C. David Belt's Blog, page 29

“It’s the story of a decent LDS man…”  That’s how I start my pitch at book signings for “The Unwilling”.  It was Friday night two weeks ago.  The first couple to stop by was a middle-aged man and woman.  The man said, “Tell me about your book.” 

So I handed him a copy and said, “It’s about a decent LDS man…” 

He slammed my book down, stuck his face up to mine, and said, “There’s no such thing!”  Then he swore at me and stomped off, obviously enraged. 

I was astonished.  I didn’t know what to say.  After a moment, I said, “Sorry?”  What else was there to say? 

So, I suppose his point was that there is no such thing as a decent LDS man.  That’s like saying there’s no such thing as a decent Muslim, Catholic, Democrat, or Captain-Picard-fan.  Having a philosophy or religion whose tenets are not my own doesn’t mean I think you are inherently evil.  I briefly wondered what could possibly have happened to that man to engender such hatred. 

Then I stopped wondering. 

I stopped wondering, because hatred isn’t rational, especially not when it’s directed at an entire group of people because of their race, skin color, belief-system, faith, or favorite starship captain. 

I had a similar experience a few nights ago.  I started with, “It’s the story of a decent LDS man…” 

This time, the guy said, “So it’s fiction?”  Then he walked off.

At least he didn’t swear at me. 

It’s not like I haven’t encountered this kind of hatred and bigotry before.  I have, many times in my life.  I will most likely encounter it again and again. 

I just don’t understand it.

For the record, I did not celebrate when Osama Bin Laden was killed. 

I believe that he was an evil man who led others to murder.  I vehemently disagree with everything that monster stood for.  I don’t care what motivated him.  His beliefs don’t make him a monster; his actions and stated intentions do.  The blood of the innocents that he and his followers murdered cried out and still cries out from the ground, and I believe that it was our duty as a nation to track him down and execute him for his crimes.  I also believe that his followers should be stopped, not only because of the innocent blood that they have already spilled, but also because they have stated their intention to slaughter more innocents.  They have stated their intention to rid the planet of those who disagree with them.  I believe that, had I been a member of Seal Team 6 and had received the assignment to kill Osama Bin Laden, I think I could have pulled the trigger and slept very well that night. 

However, I did not celebrate when I learned he was dead. 

We, as a nation, did our duty, and the heroic men of Seal Team 6 did theirs.  I thank them and honor them for their service.  Earthly justice, in Osama Bin Laden’s case, has been served.  Now we can leave the fate of his immortal soul to the judgment of a just and omniscient God. 

I don’t think Teancum hated Amalekiah or Ammoron; he simply hated what they had done.  Teancum gave his life to save his people, and like his commander, Moroni, he did not delight in bloodshed.

I can honestly say that I hate what Osama Bin Laden did, but I do not hate the man.  I don’t understand hatred of any human being.  Perhaps that is why I cannot sympathize with those who do. 

This week, I read the statement of a fellow American, a man to whom I am related by marriage, proclaiming that he is celebrating the death of Margaret Thatcher.  He also declared that he will dance in the streets when Dick Cheney dies.  I get it that he disagreed with their politics, but why the hatred?  This is a man who preaches tolerance as a virtue, yet tolerance doesn’t seem to extend to those who possess opinions that differ from his own. 

It makes no sense to me, but then, neither does hatred.

Something very cool happened this week.

And it’s probably not what you’re thinking of. 

First a little background: 

For those of you who are unaware, I am a member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  We rehearse every Thursday night from 7:00 to 9:30 PM.  Every Sunday morning, after donning the wardrobe of the day, we assemble in either the Tabernacle or the Conference Center at 7:25 AM (or possibly earlier) and rehearse.  (For me, that means I have to get up at 5:00 AM normally—4:45 AM today.  However, I’m lucky:  I only have to travel 50 miles each way.  Some choir members travel as much as 100 miles each way.)  At approximately 8:40 AM, we do a full run-through of our weekly broadcast of “Music and the Spoken Word”.  At 9:30 AM, we go live and do the actual broadcast.  After the broadcast, we frequently (about three out of four Sundays) have another rehearsal which runs till about 11:30 AM.  (I get attend my own ward Sunday meetings only on the years that we have the late, i.e., 1:00-4:00 PM schedule.  Other years, I attend another ward.) We often rehearse on Tuesday nights as well.  If we are recording a CD or preparing for a major concert  or series of concerts, we can be there Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday nights (sometimes starting as early as 6:00 PM and staying till 10:00 PM or later) and all day Saturday.  (And yes, we still have to be there bright and early on Sunday morning for the regular broadcast.)  The Choir performs 70-80 times each year.  Our repertoire contains literally thousands of songs and much of it must be memorized before it is performed.  When we are in the loft, every single minute of our time is scheduled.  (I meant that quite literally.  Brother Wilberg maps out exactly how many minutes we will spend working on each piece of music during a rehearsal.)  In addition to the weekly broadcast, there are Christmas concerts, Pioneer Day concerts, Tanner Gift of Music concerts, mini-concerts for special groups, concerts for inaugurations or dedications, recording sessions, filming sessions, special broadcasts, and, of course, three sessions of General Conference in April and three in October.  We go on tour every other year for about two weeks.  Some years, we will go on a mini-tour for a special concert in another state. 

Now, I’m NOT complaining.  Not one bit.  Every member of the Choir is an unpaid volunteer that has to pass through a rigorous audition and training process just to get into the Choir.  Usually less than 10% of those who audition each year are accepted into the Choir.  I feel VERY BLESSED to be a member.  So I’m not complaining: I’m just trying to paint an accurate picture of the time-commitment involved. 

Each year, the Choir receives many, many special requests: everything from special concerts for WW II veterans to “Could you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to my grandmother?”  The vast majority of these requests simply cannot be granted due to time constraints.  And refusing some of these requests can be heart-breaking. 

One such request came from the family of a young man named Jody.

Jody lives in Cardston, Alberta, Canada.  Jody has Down’s syndrome.  He is a HUGE fan of the Choir.  He loves to watch “Music and the Spoken Word” on TV or YouTube and “conduct” the Choir.  His family came down to Utah for General Conference and to give Jody a chance to see the Choir that he loves.  The family made a special request for Jody to be allowed to conduct the Choir in person during a rehearsal. 

But the timing couldn’t have been worse. 

Tuesday night was our designated rehearsal for General Conference.  (Most people assume that the Choir prepares for several weeks for General Conference, but there is simply no time.  The first opportunity that we had to LOOK at the music for Conference was after the broadcast on the Sunday before, and even that rehearsal was largely devoted to music for the upcoming CD recording in May.)  Thursday night, we had to rehearse for the Sunday morning broadcast and Conference.  We stayed late both nights.  (Remember that some people have to travel 100 miles and still get up for work the next day.)

So the decision was made that, as wonderful as it would have been to accommodate the request and give 10 minutes to Jody (and believe me, there would not have been a dry eye in the place), it was simply not possible. 

Instead, Jody and his family were given a special behind-the-scenes tour of the Tabernacle and the Conference Center.  I wasn’t part of the tour, but I’m sure Jody and his family got to see the Choir offices (even I don’t get to go in there), the wardrobe/changing rooms, the rehearsal areas, the music library, the backstage areas, the massive pipe organs, and the network of tunnels under Temple Square.  After that, Jody and his family were allowed to attend the Tuesday night rehearsal (which is not normally open to the public). 

Jody was thrilled.  He was in heaven. 

But that’s not the best part. 

You see, during the rehearsal, as Jody and his family sat out in the seats of the Conference Center, listening to the Choir rehearse, Jody rose to his feet and waved his arms as we sang. 

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t standing at the podium: Jody got to conduct the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. 

For me, the question is very simple: is Thomas S. Monson the prophet or not?  If he is the Lord’s prophet, then I choose to follow the word of the Lord as spoken through Thomas S. Monson.  The discussion is over for me.  It’s not complicated.

This is not blind obedience: I have prayed and received a witness through the power of the Holy Ghost.  I know that Jesus Christ is the Son of God.  I know that He lives.  I know that He suffered for my sins.  I know that He gave His life so that we will all be resurrected.  I know that through the atonement of Christ, I can be redeemed. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God.  I know that The Book of Mormon is the word of God.  I know that The Bible is the word of God.  I know that Thomas S. Monson is the Lord’s prophet today.

I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.  I’m not perfect.  I’m not better than anyone else.  I’m not more righteous or more holy than anyone else.  Like so many others, I’m doing my best to follow the commandments of God.  I have sinned many, many times.  I will continue to make mistakes and commit sins as long as I’m on this earth.  But I’m trying to do better.  I rely on the mercy of Jesus Christ.  I know that through the atoning sacrifice of my Lord and Savior, I will be saved.

I also know that I don’t know everything.  Many times in my life, the Lord has commanded me to do things when I didn’t understand WHY I was being asked to do them.  However, without exception, when I have obeyed the word of the Lord, I have been blessed.

Many years ago, I was serving as a young missionary in Seoul, South Korea.  The Lord called me to serve there through his prophet at the time, Spencer W. Kimball.  I loved serving in Korea.  It was hard, but I loved the Korean people and I was blessed to have great success in being an instrument in the Savior’s hands to help precious souls to find Christ.  I had been in the country for nearly eleven months when I was called into the mission president’s office.  He handed me a letter.  The letter informed me that I was called to serve the remainder of my mission in Los Angeles, California as a Korean-speaking missionary.  I was stunned.  I did not want to go to Los Angeles.  I wanted to finish my mission in Korea.  However, I looked at the signature at the bottom of the letter:  Spencer W. Kimball.

The mission president informed me that, if I chose to do so, I could remain in Korea for the final eleven months of my missionary service.  He said that I could refuse this new assignment.  How I wanted to refuse!  But again, I looked at the signature.  President Kimball, the prophet of the Lord, had called me to serve in Korea.  Now he was calling me to serve the Korean people in California.  No, President Kimball wasn’t the One calling me; he was only the messenger.  The Lord had issued the call.

For me, the question was simple: was Spencer W. Kimball the Lord’s prophet or not?  If he wasn’t, why was I in Korea in the first place?  If he was, then I would choose to follow the Lord.

I left for Los Angeles two weeks later.  (The final baptism I was privileged to perform was less than two hours before I departed for the airport.)

Within the first week of my arrival in Los Angeles, I met a Korean family on the streets of Torrance, CA.  I didn’t recognize them, not at first, but they sure recognized me.  They remembered my name.  (Well, they remembered my Korean name: Beh Un-Teh.)  I had only met them once before: it was on my second day in Korea, the day of their baptism.  They, Brother and Sister Kim, were in desperate straits.  They had emigrated to the U.S., only to be cut off and abandoned by their sponsor.  They had no English and no jobs.  They shared a one-room (that’s one room, not one bedroom) apartment with another Korean family who were in the same difficult position.  Well, not exactly the same.  You see, Sister Kim was eight months pregnant.  She had no doctor and no way to find a doctor.

Well, my companion and I went to work.  We contacted the Cerritos Korean Branch president and got the Kims connected with the Church again.  We got the children of both families enrolled in the local elementary school.  We found Brother Kim a job.  (By the way, the other family was also named Kim.  We found the other Brother Kim a job as well.  The other Brother Kim was not a member of the Church.)  We volunteered to teach English to the children at the school (as well as to other non-Korean non-English-speaking children).  And we found a doctor for Sister Kim.  In fact, I translated for her during the delivery of her baby.  (I can tell you that there was a TON of words I had to look up in my Korean-English dictionary that day!)

In the course of time, we helped the other Brother Kim to quit smoking.  I had the privilege of baptizing him when he was ready for baptism.

Oh, and the school where we taught English?  I had the honor of teaching and baptizing the woman who was the head of the English-as-a-Second-Language program.

And those were just a few of the miraculous blessings I received because I obeyed the call to go to Los Angeles.  I thank my Father in Heaven that I was humble enough to obey, even when I didn’t want to obey and when I didn’t understand WHY.

In the Lord’s own due time, He revealed the WHY.

Abraham didn’t understand WHY he was asked to sacrifice his only remaining son.  It went against all that Abraham knew and understood.  Abraham, himself, had once faced the horror of being forced onto an altar to be offered as a human sacrifice.  The angel of the Lord delivered him from that abominable situation.  And yet, when the Lord asked him to sacrifice Isaac, Abraham was willing to obey, even though he didn’t know WHY.  In the Lord’s own time, He revealed His purposes, and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were blessed beyond measure.

Adam offered sacrifices, even when he didn’t know WHY, save that the Lord commanded it.  What sense could he possibly make of killing a lamb and burning it on the altar?  What purpose could that possibly serve?  In God’s own due time, the reason was revealed to Adam: it was done in similitude of the atoning sacrifice of the Lamb of God, the only begotten of the Father, even the Lord Jesus Christ.  It was done to teach men and prepare them to accept the Messiah.

And no, I’m not comparing myself to Adam and Abraham.  I’m not in the same league as those great prophets and servants of the Lord.

The principle, however, remains the same: the Lord commands.  We obey.  He knows all things.  We do not.  If we obey, He will reveal the WHY in His own time.  If we think that we are “wise in our own eyes,” we are foolish.

The WHY is revealed when we are humble enough to obey, not before.  It never works the other way around.

Job was afflicted.  He suffered greatly.  Yet he remained faithful.  He asked WHY, but he trusted in the Lord, even when the answers weren’t yet revealed.  He did not seek to counsel the Lord.  And in the end, he was blessed with twice as much as he had before everything was taken away from him.  He was blessed with twice as much cattle and riches as he had before.  He was NOT given twice as many children afterward, but rather an equal number, because his other children, though dead, would not be lost to him in the eternities.

If you don’t know the WHY, trust that the Lord will reveal it in His own time and in His own way.

Today, there are many within the Church who declare that the prophet must change his position on “same-sex marriage.”  They urge President Monson to listen to “the voice of reason”, to be “compassionate”, to recognize that the world has changed.  They proclaim that, even though the scriptures condemn homosexual acts, we are more enlightened now.  They argue, “Even though I might not choose to indulge, who am I to judge others?”  They ask, “What would Jesus do?”  They say that what the prophet has declared to be the word of the Lord is “hateful, hurtful, and un-Christian.”

So, as I said at the beginning, the question is very simple:  is Thomas S. Monson the prophet or not?

If you do NOT believe that he is the prophet of the Lord, why in the world would you be a member of the Church?  I mean, the lifestyle is TOUGH!  So MUCH is asked of you!  So much is FORBIDDEN to you!  If you think President Monson is a fraud, why would you stay?  It’s not as if he’s simply a nice, but misguided old man.  He, himself, testifies humbly that he is the prophet of the Lord.  So, either he’s what he says he is or he’s a fraud (or, at best, deluded). So, if you think he’s a fraud or delusional, once again I ask: why in the world would you be a member of such a Church?  Why would you be a party to such a grand falsehood or delusion?

On the other hand, IF Thomas S. Monson IS the prophet of the Lord, why on earth would you think that ANY amount of social or political or economic pressure could EVER get the prophet to alter what he has proclaimed that the Lord, Himself, has spoken?  And IF the protests, the painted signs, cute and trendy slogans, vilifications, accusations of hatred and bigotry, and the arguments and “enlightened” philosophies of men ever DID get the prophet to change his mind, wouldn’t that prove that he wasn’t the prophet in the first place?  Do you think that the Church can be or needs to be “reformed from within”, because it needs to “get with the times” or because today we are more “enlightened” than Moses or Paul or Joseph Smith or the great Jehovah, Himself?

You can’t have it both ways: either President Monson is the Lord’s anointed or he is not.

I testify that he is.

I, personally, don’t struggle with homosexual attraction.  That is not a challenge that I face.  I have my own challenges and struggles that I wrestle with every day.  And as I strive to obey the Lord, I rely on the tender mercy and redeeming strength of Jesus Christ to help me overcome my challenges and trials.  I am weak so that I may grow and become strong through faith in my Savior.  That doesn’t make me better than anyone else.  I have my temptations, and you have yours.  Christ has promised that we can resist any temptation.  He will prepare a way for us to overcome.  Being tempted is not a sin.

And if same-sex attraction is your challenge or the challenge of someone you love, I encourage you to turn to the Lord.  He is mighty to save.  He will never forsake you.  He has not forsaken me, flawed and weak as I am.

As did Job, we must endure our trials and neither seek to counsel the Lord our God nor excuse our disobedience and failings.

“And if it seem evil unto you to serve the Lord, choose you this day whom ye will serve; whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the flood, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land ye dwell: but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”  (Joshua 24:15)  I’m not perfect at it—far from it, actually—but that is what I’m striving to do.

Trent Mays and Ma’Lik Richmond are children of God.  He loves them.

God also loves the sixteen year-old girl they raped.  She is a daughter of God.

Today, I was flabbergasted and disgusted as I watched video of CNN’s Candy Crowley and Poppy Harlow sympathizing with the teenage rapists.  They were high-school football stars with promising futures.  Now they are registered sex-offenders and will be for the rest of their lives.  When they are released from juvenile detention (in as little as one or two years, but at the latest, when Mays is 24 and Richmond is 21), perhaps they will have difficulty getting jobs or getting accepted to a good college.  Wherever they move, their names will show up on sex-offender registries and concerned citizens may protest their presence.  They certainly won’t be able to live close to a school.  (Their victim was, after all, a minor child.)  When they, themselves become parents (assuming they are not already, which may be a false assumption), they may never be able to take their children to a park or any other place frequented by children, at least not without supervision.  (Or maybe they will.  The laws do vary in different states and cities.)

It is possible that the lives they once envisioned for themselves are beyond their reach now.  (Or perhaps not.  The NFL, like Hollywood, the music industry, and political parties, can have a peculiar variety of moral blindness when it comes to “talent”.)

The poor dears.

I watched Mays apologize for his actions in a hollow monotone.  (He really needs to work on that delivery.  It wasn’t at all convincing.)  I watched Richmond tearfully declare that he was sorry and that he never intended to do… (Well, he didn’t actually say what it was that he had no intention of doing.  Maybe it was that he never intended to get caught.)  Then he sobbed and appeared to collapse into the arms of his attorney.

If these two monsters were truly sorry for what they did or had a smidgeon of regret or an ounce of humanity, why did they not admit to their guilt, take responsibility for their heinous crimes, and plead guilty?  Why did they mount a defense of the indefensible?  Why did they allow the victim to be verbally attacked in court, accusing her of culpability in her own rape?  (After all, they said, she did drink some alcohol, so it’s gotta be partially her fault, right?)  Are they sorry for what they did or are they sorry they are being punished for crimes they would not admit to?  Were they sorry when they drugged the victim, dragged her by her wrists and ankles from party to party, digitally raped her (i.e., they used their hands rather than other parts of their anatomies), photographed her naked body, urinated on her, and then dumped off her unconscious and urine-soaked body on the front porch of her home?  (Maybe they just wanted to make sure she got home safe.)  Were they sorry when they posted nude pictures of her online and boasted about what they’d done?  Were they sorry when they said online that they might as well have used different parts of their anatomies (instead of just their hands) to violate her, since everyone assumed they did?  (I mean, they might as well have had fun, right?)

Their once-promising futures are shattered.  They will be incarcerated for as little as two whole years, in Mays’ case (who was convicted of child pornography as well as the rape), and one entire year, in Richmond’s case.  They will get credit for time already served.  Then they will begin to rebuild their shattered lives.

Boys, as the saying goes, will be boys.

Perhaps, in time, they will turn to God and truly repent.  Repentance is possible.  So is forgiveness.  So is redemption.  But the first step in that process is the recognition of the evil in what they did.  The second is true remorse—“godly sorrow,” as Paul put it.  There’s much more to true repentance, but that’s the beginning.  God does love them and He does want to help them.  But the first move is all theirs.  Maybe, just maybe, getting caught this time will prevent them from escalating their violence in the future.

But as for me, unlike Ms. Crowley and Ms. Harlow of CNN, I can find no pity for these demons masquerading as “boys”.

And what of the other pathetic little monsters and cretins who were there and did NOTHING as they watched the victim being dragged from party to party?  Did they laugh?  Did they mock?  Did they re-tweet?  Did they cheer the rapists on?  Did they join in?  Apparently, they did some or all of those things, because charges against other individuals are pending.  Some of them were given immunity so they would testify against the rapists.  But they were there and, at best, they did nothing.  They didn’t call the police.  They didn’t try to stop Mays and Richmond.  They didn’t say, “Hey, dude!  That’s not cool.”

What of the parents and students who tried to sweep it all under the rug so that the football team wouldn’t be affected?  (No, sadly, I’m not making that up.)  What of the parents who allowed their homes to be used for these alcohol-fueled parties for minors?  Where did Mays and Richmond ever get the idea that what they did was in any way fun or even human?

When are we, as a people, going to start parenting and stop producing and enabling monsters?

And what of their victim?  What about the horror that she has had to endure?  Not only that night (of which, mercifully, she remembers very little), but later as she was vilified and blamed and told to keep quiet so that the team could have its “heroes”?   And even later, when the football-hero-monsters who raped the girl allowed their attorneys (who were, after all, only doing their sworn duty) to psychologically rape the victim again in a public courtroom?  The press hasn’t revealed the victim’s name (which is good), but everyone in that community knows who she is and what happened to her.  Are there any of her peers who have NOT seen her nude pictures and read the vile, boastful, and unrepentant tweets of her rapists?  How is she supposed to rebuild her life?  Perhaps she and her family will move away, leaving behind family, friends, jobs, and lives, so that she can start over somewhere in anonymity.  Even then, she’ll live with the fear that someone will post her picture and name online again.  (After all, she did cost the football team two of its star players and ruined the lives of her rapists.)  One thing is certain: this horrific crime will affect her all the days of her life.

The monsters get one or two years, and their victim gets a lifetime of consequences.

There’s justice for you.

So when are we going to stop blaming the victims?  When are we going to stop minimizing the damage done to the victims?  When are we going to expect men to act like men, rather than animals?  I don’t care if that poor girl staggered into that party, completely hammered and stark naked, wearing only a sign that said, “Rape me!”  She still would not have deserved what happened to her.  Are men nothing more than beasts that have no self-control, no choice but to brutalize and rape women and girls, given the right stimuli?  I’ve got news for you: in some countries, a girl or woman can wear a burqa and she can still get raped, and unless four men witness that rape and testify in her behalf, she may still be executed for her “immoral conduct”.  There have even been cases where the victim did have four men testify in her behalf and yet she was later beaten, raped, and killed by those who should have protected her (i.e., her own family), because, obviously, she was “impure”.

No woman, no girl deserves to be brutalized and violated.  Sexual violence against women is epidemic and getting worse.  Even in nice hometowns in America.

Men need to stand up and protect women from the monsters.  In other words, men need to be men again.  Fathers need to be fathers.  Protect our wives, our daughters, our sisters, and our mothers, and treat every woman with respect.  We need to teach our sons to do the same.  We need to teach our daughters how men should behave.

And women?  Why on earth would you EVER, under any circumstances, blame the victim?  Nothing she did, no stupid choice or action on her part means she deserved to be hurt.  And demand that men be men, not beasts.  Tolerate nothing less.

“Ask the brown guy.” 

My kindergarten-age son wanted a grape soda and there were none to be found in the soda cooler of the little store.  My wife had told the child that they were probably out of grape soda.  Undeterred, the boy wanted his mother to ask the store clerk if there were any more.

At my son’s words, my wife froze in panic.  What would the clerk—who was of African descent—say?  Would he be offended?  Would he be angry? 

After a tense moment, the man busted out in a hearty laugh.  “He called me ‘the brown guy’!”  He laughed so hard, it brought tears to his eyes.  “He called me ‘the brown guy’!”  He beamed and said, “What can I get for you, child?” 

My family and I were on an extended TDY (“Temporary Duty Yonder,” for those of you who are military-acronym-challenged) in Florida.  At the time, our home was in Mead, WA (a little unincorporated town on the outskirts of Spokane), and the extent of my son’s experiences with people who looked different from him, was the innocent playtime of children in the neighborhood.  It wasn’t that he was oblivious to the skin color of his playmates.  On the contrary, he envied the fact that some of his playmates could spend more time playing in the sun without having to mess with sunscreen or worry about sunburn.  On more than one occasion, he would wistfully remark, “I wish I was brown like Jesse and Jerome.” 

In our home, we made an effort to never refer to people as “black” or “white” or “Asian” or “Hispanic” or “Mexican” or whatever.  People were just people.   When describing a person, the color of their skin or the native country of their ancestors is something I rarely mention, because I believe it to be as irrelevant as the color of their eyes or hair.  To be honest, if I’m trying to point someone out in a crowd, I might say a person is “blonde” or “darker-skinned”, if that might help identify him or her, just as I might say, “the lady in the purple blouse,” or “the really tall guy.”  Physical characteristics are just that: what’s on the outside.  They should have nothing to do with who a person is. 

So, when my wife related to me the story of “the brown guy”, I was pleased.  I was pleased because the incident demonstrated that, on some level, we had succeeded in teaching my son that skin-color and ethnicity are irrelevant.  And do you know how that was accomplished?  Not by preaching against racism, but simply by ignoring such factors.  My little boy had no concept of what racism was.

Equally telling, however, was my wife’s reaction.  She was worried that the clerk would be offended.  I suppose he could have been.  If a significant part of his identity was that he classified himself as “black”, he might have felt insulted that my son did not identify him the same way.  I am grateful that he was pleased that my son didn’t think of him as somehow different.  My son was simply describing the man.  And perhaps the man found it refreshing. 

Am I a racist?  Not by any definition in the dictionary (reference: http://dictionary.reference.com): 

rac·ist   [rey-sist]

noun

1. a person who believes in racism, the doctrine that a certain human race is superior to any or all others.

adjective

2. of or like racists or racism: racist policies; racist attitudes. 

And just to be clear, racism is defined as follows:

rac·ism  [rey-siz-uhm]

noun

1. a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one’s own race is superior and has the right to rule others.

2. a policy, system of government, etc., based upon or fostering such a doctrine; discrimination.

3. hatred or intolerance of another race or other races.

I do not consider any race to be superior or inferior to any other, nor do I hate anyone nor am I intolerant of anyone because of their race.  So, by the above definition, I am not a racist.  (Sidebar, your honor?  Nowhere in the above definitions does it say anything about disagreeing with the politics or policies of our current president or preferring Celtic music to rap.  Apparently, such sentiments do not constitute racism.)  The fact that I take pride in being an American of Scottish ancestry does not mean that I consider Canadians or Guatemalans or the Dutch or Zulus or Pakistanis or Russians or Koreans to be inferior in anyway.  The fact that I consider the U.S. Constitution to be an inspired document and the American system of government (even with all its flaws) to be the best earthly system of government does not make me a bigot.  I respect the right of all people to choose their own form of government.  The fact that I consider the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints to be the true church and the only one authorized to administer the ordinances of the gospel does not make me a bigot.  I respect the right of others to believe and worship “how, where and what they may,” as Joseph Smith stated.  Having a different opinion than someone else does not make one bigoted. 

On the other hand, am I prejudicial?  Absofraggin’lutely.  The very incident that I related at the beginning of this post illustrates that fact.  Because the clerk had darker skin than mine, had I been there instead of my wife, I too would have worried that the clerk might have reacted differently than he did.  That doesn’t mean in any way that I think he is somehow inferior to me.  That means simply that I cared about his feelings. 

We all prejudge other people based on different factors.  It might be skin color or hair color or their accent or the fact that they drive a Ford instead of a Dodge.  The fact that someone willingly purchases cauliflower at the grocery store immediately leads me to inescapable and logical conclusion that such a person is mentally deficient, has no sense of smell or taste, or is masochistic or otherwise emotionally disturbed.  (Another distinct and plausible explanation for the purchase of cauliflower might be alien mind-control.) 

And if you think that Jean-Luc Picard can hold a candle to James T. Kirk, you are an idiot. 

The list of my prejudices, it seems, is endless. 

But let’s take one of those examples and run with it, shall we?  I can have a very civil discussion with someone who thinks that Captain Jean-Luc Picard is the superior starship captain and we can still remain friends (even though the other person is still an idiot).  If there is a survey taken to determine which starship captain was the best, I will vote according to my absolute conviction.  (To do otherwise, simply to spare the idiot’s feelings , would be wrong and would make me a liar.)  If I demand that the idiot in question acknowledges the superiority of Captain Kirk, that makes me worse than an idiot (or a Denebian slime worm, if you prefer).  And therein lays the difference.  The fact that I hold a certain set of opinions doesn’t necessarily translate into actions that would in any way infringe upon the right of the other person to believe in their delusions.   (Captain Kirk is, after all, the best.) 

You see, my opinions can grow and mature and even change completely over time as I learn and grow and gain experience.  If my opinions never change, I am not learning.  (I am, after all, seriously flirting with the idea that Captain Jonathan Archer may have surpassed James T. Kirk.  It’s a radical idea, I know, but I’m still churning it around in my brain.  I’ll get back to you when I make up my mind about that.)  However, it is my actions that define me, not my opinions.  I must act according to what I believe to be right.  If I do not act according to my conscience, I am a coward.  My opinions can drive my actions, but I can also choose to let my opinions remain just that: mine.  There is never a valid excuse to attempt to force others to accept or validate my beliefs.  Even if I am right, I cannot force someone else to be good or right (as I define it). 

Conversely, anyone who demands that I validate their choices will not get very far with me.  Even if they try to force their beliefs or lifestyle on me via the law, the courts, or the gun, such victories will never change my heart. 

Such victories cannot change right or wrong. 

Calling an apple an “orange” will not change the nature of the fruit.  2 + 2 will never equal 5, even if the law says it is so.

If you are convinced that you are right and I am wrong, then attempt to persuade me with your words and your ideas and your facts and with verifiable history.  I’ll listen.  I’ll discuss.  I may even argue.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll convince you.  But if, at the end of the day, I don’t agree with you, don’t try to blow me up or sue me or get me thrown into jail for “hate speech” because I don’t validate your sincere opinions.  So long as you do no harm to me or others because of your beliefs, I’m perfectly content to let you believe whatever you want. 

I’m not trying to enforce my opinions on you, and I will not allow you to force yours upon me. 

I remember the schoolyard arguments from my childhood concerning who would win in a fight: Batman or Superman?  We had some very inventive and rousing discussions on that vital question.  And we could disagree and still remain friends (even if the Superman supporters were complete idiots—I mean, Frank Miller has settled the question for all time in “The Dark Knight Returns”, after all).  However, every once in a while, someone of either persuasion would attempt to enforce his opinion with his fists or by going to the teacher and telling her (my teachers in elementary school were all women) that the other guys were being jerks.  Neither method changed the conviction of the others. 

All it did was to show us who the bullies were. 

The Good Word Interview is online!  Check it out here:

http://www.radiogoldproductions.com/thegoodword/episode-113-interview-with-c-david-belt/

“From Bantry Bay into Derry Quay,

From Galway to Dublin Town,

No maid I’ve seen like the fair colleen

That I met in the County Down.” 

That’s the chorus from “The Star of the County Down”, a wonderful Celtic song about a man who falls in love with a beautiful Irish girl (a “colleen”) that he meets in Downshire County, Ireland.  He is struck by her smile and her “nut-brown hair.”  When he asks, “Who’s the maid with the nut-brown hair,” he’s informed that she’s “the gem of Ireland’s crown, Young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann.”  The man vows that he’ll stop all other pursuits until she marries him, until he wins her heart.  The jaunty tune is an old one, known as “Kingsfoil” and “Dives and Lazarus”.  Members of my faith will know it as the newer version of “If You Could Hie to Kolob,” although we don’t tend to sing that tune at quite the same tempo in sacrament meeting.  (Imagine hundreds of Mormons dancing a hearty jig on top of the pews.  I know I will from now on whenever we sing that hymn.)

When I’m doing book-signings at The Author’s Corner, sometimes things are slow.  I pass the time singing Celtic songs.  (And yes, the singing can be heard at the far end of the mall.)  I have just added this song to my repertoire.  (On a side note, a teenager came up to me at a book-signing on Friday night and asked if I would sing insert-name-of-popular-song-that-I’ve-never-heard-of-here.  When I told him I didn’t know it, he asked for insert-name-of-any-other-popular-song-that-I’ve-never-heard-of-here.  He asked, “How can you not know that?”  I just shrugged and said, “I’m pretty selective about what I listen to.”  In other words, I’m picky!)  “Star of the County Down” caught my attention when I first heard it, because of the hauntingly familiar (even if toe-tapping) tune.  Anyone who has seen the book trailers for volumes 1 and 2 of “The Children of Lilith” will hear the same tune played in the background (by my daughter, Rachel) in a soft and melancholy arrangement. 

As I memorized the song, I was struck by how applicable it was to my own “nut-brown rose” (who, by the way, is of Irish descent).  I met my dear bride on a bus as we traveled down to southern California for military drill-meet decades ago.  She was the prettiest maid in our group from BYU Army and Air Force ROTC.  (She wasn’t a cadet; she was a member of a service club for girls that was associated with Army ROTC.  The “Sponsors” marched, shot M-16’s, baked cookies, cheered, supported, sustained, and often dated the army cadets.)  “She smiled as she passed me by,” as the song says, and I was enchanted. 

“She looked so sweet from her two bare feet

To sheen of her nut-brown hair. 

Such a coaxin’ elf, sure I shook myself

For to see I was really there.”

OK, her feet weren’t bare, but you get the picture.  To say that I was out of her league was to admit the painfully obvious: not only was she a SENIOR and I was a pre-mission FRESHMAN, but she was gorgeous and popular (four dates with four guys on the SAME DAY, mind you), and I was a skinny, scrawny, awkward zoomie (AF cadet) with too many zits.  But like the man in the song, I made it my life’s mission to be worthy of her, to pursue her, and to win her.  When I proposed (very creatively, if I say so myself) and asked her to wait for me while I served my LDS mission, she laughed at me.  When I suggested that she serve a mission herself (to make the waiting easier), she said, “I’m not going to serve a mission.  Only girls who can’t get married serve missions.”  I suggested she pray about it.  She responded, “I don’t want to pray about it.  I’ll probably have to go.”  Well, she prayed and she went, and the rest, as they say, is history.  She got home two weeks before I was released from my mission.  We were sealed in the temple of God sixteen days later (which in my opinion was about fourteen days too long).  We’ve been happily married for more than thirty years.

A few months ago, my sweet bride asked me, “Why do you love me?”  The odd thing was, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t immediately sure how to answer her.  I could easily have recited the myriad reasons why, as I have so many times, but I was struck by the realization that my reasons have changed over the more than three decades since we were married.  The man in the song became enchanted by his “star” because of her beauty.  And certainly, physical beauty is the beginning of attraction, and in my case, her looks were what caught my eye.  But after that initial attraction, other factors become far more important.  You can be enchanted by a pretty face, nut-brown hair, and a great body, but you fall in love with a beautiful soul.

I’ve read a lot lately about couples divorcing after decades of marriage, and more often than not, with people my age, it’s because they have “grown apart.”  More than three decades ago, I fought hard to win my bride, because she was the most wonderful woman in the world.  (I have often said that she is almost perfect; it’s only her taste in men that keeps her from being translated.)  After all these years, she has only gotten better, even more wonderful.  Don’t misunderstand me: I’ve seen her at her best and I’ve seen her at her less-than-best, but she’s more beautiful and more wonderful with each passing year.  So if I fought to win her, I’ll fight to keep her.  I’ll fight every day to be someone with whom she’ll want to spend the rest of eternity.  Some days I do better than others.  But, hey, she’s the one who’s almost perfect.  Me, I have a LONG ways to go, and so far, she’s been patient. 

I am so profoundly saddened when I hear of a man who’s thinking of leaving the woman he fought so hard to win.  For what?  Greener pastures?  Somebody more perfect?  Somebody younger?  Somebody with whom he has more in common?  What are you, man?  God’s gift to women?  If she was worth fighting for then, why are you willing to surrender the field now?  So you can fight another day? 

The love of my life no longer looks like she’s twenty.  Gray hairs pepper her nut-brown tresses, and laugh lines are visible around her blue eyes.  We’re both growing older and we are dealing with all that aging brings.  But she’s still the most beautiful woman who has ever walked the planet.  She still has the same eyes, you see, and eyes, as the saying goes, are the windows to the soul.  I love her for who she is.  And even if her eyes were to grow dim or even if they were to change color, they would still be the same eyes. 

The Penitent (The Children of Lilith, Vol. 2) is a finalist for 2012 Whitney Awards for Speculative Fiction!  Thank you to all who nominated it!

I watched helplessly as the dog scurried back and forth, mere inches from the moving freight train.  The animal was desperately seeking an opening big enough so he could dart under the metal monster and could get to the other side.  Through the gaps between the wheels, as they thundered by, he could see his elusive goal.  The train itself took no notice of the frantic dog.  If he darted under the wheels, the resulting carnage wouldn’t hamper its progress in the slightest.  And at the train’s destination, if anybody examined the wheels and found blood, it would hardly be unusual: just another animal unlucky enough to get hit by a train.

The dog scurried back and forth, whimpering, barking, terrified, but determined to find a way across.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  He’d stick his snout into a gap and snatch it back a split-second before an iron wheel could strike him.

Sitting in my car, waiting for the train to pass, I was certain the poor dog was going to try to cross, almost as certain as I was that, if he tried, he would be killed or maimed.  But what could I do?  If I approached the animal, he might get scared and bolt under the wheels.  If I yelled or called to him, the same thing could happen.  He didn’t know me.  He wouldn’t listen to me or trust me.  If I left him alone, he might give up, or wait till the train passed, or he might take his chances.  I was terrified.  I just had to do something!  I couldn’t just sit by and watch the frightened, desperate creature get slaughtered or mutilated.  It was torture to watch him.

Do something! I screamed in my mind.

Do something!  Anything!

When felt I could stand it no longer, I opened the door and leaped from my vehicle.  The dog continued to dart back and forth, whining in terror and desperation to reach his goal.  If anything, he was more frantic.

I yelled, “No!”

That got his attention.  The dog glanced at me, but then snapped his head back toward the train.  He yelped in pain as his nose was struck by a wheel.  In an instant, he ran away, yelping and howling as he went.  Soon he was out of sight.

I got back into my car and trembled as the train rumbled on, unheeding of the damaged dog or the helpless human.

The incident occurred a decade ago, but it still haunts me.  Unanswered questions linger, festering like old, unhealed wounds.  Was I responsible for the dog’s injury?  How badly was he hurt?  Did he run off, only to try the same thing at some other point along the track?  If I had done nothing, would the dog have continued his frantic efforts, only to be forced to wait until the train had passed?  In other words, by doing something, had I only made things worse?  I fear I know the answer to that last question.

He acted out of fear and desperation.  He was helpless to overcome those impulses.  He was incapable of overcoming his fear.

But what about me?  I let my fear and desperation overcome my reason.  In my head, I knew that by taking any action, I was almost ensuring that the animal would be injured or killed.  The safest course, the hardest course, would have been to leave him alone and pray that his instinctive fear would be enough to preserve him.  But instead, I acted and he was injured.  Of course, I didn’t put the dog on the wrong side of the train tracks.  I wasn’t responsible for the train being there and passing as it did.  I’m not responsible for either of those circumstances.  The train cannot be blamed, nor can those who drove and directed it.  The poor dog cannot be blamed.  He was just following his instincts.  He didn’t know any better.

I have no way of knowing what the outcome would have been if I hadn’t yelled, “No!”  If I had done nothing, and the dog was still injured or killed, I would have felt awful, but it wouldn’t have been my fault.  My inaction wouldn’t have caused death or injury.  But I do know that, because I didn’t restrain myself, I frightened the animal, and he was hurt.

My favorite instructor at USAF Undergraduate Pilot Training was an old, crusty B-52 pilot.  He was long on experience and wise in judgment.  He taught me, in an emergency, first and foremost, fly the airplane.  If you stop doing that, you’re dead.  Then you do the applicable “boldface” procedures.  These were the emergency procedures that were ingrained in us.  We had to memorize them verbatim and be able to recite them or write them down on demand and under stress.  There could be no mistake and no deviation from the boldface procedures.  If you were asked to recite one of them and you hesitated or got one word wrong or stuttered, you were grounded (not allowed to fly) for at least a day (and not until after you were able to successfully pass a repeat “boldface” test).  Likewise, if you were asked to write them down and you misspelled one word or got one comma or period out of place, you were grounded.  So first, you continued to fly the airplane, and second, you performed the applicable boldface procedures.  And what was the third thing?  You eat your lunch, of course.  No kidding.  That’s what he taught me.  What he meant by that is, after you keep the airplane flying and handle the immediate emergency using the essential steps, you take a second and think.  Your natural impulse is to do something, anything.  That can get you and others killed.  If you’re going to bring the aircraft home and keep everyone aboard safe, consider your next actions carefully.

Reason over fear.  Logic over instinct.

Stay alive.
Take the immediate and essential emergency steps.
Stop and think before you do anything else, especially something that might make the situation worse.

We have had a string of national tragedies of late.  Innocents have been murdered.  And the cry rings out:  Do something!  Anything!  There are those who will exploit the tragedy and the victims to advance their agenda, whatever that agenda is.  There is one word that describes such exploitation, regardless of their agenda : EVIL.  But the rest of us?  We simply want the horror and the pain to go away.  We are afraid and we’re desperate.  We desperately want to protect our children.  But some of the actions being considered in our haste to do something, anything might actually make the situation worse.

Six year-olds have been suspended from school for pointing fingers at each other and saying, “Bang,” in a recess game of cops and robbers.  A five year-old was suspended from school and declared a “terrorist threat” for saying she was going to “shoot” soap bubbles at a friend.  Another child was searched, called a murderer, and humiliated in front of her class for having an unadorned, L-shaped piece of white paper in her backpack at school.  Another child was told by her school that the photograph she had on her notebook of her brother, who happens to be a soldier, is inappropriate and must be removed.  I understand that we’re scared, but is any of this keeping children safe?

I don’t know what the answer is, but it sure seems to me that we should all take a moment and think, rather than rush to do something, anything.  Such actions usually lead to a false sense of security, and that leads inevitably to danger.  It doesn’t matter if you ban all guns or rush out and buy one.  A ban won’t stop the monsters from murdering, and having a gun won’t protect you or your family in a gun-free zone.

On the other hand, I do know the answer.  It’s an answer so simple that many would declare it “simplistic”.  We have to stop producing monsters.  And we can do that only by turning back to God.  And before you dismiss this, consider what our nation would be like if everyone strove to live the Ten Commandments and taught them to their children.  There will always be evil in the world.  But in God, in following His commandments, and in teaching our children to do the same, there is peace.  There is safety.  We won’t find it in the arm of flesh, whether that be armed guards in our schools, a gun ban, or a personal arsenal.  If we all take a moment and examine what’s important in our lives and remind ourselves and our children to love our neighbors, to respect others’ property (“Thou shalt not steal,”), to be honest, to speak truthfully of others and not gossip (or bully), to exercise self-control (“Thou shalt not commit adultery,”), to work for what you receive (“Thou shalt not covet…”), to value life (“Thou shalt not kill”), to honor our parents, wouldn’t we all be better off?  There will always be those who will not live these most basic of principles (and none of us is perfect in keeping all of them all the time), but the answer lies in being good ourselves.  It doesn’t lie in trying to force others to think as we do (that would be contrary to the principle of loving our neighbors), but in becoming the people we know we can be, the people He wants us to be.  And our efforts will be all in vain, if we don’t acknowledge Him as we strive to live His commandments.

If you think this is an over-simplification, consider this: we’ve tried virtually every other “enlightened” solution that man can devise, and things have gotten horribly worse.  We are not making progress.

It’s time to reverse course.  It’s time to turn back to our Heavenly Father.  It’s time to stop producing monsters.

Now that would be doing something.