C. David Belt's Blog, page 19

Sing Hallelujah with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir!

The first time I sang the “Hallelujah Chorus” with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was pure magic.  I mean it was better than if James T. Kirk, Spock, Johnathan Archer, T’Pol, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, John Sheridan, and Delenn all joined forces aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise, the Millennium Falcon, and the Whitestar to defeat the Klingons, the Galactic Empire, the Shadows, and the Vorlons all at once.

In short, it was the coolest thing ever!

And that was only a rehearsal!

When I first sang that majestic masterpiece with the Choir in front of an audience, it was as if I were singing before Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ on Their celestial thrones with all the angels of Heaven joining in.

I remember stopping on the stairs of the Choir loft of the Tabernacle as we were leaving.  I said with awe, “I’ve sung both ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ and the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  They can kick me out now.  Nothing can top this.”

And then the bass behind gave me a gentle nudge and said, “Keep moving.  You’re holding up the line.”

Talk about a buzz-kill…

Seriously though, I will never forget that feeling.  I sang perhaps the greatest song of praise ever given to the mind and heart of man with the greatest choir in the world.  I didn’t (and still don’t) know why I, out of so many, have been given this great honor, this divine blessing, this joyous privilege, but I am profoundly, indescribably grateful.

(And seriously, if anyone in the Choir leadership is reading this, PLEASE don’t kick me out of the Choir!  I’ve got only four more years left, and I want to savor every blessed minute!)

The Choir and mormon.org are offering YOU a chance to join the Choir in singing “Hallelujah.”  Check out https://www.mormon.org/easter/hallelujah-chorus-video.  Follow the directions on the page and join us.

It’s like the coolest thing ever!

Hallelujah! 

For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth. 

The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ. 

King of Kings!  And Lord of Lords! 

And He shall reign forever and ever!

Hallelujah!

 

“A Dearth of Good Writing”

When I’m not actively writing or singing in the Choir or striving to be the best husband, son, dad, grandpa, and birdie-servant ever, I work as a software engineer for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the Missionary Department.  In December, I attended our Christmas devotional.  Our speaker was the Director of the Missionary Department, Stephen Allen, and while he talked about many things, three statements really stood out to me as a writer.  Now, I may not remember his exact words, but this is how I recall them:

“We have a dearth of good writing in the Church.” Brother Allen said that we have accepted and even applauded mediocrity.  As long as the story is wholesome or at least inoffensive, we give it a standing ovation.  But we have to dig deeper.  The scriptures are full of stories that are gruesome and offensive, that tell of great evil as well as great good.  Some scriptural stories are graphic and gory and provide details that make us squirm, especially when we have to explain them to our children.  Some stories describe horrible and immoral acts in lurid detail.  And the Lord still saw fit to include those stories and their “inappropriate-for-family-viewing” details, because after all, He is making a point.  And that takes me to the next statement…
“Every well-told story has a message.” Even in fiction, a well-told story has an underlying message.  That message may be good or evil, positive or negative, but there is always a message.  In “The Lord of the Rings,” for example, one of the great, underlying messages is that the smallest and weakest among us can show great courage and strength.  It is Frodo who bears the burden of the Ring.  It is Eowyn and Merry who defeat the Nazgul lord.  And ultimately, Sam Gamgee, the humble hobbit gardener, is the true hero of the story.  That scene where Eowyn stands over her fallen uncle, facing the Nazgul, and declares, “I am no man!” still makes me weep.  (I’m bawling now just thinking about it.)  And the scene when Sam, starving and at the end of his strength, realizing he cannot carry the Ring for his master, he declares, “But I can carry you!”—to me, there is no more powerful scene in all of fiction.  Likewise, I love Disney’s “The Little Mermaid,” but one of the messages in that well-told story is, “I need to alter my physical appearance and make any bargain necessary to be with the boy I love (and have never actually met).”  And that brings me to the last statement…
“The enemy is so much better at communicating their message than we are.” Brother Allen went on to mention his favorite two TV series.  And both of them were, shall we say , essentially propaganda for the enemy.  (I’m not trying to imply that the shows he mentioned were “R-rated” or anything like that; they weren’t, but they were shows I avoid, because of the messages being communicated.)  He said that he enjoyed the series, because the writing was so good.  In my lifetime alone, I have seen that which was (and should be) abhorrent, deviant, and utterly vile become acceptable, commonplace, and “sanctified” in some churches.  Why?  Because the enemy knows how to wrap his message in well-crafted stories.  As Brother Wilberg says so often to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, “It’s not good enough.  We can be better.  We have to be better.”  Brother Allen told us that too often we simply rely on the fact that the message is good and just and true, and think that should be sufficient to carry the story to the hearts of those who read, hear, or see it.  We stand at the pulpit in sacrament meeting or before our Sunday school class and say, “I pray that the Spirit will be with me.”  But that is not enough.  We have to wrap the message in a well-told story and rely on the Spirit after all that we can do.  After all, that is how the Savior taught—in parables.  Much of the scriptures are doctrine and prophecy, but the parts we really remember are the stories.  You will never forget “The Prodigal Son” or “Nephi and the Brass Plates” and you will ponder the messages of those stories for a lifetime.

While I was listening to Brother Allen, I had an epiphany.  I finally realized just what the underlying message is in my current novel, “The Sweet Sister.”  I realized that the message had been there all along, even if I wasn’t consciously aware of it.  And I realized exactly how the story needs to end.  (And I was 80,000 words into it already.  I know—scary, huh?)

I got to attend my parents’ Gospel Doctrine class for the first time on Sunday.  (As a member of the Choir, I get to attend my home ward only when we are on the 1-4 PM schedule.)  Now I know that both my mom and dad are phenomenal teachers, but I have to say that I was blown away.  It was a great lesson!  And it was well-taught.  My parents teach only once a month, but they spend the entire month preparing for that lesson.  They research it and practice it and hone it and refine it and then still go into that class nervous and anxious, because they want so desperately to communicate the message they’ve been commissioned to deliver.

To quote that great philosopher, Dr. Leonard McCoy, “Spock, I’ve found that evil usually triumphs, unless good is very, very careful.”  We know the enemy will not triumph in the end, but in the here-and-now, we have to better.

We wield “the sword of the Spirit,” but how much more effective would we be if we knew how to wield that sword?  We need to practice and hone and test our skills.  It’s not enough to just aim the pointy end at the other guy and hope he falls on it.

So I ask my fellow authors and myself, when you write—be it a novel, a short story, a poem, a song, a blog post, a sacrament talk, a lesson plan, or an email to a wayward child—what is your message?  And are you constantly pushing yourself to improve your storytelling, to rise above that which you have done before, to be better?

Because I don’t like bullies.

I will not capitulate to bullies.

How’s that for a new year’s resolution?

I LOVE that scene in the first of the Disney Captain America movies where frail, puny Steve Rogers refuses to back down in the face of a merciless beating.  “Because I don’t like bullies,” he explained.  It reminds me, quite frankly, of numerous incidents from my childhood and teenage years.  I was never very good at fighting—in fact, I almost always got my puny butt kicked—but I never backed down or ran away.

And I won’t do it as an adult either.

Recently, I was pulled aside during a rehearsal of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  I was told that I was the “poster boy” for a social media campaign to embarrass the Choir.  I was told that I was “too expressive,” that images of me with my mouth open wider than the men around me were being used to embarrass the Choir.  I was counselled to tone back my “obvious enthusiasm.”

That’s the age we live in, apparently.  Anyone can take something out of context and use it to try to force others to their will.  In this case, I decided to make sure my mouth wasn’t open too wide.  I made no other adjustments.  And I was recently informed that what I was doing was more than sufficient.

But the images still exist and will still be used by those who, for whatever bizarre reason, want to hurt the Choir and the Church.

Well, I don’t want to embarrass the Choir or the Church, but I will not resign.  So bullies, do your worst.  I won’t let you win.

This has been a year for allowing the bullies to win.

The state of Oregon confiscated all the money in the bank account of a family of bakers who happen to be Christian and refused to participate in a lesbian “wedding”.  This happened just before Christmas.  Well, the bullies—the judge and the lesbian couple (who, by the way, claimed anguish and suffering after deliberately targeting the bakery and being told, “We’re sorry, but we can’t participate in something that violates our conscience.”)—got what they wanted.  But the bakers still won’t participate in gay weddings.  I’ll guess the bullies are just going to have to hit them again.

The president and chancellor of the University of Missouri were forced to resign after cries of “indifference to racism.”  What evidence was presented to ruin the lives of these two men and their families?  A racist incident that occurred OFF-campus, a fictitious report of the use of a racial slur ON-campus, and photos of an anti-Semitic image that were later shown to be dated two years earlier and traced to an incident in another state.  How was any of this the responsibility of the president and the chancellor?  Nevertheless, never let the truth get in the way of a good protest.  They’re out, and the bullies won.

Girls are being forced to share public bathrooms and showers with boys and men who demand to be treated as women.  No matter what a man does to himself to appear to be a woman, he will never be a woman—he will never have the divine potential of womanhood—he will never be the equal of my wife, my daughters, or my granddaughters.  And I will not put my wife, my daughters, or my granddaughters at risk to placate him.

Our police are under siege.  They know that if they defend themselves or the public, they will be prosecuted, even with strong evidence supporting their actions.  Even with no evidence of wrongdoing, these brave men and women will be forced out of their jobs and their communities.  I have a brother who is a police officer in a very dangerous town.  His own neighbors don’t know he’s a cop.  He has to maintain that anonymity to protect his family.  He is a brave and honest man.  And there are people who would kill him and his wife and children, just because he’s a cop.

Today, I read a report of a deputy director of the ACLU who is Muslim and refuses to condemn Islamic terrorism, instead blaming murder and rape on American “islamophobia.”  I pray nobody really listens to this garbage, but I’m sure many will loudly proclaim that you and I are at fault and that you and I need to change before one more little girl is forced into sex slavery or one more Christian is slaughtered.

Our president blames Islamic terrorism on us as well.  It’s because of global warming, you see—because we are driving the monsters to commit rape and murder because we emit too much CO2 (you know—that stuff that comes out when we breathe).  Forget that the world hasn’t warmed and is, in fact, cooling, and has been for nearly two decades.  No, rape and murder are caused by my fuel-efficient car and my wife’s reasonably fuel-efficient SUV.  Sorry, Mr. President.  I’m not buying what you’re shoveling.  (And frankly, neither are you if your personal use of fossil fuels is any indicator.)  And you can fine me or send me to jail, but you won’t change my heart.

I’m done with catering to bullies.  I’ll make reasonable accommodations to help those around me, even people I disagree with.  I’ll avoid even the appearance of evil where I can.  I’ll follow my conscience and my faith.

But I will not bow down to bullies any longer.  I won’t open my mouth as wide as before, but I’ll still sing with all my heart and soul, and the emotions engendered by the music and the words will be evident on my face.  I support our cops, our troops, and I stand with Israel.  And I’ll stand with any Muslim who respects the rights of others to live according to their faith and conscience—as I believe most Muslims do.  And if you’re LGBT, I’ll support your right to live your life as you choose, but I will not support your efforts to force anyone else to agree with you or go against their conscience.

This is where I stand.  I may get knocked down and I have been knocked down… and bruised and bloodied as well.  I may get called a bully and hateful, because I don’t agree with whatever philosophy of men happens to be in vogue, but I will follow my conscience.  I will be told, “But your opinion is hurtful.”  My words will be searched and scoured by those hoping to trap me, but I will continue to express my beliefs.  I will not impose them on others, but I will vote and advocate for what I think is right.  You are free to do the same, but if you hoping to bully me into submission or get me to admit to hatred in my heart, you will not succeed.

I’ll keep getting back up.  Because I don’t like bullies.

Care to stand with me?

I know there is One who will always stand with me, so long as I choose to follow Him.

The Perfect Answer

“Hey, Dave!  How’re you doing?”

As I’ve said in a previous post, this can be a dangerous question to answer honestly.  However, early this morning, as I was walking through the tunnel from the Tabernacle to the Conference Center and I was asked this question, I had the perfect answer:

“I get to sing Christmas carols with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir!  I’m doing wonderfully well!”

The tenor who had asked the question smiled and said, “It doesn’t get much better than that!”

My life isn’t perfect—far from it.  I have problems.  I have pain.  I have infirmities.  I have worries.  I have sins to wrestle with.  I have family members who are struggling.

No, my life isn’t perfect.  But in the midst of all my struggles, I also have profound joy.

And the singing Christmas carols with the Choir is one of those great joys.

Now this great blessing comes at great cost.  I have to sacrifice many hours each week.  I have to stand for long periods of time, which is difficult for me with my knee and ankle injuries (which are healing, but very, very slowly).  I have to get up very early on Sunday mornings—and I am definitely not a morning person.  I have to practice and memorize and work hard to maintain pitch and tonal quality and vowels and all the myriad things that go into singing with the Choir.  It’s hard, exhausting work.  I have to put off or give up things I love or want for something I love more.

And it so totally worth it.

I feel the same way about my family.  I will pay any price to be with my family in the eternities.  Along the way, I will make mistakes.  I will falter.  I will offend.  I will disappoint.  I will be discouraged.  I will weep and suffer pain and criticism and persecution.  But my Savior suffered all things for me to make eternal marriages and eternal families possible.  So I will keep on striving to make my marriage an eternal marriage and to bring my children with me into the celestial kingdom.  That means I will have to put off or give up things I love or want for something I love more.

That’s what sacrifice is: giving up something you love or want, laying it on the altar, for something you want more.  And that can be painful and difficult.

But in the end, it will be worth any sacrifice.

 

Car Repairs, Bad Aim, and Other Blessings

It started with a check-engine light on my brand new car.  (Well, I bought the car in July, but it’s still pretty darn new.)  On my way home from work on Friday night, I stopped for gas.  When I restarted the car after fueling up, the light came on.

I was… annoyed.

“Brand new car, and already a stinking check-engine light,” I thought.  “Well, at least it’s under warranty…”

So that night, I booked an appointment with the service department at the dealership in Provo.  Saturday morning in the service department lounge, I settled in with my laptop expecting to spend a half hour or less writing while they plugged a reader into the car, read the engine-code, and made some minor adjustment.  Time dragged on, and though I was making good progress on my latest chapter, I became concerned.  (A more honest word would be “annoyed,” but let’s just be charitable, shall we?)  I asked the service manager for news and she told me that my car was “next in line.”

“What good did it do me to make an appointment,” I thought, but didn’t say out loud.

So I settled in and wrote some more.

But the time I had allotted for hanging outdoor Christmas lights that morning was slipping away.  (Yes, I hang my outdoor lights before Thanksgiving.  But it’s ONLY my outdoor lights, so there.)  And my dad and I were going to work on the shed we’re building.  And the BYU game was starting at 1:30.

“Good thing I’m writing about angry and annoyed people in this chapter,” I thought, channeling my irritation into my characters.

TWO HOURS of channeling later, the service department manager walked in with a paper in her hand.  “This doesn’t look good,” I thought.

And… it wasn’t.

In addition to the paper (containing an estimate for the work to be done), she carried a 4-inch-square chunk of twisted metal.  Apparently, the chunk had flown through the front grill of my car and caused $750 worth of damage.  Worse, because it was not a manufacturing defect, the repairs would not be covered by my warranty.

Joy.

So I called my insurance company.  I was informed that, while I was covered, I was responsible for a $500 deductible.

I fixed a smile on my face (which went exactly as high as my nose and no higher) and made the arrangements for the repairs, absolutely thrilled about shelling out an unexpected $500 a few days before Thanksgiving.

The insurance arrangements couldn’t be finalized until Monday, so I drove home.

I didn’t get the Christmas lights hung.  My dad and I did get a couple of walls framed on the shed.  Then we watched the BYU game on our DVR.  Delayed.

My Saturday was not going as planned.  More inspiration for my annoyed characters!  Yay. 

At least BYU won.  So I couldn’t complain about that (even if I did have to watch the game delayed).

My dear wife looked at the damage to my car and pointed out that if the metal chunk had hit a foot or so higher, it would have flown through my head.

I offered up a silent prayer of gratitude to a gracious Heavenly Father.

I had very nearly died.  I was alive to come home to my wife.  I was alive to work on my shed.  I was alive to watch the BYU game.  I was alive to sing in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir broadcast on Sunday morning.

And I will hang the darn lights on Thursday morning after I get the turkey in the oven.  (Yes, I roast the turkey.)

And yesterday, I found out that because the chunk hit me, rather than me hitting the chunk, I was only responsible for $100 in deductible.

$100 vs. $500 is nothing compared to life vs. death, but I’m still grateful I get to keep the $400.

And the funny thing is, I don’t even remember when I got hit.

God is watching out for me.  He’s watching out for all of us.  And we are… and I am not even aware of all the blessings and protection He gives.

I could thank Him all my days and never thank Him enough.

You Are a Son or Daughter of God

A few weeks ago, I was called a racist.  Now, I own big-boy pants, and occasionally I even wear them.  (Trust me—you don’t want to see me frolicking about in short pants.)  So although I was bothered by the label, considering the fact that the person who deemed me to favor or promote one race over all others—the definition of racism—does not know me or my heart, I will survive.

So what did I say that was so heinous and prejudicial?  I said, “The color of a man’s skin shouldn’t matter.”  Isn’t that essentially what Martin Luther King, Jr. said?  Why is that profound coming from Dr. King, but “hurtful” coming from an American of Scottish descent?  (Incidentally, the person who called me racist was Caucasian.)  Why is it so important to some to divide us?  Why do some wish to put us all into cages defined by skin pigmentation or tribe or ancestry?

I served a mission in South Korea.  At least at the time, the Koreans hated the Japanese.  And the Japanese hated the Koreans right back.  The reasons for the hatred have to do with many centuries of Japanese conquest and enslavement of the Korean people.  Both races considered their own superior to the other.  Both races claimed that you could go up on your roof, close your eyes, spin yourself around, and still be able to tell which direction was east (if you were Korean) or west (if you were Japanese) by stench.  Yet, when Elder Kikuchi of the First Quorum of the Seventy visited and spoke to the Korean saints, he was received with open arms, despite the fact that he was Japanese.  (Now, before you say that Koreans and Japanese look alike, trust me—they don’t.  Actually, such a statement might be considered horribly racist…)

I come from a proud race that has traditionally hated and been hated in turn by the British.  This mutual loathing goes back many centuries.  However, at least in the United States, this racial hatred has been forgotten.  I married a wonderful woman of British descent, and we have beautiful Scottish-British children.

And I very rarely tease my lovely wife about her inferior racial heritage.

I’m not making light of true racism.  I know it exists.  I know it is evil.  I have both seen it and experienced it firsthand.  I have the scars to prove it.  I have seen vile and despicable acts and heard terrible expressions of hatred toward others.  As a child, I was beaten up many, many times, because of the color of my skin or because I stood up for someone who’s skin color differed from my own.  As an adult, I have looked down the barrel of a gun and had my life threatened, because I wasn’t a Chicano and had the temerity to drive through “Chicano Country” in California’s Orange County. I have ancestors who were slaves and I have ancestors who were slave owners. I have been the minority kid in a school where I was denied access and privilege, because of my race.  I have had a cop pull me over, point a gun in my face, and threaten to shoot me, because I was “white.”  (I learned the next day that a person matching my description, driving a car the same make and model and color as my car, had shot and killed a deputy sheriff.  I’m really glad I didn’t mouth off to the cop.  I’m glad I was respectful.  And I’m glad they finally caught the killer.  And I’m glad the cop, who was fearing for his own life, didn’t shoot me.)

I know what true racism is, and I loathe its practice and despise its practitioners.

My parents taught me to admire and honor people, because of their courage, talents, and good deeds.  And what they looked like never even entered into the equation.  My dad used to make up stories when I was little about “Dark Man,” a superhero/detective who used the dark color of his skin to blend into the night and fight crime.  In short, Dark Man was my hero as a child.

Imagine that.

But then I moved to an area where the other kids said I shouldn’t play with my best friend, George.  Why?  Because George’s skin was “black.”  (Actually, it was a really dark shade of brown, but for some reason, he was “black.”  We didn’t have the term “African-American” back then.  To me, he was just George.)  I didn’t understand or care about the other kids’ objections, and I kept right on hanging out with George.  And I got beat up for it.  A lot.  And George and I remained best friends until he moved away.

My new best friend was Teofolo.  Teofolo was cool.  And his dad grilled the best pork chops!  His apartment always smelled like tasty meat!  Teofolo was from the Philippines.  At school, the two of us danced the Tinikling, a traditional Philippino dance where two people beat bamboo poles together, and the dancers step in-between the poles, trying not to get their ankles squashed (and not always succeeding).  It reminded me of the five years I lived in the Philippines as a child.  Teofolo was very good at it, much better than I was, but I was still pretty decent.  And I taught Teofolo all about Batman and the Flash and Thor and all the other superhero games I liked to play.

I wasn’t raised to see color or race or ancestry as a defining characteristic of any person.  And my wife and I raised our kids the same way.

I remember a TV public service announcement from the seventies: a grandfather and his grandson are fishing in a boat on a lake.  The grandson asks his grandfather, “What’s prejudice?”  The grandfather explains the concept to the boy.  The boy beams and says, “I’m not prejudiced.  I have a Jewish friend!”  The grandfather replies, “If you weren’t prejudiced, he wouldn’t be your Jewish friend—he’d just be your friend.”

So, with all the true racism in the world, why are some people so intent on manufacturing it where it does not exist?  Why can’t we just judge others “by the content of their character” and not by any outward appearance?

Let others make everything about race, searching for offense in every word.  I refuse to play that sick game.

I am a man, a human being, a son of God.  And you, whoever you are, are also a man or woman, a human being, a son or daughter of God with divine potential.

Softly and Tenderly

“Flogging will continue until morale improves.”

These words are emblazoned on a naval-style brass placard above my desk at work. I found this placard in Boston while my lovely wife and I were on tour with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. When I read it, I laughed heartily and said, “I have got to buy this!”

“Where would you put it?” my wife asked.

“I don’t care. It’s hilarious!”

I wanted to hang it in the living room. My wife (perhaps wisely) didn’t agree. I couldn’t find the right spot in my home office (where I have all my swords, axes, spears, a mace, armor, etc.). So the placard now hangs above my desk at the Riverton Office Building of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

One day, I looked up from my computer to see one of my co-workers, a wonderful lady from Bolivia, looking very confused. “What is flogging?” she asked.

When I explained that it was a form of punishment that involved a whip with nine leather strips, this only deepened her confusion. So I explained that it was a joke. “Essentially, it says that you will continue to be punished until you become happy.”

She smiled and laughed.

I’m pretty sure she got the joke…

Flogging, of course, never improves morale. It never makes someone be happy.

I love Thursday nights. Thursday night is often the highlight of my week. Thursday night is when I get to rehearse with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I feel so uplifted during rehearsal. However, rehearsal is hard work. We don’t get to simply sing the music with joy. No, we push hard to make the music better. We repeat a phrase or a single note over and over until we get it right. And we often hear Brother Wilberg or Brother Murphy say, “Baritones, it’s just not high enough,” or, “You’re not watching! There’s no excuse for not watching. Get your eyes out of your music!” or the dreaded, “It’s just not good enough.” And when we finally get it right, we hear, “That’s it! Do it again!”

Yes, rehearsals are hard work.

And on Sunday morning, after we have sung our last note and the final organ music is playing at the end of the broadcast, most of the time, Brother Wilberg or Brother Murphy will give us two thumbs up. If we don’t get that sign of approval, we know we have to reshoot a song. So we reshoot it and then we get the two thumbs up.

And it will all have been worth it.

This weekend, we have the privilege of watching General Conference. We will hear the words of the Lord as conveyed by the prophet and apostles and other officers and authorities of the Church. We will eagerly anticipate the calling of three new apostles of the Lord Jesus Christ. We will hear many words of comfort and inspiration.

And that will make us feel good.

And we will also be called to repentance. Over and over. We will be told (gently or otherwise), “You’re not listening. You’re not watching. What you’re doing is wrong. It’s just not good enough. You can and should do better.” And we will think, “Oh, I hope my son or daughter is listening to this!” or, “I hope Brother or Sister So-And-So is listening. They really need to hear this.” But what we should be thinking is, “I’m going to try harder. I’m going to do better. Me. I need to correct my course.”

Because, without correction, without admitting our mistakes and committing to do better, without doing better and correcting our course, all we have is a false sense of well-being. That isn’t what we go to church for… or General Conference. I can pay any minister in any other church to tell me what I want to hear, and if he or she doesn’t say what makes me feel good, I can fire him or her or go to a different church. I don’t need that. That won’t bring me true happiness. It’s like drinking brandy (or hot chocolate) in freezing temperatures. I might feel good for a moment, feel an initial rush of warmth, but that will fade. And I’ll still be cold—perhaps colder in the end. I am no closer to returning to my Father in Heaven and my loving Savior.

I go to this Church so I can be healed, so I can improve, so I can be called to repentance, and truly repent.

And when I improve, when I am able to get a little closer to the Savior, then that is what truly, honestly makes me happy.

Repentance is painful, but it is redeeming. Jesus Christ made it possible for me to come back to him. Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling me home.  That’s what General Conference is all about.

 

Till We Meet Again, Elder Scott

Elder Richard G. Scott passed away today. He was a great man, a selfless servant of God, a valiant apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ.

And I will miss him.

Elder Scott was also great friend of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Until his health began to fail, he would come up into the Choir loft after every single session of General Conference and hug or shake hands with all the organists and the two conductors. He would then speak to individual members of the Choir.

It used to drive Church Security nuts.

We’re not allowed to approach the Brethren directly, because they need to be in a position for Security to whisk them away at an instant’s notice. And we—the Mormon Tabernacle Choir—present a huge bottleneck. So, after Conference, we have to wait in the loft until all the General Authorities are safely away. Security guards are posted at the top of the area where the Brethren sit to prevent us from attempting to go down into that space.

But that didn’t stop Elder Scott. After every session, up he came, smiling and waving.

Till we meet again, Elder Scott, God be with you.

I Guess I Will Never Be Stephen King

At a recent LDS writers conference, I attended a presentation where the presenter (a former intern for a literary agent) made the following statement: “Most agents and publishers will not even consider a fiction manuscript that does not include at least one sympathetic gay or lesbian character.” (Let me reiterate that this was at a conference for LDS writers.)

Now please don’t tell me that this is being driven by “the market,” that the majority of readers out there are hungry for gay romance or plucky lesbian role models for their preteen daughters. With homosexuals making up less than 3% (by gay-friendly estimations) of the population, the reading public isn’t demanding more make-out scenes between two guys. If you want to read that type of story, there are plenty of obscure examples out there to choose from. They’re not hard to find on Amazon.

My wife and I recently finished watching a season of one of our favorite BBC dramas (and no, I’m not talking about Downton Abbey, although we are addicted to that one too). They threw in a scene of two women sharing a “tender and romantic” kiss and confessing their previously unrequited love for each other. This scene did nothing to advance the story. My wife didn’t see it coming, but I did. When modern writers use the word “someone” and avoid using gender-specific pronouns to refer to a long-lost love in a throwaway bit of dialogue, you can bet dollars to donuts they’re setting up a homosexual romance. (And yes, I know the “dollars-to-donuts” reference old-fashioned, but that’s the way I roll.)

So if there isn’t a huge demand for gay romance and gay role models for our youth from the reading and viewing public, why keep throwing it at us?

Because, quite honestly, there is an agenda. And it’s not just the so-called “gay agenda.” This is the same agenda that shows gave us “Titanic” with its full frontal female nudity and a “romantic” premarital sex scene. This is the same agenda that gives us Disney Channel and Nickelodeon programs with preteens dating. We are being reprogrammed so that we will call that which is evil good. Subjects and characters which would have sickened my generation and horrified the generation before are now “mainstream.” We have legitimized the illegitimate and normalized the perverse.

And the agenda of the adversary is very successful. Even among faithful Latter-Day Saints.

Why? Because nobody wants to be called a bully. And we have established that if you don’t tolerate or even promote that which the Lord has said is evil, you are a bully, a hater, and “not Christian”. If you say, “I love you, but I can’t support what you are doing,” you are “hateful.” We are asked to celebrate that which the Lord condemns. Because, after all, you can’t expect someone to change who they are, can you? This one aspect of their life is their most defining characteristic, overriding all other considerations, and we cannot expect them to deny their urges, right? After all, popular entertainment tells us we must jump into bed with anyone or anything at the drop of a hat, right? If a boy throws on a wig and says, “Today, I feel like a girl,” he should be able to shower with the girls in gym class that day, right? (There seems to be some contradiction here in that you can choose your gender from day to day, but your sexual orientation can NEVER change. But I digress.)

It seems that if you take the “imaginary sky-god” and those arbitrary, oppressive, and outdated commandments out of the picture, we should do whatever we think might make us feel good at the moment, and forget the consequences. Because there are no consequences.

Just broken and shattered families and miserable, empty people. Just look at the folks in Hollywood.

Wow. That was a long rant, wasn’t it? I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I set out to say. (I could just delete most of what I’ve written, but I’m not going to.)

So back to where I started.

I guess most agents and publishers will pass my manuscripts by, because I’m not going to write sex scenes. I’m not going to include a sassy, sympathetic, and funny gay character just to appease a publisher or agent. (Heck, I don’t even name characters after my fans.)

I’m just trying to tell a good and entertaining story. Ask the people who’ve read my books. The vast majority of the reviews are overwhelmingly positive. And if the story happens to have a message (and all good stories do), so be it. I don’t start out to tell a “message” story, but that’s part of who I am. There’s always a point (even if I’m not sure what it is).

And since I write horror stories (because that’s the muse that tends to move me), most LDS publishers are not going to give me the time of day. And since my main characters are faithful LDS men and women, most non-LDS publishers are not interested. (As one negative reviewer put it, “Where’s the sex?”)

Ah, well.

I’m not willing to add gratuitous blood and gore. I’ll add only the amount necessary to tell the story. If I must refer to sexual activity, I’ll keep it “off-camera” and only include that which advances the story. People—especially the villainous and the amoral and the lost—do bad things, but I don’t need to include the details to let you know what happens in the story.

And my main characters will NEVER engage in illicit sex. Never. That would be tragic, and it’s not who I am. I’d rather write stories of hope and triumph and redemption.

So, I guess I will never be Stephen King, not even the Mormon Stephen King. My books will not be read by millions. I’ll never get rich from my writing. Heck, the majority of LDS people don’t want to touch horror (which is why I LOVE getting reviews from romance readers and writers, because, though they approach my stories with trepidation, they tend to fall in love with them). But if I can tell a good story, if my horror novels can thrill and uplift and help people find joy and occasionally feel the Spirit (and no, that is NOT a contradiction), then I have succeeded.

And I’m OK with that.

I Ran Into Elder Oaks Today

I ran into Elder Dallin H. Oaks today.

On Thursdays, I go straight from work to Temple Square so I can catch dinner at the Lion House Pantry and work on my current novel. It’s not all that uncommon for me to see a General Authority, usually from a distance. Sometimes, I wave, and they wave back. Sometimes I say, “Hi,” and they say, “Hi,” back. It’s rarely more than that.

The truth is, I don’t really want to detain them or slow them down on their way home. I try to be friendly, but keep a respectful distance. I wear my Mormon Tabernacle Choir nametag when I’m on Temple Square before a rehearsal, and so it’s likely they can see that I’m a member of the Choir.

I remember a rehearsal in the Conference Center years ago when Elder Oaks visited and took a few moments to speak to the Choir. Brother Wilberg and Brother Murphy both use microphone headsets during rehearsal so we can hear them. When Elder Oaks spoke to the Choir, Brother Wilberg offered him the headset. Elder Oaks tried to put it on, but it wouldn’t fit around his head. I guess the man has very large brain. I mean, he was a Utah Supreme Court Justice before he was an apostle.

So when Elder Oaks was unable to use the headset because it wouldn’t fit around his impressive noggin, he smiled and said something about having a big head. And we all laughed. It is one of many cherished Choir memories.

Today, when I saw Elder Oaks, I said, “Hi.”

He smiled and said, “Hi. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing great.” I meant it. I love Choir nights. Then I said, “I remember when you came and spoke to the Choir.” I grinned wide. “I remember the microphone headset was too small for your head.”

His chuckled. “I don’t remember that!”

“Well, I do.” I waved. “Have a wonderful evening.”

“You have a wonderful evening too.” Then he waved, turned, and walked away.

It was a fun little encounter.

As I continued on my way, smiling, I thought, What a sweet, nice guy.

Then I thought, That sweet, nice guy has seen the Savior face to face.

And I felt the witness of the Holy Spirit.

And I can’t stop grinning.