A Great and Dreadful Day, Part III: The Book of Abraham

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_Bob Bobberson
_Emeritus
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Joined: Thu Apr 14, 2011 6:39 pm

Re: A Great and Dreadful Day, Part III: The Book of Abraham

Post by _Bob Bobberson »

- TWENTY-NINE -

A thin blade of sunlight was coming through the gap in the dark velvet curtains in the office of LDS Church President Alma Grange Baylor. The light was visible because of the dust motes in the air: they fluttered and shifted in the sunlight so that it seemed as if a luminous pane of glass was dividing the room in two. It had been close to a week since the bombing, and President Baylor was once again in the midst of attending to his duties as prophet, seer, and revelator.

“And this is what the Lord has commanded of me,” said the prophet. “I have seen a vision of the last days, and they are upon us. We are to commence with the purification of the Earth.”

Seated before Baylor’s desk were his two councilors: David J. Marshall and Lehi Arlen Walker. Walker, at 79, was the older of the two men, and he’d been a General Authority longer than Marshall, and thus he spoke first. “President Baylor,” he began. “This is a great and terrible thing that you have foreseen.”

“Indeed it is,” added Marshall, who was 76, and whose appointment as First Councilor had caused a minor stir, since most of the Brethren, and indeed the membership as a whole, had expected Baylor to select Walker as his First Councilor.

“I can tell you,” Walker continued, “that David, myself, and all the rest of the Brethren have been deeply concerned about you ever since the bombing. Of course it was no surprise to us when you returned to the ecclesiastical duties of your office, but to think that you’ve been receiving revelations of this magnitude!”
“What are we to do next? By what means are we to remove the tares?” asked Marshall.

“I wonder if this is a matter which ought to be discussed, ruminated upon, and prayed over by the Twelve as a whole. We must act as a body, given the gravity of the vision. We must ensure that we all face the same way.”

President Baylor rotated slightly in his large leather desk chair. “Do you have reason to believe that there is dissension among the apostles, Elder Walker? Or that there will be?”

“Not at present, I don’t,” he said. “But who knows? Have you informed President Pitt?”

“I intend to tell the rest of the Brethren at our next prayer circle. We are to pray on this matter, both collectively and individually. Elder Marshall asks how we shall precede. He asks this because he’s wise, and perhaps because he senses—correctly—that our Father in Heaven has not yet provided us with a full and clear set of instructions. That, my dear brothers, is why I ask for your council.” He swiveled his chair back so that he was facing both of them squarely. “General Conference is in but a few days. We must decide what, if anything, we are to tell the Saints. They will expect answers from us. They will want advice on who is to make the pilgrimage to Adam-Ondi-Ahman.”

“Certainly this session of General Conference is too soon to tell the Saints,” said Walker.

Baylor gazed at him. “I will accept your council, Lehi, and I will make a decision as to how we will proceed in terms of leading the Saints.”

Walker nodded soberly. “Yes, President Baylor. Though I wonder if this is in keeping with the Lord’s plans. I am reminded that we must strive always to abide by the unwritten order of all things. These are momentous and stupendous notions, and I cannot help but wonder whether we’d do better to be cautious—to give the Brethren time to reach the proper spiritual frame of mind.”

Beside him, 1st Councilor Marshall seemed more excited: “These are momentous and stupendous times indeed,” he said. “Signs and wonders abound. I’m grateful to you, President Baylor, for the firm hand of spiritual guidance that you’ve provided to us during your presidency. I cannot wait to learn the extent to which we will be able to abide by and aid in the Lord’s plan for us in these latter days.”

“You are a good man, Elder Marshall,” said Baylor. “Now that is all for now. We will reconvene at the prayer circle, at which time I will expect both of you to have prayed on this matter.”

“Of course, my prophet,” said Walker, and he and Marshall both shook Baylor’s thin and frail hand before they left. Outside, 2nd Councilor Walker followed Marshall down to the end of the hall before the younger man spoke. “How many others do you think he’s told?”

Walker, who had developed a slouch as he entered his eighties, shrugged his shoulders. “Very few, I daresay. Doubtless he’s told President Pitt. Likely his wife as well.”

“What times we are living in!” said Marshall. He had very white, almost silk-like hair that had maintained its thickness into old age. “I don’t know that I can contain my excitement. I’ve half a mind to tell spread the news to all the Brethren immediately.”

Walker caught him by the arm: “You can’t do that. You have to wait. This is not news for the grapevine, David. We need to proceed with caution, and we must abide by the Lord’s council, which means that for now the knowledge of this revelation must be kept secret. The less people know, the better. The prophet clearly indicated that he needs more time to formulate his decision as to how to proceed. For now what we need most is patience, and the clarity of mind and spirit necessary to hear the promptings of our Heavenly Father. That’s the best course of action for now.” Walker watched the giddiness drain out of Marshall’s face.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Humility and patience are surely the way to go. I shall pray over the matter.”

“As will I.”

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Of course, old friend.”

They shook hands, and Marshall slipped away into his office. 2nd Councilor Walker was unsure as to what Marshall would do next. He had been aligned with Elder Pitt on a number of issues—mostly social issues pertaining to things like homosexuals and liberals—so it was possible that he would contact Pitt in an effort to learn more about the prophet’s will. Then again, it was equally possible that Marshall would simply retreat into the caverns of his own soul—that he would go searching for an answer of his own. As for Walker, his fears about the prophet were growing by the minute. He, too, had spoken with Eleanor Baylor, and he’d noticed oddities at times in the Prophet’s speech. Thus he was of a divided mind, and he was afraid of both sides. It was frightening to him that the visions might be true, and it concerned him greatly that the prophet’s mind could have deteriorated to the point that he mistook delusions for the voice of God. But that was a part of his calling as 2nd Councilor. In the event that the President of the Church should fall ill or become incapacitated in some way, he and the 1st Councilor were to assume leadership over the Church. Thus, he and Marshall represented a kind of failsafe in the event of calamity, or in the event that the chain of priesthood authority was, for whatever reason, temporarily altered. This had been the way of things dating back to the time of Joseph Smith. Walker knew all too well about Brigham Young’s fears in the wake of Joseph’s martyrdom. President Young had feared—quite rightly—that the keys had been lost. But they hadn’t. In the end, the Lord always revealed the way. It would be so this time too, in the end, but for the time being Walker knew he needed to act. He knew that he needed, as soon as possible, to find Elder Talmadge Steele.



In his office, 1st Counselor Marshall had sat in the dark leather French club chair at the edge of the room, and he had prayed for some time. He’d felt a warmth in his breast—an assurance that the Holy Ghost was still at his side—but the voice of the Lord had been silent. Marshall took this to mean that it wasn’t yet time to act. Heavenly Father’s guidance would be forthcoming when the time was right. So, he got up to go and find Elder Pitt, and indeed he was reaching for the door handle right as there was a knock. He opened it and there stood Pitt, slightly stooped, with his rather large ears, and his eyes very dark behind his metal-framed glasses.

“Let me in, Elder Marshall, let me in,” he said, and he pushed his way past, scanning around the room, as if he were looking for some concealed object, and then he sat down in the chair that Marshall had only just vacated. “Close the door. Good, good. Now I understand that the prophet spoke with you and 2nd Counselor Walker.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Would you like me to call Lehi over? Was he the one who told you about the meeting?”

“No, no. Certainly not. It was President Baylor himself who told me of the meeting. I’ll speak to President Walker once I’m done here. The reason I’ve come to you first, David, is that we need to discuss how we are to proceed.”

Elder David Marshall hovered at the edge of his desk, the metal of his wedding band clanging softly against the dark wood. “Proceed in what sense? The prophet spoke of telling the rest of the Brethren, and of seeking their counsel.”

Pitt shook his head: “No. The time is not yet right for that. You see, Elder Marshall, in these latter days we are to face a series of special challenges and burdens. The apostles, as the scriptures say, are to act as guardians for the Saints, and thus they’ll receive the fullness of knowledge when the time is right. They will be tested by the Lord and we shall know which way each of them faces.”

“But all of us must face the same way, Elder Pitt. I was told this the same as you.”

“Times are different, David. Times are changing. The prophet, though his holy gifts and vision are as acute as ever, is growing physically weaker. He needs my help. He needs our help.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it is our responsibility to begin paving the way for the return of the Savior. We—you and I—are to lead up the effort to gather the tares.”

Marshall nodded. Before he’d begun to pray, he’d re-examined the passage in Matthew for himself. “What are we to do?”

“Now I speak on behalf of the prophet himself,” said Pitt, though Marshall knew this wasn’t strictly true. Pitt had seniority over Marshall, but no one other than the prophet held the appropriate priesthood keys. “We are to appoint a council of twelve men who will assist us in the weeding out of the tares. We will gather them up and burn them, just as the scriptures command.”

“How will we do this?”

“I will select some of the men, as will you. Elder Brotherton will assist us. Each of us will select twelve and we will winnow out a final quorum from among these men. The three of us—myself, you, and Elder Brotherton—will reconvene in a few weeks’ time to discuss the list, and we’ll go from there. In the meantime, silence is our friend. Promise to me, David, that you will tell no one.”

“You have my word, Elder Pitt.”

“Swear on it.”

“I swear it.”

“Good, good. I have spoken with the prophet, and he has heeded my counsel concerning the need for discretion on this matter. There will be a time and a place to inform the entirety of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles, but that time is not now.”

“I agree.”

“Okay, then,” said Pitt, rising to his feet. “I’ll be in touch. Put together a list of twelve trustworthy men. They should be men with deep connections to the Church. Loyalty, above all else, should be manifest in them. And they should be stout of heart as well. Their work will not be pleasant.”

“Of course,” said Elder Marshall. “I will wait for the word.”

“We all will,” said Pitt, and he went out of the room.



2nd Counselor Walker met Elder Steele at his office on the other end of the Church Administration Building. Steele’s secretary had set out lunch for him: roast chicken from a place not far from Temple Square. When Walker arrived, Steele pulled the napkin out from his collar and went around to shake Walker’s hand. He knew immediately something wasn’t right. Walker sat down in a chair at the edge of the room and Steel sat back down to his meal, and the 2nd Counselor began to lay everything out. As Walker went over what the prophet had said, Steele felt his appetite diminishing.

“Who else knows?” he asked.

“It was myself and President Marshall in the meeting,” said Walker. “But I’m quite certain that Elder Pitt knows as well.”

“I see,” said Steele. “Zealotry and revelation are bad bedfellows,” he said. He and Walker had known each other for over fifty years. They seldom disagreed on anything, and they were close enough that they were able to read each other’s feelings on spiritual matters practically at a glance. Steele thought things over for a moment more, trying to stifle what was, at base, a kind of mild panic. At last he looked up at his friend: “Do you believe it?”

“Believe what?” said Walker. “The revelation?”

“Yes. Have you prayed on it?”

“I have. I fear the worst,” he said.

Steele nodded. “When I visited him in the hospital, his wife told me things that are cause for concern.”

“Yes,” said Walker. “I was told the same thing, though in truth I didn’t need Eleanor to tell me anything. I can see clearly enough with my own two eyes that the prophet is faltering.”

“Faltering?” said Steele, and 2nd Counselor Walker nodded. “We’ve got to act. President Pitt will move to carry out the dictates of the revelation.”

“That was my thought as well,” said Walker. “What do you think he’ll do?” Though Walker was older than Steele, he did not rank as high in terms of seniority, and it was this, in addition to his lack of vanity, that rendered him unbothered to ask for Steele’s advice.

“Mmm. I’m not entirely sure. He will lay low for the time being, but there’s no doubt that he’ll work to build consensus of some kind. This will to some extent be a battle of persuasion, Lehi.”

“Surely the Brethren will side with us.”

“What if the prophet announces his vision during the prayer circle?”

“I don’t think he will. My sense is that Pitt has persuaded him to keep quiet for the time being.”

“But if he is non compos mentis, there is no predicting what he’ll do.”

“That’s true. But Elder Pitt has his ear and his trust for the time being, and consequently Pitt is going to be the guiding force in all this. Pitt will want to wait until after General Conference. He’ll want to use the occasion—he’ll want to use his pulpit as a means of preparing the way for what’s to come.”

“I agree,” said Steele. “We have to tread lightly. We have to convince the Brethren that the prophet’s mind is failing. We cannot engage in an open, frontal attack against Elder Pitt. He’s the President of the Quorum, and his authority cannot be easily challenged.”

“We must keep a close eye on his doings.”

“Yes. Keep your contacts close. I’ll call Grant Toynbee immediately to see if anything’s been brewing. Speaking of which, we can expect that Elder Brotherton will side with President Pitt.”

“Yes, of course,” said Walker. “I supposed I should make a few phone calls myself,” he said.

Steele took his friend’s hand and patted him on the shoulder: “Take care, Lehi. And be careful.”

“You too,” he said.




...Next Time: For 3 hours, once in the fall and once in the spring....
_bcuzbcuz
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Re: A Great and Dreadful Day, Part III: The Book of Abraham

Post by _bcuzbcuz »

Bob Bobberson wrote:- TWENTY-NINE -

A thin blade of sunlight was coming through the gap in the dark velvet curtains in the office of LDS Church President Alma Grange Baylor. The light was visible because of the dust motes in the air: they fluttered and shifted in the sunlight so that it seemed as if a luminous pane of glass was dividing the room in two. It had been close to a week since the bombing, and President Baylor was once again in the midst of attending to his duties as prophet, seer, and revelator.

“And this is what the Lord has commanded of me,” said the prophet. “I have seen a vision of the last days, and they are upon us. We are to commence with the purification of the Earth.”

Seated before Baylor’s desk were his two councilors: David J. Marshall and Lehi Arlen Walker. Walker, at 79, was the older of the two men, and he’d been a General Authority longer than Marshall, and thus he spoke first. “President Baylor,” he began. “This is a great and terrible thing that you have foreseen.”

“Indeed it is,” added Marshall, who was 76, and whose appointment as First Councilor had caused a minor stir, since most of the Brethren, and indeed the membership as a whole, had expected Baylor to select Walker as his First Councilor.

“I can tell you,” Walker continued, “that David, myself, and all the rest of the Brethren have been deeply concerned about you ever since the bombing. Of course it was no surprise to us when you returned to the ecclesiastical duties of your office, but to think that you’ve been receiving revelations of this magnitude!”
“What are we to do next? By what means are we to remove the tares?” asked Marshall.

“I wonder if this is a matter which ought to be discussed, ruminated upon, and prayed over by the Twelve as a whole. We must act as a body, given the gravity of the vision. We must ensure that we all face the same way.”

President Baylor rotated slightly in his large leather desk chair. “Do you have reason to believe that there is dissension among the apostles, Elder Walker? Or that there will be?”

“Not at present, I don’t,” he said. “But who knows? Have you informed President Pitt?”

“I intend to tell the rest of the Brethren at our next prayer circle. We are to pray on this matter, both collectively and individually. Elder Marshall asks how we shall precede. He asks this because he’s wise, and perhaps because he senses—correctly—that our Father in Heaven has not yet provided us with a full and clear set of instructions. That, my dear brothers, is why I ask for your council.” He swiveled his chair back so that he was facing both of them squarely. “General Conference is in but a few days. We must decide what, if anything, we are to tell the Saints. They will expect answers from us. They will want advice on who is to make the pilgrimage to Adam-Ondi-Ahman.”

“Certainly this session of General Conference is too soon to tell the Saints,” said Walker.

Baylor gazed at him. “I will accept your council, Lehi, and I will make a decision as to how we will proceed in terms of leading the Saints.”

Walker nodded soberly. “Yes, President Baylor. Though I wonder if this is in keeping with the Lord’s plans. I am reminded that we must strive always to abide by the unwritten order of all things. These are momentous and stupendous notions, and I cannot help but wonder whether we’d do better to be cautious—to give the Brethren time to reach the proper spiritual frame of mind.”

Beside him, 1st Councilor Marshall seemed more excited: “These are momentous and stupendous times indeed,” he said. “Signs and wonders abound. I’m grateful to you, President Baylor, for the firm hand of spiritual guidance that you’ve provided to us during your presidency. I cannot wait to learn the extent to which we will be able to abide by and aid in the Lord’s plan for us in these latter days.”

“You are a good man, Elder Marshall,” said Baylor. “Now that is all for now. We will reconvene at the prayer circle, at which time I will expect both of you to have prayed on this matter.”

“Of course, my prophet,” said Walker, and he and Marshall both shook Baylor’s thin and frail hand before they left. Outside, 2nd Councilor Walker followed Marshall down to the end of the hall before the younger man spoke. “How many others do you think he’s told?”

Walker, who had developed a slouch as he entered his eighties, shrugged his shoulders. “Very few, I daresay. Doubtless he’s told President Pitt. Likely his wife as well.”

“What times we are living in!” said Marshall. He had very white, almost silk-like hair that had maintained its thickness into old age. “I don’t know that I can contain my excitement. I’ve half a mind to tell spread the news to all the Brethren immediately.”

Walker caught him by the arm: “You can’t do that. You have to wait. This is not news for the grapevine, David. We need to proceed with caution, and we must abide by the Lord’s council, which means that for now the knowledge of this revelation must be kept secret. The less people know, the better. The prophet clearly indicated that he needs more time to formulate his decision as to how to proceed. For now what we need most is patience, and the clarity of mind and spirit necessary to hear the promptings of our Heavenly Father. That’s the best course of action for now.” Walker watched the giddiness drain out of Marshall’s face.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Humility and patience are surely the way to go. I shall pray over the matter.”

“As will I.”

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Of course, old friend.”

They shook hands, and Marshall slipped away into his office. 2nd Councilor Walker was unsure as to what Marshall would do next. He had been aligned with Elder Pitt on a number of issues—mostly social issues pertaining to things like homosexuals and liberals—so it was possible that he would contact Pitt in an effort to learn more about the prophet’s will. Then again, it was equally possible that Marshall would simply retreat into the caverns of his own soul—that he would go searching for an answer of his own. As for Walker, his fears about the prophet were growing by the minute. He, too, had spoken with Eleanor Baylor, and he’d noticed oddities at times in the Prophet’s speech. Thus he was of a divided mind, and he was afraid of both sides. It was frightening to him that the visions might be true, and it concerned him greatly that the prophet’s mind could have deteriorated to the point that he mistook delusions for the voice of God. But that was a part of his calling as 2nd Councilor. In the event that the President of the Church should fall ill or become incapacitated in some way, he and the 1st Councilor were to assume leadership over the Church. Thus, he and Marshall represented a kind of failsafe in the event of calamity, or in the event that the chain of priesthood authority was, for whatever reason, temporarily altered. This had been the way of things dating back to the time of Joseph Smith. Walker knew all too well about Brigham Young’s fears in the wake of Joseph’s martyrdom. President Young had feared—quite rightly—that the keys had been lost. But they hadn’t. In the end, the Lord always revealed the way. It would be so this time too, in the end, but for the time being Walker knew he needed to act. He knew that he needed, as soon as possible, to find Elder Talmadge Steele.



In his office, 1st Counselor Marshall had sat in the dark leather French club chair at the edge of the room, and he had prayed for some time. He’d felt a warmth in his breast—an assurance that the Holy Ghost was still at his side—but the voice of the Lord had been silent. Marshall took this to mean that it wasn’t yet time to act. Heavenly Father’s guidance would be forthcoming when the time was right. So, he got up to go and find Elder Pitt, and indeed he was reaching for the door handle right as there was a knock. He opened it and there stood Pitt, slightly stooped, with his rather large ears, and his eyes very dark behind his metal-framed glasses.

“Let me in, Elder Marshall, let me in,” he said, and he pushed his way past, scanning around the room, as if he were looking for some concealed object, and then he sat down in the chair that Marshall had only just vacated. “Close the door. Good, good. Now I understand that the prophet spoke with you and 2nd Counselor Walker.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Would you like me to call Lehi over? Was he the one who told you about the meeting?”

“No, no. Certainly not. It was President Baylor himself who told me of the meeting. I’ll speak to President Walker once I’m done here. The reason I’ve come to you first, David, is that we need to discuss how we are to proceed.”

Elder David Marshall hovered at the edge of his desk, the metal of his wedding band clanging softly against the dark wood. “Proceed in what sense? The prophet spoke of telling the rest of the Brethren, and of seeking their counsel.”

Pitt shook his head: “No. The time is not yet right for that. You see, Elder Marshall, in these latter days we are to face a series of special challenges and burdens. The apostles, as the scriptures say, are to act as guardians for the Saints, and thus they’ll receive the fullness of knowledge when the time is right. They will be tested by the Lord and we shall know which way each of them faces.”

“But all of us must face the same way, Elder Pitt. I was told this the same as you.”

“Times are different, David. Times are changing. The prophet, though his holy gifts and vision are as acute as ever, is growing physically weaker. He needs my help. He needs our help.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it is our responsibility to begin paving the way for the return of the Savior. We—you and I—are to lead up the effort to gather the tares.”

Marshall nodded. Before he’d begun to pray, he’d re-examined the passage in Matthew for himself. “What are we to do?”

“Now I speak on behalf of the prophet himself,” said Pitt, though Marshall knew this wasn’t strictly true. Pitt had seniority over Marshall, but no one other than the prophet held the appropriate priesthood keys. “We are to appoint a council of twelve men who will assist us in the weeding out of the tares. We will gather them up and burn them, just as the scriptures command.”

“How will we do this?”

“I will select some of the men, as will you. Elder Brotherton will assist us. Each of us will select twelve and we will winnow out a final quorum from among these men. The three of us—myself, you, and Elder Brotherton—will reconvene in a few weeks’ time to discuss the list, and we’ll go from there. In the meantime, silence is our friend. Promise to me, David, that you will tell no one.”

“You have my word, Elder Pitt.”

“Swear on it.”

“I swear it.”

“Good, good. I have spoken with the prophet, and he has heeded my counsel concerning the need for discretion on this matter. There will be a time and a place to inform the entirety of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles, but that time is not now.”

“I agree.”

“Okay, then,” said Pitt, rising to his feet. “I’ll be in touch. Put together a list of twelve trustworthy men. They should be men with deep connections to the Church. Loyalty, above all else, should be manifest in them. And they should be stout of heart as well. Their work will not be pleasant.”

“Of course,” said Elder Marshall. “I will wait for the word.”

“We all will,” said Pitt, and he went out of the room.



2nd Counselor Walker met Elder Steele at his office on the other end of the Church Administration Building. Steele’s secretary had set out lunch for him: roast chicken from a place not far from Temple Square. When Walker arrived, Steele pulled the napkin out from his collar and went around to shake Walker’s hand. He knew immediately something wasn’t right. Walker sat down in a chair at the edge of the room and Steel sat back down to his meal, and the 2nd Counselor began to lay everything out. As Walker went over what the prophet had said, Steele felt his appetite diminishing.

“Who else knows?” he asked.

“It was myself and President Marshall in the meeting,” said Walker. “But I’m quite certain that Elder Pitt knows as well.”

“I see,” said Steele. “Zealotry and revelation are bad bedfellows,” he said. He and Walker had known each other for over fifty years. They seldom disagreed on anything, and they were close enough that they were able to read each other’s feelings on spiritual matters practically at a glance. Steele thought things over for a moment more, trying to stifle what was, at base, a kind of mild panic. At last he looked up at his friend: “Do you believe it?”

“Believe what?” said Walker. “The revelation?”

“Yes. Have you prayed on it?”

“I have. I fear the worst,” he said.

Steele nodded. “When I visited him in the hospital, his wife told me things that are cause for concern.”

“Yes,” said Walker. “I was told the same thing, though in truth I didn’t need Eleanor to tell me anything. I can see clearly enough with my own two eyes that the prophet is faltering.”

“Faltering?” said Steele, and 2nd Counselor Walker nodded. “We’ve got to act. President Pitt will move to carry out the dictates of the revelation.”

“That was my thought as well,” said Walker. “What do you think he’ll do?” Though Walker was older than Steele, he did not rank as high in terms of seniority, and it was this, in addition to his lack of vanity, that rendered him unbothered to ask for Steele’s advice.

“Mmm. I’m not entirely sure. He will lay low for the time being, but there’s no doubt that he’ll work to build consensus of some kind. This will to some extent be a battle of persuasion, Lehi.”

“Surely the Brethren will side with us.”

“What if the prophet announces his vision during the prayer circle?”

“I don’t think he will. My sense is that Pitt has persuaded him to keep quiet for the time being.”

“But if he is non compos mentis, there is no predicting what he’ll do.”

“That’s true. But Elder Pitt has his ear and his trust for the time being, and consequently Pitt is going to be the guiding force in all this. Pitt will want to wait until after General Conference. He’ll want to use the occasion—he’ll want to use his pulpit as a means of preparing the way for what’s to come.”

“I agree,” said Steele. “We have to tread lightly. We have to convince the Brethren that the prophet’s mind is failing. We cannot engage in an open, frontal attack against Elder Pitt. He’s the President of the Quorum, and his authority cannot be easily challenged.”

“We must keep a close eye on his doings.”

“Yes. Keep your contacts close. I’ll call Grant Toynbee immediately to see if anything’s been brewing. Speaking of which, we can expect that Elder Brotherton will side with President Pitt.”

“Yes, of course,” said Walker. “I supposed I should make a few phone calls myself,” he said.

Steele took his friend’s hand and patted him on the shoulder: “Take care, Lehi. And be careful.”

“You too,” he said.




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_Bob Bobberson
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Re: A Great and Dreadful Day, Part III: The Book of Abraham

Post by _Bob Bobberson »

- THIRTY -


General Conference. There was really no way that he was getting out of it. In the days following his confession to Emily, Sam had done everything in his power to reconnect with his wife. He told her that he still loved her, and that he would do anything for her and Kaylee. He said that he would pray some more, and that he would try to overcome his misgivings about the Book of Abraham, the Book of Mormon, and the Church in general, though these were mostly futile gestures. Emily accused him of being “insincere.” “The light has gone out of your eyes,” she said to him one day, and he didn’t doubt it. It felt like his whole world had darkened. Every day he felt sick, as if a tumor was growing in his chest—as if the things he’d learned about the Church had infected him like a disease. Emily went through bouts of crying, wailing and sobbing like a child, and she complained to him that she couldn’t bear to go through life without a strong priesthood holder in the house, and Sam tried to reassure her that he still held the priesthood, but they seemed to be speaking in different languages.

Meanwhile, Sam continued to go to work. He’d ceased looking into problematic Church history and doctrine—it wasn’t worth the risk, what with Emily in the state she was in. He kept his head down, and each morning he read the paper in the hopes of learning details about what had happened with the bombing in Salt Lake City. Of course he knew that people hated the LDS Church. It was widely known that people had been out to destroy the Church and its leaders since the days of Joseph Smith. Usually they were gentiles or people from other supposedly Christian faiths—people who took issue with the Church’s various successes, or with piddling differences in doctrine. But the reports in the paper were vague on motives. President Baylor was okay, and was recuperating in the hospital, and he was expected to be well enough to preside over General Conference.

Emily, on the other hand, had begun to reach out to her family, and to people in the ward. Sam knew this because he sometimes overheard her on the phone with various sisters from the Relief Society, and because he would occasionally see people from Church around town, and he’d wave to them, and they’d look away, or they’d smile bitterly and wanly at him. Their friendliness and courtesy was forced—it seemed like hatred with a smile. Things continued to sour in the week before Conference. On Friday evening, Bishop Gladden called to tell him that he was being released from his calling as the teacher for the deacons. “Isn’t it kind of early to be releasing me?” asked Sam. “I mean, don’t I need to stick with the guys until we at least get through the section in the manual?” It was for the best, Gladden had said. He’d prayed on the matter, and consulted with the Stake President, and that was that. By no means should Sam view this as punishment, though. It had nothing to do with his questions about the Church, Gladden insisted. It was just time for a change, though it didn’t feel that way. It felt more like a disciplinary measure. Sam had grown to like the boys in his class—he felt responsible for them, and he cared about their progress in the Church. Now he was being cut free of them. He wouldn’t even have a chance to offer a formal “goodbye.” The Bishop released him that Sunday, and he was immediately replaced by Craig Ferguson.

Thus, all things considered, Sam’s attendance that Sunday at General Conference seemed in many respects like a last ditch effort to save both his faith and his marriage. One part of him hoped that the words of the Brethren would save him from his doubts; the other part had already given up. One part of him thought that he could re-establish the trust of his fellow Latter-day Saints in the ward; the other part knew that Emily had already maligned his reputation too badly. He slowly made his way through the pre-Conference crowd in the foyer, shaking hands with suited men who’d once professed to be his friend and his brother, and who now had trouble looking him in the eye. They either glanced quickly into his face and looked away, or they focused their gaze at some spot off in the distance: looking through him rather than at him, until he turned away, at which point all of them stared. He could feel them looking. Emily, with a thin blanket draped over Kaylee, got consolation from the sisters, who touched her on the shoulder and looked disapprovingly at Sam. Some of the women, like the bishop’s wife, wore expressions that alternated between pity and satisfaction—it was as if they were patting themselves on the back for having chosen steady and unwavering priesthood holders as husbands. Sam was weak—a curiosity, a freak. A weak convert who’d failed to live up to the demands and expectations of the restored gospel. And then there was Ray. As Sam stood in the brightly lit foyer, with its burnt orange carpet and its dully white walls, with the old brown upholstered armchair near the doors, next to the phone, and the cheaply framed prints of Joseph Smith and Jesus hanging on the wall—there was Ray, smiling sheepishly and holding out his hand. Sam reached out and shook it.

“How you holding up?” said Ray.

“Not so well. Managing, but it’s rough. It seems like there’s nothing I can do.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

The two men had maneuvered over to the edge of the foyer, back near the double glass doors that looked out at the grassy backyard property of the ward house.

Sam watched his friend—perhaps the last friend he had among these people—and said what should have been obvious. “You have doubts too, don’t you?” he said.

Ray frowned: “What do you mean?”

“The Book of Abraham…The history of the Book of Mormon… You don’t believe any of that stuff, do you?”

Ray paused to shake Bob Gompert’s hand as he passed by into the chapel. Gompert, in contrast to many of the other men, gave a desultory but sympathetic nod to Sam.

“I don’t see how that matters,” said Ray.

“How can you say that? How does it not matter? How could anything possibly not matter more?”

“I think there’s more to it than the question of whether or not these various doctrinal things are strictly ‘true.’ I don’t buy into the whole ‘all or nothing’ mentality that so many people do. Besides, I like the culture and the sense of community. Mormonism’s in my blood.”

“Even if it’s all just a lie?”

“There’s no way to know for certain,” said Ray, again smiling sheepishly. “It’s a matter of faith. Look: I’ve made my own separate peace with all of this. With the wife, with the shady history, all of it. With Joseph Smith. At the end of the day, I think that I’m a better person as a member of the Church than not. So that’s why I stay in.”

As he looked at Ray, Sam felt again as if he’d been deceived in some respects. It was as if Ray had been toying with him—tearing down his testimony from this comfortable place of “separate peace” that he’d carved out for himself. Sam felt like punching him. “You are a real son of a bitch, Ray,” he muttered. “But you are about the only person I can talk to about all of this stuff, so I guess you’re all I’ve got.”

Ray patted him on the shoulder: “Hey, keep your chin up—everything will work out. You’ll see. You’re not alone in this.” He leaned in so that he could whisper: “There’s a group of people that meets in Salt Lake each fall. People like you and me. I don’t want to get into the details now, but it may be something you’d be interested in.”

“What ‘group of people’?”

“Now’s not the right time for me to get into it,” said Ray, and he winked.

“All right,” said Sam. By now most of the people—Emily and Kaylee included—had filed into the chapel. General Conference was about to begin. Sam and Ray both went in and took their seats among the brown-upholstered pews.

At the front of the chapel, a large-screen TV had been wheeled up near the podium, and Bishop Gladden and one of the elders were fiddling with it. When Sam first began attending church a few years back, one of the things he noticed was a satellite dish situated in a chain-link enclosure at the side of the church building. He later learned that the sole purpose of the dish was to beam in broadcasts of the bi-annual General Conference from Salt Lake City. The Conferences took place in April and October each year, and they consisted of a series of talks and lectures from the General Authorities. There had been a session yesterday—on Saturday—but Sam hadn’t gone. Normally that session consisted of the sustaining of Church officers, and of meetings for the various auxiliaries, including priesthood, but Sam had concocted an excuse to avoid going. In any case, the Sunday session was considered to be the more important session to attend, as it usually featured whatever key bits of advice and doctrine the Brethren had decided to share with Latter-day Saints across the globe. So, still thinking about the things Ray had said about the organized group of people ‘like you and me’, Sam settled in to watch. Beside him, with a blanket draped over her torso, Emily nursed Kaylee. The bishop dimmed the lights and the broadcast commenced.



...Next Time: The Brethren hold forth...
_Bob Bobberson
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Re: A Great and Dreadful Day, Part III: The Book of Abraham

Post by _Bob Bobberson »

- THIRTY-ONE -



The Brethren had all filed into the tabernacle, a building that, when seen from the outside, shone like a silvery shield in the pale autumn sunlight. The General Authorities sat up at the front, near the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, where they looked out upon the great sea of Saints who had purchased tickets to attend the event. Security, naturally, was heavier than usual, given the attack on the prophet.

Miles away, Sam sat and watched. He glanced over the program that had been Xeroxed and placed in the all the small cubbyholes that held the hymnals. He read it over:

The 163rd Semiannual General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

Sunday Morning Session

Ephraim J. Jorgenson: “Let Thy Light Shine Forth”
Gregory Y. Brotherton: “The Wealth and Rewards of Faith”
Talmadge Banner Steele: “Charity in Today’s World”
C. Rigdon. Pitt: “The Hand of the Adversary”
Alma Grange Baylor: “Testimony”



As he listened, the speakers’ voices faded in and out of his consciousness. He felt weary and found that he was having difficulty paying attention to what the Brethren said. It struck him that their talks all sounded the same, and that the talks, in turn, tended to reiterate the same themes that were repeated again and again in the Church’s lesson manuals. Here, for example, was

Elder Ephraim J. Jorgenson of the 2nd Quorum of the Seventy:

…when I was a boy growing up in Heber, Utah, I met a man named Jedediah. My father brought him home to dine with our family. My father explained to us, “Jedediah has no family of his own,” and so he sat and ate the meal that my mother had prepared. He ate hungrily and said very little, but when my father blessed the meal, I saw that there were tears in Jedediah’s eyes. It was the first time he’d felt the spirit with such force. “You must be a righteous family,” he later confessed to my father, and he pleaded with us that he might be allowed to share in the light enjoyed by our family.

So, my father contacted the bishop and we arranged for Jedediah to begin taking the missionary lessons. Soon after this, Jedidiah bore his testimony to us and he was subsequently baptized into the Church.

The scriptures teach us that we must act as a beacon to the rest of the world. Each of us, the prophets have taught, must set a shining example. Every member must act as a missionary, for we can never know when opportunities to share the blessings of the gospel might open up before us. I testify unto you, brothers and sisters…


The voices surged and receded, like waves lapping at a quiet, desert shore. Elder Brotherton, with his squarish mane of silvery hair, spoke on tithing:

…these simple acts of kindness are what define the spirit of Jesus Christ.

Indeed, during my days as a young and inexperienced bishop, there was a family in one of the wards who had fallen on hard times. The father was a mechanical engineer and he’d suffered a terrible injury on the job—an injury that rendered him without the use of his hands, and which very nearly left him permanently in a wheelchair.

Heeding the advice of the prophets, this family had prepared for such a test of their faith. They had saved up food storage, and they had carefully stocked away a reserve of emergency funds. But this wasn’t enough. Even in spite of these careful preparations, the family had difficulty covering their expenses. They had four young mouths to feed, and this created additional worry for the righteous young couple.

When tithing settlement rolled around, I met with this husband and wife, and I could clearly see the grave concern on their faces. “We don’t know what to do,” this young Melchezidek priesthood holder told me. “We’re worried that if we don’t pay our tithing, we won’t be able to put food on the table for our four children.”

I did what I could to put their minds at ease. I quoted to them the words of Doctrine & Covenants 104:15, “And it is my purpose to provide for my saints, for all things are mine.” “If you pay your tithing in the proper spirit of obedience and contrition,” I told them, “you open yourselves up to the Lord’s richest and most abundant blessings.” I reminded them that everything on this beautiful and bountiful Earth is a result of our Heavenly Father’s great generosity, and that tithing is meant to be a test of our faith. Tithing belongs to our Father in Heaven; to withhold it is to take from him that which is rightfully his.

After I’d spoken these words, the couple seemed relieved. They scraped together what they could, and they were able to pay a full tithe that year.

Not long afterwards, this young husband, who was slowly but surely recovering from his injuries, stopped me after sacrament meeting one day: “Bishop Brotherton!” he exclaimed. “You were right!” he said, “you were right,” and as he stood there…


Elder Brotherton’s voice trembled noticeably as he began to get choked up with emotion.

…tears began to stream down his face as he spoke. “In spite of everything, and in spite of the fact that I haven’t been able to return fully back to work, my boss has decided to give me a substantial promotion and raise. It happened completely out of the blue, bishop. It has to be a miracle.”

“No, my dear friend,” I said to him. “It’s not a miracle at all. This is all part of the Lord’s plan for us.”

And so I testify unto you…


Sam had nodded off, and Emily prodded him with her elbow. He lifted his head and again made an effort to pay attention to the speakers. Here, now, was President Pitt of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.

…in these dark times, adherence to the teachings of the prophets and apostles is more important than ever. Everywhere we look, our young people are threatened by the worldly evils and temptations of the Adversary. Turmoil spreads across the land like a plague. Whether it be the poisons of pornography, drugs and alcohol, or the more subtle provocations of so-called “popular culture,” Satan’s influence is striving more than ever in these latter days to erode the faith of the Saints.

But Lucifer cannot take away from us our free agency. We are free to accept and follow the plan of salvation or to reject it. We are free to listen to the promptings of the Spirit with respect to pornography, or to ignore it. We are free to follow the authority of the priesthood, to ignore it, but we would do so at our spiritual peril. The priesthood exists to protect us from the temptings of the Adversary.

In these latter days, we must remember that God will never tempt us such that we cannot bear it. As Alma taught, we must “watch and pray continually, that ye not be tempted above that which ye can bear.”

What Satan wants above all is for us to reject our covenants, to reject the teachings of the Church. In short, the Adversary hopes to induce us into a state of apostasy. This is a place of great spiritual darkness. It is a state of confusion, anguish, division, renunciation of covenants, and above all, of pain. For Lucifer, the ideal state of affairs is that of constant war and contention. Just as Nephi’s brothers were tempted into murmuring and gnashing of teeth in opposition to their brother’s righteous faith, so are we today tempted by Satan to combat the good works of the Church.

And none of you is immune to this challenge to your faith. Your leaders, though—the prophets and the council of apostles—will not lead you wrong. Through prayer and obedience to the teachings of the Church, you will always have a means of holding your ground against the buffetings of Satan. The Church of Jesus Christ provides for you the iron rod to lead you through the fog…


There was a ferocity in Pitt’s face, Sam thought. He looked almost angry, as if he was gnawing on his words as he spoke them. There was something accusatory about his talk, or perhaps it was simply Sam’s state of mind as he listened. Confusion, anguish, division, and pain were all exactly the things he was feeling, and yet Pitt failed to explain how the Church itself figured into it. Was Pitt sincerely implying that a simple inquiry into the truth of the Church’s history and doctrine was a sure path to apostasy? No; that wasn’t it. Instead, Pitt seemed to be alluding to an ongoing war—the same war that had been playing out on a cosmic scale since the creation of this world—at least, per LDS theology. Was Pitt simply riffing on this old theme, or was there something more to it? Among all the key General Authorities, Pitt had always struck Sam as being the least kind, the least compassionate. In both his conference talks and his articles in the Ensign and elsewhere, Pitt consistently described a grand state of perpetual contention, of ongoing spiritual warfare. It was as if, in his view, membership in the Church was less about finding faith-based peace and more about shielding one’s self from the endless assault of worldly evil. And today he seemed especially impassioned, no doubt due to the recent bombings in Salt Lake. Sam wondered just how deeply the Brethren believed in all the various aspects of the Church and its claims. How many of them were completely sincere in their beliefs? How many of them had doubts? What, ultimately, did they want in this world?

Pitt wrapped up his talk, punctuated with a massive sigh of “Amen” from the congregation, and the program segued into a resonant and harmonious musical number from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir: “Love One Another.” Sam got up and went to use the restroom.

When he returned, the Prophet, Alma Grange Baylor, was giving the keynote talk.

…As Elder C. Rigdon Pitt, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has said to you this day, we face enormous obstacles in these latter days.

Baylor looked sallow and very old, and his voice was tremulous. He seemed weak and frail behind the podium, and Sam couldn’t help but question the wisdom of his speaking so soon after his hospitalization. The prophet went on:

…When Matthew spoke of the Savior’s visit to the Pharisees, and the parables thereof he told unto them…And when Jesus Christ testified to Joseph Smith that the restoration of the keys would be his great and grave responsibility in this dispensation…

He wavered in and out of coherence. At times his talk sounded little different from the usual General Conference fare, and at other times, it seemed as if he was rambling, as if he was simply reciting a jumbled collection of old Bible stories and LDS teachings and anecdotes. Sam watched half in disbelief as the Prophet, Seer, and Revelator of the LDS Church practically hobbled through his talk. Sometimes it seemed as if President Baylor was squinting in an effort to read off the teleprompter. How was it that this man was God’s lone prophet on Earth? Why would a sympathetic and caring Heavenly Father allow His mouthpiece to carry on in this manner? It just didn’t make sense.

As the talk concluded and as the choir and organ fired up again, Emily stood up with Kaylee in her arms. The baby was chubby-cheeked and smiling; Emily wasn’t. Sam followed her lead and stood up.

“Well?” Emily said. “Are we going, or what?”


...Next time: The final chapter of Part III...
_beastie
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Re: A Great and Dreadful Day, Part III: The Book of Abraham

Post by _beastie »

I'm on pins and needles here.
We hate to seem like we don’t trust every nut with a story, but there’s evidence we can point to, and dance while shouting taunting phrases.

Penn & Teller

http://www.mormonmesoamerica.com
_Maksutov
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Re: A Great and Dreadful Day, Part III: The Book of Abraham

Post by _Maksutov »

:eek: :eek: :eek: :eek: :eek:
"God" is the original deus ex machina. --Maksutov
_Bob Bobberson
_Emeritus
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Re: A Great and Dreadful Day, Part III: The Book of Abraham

Post by _Bob Bobberson »

- THIRTY-TWO -


As they drove home, Sam couldn’t help but feel that forces were aligning themselves against him. Sitting in the chapel during conference, he had again felt the stares of various fellow Saints. It wasn’t everybody, but it was enough that he could feel it.

“So,” he said, as they drove down Main Street, “what exactly have you been saying to people?”

She stared straight ahead, at the road. “What?” she said, a note of irritation in her voice.

“I said: What have you been saying to people at church?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam. People talk. People at church talk. In Relief Society, we talk about things that are happening in our lives.”

“Hmmm,” he said. Then, after a few moments: “Well, I got the feeling that a lot of people were giving me the stink eye. Have you been saying things about me to people at church?”

“Oh, come off it, Sam. Good grief. Just say what it is that you want to say. You think I’ve been gossiping. Right Isn’t that it? Why don’t you just say so.”

“What on earth is your problem? All I did was ask if you’ve been sharing the details of our marriage with people at church. I didn’t say anything about it being right or wrong, or anything of that nature. And I know you talk with the Relief Society sisters. Again: nothing wrong with that. I didn’t even ask what it was you said, though I think I’ve got a pretty good guess.”

“Think whatever you want,” she said, and neither of them said another word for the rest of the ride home.

Back at the house, Sam carried in Kaylee and put her in her crib for a nap, and then he and Emily changed out of their church clothes. Sam spent a bit of time reading the newspaper, and Emily put a CD of hymns on the stereo while she went about preparing Sunday dinner. Sam read the cartoons, and the sports page, and then he made a brief stab at the crossword puzzle before he threw in the towel and set the paper aside. From the kitchen came the various sounds of food preparation: the oven door squeaking open and closed, the rushing sound of the faucet, the sizzle of the skillet. After a while, Sam could smell roasting meat. He thought about getting up and going to try and reconcile with his wife, but he knew that she was essentially treating the kitchen like a bunker.

So, he got up and switched off the stereo and turned the TV on to a football game. When he did this, he heard a slight pause in the action of the kitchen, and then Emily went back to chopping or dicing or whatever it was she was doing. Then he heard the knife being set roughly down on the counter and Emily came charging out into the living room.

“Hi, babe,” he said. “What’s up? Do you need me to help out in the kitchen?”

She was standing in the middle of the carpet, halfway between the TV and the sofa. She looked at the TV, and at Sam, and back again. “Is this really what you’re going to do, Sam? On this day of all days?”

“What?” he said. “It’s just a football game.”

“No-no-no-no-no,” she said, drawing out the Os in her Utah way. “This is the Sabbath, and you don’t need to be doing this.” She moved over to the TV set and clicked it off.

“Oh, come on, Em. Give me a break. Let a man have the pleasure of his football game.”

“Nope!” she said, and she smiled and went back into the kitchen.

Sam waited a few seconds and then he used the remote to turn the TV back on. Like clockwork, there was a pause, followed by the sound of the knife on the cuttingboard, and then Emily reappeared to turn off the TV. Sam raised his arm with the remote and she said, “Don’t. I mean it.”

He waited for her to disappear into the kitchen once more and then he turned the TV back on, this time making sure to mute the sound. The Broncos were playing the Raiders, and the Broncos were ahead by two touchdowns. He listened carefully as he watched, waiting again for a caesura in the sounds emanating from the kitchen.

Eventually Emily called around the corner: “Sam, what are you doing out there? Are you just sitting there, or—oh, you have got to be kidding.” She marched back into the living room, an oven mitt on one hand, and she went around to the back of the TV and yanked the plug out of the wall.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Emily,” he said, and he watched the shock spread over her face.

“Watch your mouth. Don’t talk like that around me.”

“Would you just lay off already? I mean good God, you’ve been completely unreasonable for the past, what? A month? More than that? Would it kill you to let me watch the freaking game?”

“Is that what this is about?” she asked. “You getting to do whatever you want? Is that why you’re doing this?”

He frowned. When she got this way—as of late, anyhow—it was difficult to tell whether she was speaking in the moment, or whether she was interpreting the situation through the lens of Mormonism. He couldn’t tell whether her remark about “getting to do whatever you want” was a commentary on their relationship, or the history of their relationship, or whether it was an implicit or explicit allusion to Elder Pitt’s General Conference talk, and its mention of temptation and free agency. Of choice. In other words, it was impossible to separate and sort out her motives and feelings from the Church: what was her own, and what had been put into her by the Church?

“Honey,” he said. “It’s just a football game. I’m not asking to watch an R-rated movie, or some trashy talk show, or anything like that. It’s football. Heck, Bishop Gladden was asking me about that Bills-Falcons game, like, three weeks ago. So it’s not like this is some horrible temptation from Satan or anything. I think you should just chill out already. Or not, whatever.” He moved into a sitting position and sunk back into the sofa, resigned.

She stood there looking at him for a long while—really looking at him, not glaring or seething or judging or pleading—just looking. She hadn’t looked at him this way in what seemed like an eternity, and he knew that the stubbornness in her was giving way a bit, and he knew that she would cry, and sure enough, the tears began to well at the corners of her eyes.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing to her, and with her shoulders sagging, she went over and curled up on his lap. He used his knuckle to clear the tears away from her eyes and cheeks, and she sniffled and looked up at the ceiling.

“I’m tired of fighting with you,” she said, blinking.

“I’m tired of fighting with you, too. It’s kind of pointless, isn’t it?”

“It’s just because I’m worried about you.”

“Yeah, I know, babe, but I’m fine.”

She shifted a little in his arms and they just sat there, holding one another.

“You sure you don’t want any help in the kitchen?” he asked, kissing her on the cheek.

“No, it’s fine. I’m at a place where I can take kind of a break.”

Feeling her soft, full-breasted body against his, he began to get aroused. “Well… If you can stop, why don’t we go in there?” He nodded in the direction of the hallway that led to the bedroom.

When she looked at him, he could see the concern and then the coldness slipping back into her face.

“Do you not want to?” he said.

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and then she sat up. “No, no,” she said. “Let’s go,” and she got up and went down the hallway, with Sam trailing behind.

“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” he said, realizing as soon as he’d said it that he shouldn’t be pressing his luck.

“Yeah. Just come on,” she said.

They turned the corner and Sam moved up behind her and circled her body with his arms so that he could grab her breasts, and he began kissing the side of her neck. She was coldly rigid in his arms, as if his touch was repellent.

“What? What’s wrong?” he said, and he let go of her.

She stood with her back to him and let out a long sigh. “I don’t know, it’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

“It’s just… Why does this have to be the way we try to make things right? And will this make anything right? What are we doing here, Sam?”

He tried to smile: “Well, I think it’s pretty obvious what we’re doing. We’re doing what husbands and wives do. We’re doing what the prophets have said we’re supposed to be doing. You know: being fruitful and populating the Earth and all of that stuff.”

“Stop it,” she said. “You don’t even believe in any of that.”

“Hey, come on, now.”

“It’s true. You’re sex-obsessed. That was obvious about you when I first met you. I bet you’ve never been able to get the images of all those strippers out of your mind, have you?”

“Emily—come on.”

“Did you go through the full repentance process? No? That’s what I thought.”

“Em, I was baptized. The slate was wiped clean for me. And besides: what about forgiveness? How messed up is it for you to be holding on to these ridiculous, years-ago grudges, just holding them over my head like this? That’s not very Christ-like.”

She was biting her lip. There was just no use trying to reason with her. “Emily, come on,” Sam said again. “I mean, Christ on a crutch—is this what it’s always going to be like?”

“Again?” she said. “That’s twice in one day! I don’t know you anymore.” She spun around and left the room, leaving him standing there, frustrated and horny and completely beside himself.

Elder Pitt—and indeed most of the Brethren—had spoken of tests and challenges in General Conference. They had said specifically that God would never give anyone a challenge too great to bear, and yet that seemed to be exactly what this was. In his past life, he would have simply excused himself and masturbated, but of course that kind of relief was forbidden to him now, too. It was yet another silly thing, along with football on Sundays, apparently, that was prohibited by the Church. Whether the “church” in question was the LDS Church or the LDS Church According to Emily Younger seemed to be anybody’s guess.

Out in the living room, Emily had turned back on her CD of hymns, and so with “If You Could Hie to Kolob” playing in the background, Sam flopped down on the bed and made a half-hearted effort at taking a nap. Just as with General Conference, he drifted in and out of wakefulness, until at last he heard the closeness of Emily’s voice in the room, telling him that dinner was ready.

He got up and went to the bathroom and washed his hands and used the towel to wipe the crust of drool away from the corner of his mouth, and he used some water to smooth out the mussed-up bits of his hair.

Out in the kitchen, Emily had set out slices of roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, leftover jello salad, green salad, and canned corn. In one corner was Kaylee’s portable crib, and Kaylee herself lay in it contentedly as the detachable mobile above it swung back and forth. “Will you say the blessing?” Emily asked.

“No. You go ahead and do it,” Sam said. He still felt groggy and sluggish from his nap.

“Fine,” she said, and she bowed her head and began to pray over the food, asking that the meal provide nourishment and strength, and saying nothing about the obvious tension in the room. Sam kept his eyes open and didn’t bother to fold his arms. It didn’t seem worth the effort. When she said “Amen,” he barely muttered a response. He sat in silence while she dished him up a plate, and he reluctantly cut into the beef after she’d set it down in front of him. They didn’t say anything to each other. The hymnal CD played on in the living room. Emily had apparently set it on Repeat, and Sam was aware of having listened to these same songs already some three or four times.

Eventually, Emily spoke up. “So, I was thinking while you were taking your nap, while I was out here getting supper ready.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said.

“I wonder if we maybe just need some time apart.”

Sam set his fork down. They had been fighting all day, or, more accurately, they had been fighting off and on for weeks, if not months. Slowly but surely their relationship had been eroding away, and yet it was this—this small, really quite reasonable suggestion—that hit Sam the hardest. He had trouble processing what she was saying. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

“But what about Kaylee?”

Emily went on eating—cutting up her meat, forking up bites of mashed potatoes, taking drinks of her milk. She seemed possessed of a remote and unfeeling calmness. “Kaylee will be fine. My mom can come down and help her if need be. I made a couple of phone calls while you were sleeping.”

He could practically feel it collapsing beneath him, one piece at a time. Anything more he said would be a kind of flailing around, grasping in desperation for some handhold. He stared down at his plate, at the bits of potatoes that had been colored pinkish by the blood from the medium-rare beef, and he looked at his hands, resting empty on the table on either side of his plate.

“I don’t know what to say to that, Emily. I guess promises mean nothing to you. Covenants don’t matter.”

“Don’t talk to me about covenants,” she said. She cleared her throat and wiped her mouth with her napkin.

“Fine. Fine. You know what? “F” it. Just “F” it, if this is how it’s going to be.” He pushed his chair away from the table and got up.

“What are you doing?” she called after him.

He went and got his wallet from the hall table and he put on his shoes and his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“Go call your mom again or something,” he said.

“No, you tell me where you’re going.”

“I don’t have to tell you a god damn thing. You go and “F” off. You won’t “F” me, so you can go “F” off and make your phone calls.”

“Don’t be vulgar, please. And don’t use that language around Kaylee.”

“She’s a baby! My God,” he said, “every last thing is a damned chess piece with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means whatever you want it to mean. Bye,” he said, and he snatched the keys off the ring on the wall and went out the door. Emily was still saying something to his back but he didn’t hear it.

He started up the car and drove into Reno in an angry stupor. Time seemed neither to pass nor to stand still. He felt the steering wheel in his hands, he felt the gas and brake pedals beneath his feet, he was cognizant of the car’s tires on the road, and he knew that he was passing through the Truckee River canyon, and yet it all seemed a part of some half-forgotten dream, some half-remembered nightmare. He was aware of it, but he didn’t see any of it. He felt that he just didn’t know anything anymore, that he couldn’t trust anything, even his own eyes, his own sense of touch.

Eventually, he began to calm back down, and he found himself in Reno. He made his way across town and he took the exit onto Virginia Street. He parked the car in one of the free parking lots and wandered up and down the darkening, throbbing, neon-lighted street. The sprightly computerized sound of slot machines and the smell of spilt beer and cigarette smoke leaked out onto the sidewalk as Sam walked past the open casino doors. He looked at all the people: drunk men with beards; middle-aged women with tight jeans clutching plastic cups of beer in their long-fingernailed hands; taxi drivers on break, smoking cigarettes. What, Sam asked himself, is really wrong with any of this? This was a life he knew once—he knew these people. He felt in that moment that he had more in common with them than he ever possibly could with the Mormons back at the ward house. Though he knew it wasn’t true, he told himself that the LDS were simply maintaining a façade. Christ in the scriptures made it a point to spend time with precisely the sort of people that were moving up and down Virginia Street.

Sam put his hands into the pockets of his jacket and went across the street to Circus Circus. It was dimly lit inside, save for the brightly colored screens of the slot and video poker machines. He looked up and down the aisles, glancing at the people who sat pulling levers and pressing buttons. There didn’t seem to be any walls inside the casino. Instead, it was as if the dim darkness extended on into infinity.

Eventually, Sam found himself seated at the bar.

“What’ll it be?” said the bartender—a man with a handlebar mustache.

“Ah, I don’t know,” said Sam. “Can I just sit here and think it over for a while?”

“Sure thing pardner,” he said, without a trace of irony. Several moments later, he returned with a shot of whiskey. “This one’s on me,” he said. “Let’s just say that you look like you could use it.”

Without thinking, Sam tilted it back, and then he immediately ordered another, with a beer chaser. He hadn’t drunk a single drop of alcohol ever since his conversion. When he’d finished that round, he ordered another. Occasionally he chatted with the handlebar-mustachioed bartender, though he didn’t mention Emily or the Church, or any of the problems he’d been having with it. All of that, for the time being, was a world away. At one point, a woman with a gold stud in her nose was telling him that he was cute. Pointing to his wedding band, she said, “That sure is a bummer.” He couldn’t remember what (if anything) he’d said in response.

After that, he wasn’t sure what happened. He vaguely recalled some kind of inner debate about whether or not to risk driving home, and he remembered thinking about Kaylee, and about how horrible it would be to leave her fatherless, and that Emily was a bitch for causing precisely this to happen, and he was arguing back and forth with himself aloud, slightly under his breath (or so he thought).

He woke up in the backseat of the car sometime around 3:30 a.m., and felt clear-headed enough to drive, so he moved up front and made the drive back home in a state of watery-brained regret. When he got to the house, he very carefully and quietly shut the door and he fumbled his way in the dark to the couch, where he took off his shoes and curled up with the quilted throw that some female relative of Emily’s or Emily’s mother or some sister in Emily’s mother’s Relief Society had made. He lay there with a foggy headache, his heart pounding in his chest, wishing halfheartedly that he could be lying in his own bed, beside his own wife. Eventually he fell asleep.



He opened his eyes again because he heard voices. Not voices from the TV or radio, either. There were two men speaking, and then a female voice, and then Emily. Kaylee was saying “Da!” or “Ta!,” and one of the men clearly said something about drinking. Sam rolled over onto his back and rubbed at his eyes. He climbed to his feet and went into the kitchen where he found both of Emily’s parents and Bishop Gladden.

“Well, you don’t look too worse for wear, all things considered,” said the bishop, who offered up a friendly smile. No one else at the table was smiling. Emily’s eyes were the shade of inflamed red that meant she’d been crying off and on for the past several hours or so. “Go ahead and pull up a seat,” said Bishop Gladden, and Sam wearily did as he was told.

Things had been said, Gladden had explained, and decisions had been made. “We’re awfully disappointed in you, Sam,” said Emily’s father. They explained that Emily had told them everything, and they informed him that it was more than obvious that he’d been drinking alcohol the night before. “I guess it’s back to old ways, isn’t it?” said Emily’s mother. They’d talked things over, and given what appeared to be Sam’s new lifestyle, and his drifting away from the Church, everyone had decided that it would be best if he moved out. Of course, by “everyone”—Sam pointed out—the bishop was omitting the primary priesthood holder in the household, to which the bishop responded that the status of Sam’s priesthood authority was clearly in jeopardy, hence the need for this “trial separation period.”

For the most part, Emily and her parents sat quietly and let the bishop do the talking. Occasionally one of them would nod or offer up some kind of affirmative “Mmhmm.” Finally, Bishop Gladden wrapped up his speech, gave yet another square-toothed smile, and stood up. “So, Sam,” he said, “I’ve gone ahead and arranged for you to stay over at a motel. I went ahead and tapped into some of the bishop’s fund, and you can stay there for a couple of days while you look for something else. Or, I suppose you can stay there longer, if you want. However much time you wind up needing and that sort of thing.”

“I packed some of your things,” Emily added. “There’s a suitcase in the bedroom. Dad, would you go get it?”

“No problem,” he said.

What was there to say? It was four against one, and Sam was too hung over, too dispirited to put up a defense. He looked at all of them and stood up. “So I guess you’ve been in touch with a lawyer, too?” he said to Emily.

“We’re genuinely hoping it won’t come to that,” said the bishop. “You go ahead and come along with me, Brother Younger. Let’s get your suitcase and get you situated over at the Lazy Inn, and then we’ll get some breakfast in you.”

Sam wondered if he should scream, or curse, or throw something—anything to put up at least a token resistance, but he did as he was told. The bishop’s voice was as calm and reassuring as a soothsayer’s.

They got the suitcase and Sam put on his shoes and jacket and they went out to Bishop Gladden’s car. Emily and her folks came out to watch them drive away; Emily stayed in the house with Kaylee. Sam waved to them and only Emily’s father raised his arm in response, though it was almost as if he was raising it as a form of priesthood curse.

They drove into town and the bishop checked Sam into the motel, and waited for him to put the suitcase up. Sam tried to talk the bishop out of buying breakfast, but of course Bishop Gladden wouldn’t have any of it. He insisted until Sam caved. But this, too, was for a reason, it turned out.

As the meal came to a close, the bishop spoke up. “Brother Younger, I noticed that you drank coffee with your breakfast.”

Sam had barely noticed. He was so hungry, so distracted and shaken up, that he had almost mechanically accepted the drink when the waitress came by to pour cupfuls.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said. “I guess I’m in kind of a bad spot.”

“Well, now, I’m glad you bring that up,” he said. “I was hoping to have a meaningful conversation with you today, Sam. I’ve been praying regularly to Father in Heaven about your particular case. I think you know I’ve been concerned about you for some time—dating back to even before that meeting you and I had with Dr. Young. We’re all really worried about you.”

Sam nodded. He didn’t much feel like looking into Bishop Gladden’s face or eyes.

“The thing is, I’m afraid we’ve reached a really tough spot, Sam. All the signs I’m getting from you are pointing to the fact that you’re drifting towards apostasy. Sam—look at me. This is deadly serious. You are putting your eternal salvation in jeopardy. Is it really worth it? Just so you can go out and get yourself stinking drunk, or so that you can ‘indulge’ in some coffee, or in a teensy weensy breaking of the Sabbath Day?

“Now, your wife and in-laws are worried about you, too. All of us are, and we want what’s best for you. You’ve got a beautiful little girl at home, and you need to be thinking about her. Don’t you want to take her to the temple, to be sealed to you and Emily?”

Sam took a drink of ice water. “Of course I want all those things, bishop. Or, at least, I know that I’m supposed to want them, or that the Church teaches that I’m supposed to want them. But I am so full of doubts. What if none of it is true?” he said, and he could see the bishop recoil slightly, his nostrils crinkling just barely.

Bishop Gladden frowned and leaned forward. “Well, Sam, I hope you rethink what you’re saying.” He clasped his hands together on the table. “What I think is best for us at this point is for us to convene a Church Court of Love. I’ve spoken with the Stake President about this, and we both agree that it’s the best course of action.” He licked his lips and cleared his throat and shook his head back and forth. “I do hope you really get down on your knees and pray about this, Sam. This is deadly serious. This isn’t worldly stuff we’re talking about. This is for keeps.”

“So you say,” said Sam.

“Yes. I do say, and I believe it with all my heart. I hope you know that.”

“I guess I do,” he said.

“Well,” said the bishop, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to get going. I suppose you’ll just walk back to the motel?”

“It’s only a couple of blocks, and I could use the fresh air.”

“Okay then. I’ll be in touch. A letter will be delivered to you, stating the date and time for your Church disciplinary council. Until then.”

“All right,” said Sam, rising to shake the bishop’s hand. “Thank you for everything.”

Bishop Gladden dropped a ten and a twenty on the table, nodded to Sam, and left him sitting there in the booth. When he’d gone, Sam found himself pondering the strange, almost surreal irony of what just happened. Why, he wondered, had he thanked the bishop for what amounted to a threat of excommunication? That was the main reason that they convened these oddly named “Courts of Love.” Everything was falling apart, and Sam couldn’t help but feel that some force within the Church had helped to engineer it.


- THE END OF PART III -


Coming Soon: How deep does the abyss go? Next: Part IV: Outer Darkness
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