt. "I heard the entire thing. And I can tell you that Elder Gladstone and I agree on at least two things: the case is indeed without merit, and we will indeed cover the legal costs. As for everything else he said, you can disregard it."

Howell smiled and nodded. "Yes, sir," he said.

"I'm afraid that Elder Gladstone underestimates the threats we face. The reality is that we need the scholars of the Hinton Institute more now than ever. The saints must be protected at all costs."

"Of course, Elder Pitt. We all understand that, and we take our callings very seriously."

"I know you do, Howell." The phone was silent for several seconds, and then Pitt sniffed audibly. "Very well, then. I've got work to do, but you did the right thing in contacting me. I'll be in touch later if anything arises."

"Okay, Elder Pitt. We are, as always, eternally grateful for your support."

"Of course you are," said Pitt, and he hung up.

Howell folded his hands together and looked out at the others in the room. "It's always nice to know that the Brethren support us in our efforts."

Everyone nodded in assent.

"All right, then," said Howell. "We ought to get back to work. Dave, would you be willing to give us a closing prayer?"



...To be continued in Part III: Glenn Tibbetts, the Auto-didact

[_Bob Bobberson]

Part III: Glenn Tibbetts, the Auto-didact

After dinner that evening, Hiram Sanderson steeled himself for an expedition onto MormonDiscourse.com. He needed to find out if word had spread about the lawsuit, and so he retreated down into the basement, where many years ago they'd set up his own personal office area. He had a desk and a gooseneck lamp and a small bookshelf and an ergonomic chair that had seen better days. The basement was also decorated with various artifacts he'd collected over the course of his travels around the globe: an African fertility statuette; a cuckoo clock from Switzerland; a ceremonial knife from Syria. Upstairs, the two boys were playing Xbox, and Judy was reading a novel. Hiram logged in and saw that he had a new Private Message from Glenn Tibbetts:

hi, Dr. Sanderson! I just came across a copie of Wallace Hefron's book on hypocephali! Isn't that great! Its maybe a little on the pricy side but I figure that if you and I go in on in as one person that we could buy it to pass around to each other and to other people on the STAAM list serve. Does this sound ok to you?

He typed back a terse reply:

Sorry Glenn. Not interested.

Glenn Tibbetts was one of a number of people, both on the boards and within the various apologetics-related organizations, who seemed to gravitate towards Hiram and the other Hinton Institute apologists. Tibbetts was well-meaning, but he could be a pest, and frankly, Hiram was in no mood to deal with him tonight. There were multiple reasons for this. One year at the STAAM Conference ("Standing Together Against Anti-Mormonism"), Tibbetts had come up to shake his hand after one of his scholarly presentations, and he could smell alcohol on him. Afterwards, Herb McConkie pulled him aside and said, "The guy needs help. Someone needs to stage an intervention," but Hiram wanted nothing to do with it. It's not my problem, he said, and in didn't seem to matter in the end anyways. Not long after that, Hiram heard that Tibbetts had gone into an LDS treatment program and had gotten sober, and had been on the wagon ever since. And Hiram had to admit that Tibbets did have an enthusiastic and energetic mind: he had a special interest in geography and the Book of Mormon, and there had been a time when Howell, Merlyn, and several others had seriously considered inviting him to submit a piece for publication in the Journal of HIDM. Tonight, though, Hiram had zero interest in dealing with Glenn Tibbetts, and so he navigated away from his Private Message box and perused the board. And luckily, for the time being, there was no mention of the lawsuit.

Instead, though, a venomous anti-Mormon poster named Garett Samuelson had launched a thread claiming that a new letter had surfaced suggesting that the Office of the First Presidency had formally claimed that the priesthood ban was a consequence of blacks being less valiant in the pre-existence. Several posters had already begun to weigh in:

Ammon: So I suppose you have real evidence of this letter then, so that we don't have to worry that your peddling yet more anti-Mormon lies?

Garett Samuelson: What I've been told is that this is a letter, printed on First Presidency letterhead, and signed by at least two of the Brethren. Look, though, this is all currently in the works. I'll be posting scan of the letter as soon as I can get copy.

Merlyn Young: Yawn. I won't be holding my breath, Mr. Samuelson.

Hiram Sanderson: I have a VERY hard time believing this. I'm on good terms with a number of the General Authorities, and in my conversations with them, I've never gotten any indication WHATSOEVER that they believe any of this nonsense. Garett, you need to get better sources.

lil mouse99: where did the letter come from?

Garett Samuelson: Not sure. I think it was in response to a question from a Stake President on the east coast. Be patient. I'm working on this and hope to have a scan sometime later tonight.

Merlyn Young: Oh, tonight! How exciting, Mr. Samuelson! I'm practically tingling with anticipation!

glenn tibbetts: I'm highly skeptical that theres a real letter here. I've read Thurman Van der Mies book on race and the lineage of Ham, and Stingley wallace's study on elijiah abel, and Helen Smith's history of lds policy on race, and the lesson to be gleened from all of this is that we really don't know. the priesthood ban was a complex interrsection of a whole ~BUNCH~ of factors! Super complex! probably the most honest thing we can say is that this was gods will, and we just don't have a complete knowledge of the reasons. I just don't see the brethren putting a formal stamp on something that's as complex as this.

Hiram Sanderson: Glenn has got it exactly right. Critics like to try and spin this but their evidence is incredibly weak.

The Needle: I agree with Professor Young. I'm excited to see what Garett's got for us.

It was 8:47 p.m. Hiram still had a couple of hours before he needed to start getting ready for bed, and so he kept reading the board, surfing around and reading various threads, waiting to see if Garett Samuelson would come through with this letter. He got a pair of private messages: one from Nephi Clark, and one from Merlyn, both wondering about this letter. What if it was true? Hiram knew that there were sometimes miscommunications amongst the General Authorities. They weren't infallible, and he'd heard earlier that afternoon with his own ears just how out of sync their views could sometimes be. And then, just after 10 p.m., Garett Samuelson posted again, and there was a clear image of what appeared to be a letter from the Office of the First Presidency. The name and address of the sender had been blurred out, but the signature of 2nd Counselor Roger B. Grissom was as clear as day. It looked real, but Hiram knew that the apostates were perfectly capable of producing a believable forgery.

Ammon: It certainly seems, uh, convenient that the sender's information had been obscured.

Garett Samuelson: Don't be stupid, Ammon. You don't need that to that see that the letter's legitimate. That's real First Presidency Letterhead, and that's the real signature of Elder Grissom.

Hiram read over the text of the letter:

Dear ___________:

The Brethren and I thank you for your letter dated 4 January 1999. Though there are many competing theories pertaining to the priesthood exclusion of Black males, the leaders of the Church have always understood that these blessings were withheld because those with the Mark of Cain were less valiant in the pre-existence. I hope that this puts your mind at ease.

Yours in faith,

Elder Roger B. Grissom

Hiram wanted very much to believe that this was a fake, but he could feel himself grinding his teeth together, and a headache was building at his temples. What if it was legitimate? What were they supposed to do, sit back and let the entire rest of the world accuse them of racism on the basis of this letter? Elder Grissom was 91 years old. Perhaps he just hadn't realized what he was doing, and he sent the letter out without the full endorsement of the Brethren. Which meant that this wasn't actually doctrine. Didn't it?

On the board, the sides were arguing back and forth, with the LDS posters insisting that this didn't really change anything one way or the other, but Hiram knew better. And his Private Messages inbox was lighting up: he had messages from Merlyn, Howell, Nephi, Glenn Tibbetts, and several others. Something would have to be done about this, and soon, before it metastasized into a bigger problem.


To be continued in Part IV: Call it a Caesar

[_Bob Bobberson]

Part IV: Call it a Caesar

Hiram had difficulty sleeping that night. He kept finding himself coming back to the phrase, "Mark of Cain." Why did Elder Grissom have to say 'Mark of Cain'? he wondered. He tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, first throwing off the covers, and then pulling them back on when he got too cold. Eventually he got up and went downstairs and said a short prayer, asking the Lord to help him to find peace of mind, and he was at last able to drift off.

The next day, he drove into Salt Lake City in order to get a haircut. Judy had insisted that he get his hair cut prior to the trial, which was only a few days away. So Hiram drove up I-15, marveling at the beauty of the mountains, and listening to a cassette tape of the Doobie Brothers. He sang along with "Jesus is Just Alright." He'd once had a seminary teacher who'd dismissed this song as being blasphemous, but Hiram had thought that the man was a sanctimonious blow-hard. It was, by far, his favorite song by the Doobies: better even than "Black Water" or "China Grove."

He drove into the city and exited off the freeway and made his way into The Avenues neighborhood, and he caught a glimpse of the Salt Lake Temple and the Church Office Building down to the south. He made a left and then found a parking space near Herbert & Sons Barber Shop, and he got out of the car.

Hiram had been coming to see old Brigham Herbert since he was a kid. In fact, Herbert had cut Hiram's grandfather's hair, and his father's, and all of their male relatives' hair. It was something of a Sanderson family tradition. Outside the door was the familiar red, white and blue pole that had been there since the 1930s. Hiram pushed open the door and went inside.

"Hello, Brigham! How're you doing today!"

The old man looked up and smiled. He was busy sweeping up a pile of hair into a neat pile. Brigham Herbert was 87 years old and he wore a patch over one eye. His hands were knotted and palsied from rheumatoid arthritis, but in spite of this, he refused to retire. "My customers would turn into a bunch of shaggy long-hairs without me," he often said.

"Well, hello, Hiram!" said Brigham. "Have a seat, young man. Let's get you taken care of."

Hiram sat down in the chair and Brigham shuffled off to get him a smock. He draped this over and around Hiram's torso, and then he took up his comb and scissors, trembling slightly. Hiram didn't have to give him any instructions; Brigham always simply did his own thing, starting in the back and working his way over the sides and front of Hiram's hair. Judy had been complaining for over to a decade about Hiram's devotion to Brigham Spencer: "I just think you could get something a bit more fashion forward," she said. And she doubtless had a point; the anti-Mormons on MormonDiscourse frequently ridiculed his haircut, and accused him of wearing a toupee. But Hiram always shrugged this off. Brigham was his barber, and that was that. He sat there in the chair, listening to the snip snip of the scissors and watching the clumps of hair slide down the smock.

When he was finished, Brigham used a short-handled brush to wipe the stray strands of hair off Hiram's neck.

"Well, how'd I do?" he asked.

"It looks good, as always," said Hiram. His hair was slightly shorter on one side as compared to the other, and his bangs sat unevenly on his forehead. "So, what do they call this sort of hair style?" he asked.

"The Sanderson Special," said Brigham.

"I kind of like the sound of that. But the way you did this here," he was gesturing at his bangs, "is sort of Caesar like."

"Then we'll call it a Caesar," said Brigham. "Beware the Ides of March."

Hiram laughed and stood up and fished in his pocket for a twenty. He shook Brigham's hand and said "Goodbye" and climbed back into his car to drive back to Provo.


Back on campus, he first taught his afternoon class, which today dealt with the origin of Nephite weapons in techniques developed in ancient Persia, and then he made his way over to the Hinton Institute, where Howell had called a meeting. After everyone had settled in and an opening prayer had been said, Howell started in.

"Well, we've made a few phone calls, and it appears that the letter is authentic."

"I should add, though," said Merlyn Young, "that the consensus is that Elder Grissom was speaking as a man."

"Consensus among whom?" asked Bill Devlin.

"Everyone who matters," said Howell. "Us and the Brethren."

There were nods of assent all around.

"Still," said Hiram, "our critics aren't going to let this one go. They are going to hound us relentless about this."

"'Let slip the dogs of war?'" said Merlyn with a grin, and Hiram wondered if this was meant to be a dig at his haircut.

"So," said Nephi Clark, "what do we do then?"

"This calls for a formal response," said Merlyn. "We'll need to publish an authoritative response in the Journal of HIDM."

"Great," said Hiram. "Who's going to write it. You?"

Merlyn shrugged. "I don't have any good ideas at the moment."

At the head of the table, Howell was staring up into a corner of the room, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It seems to me that there are several possible courses of action. We can bring up the dubious credibility of the person who acquired the letter, but that still won't change the fact that this was a debatably, and I said debatably prophetic utterance. Of course we know that this isn't doctrine, but it's easy enough to imagine a rank-and-file member of the Church in, I don't know, Beaver or some place, thinking that this is the real thing. We don't need a bunch of uninformed Latter-day Saints going around thinking that this is really what the Church teaches."

"So, what do you have in mind, then?" said Merlyn.

Hiram suddenly had an idea and so he cleared his throat and raised his hand. "Can I say something?" he said. "I've often found that when we're facing issues like this, it's best to go back to basics and to refresh our sense of the core doctrines of the Gospel."

Howell tilted his head to the side slightly.

"What I mean is," continued Hiram, "is that in the Church, we believe in continuing revelation. Think about it: it makes perfect sense. In 1978, the priesthood ban was lifted. Here in 1999, if we want to undo a bogus 'prophetic revelation'," he made the quotation marks in the air with his fingers, "we need to get a second revelation."

"Huh," said Howell. "That's a damned interesting idea, Hiram."

"It's simple enough, isn't it?" said Hiram. "We just get the Brethren to write us a new letter, and then we publish in in the Journal of HIDM. Problem solved."

"Do we really think that Elder Grissom will write us a new letter, and go back on what he originally said?" said Herb McConkie.

"What other choice do we have?" said Hiram.

Howell held up his hand: "Look," he said. "I think that Herb's got a point, but on the other hand, Hiram's right. This really is the only way to address the issue. We need an additional document, with equal authority, to undo the first one, and so we might as well make a few phone calls to see if we can get one."

"And if the Brethren say no?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."


...To be continued in Part V: The Unwritten Order of Things

[_Bob Bobberson]

Part V: The Unwritten Order of Things

"I'm sorry, Dr. Lambeth, but that simply isn't how things get done. It's not the Lord's way, and all the Brethren must face the same way."

"But you don't agree with what he said, do you? This isn't doctrine. Right?"

"I hope that's not a note of insubordination I detect in your tone, Elder."

"I'm sorry, Elder Pitt. I didn't mean to come across that way."

"Good. Very good. Now, I need to attend to other matters. I expect that you and the other scholars at the Institute are fully capable of finding a solution to this problem."

Click.

Howell Lambeth sat with the phone in his hand. Earlier that morning, he'd tried phoning Elder Grissom's office, only to learn, after maneuvering through two separate secretaries and then a series of administrative aides, that Grissom was "incapacitated," whatever that meant. The next logical step was to contact Elder Pitt, but that was a dead end, too. He hung up the receiver and leaned back in his chair, thinking. After a few minutes he massaged his temples and picked up the phone again and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Hey there, Hiram, it's Howell."

"Hi, Howell. What's up?"

"I just got off the phone with Elder Pitt. It's a no go."

A pause.

"So, what do we do now?"

"That's why I'm calling you, Hiram. Decisions were made and the conclusion we've all come to is that you're the one who needs to put out this fire."

"Me? But I..."

"No ifs, ands or buts, Hiram. This is something you need to do. Finding a new letter was your idea, and the expectation is that you will indeed procure this letter for us, by any means necessary. This comes with the full authority of Elder Pitt himself."

"I see." Hiram, sitting in his office, was settling back into the normal rhythm of things. Yesterday he'd flown out to Las Vegas and then took a rental car the additional two hours west to Barstow for the trial. It had been a joke, of course: the judge threw the case out "with prejudice." It was a complete waste of everyone's time, and Hiram had been forced to endure the smug grin of Hillis Raymond. Hiram had wished that he could slap the expression right off Raymond's face. But now all of that was in the past, and Hiram could once again focus on what really mattered: defending the Restored Gospel from attacks.

"You've never let us down in the past," Howell went on. "We know that you'll come up with a creative solution to this problem. All righty?"

"Got it," said Hiram, "but are we still looking to get a letter?"

"Yes, that's right," said Howell. "You need to get us an authoritative letter. Your idea, remember? You can't ask Elder Grissom or Elder Pitt for a letter. You'll have to come up with some other solution. You know how much this matters."

"Yeah, I do," he said, and he hung up. What was he supposed to do? Last night, on MormonDiscourse.com, the anti-Mormons were practically jubilant over Grissom's letter. It made Hiram's head hurt just to think about it. Thinking about how he could possibly go about getting a second letter made his head hurt even more. He figured that he could perhaps drive up to Salt Lake and make the rounds in the Church Administrative Building, call on favors from people and using his connections in an effort to get what he needed. Then again, what they really needed was a second letter written by Elder Grissom himself, and Grissom, Hiram knew, was in the hospital and it didn't look good. It was frustrating: Hiram knew that if he or any of the other Hinton Institute apologists had been given just a few minutes with the Apostle, they would have been able to show him why his views on the priesthood ban were not doctrinal, and why they would be bad PR for the Church. If they'd gotten to him before he'd fallen ill, it would surely have been a lot easier to get a second letter. He tugged at his earlobe and got on his computer and navigated to MormonDiscourse.com. The critics were still at it, battering away at Merlyn and Nephi and Howell and the other stalwarts who'd dug in to fight the good fight. Glenn Tibbets was there, too, making the best case he could about the fallibility of documentation as it relates to LDS doctrine.

Seeing it reminded Hiram of a line from the talk Elder Hinton gave at the commemoration of the Institute building: "Our time on this Earth is a test, a trial that each of us must undertake, but the stakes involved are much larger and important. The defense of the Restored Gospel is a matter not of life and death, but of eternity, and those who take upon themselves the mantle of defenders of the faith must be willing to do everything in their power to protect the Church, no matter what the cost."

Hiram always felt that he fully understood and abided by Elder Hinton's words, but now he felt himself at something of an impasse as it slowly dawned on him what he'd need to do. He didn't want to do it, but it needed to be done. He let out a sigh and navigated back to the very first page of the thread, where Garret Samuelson had posted a link to the letter, and Hiram printed out a copy. "Damn these anti-Mormons," he said, and he opened up a new document on MS Word, and got to work.

He tried out several turns of phrase, doing his best capture the cadence of rhythm of Elder Grissom's language, only to delete them all and start over. Finally he settled on the following:

Dear ________________

The full benefits and blessings of the priesthood were granted to worthy males of African descent in 1978 in response to a revelation given to the President of the Church. The Lord has not yet revealed unto us the reason why the ban was put into place, and the Brethren do not subscribe to any doctrine on the matter.

He read it over several times. He'd have to test it out on Howell and Merlyn to see if it would work, and he smiled at his own ingenuity, but felt guilty, too. He knew he shouldn't be doing this and yet he couldn't escape his sense of his own responsibility. It had to be done. The anti-Mormons weren't giving him or anyone else any other choice, and besides, this would benefit the Church in the end. Furthermore, wasn't it possible, wasn't it at least conceivable on some level that Elder Grissom could have written this new letter? If the rumors were true, and Grissom really was on his death bed, then he wouldn't be around for anyone to ask him by the time the letter appeared in print.

Hiram hit PRINT and then he cut out the text laid it over the printout of the .pdf that Garret Samuelson had posted to MormonDiscourse.com. He carefully lined it up so that it covered the original text, but still showed Elder Grissom's signature. Then, pinching it carefully so it didn't slip, he carried it over the photocopier. The first copy wasn't bad but there were two problems: he'd forgotten to change the date, and if you looked closely, you could see a faint line where the cut-out had been placed over the original. Hiram went back to his office and corrected the problem, and then he went back and tried again, pushing down hard on the top of the copier in order to prevent outside light from getting in, and to keep the two sheets of paper pressed as tightly together as possible. The new copy came out, and he looked at it. Not bad, he thought.

Later, he would show it to Howell and Merlyn, who both asked him how he got it.

"I have my ways," he said, and they both laughed uproariously at this.

"It's a good thing that, at this late hour, Elder Grissom is so generous," said Howell.

"Indeed it is," said Hiram, "indeed it is." But the truth was that he felt ill at ease. His palms were sweating as Merlyn handed the document back to him, and he retreated back to his office to drink some Maalox, and he crumpled into his chair. Am I really going to do this? he said out loud, and he pulled at his earlobe. Elder Hinton's words came to him again: ..no matter what the cost. Elder Hinton had always understood that this was, fundamentally, a war against the forces of the Adversary, and when put in those terms, one had to understand the everyone had their own, particular roles, drawing upon each individuals own unique talents. There were generals and lieutenants, and then there were foot soldiers. Each person had to do their part.

These were the thoughts that were running through Hiram's mind as he stared absentmindedly at his computer monitor, which was, of course, tuned to MormonDiscourse. He saw the name: Glenn Tibbets, and for the second time that day, an idea crystalized in his mind. Glenn had always dreamed of publishing in the Journal of HIDM. And now he would get his big chance.

Hiram logged into the site and began to think of what he would say in his PM to Glenn Tibbets.


...To be continued in Part VI: I Hope They Call Me on a Mission

[_Bob Bobberson]

Part VI: I Hope They Call Me on a Mission

As Glenn Tibbets read over Dr. Sanderson's private message, he grew more and more excited, and by the time he'd finished, he could barely contain his elation. Me?? he said to himself. Do they really want me to write this article?? He was beaming from ear to ear as he typed out his reply to Hiram Sanderson:

Boy, you bet, Dr. Sanderson! I sure won't let you or the hinton institute down on this one! I can gaurantee that all my mentle energy will go straight into writing this article. I can promise you that!

He sent off the message, and a few minutes later, Hiram wrote him back, saying that he would soon be sending him a key document, and to keep an eye out for it in the mail. Glenn assured him he would, and signed off.

Glenn knew all too well that big moments of excitement were triggers for him, and he hadn't seen this coming and was therefore caught off-guard. What he wanted more than anything in that moment, was to celebrate. He'd been so good: it had been seven months, just one little taste wouldn't hurt, would it? He went out of his bedroom and into the small kitchen and opened up the freezer. He had to pull out boxes of Hot Pockets, frozen pizzas, canisters of orange juice concentrate, and frozen ground beef before he got what he was looking for: a bottle, wrapped in foil, and then sealed inside a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. His hands were trembling as he opened the bag and stripped away the aluminum foil. Inside was a bottle of Seagram's gin that he'd gone clear out to Evanston, Wyoming in order to procure. This had been 3 or 4 months ago, when he had been feeling especially low, but at the last moment, he'd called his bishop, and he was able to avoid the temptation of drinking anything. But he hadn't poured out the bottle, as the bishop had instructed. Instead, against his better judgment, he'd squirreled it away in the back of his freezer and now he had it out and he was pouring a generous serving of it out into a Better Homes & Garden hot cocoa mug. He lifted it to his lips and drank, and it was cold and bitter and bracing. He licked his lips, drained the mug, and poured himself another drink. He drank this down, too, and then he refilled his mug and carried it back into the bedroom, so that he could start in on the research for the article.



Once upon a time, at least a few people had believed in Glenn Tibbets. Up until middle school, he'd been a good student and a decent athlete. He attended school on the west side of Salt Lake City, and went to church just like all the other kids, but his father was something of a wavering member: a jack Mormon, even, who secretly chewed tobacco, and who eventually left him and his mother and sister, completely without warning, in order to move in with a much younger woman in Boise. It had completely crushed his mother, who never recovered and who slipped into a deep depression that left her unemployed and dependent upon the hand-outs of the local ward. The Church had stepped up and taken care of them until both Glenn and his sister were old enough to get after-school jobs.

This was a big demand on his time, though, and his grades suffered. He had always loved school, especially history and math, but as the need to look after his family grew, the opportunities to pursue his academic interests fell by the wayside. And as he neared graduation, he began to drift away from the Church, too. When he turned 18, the bishop began to ask him if he had saved up to go on a mission, and Glenn was ambivalent: he didn't know what he wanted to do. Not long after that, he moved out of his mother's house and into a room in a big Craftsman-style house that was shared by a bunch of his friends from high school. They threw a lot of parties, and Glenn got drunk a lot, and when it was available, they smoked marijuana. At some point, though, it dawned on Glenn that he'd been drunk for nearly a week straight, and he knew that he should get help.

Back to church he went, attending a singles ward not far from the University of Utah. Glenn wasn't a bad-looking young man, and he had an enthusiasm and charm that made him instantly likable, but he didn't have any luck in the romance department. His non-returned-missionary status was a strike against him, and women could sense his lack of self-confidence, and so he never married. This ate away at him, and eventually, he lapsed back into drinking, and his life became a series of working menial jobs, getting fired for being drunk, seeking help, sobering up and returning to church, and then relapsing all over again. Before long, he was 38 years old and living alone in a small house in a dusty neighborhood in West Jordan.

Four years ago, though, he'd gotten his first internet connection, and he began to read things about the Church. It didn't shake his faith, really: he always knew that the Church was true, and had always known this, even during his lowest moments, but he also knew that a lot of the critics seemed to know way, way more about Church history and doctrine than he did. Every time they mentioned some new book or article, whether it be No Man Knows My History, or Juanita Brooks' study of the Mountain Meadows Massacre, he tracked it down and devoured it, often reading straight through the night without sleeping. Eventually he found his way to MormonDiscourse.com, where he encountered Howell Lambeth, Merlyn Young, Hiram Sanderson, and the rest of the BYU apologists, and he was instantly enamored with them. Now this is the real deal, the thought. He was impressed with them in every way: with their eloquence, and the extent of their learning. He was amazed at all the places they traveled, and at the fact that they were able to speak so many foreign languages. These were people who'd written books! And here he was, old Glenn Tibbets, getting to interact with them. If they believed in the LDS Church, then it had to be true. These men were real, latter-day heroes, going to battle against the forces of darkness and doing everything they could to combat the really dishonest criticism directed at the Church. Glenn held them in a kind of awe.

So as he sat there, sipping his gin and reading and re-reading the message that Hiram Sanderson had sent him, he wondered how it was that he'd gotten so lucky. This, he said to himself, has got to be just about the best day of my life. He set the mug down, typed out another message of thanks to Hiram (the third he'd written that night), and then he went out to his bookshelf in order to find Vern P. Grandin's book on blacks and the priesthood. That would be the place to start, Glenn thought, and he began to plan out his course of action, and he caught himself wondering what it was that Dr. Sanderson intended to mail to him.

The next morning, when Glenn woke up, he couldn't recall having gone to bed, or having eaten anything, and yet there were dirty dishes on the counter and an empty frozen pizza box in the trash. He went back into his bedroom and flopped onto his bed and closed his eyes.

"Ugh," he said, and he massaged his temples. "How am I going to get any work done in this state?" He lay there like that for a while, blinking and staring up at the ceiling, and then he thought he could hear something, like a soft whisper, a kind of still, small voice.

What you need is a bit o' the hair o' the dog that bit ye.

He laughed and shook his head. "I guess I can't ignore the promptings of the spirit," he said, and so he got up and went to the kitchen, and poured himself a nice, tall glass of gin. He took the glass and sat on the sofa and watched TV for a while, wondering what day it was, and before long, his hangover had been smoothed over, and he was ready to get back to work.


....To be continued in Part VII: Peer Review

[_Bob Bobberson]

Part VII: Peer Review

"Now, Glenn, I already told you: it's fine. Yes, I looked it over. Yes, it needs work. Yes, it's going to be peer-reviewed. It's FINE."

It was a chilly late afternoon in Paris, and Hiram Sanderson was irritated. All the wanted was to take a stroll through the Ninth Arrondissement, taking in some of the rich culture, and perhaps stopping in a brasserie for a steak frites, and Glenn Tibbets wouldn't leave him alone. The guy was nuts: asking him endlessly stupid questions about this source or that source. "Is it considered bad form to use contractions, Dr. Sanderson?" "No, not that I know of, Glenn." "Will it be a problem if I cite from Elder Petersen?" "I don't see how it could be, Glenn, provided that you do it right." "Is there a reputable source I can use that will help develop my argument about epistemological theology and the question of doubt?" I have no idea, Glenn." Back and forth it went, around and around, and Hiram was worried that his roaming charges would be sky-high. He told Glenn to call him only at the hotel, but when he hadn't been able to reach him, he'd called his cell. Hiram regretted having ever given him the number.

He put his hands into his windbreaker and pushed his glasses up his nose and walked on. He knew he wasn't far from the Opéra Garnier. All of the trees had begun to show signs of the coming winter, and they were gorgeous shades of yellow, orange and red. Sure, Glenn was a pest, and there had been that ugliness earlier in the day, but he was determined to move on.

He was in Paris to attend a conference on medieval grains and legumes that was being held at the American University of Paris, and after attending a few morning sessions, he had made up his mind to do some sight-seeing, and to take in some of the culture. Before leaving, though, he made a pit-stop at the university's bookstore. Inside, he made a beeline for the HISTORY section and scanned over the authors' names on the spines of the book: Sabatini, Sagasser, Saint-Marie, Salmon, Samuels, and then, sure enough, there it was: Torture and Confession: The Role of Interrogation in Medieval Syria, by Hiram Sanderson. He smiled in spite of himself. How many people, he thought to himself have thumbed through these very pages? It warmed his heart to think that this, all his sweat and blood, his personal contribution to world scholarship and knowledge, was sitting here, on this bookshelf, in Paris. He used his index finger to tilt the corner of the book out and he pulled it off the shelf and held it up to his nose so that he could smell the ink and the paper and binding materials. It was a damned handsome volume: hardcover, with an image on the book jacket that had been designed by an acquaintance in the fine arts department back at BYU. He opened up the book and noticed that there, on the title page, someone had scrawled something in black ink:

HIRAM SANDERSON IS A MORGBOT SHILL

He was horrified: who would do such a thing, defacing a book like this? These anti-Mormons had no shame. He could feel his face getting hot, and he snapped the book shut and marched up to the cash register. He set it down and opened it up:

"Look at this!" he said. "Someone has defaced this book. Something has to be done. My goodness, don't you people have security here? Someone who's job it is to prevent vandalism? For heaven's sake," he said.

The woman behind the cash register looked baffled. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "I'll be sure to pass this along to my supervisor."

"Yeah, you do that," said Hiram, and he stormed off.

He had walked without stopping clear over into the 9th Arrondissement, only to be pestered yet again by Glenn, but things were better now. He could smell good things to eat drifting from the various cafes, and his stomach had begun to growl.


Meanwhile, back in Provo, the apologists at the Turley J. Hinton Institute for the Defense of Mormonism were seated in the conference room and going over their copies of "Wresting with the Race Question: Epistemological Problems of Ontology in Anti-Mormon Treatments of the Priesthood Ban," by Glenn Tibbets. After an opening prayer, they each took out their photocopies of the piece.

"Well," said Merlyn Young. "I appreciate my peers for joining me today. Thanks for coming, Howell. Thanks for coming, Nephi. It's time we get down to the matter of reviewing this work by our old friend, Brother Tibbets."

"Indeed, indeed," said Howell, clearing his throat.

There was a pause while the three men exchanged glances, and then they all broke out into laughter.

"So, what was your favorite part?" asked Merlyn.

"Oh, jeez, there were so many," said Howell. "What about the place where he...Where was it? I think he was trying to say something about 'desecrates the words of the prophets,' but instead he wrote, 'defecates.'"

"Talk about a load of crap," said Nephi, and they all laughed again.

"Really," said Howell, "why are we letting this joker write this for us?"

"You know why," said Merlyn with a wink.

"This guy couldn't carry any of our jockstraps, and yet we're letting him handle this delicate issue. What are his credentials? That he graduated high school and owns a library card?"

"Wait, wait" interrupted Nephi. "Here's my favorite part." He shuffled the papers and made out as if he was about to give a very serious and important speech. Then he made his voice go through the back part of his throat and nose, as if he had a bad, adenoidal speech impediment: "Dese anti-Mormuns have put up a battlemint..." he had to stop because he was laughing.

"Yeah, 'battlemint'? Is that what you use to freshen up your breath before you start attacking your enemies?"

"I think it's the more aggressive cousin to Doublemint gum," said Merlyn, chuckling.

"Oh, this poor, poor bastard," said Nephi. "Why? Why, I ask?"

Merlyn shrugged. "He's serving a useful purpose. He's something of a useful idiot, but he's useful nonetheless."

Howell ran his forefinger under his nose and sniffed, and then said, "Well, Merlyn, you sing whatever praises you want. I'm the one who's going to wind up having to rewrite the damned thing. There can't be more than 20 percent of this thing that's salvageable."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Some of his reflections on epistemology were quite probative, I thought," said Merlyn.

"Hiram is the one who ought to be doing this."

"Maybe so, but we've got deadlines to meet."

"Fair enough."

"Fair enough."

There was a pause.

"Well, I guess we're done, then?" said Howell.

"Yes, I think that's a wrap," said Merlyn. "I'd like to extend my sincere thanks to both of you for your assistance in providing this peer review. Without your service, the Journal of HIDM wouldn't be the same. Plus, doing it this way will help us to save a few trees."

Howell and Nephi lost it when he said this. It was so bad that Howell went into a coughing fit and had to drink some water before he was himself again.

"Boy, oh, boy," he said. "Tough times at the Hinton Institute," he said. And once they had all settled back down, Nephi offered up a closing prayer, and then they all shook hands and went back to their respective offices.


...To be continued in Part VIII: The Gift of Tongues

[_Bob Bobberson]

Part VIII: The Gift of Tongues

Winter time had arrived. The clouds hung like grey wreaths around the peaks of the Wasatch, and there was a crust of snow all across the Salt Lake Valley. Christmas decorations hung in the windows of houses, and festive lights winked on and off on the eaves, and in this threadbare branches of the trees. There was a smell of woodsmoke on the air, and icicles hung like long teeth in places where no one was around to knock them down. In the time that Glenn Tibbets had been at work on his article for the Journal of HIDM, something peculiar had happened to him.

At first, he was unable to work unless he was drunk. He would wake up and drink a breakfast of orange juice and gin, work for a few hours, and then pass out, only to wake up after the sun had gone down in order to repeat the process. He managed about a page and a half each day with this process. One day off was always needed in order to make the pilgrimage up to Evanston in order to stock up on booze, and he managed to refrain from drinking on Saturday nights so that he could go to church the next day without a hangover.

Eventually, after two months, he finished a draft he felt reasonably confident about. He wanted desperately for Dr. Sanderson to read it over before he sent it into the Hinton Institute for peer review, but Dr. Sanderson was busy at a conference in Paris, and Glenn worried that he was pestering him too much. He wanted so badly to simply be told that he hadn't screwed up: that he was on the right track, and that he was helping the cause. He knew already that there was no way that he'd ever equal the level of intelligence and eloquence of the professional apologists; simply to be good enough to be included in the same pages as them would be more than enough. It would be a kind of redemption for him, and an affirmation that all his private studying had been worthwhile.

In the process of writing, though, he began to worry that he wasn't approaching the issue thoroughly enough. Shortly after Dr. Sanderson had asked him to contribute, he'd gotten in the mail a photocopy of an official-looking document from Church Headquarters. Of course Glenn knew about the unfortunate letter that had been written by Elder Grissom, but the nice thing about this new letter was that it completely retracted what the first one said. At first he was delighted: The Second Grissom letter was the answer they all needed. But looking at it, he worried that this was too easy. What would an apostate or an anti-Mormon do in response to this? he wondered. He knew that they would first and foremost question its authenticity, so the next day he phoned Elder Grissom's office, and spoke with a secretary.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Elder Grissom is extremely busy. What did you say your name was again?"

"Glenn Tibbets. T-I-B-B-E-"

"Uh, that's okay, that's okay: you don't have to spell it out. Look, Mr. Tibbets, we don't really have time for this. We..."

"I'm working on an article for the Journal of HIDM and I'm calling at the request of Professor Hiram Sanderson, for what it's worth."

The secretary sighed. "All right, Brother Tibbets," he said. "I'll look into it and get back to you."

"Thanks so much," said Glenn, and he hung up, but for days and days, he heard nothing. He knew that he needed to include the text of the letter in his article, but was hesitant to do so if it hadn't been completely fact-checked. In the meantime, sitting buzzed on his sofa, he continued to try and think up ways that anti-Mormons would approach the issue. A month and a half into his work, he woke up sober on a Sunday morning, and realized that if he really wanted to think like an apostate, he would have to cease attending church. Hell, you're already stomping all over the word of wisdom, he reasoned. And so he didn't go. Instead, he went to his computer and worked. He wrote for four hours straight, and then he put on his shoes and jacket and went outside for a walk, and was reminded how good it felt to be out in the autumn Utah air. How good it felt to have a clear head, and how good it felt to move through the neighborhood, feeling the pavement beneath his feet, and the wind in his hair.

The rest of the day, he didn't drink, and he didn't drink anything the next day either, nor the next. On the fourth day, he poured out the remainder of his gin and threw out the few cans of beer he still had left. And all this time, he continued to focus on trying to think like a critic. What must it be like, he wondered,to fully believe that the Book of Abraham is a fraud?

He even tried saying these sorts of things out loud, to see how they felt coming out of his mouth: "The Church is a fraud. The Brethren are liars." He turned inwards, trying to determine how he felt, but couldn't see anything. He didn't know what it meant.

So he went back to work, and eventually, the draft was done. He tried calling Elder Grissom's office a final time, and luckily, the secretary responded.

"Hi, Brother Tibbets. I've looked into the matter you asked about, and we have no record of Elder Grissom ever writing such a letter on that date, unfortunately."

Glenn held the phone to his ear. "So, what does that mean?" he asked.

"I...I don't know. I don't know what to tell you, other than the fact that we keep extremely careful record of the Apostle's correspondence, and I can say with absolutely full confidence that no such letter exists."

"All right," said Glenn. "Well, thank you very much for looking into it."

"You're welcome," said the secretary.

But what did it mean? Where did the letter come from, then? Somebody had to be in error, but who? The secretary? Dr. Sanderson? I must be missing something, Glenn thought, but the issue kept vexing him, and by the time the weekend rolled around, he felt troubled enough by it that he decided to return to church on Sunday, and by Monday morning, he was back in his pickup truck, on his way to Evanston to buy a fresh bottle of gin. He fell back into his old routine, put his questions about the letter on the shelf, and sent off the final draft of his article, and waited.

Two weeks later, Merlyn Young called him to tell him the news:

"Brother Tibbets, I'm very pleased to tell you that we have conditionally accepted your article for publication in The Journal of the Hinton Institute for the Defense of Mormonism."

"Wow, really?" he said, clutching a mug of Seagram's.

"Yes," said Merlyn. "We'll be sending you galleys soon. You'll need to look these over and make any corrections you see fit, and then the draft will go to print. With your approval and a final edit, the issue with your article will be out within the month."

"That...that's fantastic! Wow, Dr. Young! I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, Glenn. We should be thanking you for the hard work you put into this."

And he hung up the phone.

The next day, he got his edited essay back from the Hinton Institute apologists, and he read it over. He blinked after he finished the first page, and started again, but it all seemed so unfamiliar. Merlyn Young and Howell Lambeth had changed a lot of the things he'd said in his original draft, but he thought this version seemed so much better: it was cleaner and more elegant. Those two men always knew just the right words to use. He swallowed a gulp of gin and kept reading.

By the time he got to the end, he'd polished off his glass and felt absolutely elated. They're publishing my work! He drank some more, read the article over three more times, and passed out on the couch.

All this time, he had been thinking about how he could repay Dr. Sanderson for so generously giving him this opportunity. What could I possibly give to this learned man as a gift? he wondered. He surfed the internet endlessly. He knew that Dr. Sanderson had an interest in medieval history, especially as it related to warfare. He also knew that Sanderson loved The Lord of the Rings and the work of J. R. R. Tolkien in general, and after looking around in more detail, he decided that he would try to track down a first edition of Tolkien's translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. He drove into Salt Lake City in order to speak with Ken Sanders about obtaining a copy. Sanders pulled on his long, salt-and-pepper beard and promised to get back to him. A few days later, he got an email. A first edition of this book was rare, and would cost him $900, but Glenn had some money socked away, and felt it would be worth it. No one had ever been as generous to him as Dr. Sanderson.

Thus it was a mid-December day, mere weeks before his article would be published, when Glenn drove into Provo in order to give the book to Hiram Sanderson. He parked his pickup and made his way through campus, shaky but stone-cold sober for the occasion. He found the Hinton Institute building on the very southern end of campus and went inside. He unzipped his coat, with the book, neatly wrapped in gold paper, tucked under his arm, and he approached the front desk.

"Excuse me," he said. "Is Professor Sanderson in?"

The girl at the front desk said, "Oh, yes: I just saw him. He's in the conference room with Dr. Lambeth and Dr. Clark. You can just go on back."

"Thank you so much," he said.

His nose was still reddened and numb from the cold as he went through the door to the left and made his way down the hall. He'd met all three apologists at past gatherings of STAAM and immediately recognized their voices echoing out of the conference room:

"Yeah, yeah, it'll do. We've got what we need to deal with this usual anti-Mormon stuff."

Glenn took a few steps further down the hall and paused.

"That Tibbets article was just what we needed, Hiram."

"It sure was."

"Well, we needed someone to deliver the letter, and he seemed like the guy to do it."

"Indeed he did. Quite possibly the stupidest person we will ever publish in the Journal."

"Hey, now. He really helped us out."

"Yeah, I'll say he did!"

There was laughter, and then the sound of chairs behind scooted back on the floor.

"Well, guys, I've got to head out."

"All right, all right. Give me a call later."

Glenn froze, and clutched at the book tucked under his arm. Should he turn and leave? Just then Hiram Sanderson appeared in the doorway.

"Oh! Hi there, Glenn. What are you doing here?"

"I, uh..." he looked at the floor. "It's nothing," he said. "I just wanted to come by and thank you in person, is all."

"Well of course, Brother Tibbets!" Hiram strode forward and extended his hand, and Glenn shook it. "We're the ones who owe you a debt of thanks for all the hard work you put it."

"Yeah," said Glenn. "Whatever I can do."

Hiram was smiling and nodding. "What's that you've got there?" he said, pointing to the book.

"Oh, it's nothing important," said Glenn. "Some Christmas shopping. Or something like that."

"Tis the season," said Hiram. "Or, if I was an anti-Mormon, 'Merry Smithmas!'" he made his eyes go big, and Glenn laughed nervously.

"That's funny, Dr. Sanderson."

Hiram nodded. "So, is that it? You drove all the way out here just to say 'thanks'? That's nice of you; you didn't have to do that."

Glenn shrugged. "It was important to me." He looked down the hall, waiting for Nephi Clark and Howell Lambeth to appear, but he could still hear them talking in the conference room. "But I don't want to be taking up any more of your time."

"No problem at all," said Hiram.

"I guess I should be going."

"Okay then," said Hiram, and once again, he extended his hand, and Glenn shook it. "Safe travels."

"Thanks. Same to you," he said. He turned and left the Hinton Institute as quickly as he could, with the book still in tow. Outside, the sky was impossibly blue, and by the time he made it back to his pickup, his heart was thundering in his chest, and his breath was visible in the cold air. Shaking, he plugged the key into the ignition, and drove home.


...To be concluded in Part IX: Inversion

[Guest]

Part IX: Inversion

He checked the document over for typos a final time, and then he hit PRINT. He took printout from the document tray and held it delicately in his hands, and then he set it on his desk, got out his blue fountain pen, and signed and dated it. Then he folded it neatly into thirds, stuffed it into an envelope and licked and sealed it shut. On the front of it he affixed a sticker that said:

Member Records Division, LDS Church
50 E North Temple Rm 1372
SLC UT 84150-5310

Then he laid it down on the table and stared at it. Was this really the right thing to do? He knew there would be no turning back after this. He would effectively be cutting himself off from a world he'd known his entire life, and yet he couldn't escape the feeling that this was something that he had to do. There was no other choice.

He went and got his shoes and put them on, and then he got his coat and his ball cap and gloves, and then he went out into the cold, winter day. It was still late morning, and he wanted time to gather his thoughts and think things through a final time before he met with Hiram.



Though it had snowed two days earlier, Hiram nonetheless had decided to take Heraclitus for a walk. There had been news reports this winter season of salt and ice damaging dogs' foot pads, but Heraclitus hadn't been out for a walk in a week, and frankly, Hiram felt that he needed the exercise, too. He had been feeling wheezy and faint, even, at times: a result, Judy had surmised, of his holiday feasting, and of the fact that they were dealing yet again with this "darned smog." Every January, it seemed, there were stretches of time where you could see a layer of sludgy, yellow-brown haze in the air, the result of warmer currents of air compacting all the pollution in the city. Hiram had always felt the physical effects of this in the past, but it seemed especially bad this year.

Outside, it was bright and beautiful, but it felt like he couldn't inhale a full, clean gulp of air. He could practically sense that he was sucking in particulates and other filth. Heraclitus, meanwhile, was as happy as could be: panting smilingly and wagging his tail. Hiram took him around on their usual loop around the cup-de-sac, letting him sniff at various things and pee on his favorite fire hydrant, and then they turned back.

When he got back into the house, he checked the clock.

"Is it about time for your little date?" asked Judy, hovering in the hallway near the kitchen.

"I've still got twenty minutes or so before I need to leave," he said. "I should never have agreed to this."

Judy smiled: "I think it's good that you're going. It won't hurt for you to get out of the house. Off of that computer and out into the world."

"If you say so," he said.

Against his better judgment, Hiram had agreed, after much pestering, to meet Glenn Tibbets for lunch, and now he was dreading it. In the wake of the publication of the article, the anti-Mormons had of course immediately assumed that the 2nd Grissom Letter was fraudulent, and they accused Glenn of forging it. Glenn had denied this, and in an effort to protect Hiram, he'd even said that he'd gotten the new letter from Church Headquarters. Because of this, when Glenn asked to meet in order to thank Hiram one last time ("I really think you should let me by you lunch!"), and in order to clarify a few final things about the article, Hiram felt he owed him at least that much, and agreed. He tried to delay by refusing to set a firm date, but eventually, after yet more private messages and emails from Glenn, he at last caved in and set a concrete day, and now that time had arrived. Hiram killed a few more minutes by surfing the internet and reading the new threads on MormonDiscourse.com, and then he got ready, and went out into the cold, smoggy winter day to make the drive up to Salt Lake.



Back in December, after he left the Hinton Institute, Glenn spent a lot of time driving: not heading anywhere in particular, just circling around side streets in downtown Salt Lake City. Gradually it grew dark and he found himself gazing through the windshield at the lights hanging in the skeletal tree limbs in Temple Square. He thought about stopping and getting out to go get a closer look, but he'd seen them many times before, and looking at them now made him feel small and foolish. Next to him, riding in the passenger's seat, was the gold-paper-wrapped book that he'd failed to give to Dr. Sanderson. Glenn wondered what he would do with it: if he'd ever regain the courage to try and give it to Hiram, or if he'd throw it away, or if he'd keep it for himself.

Eventually he went home, and made a beeline for his gin in the freezer, but he stopped himself. Why am I doing this? he asked. He went into the living room instead, and knelt down and folded his arms across his chest.

"Dear father in heaven," he said, "I ask thee for guidance. Please help me to know what the truth is, and whether I belong in your Church. Please, oh Lord, I beg of thee to help guide me in these darkened times. I know I have not been a good servant to thee, and I am so, so sorry for how weak I've been, and I promise to do better. I just ask that thou would help me, and lend me guidance. Please...." His eyes were pinched tightly shut. "I say these things in the name of thy son, Jesus Christ, amen!" He stayed there in that position, kneeling, for some time, waiting for an answer of some kind. But all he heard was silence, and the sound of his own breathing.

In the days that followed, Glenn spent a lot of time reading MormonDiscourse, and looking over his library of Church-related books. His contributor's copy of The Journal of HIDM arrived in the mail, but he didn't feel like celebrating. Instead, he waited for the inevitable, and sure enough: once the anti-Mormons online read it through, they did the first thing he thought they would and attempted to authenticate the 2nd Grissom Letter. They were so certain that it was phony, but Glenn went ahead and insisted to them that he'd personally written to Elder Grissom's office in order to get the letter. He wasn't sure how he felt about lying in this way, since he was unsure of what he was defending anymore, exactly. The Church? The Hinton Institute apologists? His own dignity? The whole thing made him wonder: was it really true what they'd said about him at the Hinton Institute: that he was "stupid"?

He supposed that he probably was stupid, and he knew better than anyone how much of his life he'd squandered: how many mistakes he made. But he still knew that things weren't right with the article, in spite of all the changes that Merlyn Young and the other editors had made. And the more he thought about it, the more he felt that he deserved an answer. In particular, he wanted to know the truth about the letter. The days and weeks past and he had distilled his concerns down into two basic possibilities: either the Hinton Institute apologists had been using him, or he was too spiritually weak and foolish to serve as a defending of the faith, and therefore, he didn't belong in the Church at all. And in the back of his mind, this entire time, he had begun to toy with the notion that the Church was not true after all.

"I guess I just have to ask him," he said to himself one day, staring blankly at his computer, and so he wrote to Dr. Sanderson. Reading the replies, it occurred to Glenn that Sanderson was often dismissive of what he had so say: condescending, even. Why didn't I ever notice this before? he wondered. He kept it up, though: inviting Sanderson out to lunch, and eventually, Sanderson agreed.

The morning they were to meet, Glenn was looking at himself in the mirror as he was shaving, thinking about what he would say to Dr. Sanderson, and he knicked his neck, just beside his adam's apple.

"Dang it," he said, and he realized that he'd been shaking. He'd been free of the shakes for at least two weeks, and hadn't had anything to drink in twice as long. Am I nervous? he asked himself. Or am I angry?

There were some things, he decided, that he would never know. And he was fine with that, for perhaps the first time in his life. When he finished shaving, he used a washcloth on his face, and then he went and sat down at his computer, and wrote the letter that, if he sent it, would terminate his membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.



Hiram pulled into the parking space at the Crowns Burger just southeast of Temple Square, and went in. It was noisy inside and warm, and he could hear the sound of meat sizzling on the grill: it smelled fantastic. He unzipped his coat and looked around, and then he spotted Glenn, dumpy and disheveled-looking in a booth down the way. He smiled and waved and Hiram tugged off his glove and made his way over. Glenn looked away as he shook his hand.

"Thanks so much for coming out, Dr. Sanderson," his voice was uncharacteristically soft. "I just appreciate it so much."

"Sure thing, Glenn," said Hiram, and he sat down.

"Well, should we get some food?"

"Yes. Absolutely. I'm starving."

They spent some time looking over the menu, but Hiram already knew what he wanted: The Crown Burger combo, which was a hamburger that came piled high with salty folds of pastrami. He got fries and a Sprite to pair with it. Glenn, on the other hand, ordered a Jr. Burger which sat untouched before him as Hiram tucked into his burger. He wiped his mouth and took a drink of soda:

"So, thanks for lunch, Glenn."

"No problem."

"I understand, though, that this was more than just a social call, and that you wanted to talk about something, no?"

Glenn wouldn't meet his gaze. "Yeah, it's something like that, Dr. Sanderson." He seemed to be fiddling with something in his lap.

Hiram could feel his cell phone buzzing in his pocket, and he took it out and looked at it: a missed call from Howell Lambeth. He set the phone down on the table next the to napkin dispenser and looked at Glenn. "Well? What is it?"

"I was hoping...I was just hoping that you might try to talk me out of this." He took out the envelope and slid it across the table.

Hiram finished chewing his bite of burger and read the address on the front of the envelope. "What is this? Membership records?" He stared hard at Glenn. "What the hell is this, you're having your name removed?"

Glenn shrugged and looked away. Hiram pushed the envelope back across the table. "You want my advice? You tear that thing up right now and we both forget this ever happened."

"No, there's more to it," said Glenn, and he poked at his Jr. Burger. "I need to know something," he went on. "And I just want you to tell me the truth." At last he looked up and met Hiram's eyes. "I need to know the truth about the 2nd Grissom Letter."

"Oh, that? Yeah, right, Glenn. It's just like you told everyone. You wrote to Church Headquarters, and they sent you the letter. The end." He took another bite of his burger.

"We both know that's not true."

"Sure it is," said Hiram. "You said so yourself. And besides, you know what? So what? What do you want from me?"

Glenn picked the envelope back up and tapped it on the table, thinking. "You aren't going to tell me the truth, then?"

"Glenn, what on earth do you want me to say?"

"I called Elder Grissom's office, trying to find out if there was a record. I was just trying to do the fact-checking."

"Great, Glenn. What do you want, a pat on the back?"

Once again, Glenn met his gaze: "You used me, didn't you?" he said.

Hiram looked away this time, and reached for his Sprite and drank from it. He'd eaten half his burger and a third of the fries. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and balled it up. "Listen, Glenn. I believe in free agency. Don't you?"

"Why me?" said Glenn. "You could have done this yourself. You could have picked anyone else to do this for you. Why me?"

"What do you want me to say, Glenn? Figure it out. You're a smart boy."

Glenn stared back at him and then let out a long sigh. "I guess this is just one of those things I'm never going to have a straight answer for," he said.

"Welcome to the adult world," said Hiram.

"What you did wasn't right. You're supposed to be someone who represents Christ."

"Climb down off your high horse already, would you?"

"No, I'm going to speak my peace."

"Enough," snarled Hiram. "Look: I don't have to sit hear and take this crap from you. Who in the hell do you think you are, anyway? A 'scholar'? A 'well-educated' man? You're not, Glenn. You're nothing. You're weak and a coward, and that's exactly why you're here to try and taunt me with that letter of yours. You're a weak, puny-minded little man who can't live up to his covenants."

Just then a manager came over to the table and leaned in. "I'm sorry to interrupt your meal," he said, "but I'm going to have to ask you to keep your voice down, sir."

"No problem at all," said Hiram, and he made a shooing motion with his hand.

"I apologize," said Glenn to the man. "I was actually just leaving." He still hadn't touched his Jr. Burger.

"I'm paying for my half," he said, his mouth still full of food.

Glenn set a twenty down on the table and then he held up the envelope and looked at it. "I hope you have a nice life, Dr. Sanderson. I really mean that. This whole episode has opened my eyes in a lot of ways. I've learned a lot about myself, and about the Church. And I guess in the end I still have you to thank." He tapped the envelope with his forefinger. "Not that anyone cares, or that anyone will ever ask, or that I will ever say, but this is on you," he said.

Hiram's face was a mess of anger: "You go straight to hell!" he said. "Whatever dumb-assed choices you make are your own! You can't lay any of this crap at my feet!"

Glenn nodded to him a final time, and then tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat, and turned and left. Hiram sat there, feeling the blood surging in his veins, half-turned in his seat. All around, people were staring at him, and he looked away. He kept eating, dipping his fries in fry sauce and polishing off the remains of his pastrami burger. When he was finished, he wiped up his mouth and balled up another napkin and yanked on his coat, and then he grabbed Glenn's twenty up off the table and tore it into pieces, which he also left on the tray. Then he took a fresh twenty out of his wallet, and tossed it onto the table and stormed out of the restaurant.

Back in his car, he could hardly see straight. Where in the hell does this guy get off? he thought. The nerve of this guy. Overhead, a cover of storm clouds had crept in and a few, tiny, icy flakes of snow had begun to fall. Hiram gripped the steering wheel tightly and made his way across downtown, back to to the freeway. He tuned the radio to a classical music station and tried to take deep breaths, though once again, the pollution was getting to him. On the freeway, he drove freely for several moments, only to find himself stuck in heavy traffic. Ten minutes went by and they'd hardly gone a mile. Then twenty minutes, and thirty, and then forty. He felt in his pocket for his phone to call Judy to let her know he'd be late getting back, but he realized that he'd forgotten it back at the restaurant. In this kind of traffic, though, it just wouldn't be worth it to turn around, and after what Glenn pulled, he just needed to get home. By now, the snow had begun to fall harder, and he turned on his windshield wipers. Frustrated drivers beside him were laying on their horns, and the sun began to set, and Hiram switched on his headlights.

He still couldn't believe what Glenn had done: it was outrageous. Completely vicious and uncalled for. What would possess a person to do such a thing, to try to lay that kind of a guilt-trip on someone? Well, he had another thing coming. It had him so stressed out that his stomach had begun to hurt, and so he rummaged in the glove box for his Maalox, but of course it wasn't there.

"Dammit," he muttered.

The traffic inched on a bit further, and Hiram put on his blinker and made his way over to the far left-hand lane, which seemed to be moving slightly faster than the others. Is there an accident or something? he wondered. Meanwhile, the discomfort in his stomach had turned into a full-on knot, and he tried to poke at it with his fingers.

"Damn Crown Burger," he said.

He noticed, too, that he was wheezing slightly. It was just like it always was in these weather conditions, though it felt slightly worse this time, which he figured was related to the burger and his indigestion. Then again, there was a kind of heaviness settling over his chest, and he could sense an ache growing just behind his left ear.

It's nothing, he told himself.

Up ahead, the traffic loosened up a bit, and he was able to speed up to 20 mph. He gripped the steering wheel and tried to catch his breath, but he couldn't fill his lungs, and it felt as if someone was standing on his chest, and he was having difficulty swallowing. It was at that point that Hiram Sanderson understood at last that he was having a heart attack. He tried very hard to calm himself, and to draw in a full breath of air, but he couldn't, and so he rolled down the window and the cold air helped a bit, but all the while, he knew he had to try and get help. He felt again in his pocket for his phone, but realized that he'd left it back at Crowns Burger, which in turn made him angrier and more distressed, which he knew was bad for his heart. He pressed on the horn several times, and then realized that it wouldn't accomplish anything. And all the while, it grew ever more difficult to breathe, and his chest was tightening up, as if something was torquing his heart muscle itself. It felt like he would be torn in half.

"I've got to, I've got to..."

He blinked and felt like his vision was failing, and so he put on his hazard lights and pulled over to the shoulder. He knew that he should probably get out of the car and try to flag someone down for help, but he couldn't move: he was paralyzed. He slumped forward against the steering wheel and looked out the windshield. He wasn't thinking of anything in particular, beyond a semi-conscious hope that his pain would subside. He stared out straight ahead, watching as the wipers cleared away the drifts of snow, hearing their thump thump, and looking out at the long, serpent-like string of red tail-lights, winking off and on, inching slowly forward and stretching off endlessly into the blackness of the night.


THE END.