Re: A Great and Dreadful Day, Part VI: The Third Nephite
Posted: Thu Nov 16, 2017 1:31 am
- FIFTY-SEVEN -
On Sunday, Mormon families in Salt Lake City woke up and ate breakfast. They all said a blessing over the meal and ate quickly. Often on Sundays they ate cereal, since it was easier to get going and out the door that way. After they ate, they dressed in their Sunday clothes: dresses for the girls; slacks, white shirts, and ties for the boys. The young boys wore clip-on ties, but boys who held the Aaronic priesthood (those 12 years and older), had real ties. Often, these ties had been given to them as gifts for Christmas or birthdays, or else as ordination gifts.
When they were ready, they all piled into the car and drove to the local ward house. Sometimes, the dad had to leave early in order to attend meetings. Less often, it was the woman who left early, so as to prepare for primary or relief society or some other auxiliary function. Boys who were in the 16-18 year range—priests—were expected to arrive early enough to begin preparing the sacrament. In a back room, they filled up the little paper or plastic cups with tap water, and they tore the slices of Wonder Bread into bite-sized pieces. Inevitably, there were jokes and questions about the kind of bread used. In some wards the priests wondered if wealthier wards used better bread. Some of the boys laughingly reminisced about the time that the elder in charge had forgotten to bring the loaves of bread, and so they were forced to use cake instead. When they passed out the sacrament, you could hear the congregants smacking their lips, and the kids made noises of approval: “Mmmm!” One time, they snuck and put Sprite into the sacrament cups of the deacons who were to pass the trays to the rest of the congregation. But these were divergent acts of silliness. Usually, sacrament meeting for them was a time of peace, worship, and reflection.
The Mormon families filed into the chapel, which was filled with the low rumble of conversation, and with the soaring noise of the organ. Families tended to sit in the same general area from week to week. Latecomers were often forced to sit towards the front, closer to the podium and the bishopric. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, the service began. The bishop welcomed everyone, and sacrament meeting got underway.
All the people sang hymns. There were prayers and talks. The speakers testified of their belief in the church, and in the General Authorities. They shared stories about the ways that their testimonies were strengthened, whether it be through sacrifice, or challenges to their faith, or through commitment to the teachings of the church. Meanwhile, the people in the pews sat and listened. Some felt moved. Some were bored. A few fell asleep. Occasionally, a baby began to cry, and its mother or father would get up to take it out. Halfway through, the deacons and teachers passed the sacrament, and everyone in the chapel was quiet as they did this. Everyone felt together in the chapel. They were all Latter-day Saints. Each had his or her own individual struggles, feelings, sense of faith, but on this day—on Sunday, they were a community. They were saints. Each of them knew with a surety that they could, on any given Sunday, appear in a totally different ward-house and be welcomed with open arms by the brothers and sisters there. In the old days, the Saints had been pursued, chased, attacked, persecuted, and murdered for their beliefs. The survival and perpetuation of the faith was therefore something to be treasured. But this wasn’t what most people thought about as they sat through the peaceful hour of sacrament meeting. Most people simply drifted into a somewhat meditative state, where the worries of the past week slipped away, and where God felt a little bit closer than He normally did.
After sacrament meeting, people split up for the remaining two hours of Sunday school—off to their various quorum meetings, or else to gospel doctrine class, or relief society, or primary. Though the stillness of sacrament meeting gave way to a more interactive sense of communion, a feeling of reverence pervaded everything they did. They prayed together, and learned lessons, and made small jokes. They sat in small, plainly furnished and decorated rooms, listening sometimes as the central heating kicked on, buffeting them against the bitter cold outside the frosted windows.
When church was over, the families climbed back into their station wagons and minivans, and they drove back home. They changed out of their church clothes and into more comfortable outfits, though frequently these were still somewhat nicer clothes, since Sunday was a day for spending time with the extended family, too. Often, the night before, mother put a turkey or a ham into the fridge to defrost, so that she could just slide it into the oven when they got home from church. In other families, the meal was made in a crockpot. If there was to be a larger get-together, they often treated the Sunday dinner like a potlock: one person brought the funeral potatoes, another brought a green salad, and another brought the jello salad. Usually grandmother would bring a couple of pies, or a sheet cake. It was, inevitably, a lot of food, and it was good and nourishing and they were thankful for it.
Outside, the temperature was in the 20s and dropping, and nightfall came in the afternoon, as it was mere days away from the winter solstice. Inside, though, the atmosphere was warm, glowing, and cozy. Some families lit fires in the fireplaces. Others gathered together on the sofa to watch television, whereas in other families it was thought to be inappropriate to watch TV on the Sabbath. Some families played board games. Others listened to music as they read. Others gathered around the piano to sing songs, especially Christmas songs, given the time of year. In some houses, they all sat in the kitchen, talking with one another, listening to grandpa tell stories. Many of them, with this being Sunday, expressed thanks—either internally or outwardly—for the happiness that the Church had brought into their lives and families. For the sense of holiness and togetherness that the Church afforded them. For the knowledge and blessing that these precious family bonds would be preserved in the next life, too.
Eventually, they all sat down to eat. Some houses had tables long enough to accommodate everyone. Others had to add extensions to the nice table in the family room, or else additional folding tables had to be set up. Sometimes there was a kids’ table. Often there was a highchair set up near one corner. Always they said a blessing before anyone began eating. Most everyone drank milk with the meal, though if the occasion was special enough, they would break out bottles of Martinelli sparkling cider. They ate and talked about various things—plans for the Christmas holiday, or else gossip and stories having to do with church: who was planning to go on a mission soon, or who was engaged to be married. Whose dwindling attendance at church was cause for concern. The funny joke someone had told in the high priests’ meeting.
When the meal was over, some of the women would begin clearing away the dishes while the others continued to sit and chat. After the dishes were cleared away, some of the kids would help serve dessert: apple, pecan, pumpkin, or banana cream pie, with or without ice cream or whipped cream.
Their bellies were full. They were warm and happy and glad to be in one another’s company. The concerns of the world, of the country, of the city, seemed a million miles away. They loved each other, and they wanted the moment, the feeling, the togetherness, to carry on into the night and into eternity.
In other words, none of these LDS families in Salt Lake City had the slightest idea what was playing out near Little Cottonwood Canyon, though they would hear about it soon enough. In their cozy houses, with the windows lit up against the deep dark of the December night, they had no thoughts of the Book of Abraham and the papyri, or of the Book of Mormon and its historical veracity. They didn’t think about Joseph Smith’s plural wives, or about the doctrine of blood atonement, or of the Mountain Meadows Massacre. They didn’t dwell on the priesthood ban against blacks, or the Brethren’s exhortations against praying to Heavenly Mother. Many of them, in fact, had never even heard about any of these things during their entire time in the Church. Who was to say what their impressions might be? Other people had heard of these issues, and in one way or another, had arrived at some conclusion that allowed their faith to remain intact. For them, these things simply didn’t represent the fundamental core of the church they knew and loved. For them, the Church was about being part of something larger. It was about participation in a community, and about preserving your family. It was about being together, and striving to maintain that togetherness beyond the veil of death. The Church was about sealing for time and all eternity, and about saying a blessing over the small, blanket-wrapped body of a newborn baby. It was about baptism and the remission of sins, and about redemption and forgiveness. It was about charity, and the baking of cookies for your neighbors. It was about boy scouts, and the pinewood derby, and church basketball, and ward potlucks. It was about girls’ camp, and classes at the Y, and going on a mission. It was about funerals, and knowing where you were headed. It was about singing “I am a Child of God,” and about kneeling down beside your bed and unburdening your heart to Heavenly Father. It was about turning your face skywards and feeling the presence of God, and of knowing that He loved you.
It was about all of these things for them, and much more, and it was, they all believed, impossible to summarize the full meaning of the Church.
On Sunday, Mormon families in Salt Lake City woke up and ate breakfast. They all said a blessing over the meal and ate quickly. Often on Sundays they ate cereal, since it was easier to get going and out the door that way. After they ate, they dressed in their Sunday clothes: dresses for the girls; slacks, white shirts, and ties for the boys. The young boys wore clip-on ties, but boys who held the Aaronic priesthood (those 12 years and older), had real ties. Often, these ties had been given to them as gifts for Christmas or birthdays, or else as ordination gifts.
When they were ready, they all piled into the car and drove to the local ward house. Sometimes, the dad had to leave early in order to attend meetings. Less often, it was the woman who left early, so as to prepare for primary or relief society or some other auxiliary function. Boys who were in the 16-18 year range—priests—were expected to arrive early enough to begin preparing the sacrament. In a back room, they filled up the little paper or plastic cups with tap water, and they tore the slices of Wonder Bread into bite-sized pieces. Inevitably, there were jokes and questions about the kind of bread used. In some wards the priests wondered if wealthier wards used better bread. Some of the boys laughingly reminisced about the time that the elder in charge had forgotten to bring the loaves of bread, and so they were forced to use cake instead. When they passed out the sacrament, you could hear the congregants smacking their lips, and the kids made noises of approval: “Mmmm!” One time, they snuck and put Sprite into the sacrament cups of the deacons who were to pass the trays to the rest of the congregation. But these were divergent acts of silliness. Usually, sacrament meeting for them was a time of peace, worship, and reflection.
The Mormon families filed into the chapel, which was filled with the low rumble of conversation, and with the soaring noise of the organ. Families tended to sit in the same general area from week to week. Latecomers were often forced to sit towards the front, closer to the podium and the bishopric. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, the service began. The bishop welcomed everyone, and sacrament meeting got underway.
All the people sang hymns. There were prayers and talks. The speakers testified of their belief in the church, and in the General Authorities. They shared stories about the ways that their testimonies were strengthened, whether it be through sacrifice, or challenges to their faith, or through commitment to the teachings of the church. Meanwhile, the people in the pews sat and listened. Some felt moved. Some were bored. A few fell asleep. Occasionally, a baby began to cry, and its mother or father would get up to take it out. Halfway through, the deacons and teachers passed the sacrament, and everyone in the chapel was quiet as they did this. Everyone felt together in the chapel. They were all Latter-day Saints. Each had his or her own individual struggles, feelings, sense of faith, but on this day—on Sunday, they were a community. They were saints. Each of them knew with a surety that they could, on any given Sunday, appear in a totally different ward-house and be welcomed with open arms by the brothers and sisters there. In the old days, the Saints had been pursued, chased, attacked, persecuted, and murdered for their beliefs. The survival and perpetuation of the faith was therefore something to be treasured. But this wasn’t what most people thought about as they sat through the peaceful hour of sacrament meeting. Most people simply drifted into a somewhat meditative state, where the worries of the past week slipped away, and where God felt a little bit closer than He normally did.
After sacrament meeting, people split up for the remaining two hours of Sunday school—off to their various quorum meetings, or else to gospel doctrine class, or relief society, or primary. Though the stillness of sacrament meeting gave way to a more interactive sense of communion, a feeling of reverence pervaded everything they did. They prayed together, and learned lessons, and made small jokes. They sat in small, plainly furnished and decorated rooms, listening sometimes as the central heating kicked on, buffeting them against the bitter cold outside the frosted windows.
When church was over, the families climbed back into their station wagons and minivans, and they drove back home. They changed out of their church clothes and into more comfortable outfits, though frequently these were still somewhat nicer clothes, since Sunday was a day for spending time with the extended family, too. Often, the night before, mother put a turkey or a ham into the fridge to defrost, so that she could just slide it into the oven when they got home from church. In other families, the meal was made in a crockpot. If there was to be a larger get-together, they often treated the Sunday dinner like a potlock: one person brought the funeral potatoes, another brought a green salad, and another brought the jello salad. Usually grandmother would bring a couple of pies, or a sheet cake. It was, inevitably, a lot of food, and it was good and nourishing and they were thankful for it.
Outside, the temperature was in the 20s and dropping, and nightfall came in the afternoon, as it was mere days away from the winter solstice. Inside, though, the atmosphere was warm, glowing, and cozy. Some families lit fires in the fireplaces. Others gathered together on the sofa to watch television, whereas in other families it was thought to be inappropriate to watch TV on the Sabbath. Some families played board games. Others listened to music as they read. Others gathered around the piano to sing songs, especially Christmas songs, given the time of year. In some houses, they all sat in the kitchen, talking with one another, listening to grandpa tell stories. Many of them, with this being Sunday, expressed thanks—either internally or outwardly—for the happiness that the Church had brought into their lives and families. For the sense of holiness and togetherness that the Church afforded them. For the knowledge and blessing that these precious family bonds would be preserved in the next life, too.
Eventually, they all sat down to eat. Some houses had tables long enough to accommodate everyone. Others had to add extensions to the nice table in the family room, or else additional folding tables had to be set up. Sometimes there was a kids’ table. Often there was a highchair set up near one corner. Always they said a blessing before anyone began eating. Most everyone drank milk with the meal, though if the occasion was special enough, they would break out bottles of Martinelli sparkling cider. They ate and talked about various things—plans for the Christmas holiday, or else gossip and stories having to do with church: who was planning to go on a mission soon, or who was engaged to be married. Whose dwindling attendance at church was cause for concern. The funny joke someone had told in the high priests’ meeting.
When the meal was over, some of the women would begin clearing away the dishes while the others continued to sit and chat. After the dishes were cleared away, some of the kids would help serve dessert: apple, pecan, pumpkin, or banana cream pie, with or without ice cream or whipped cream.
Their bellies were full. They were warm and happy and glad to be in one another’s company. The concerns of the world, of the country, of the city, seemed a million miles away. They loved each other, and they wanted the moment, the feeling, the togetherness, to carry on into the night and into eternity.
In other words, none of these LDS families in Salt Lake City had the slightest idea what was playing out near Little Cottonwood Canyon, though they would hear about it soon enough. In their cozy houses, with the windows lit up against the deep dark of the December night, they had no thoughts of the Book of Abraham and the papyri, or of the Book of Mormon and its historical veracity. They didn’t think about Joseph Smith’s plural wives, or about the doctrine of blood atonement, or of the Mountain Meadows Massacre. They didn’t dwell on the priesthood ban against blacks, or the Brethren’s exhortations against praying to Heavenly Mother. Many of them, in fact, had never even heard about any of these things during their entire time in the Church. Who was to say what their impressions might be? Other people had heard of these issues, and in one way or another, had arrived at some conclusion that allowed their faith to remain intact. For them, these things simply didn’t represent the fundamental core of the church they knew and loved. For them, the Church was about being part of something larger. It was about participation in a community, and about preserving your family. It was about being together, and striving to maintain that togetherness beyond the veil of death. The Church was about sealing for time and all eternity, and about saying a blessing over the small, blanket-wrapped body of a newborn baby. It was about baptism and the remission of sins, and about redemption and forgiveness. It was about charity, and the baking of cookies for your neighbors. It was about boy scouts, and the pinewood derby, and church basketball, and ward potlucks. It was about girls’ camp, and classes at the Y, and going on a mission. It was about funerals, and knowing where you were headed. It was about singing “I am a Child of God,” and about kneeling down beside your bed and unburdening your heart to Heavenly Father. It was about turning your face skywards and feeling the presence of God, and of knowing that He loved you.
It was about all of these things for them, and much more, and it was, they all believed, impossible to summarize the full meaning of the Church.