The Revelator, Part IX

May 28, 2014

“Does this match my pants?” Craig called out as he held up a tie from the closet.

“Let me pick one for you,” Ana smiled. “You should be grateful I’m here because you don’t know anything about clothes. You’d probably go to work dressed like a hobo if it weren’t for me.”

“I know. What would I do without you?” He really needed to clear out his collection of ties. Some of them dated to the 80s, long before his mission. One tie was stamped with parts of the Book of Abraham facsimiles; it was hideous, but he’d received it from a BYU Egyptologist, a strange little man whose paper Craig had edited (truth be told he’d quietly rewritten it). Then there was the dark-blue tie with a repeated pattern of the president’s face drawn to resemble a monkey; Dalton Kane had brought several of them back from the county Republican convention and had handed them out at the last MIC conference. Craig didn’t know why he kept it, as he was never going to wear something like that.

Ana chose a conservative blue-and-red-striped tie and handed it to him. Craig quickly knotted it and then kissed Ana on his way out the door. He had received yet another phone call from the nursing home asking him to come and give a priesthood blessing to an elderly patient. They called him because he lived closest to the facility, and he had been there many times. Not that it had done much good, as every patient he had blessed had died within 24 hours. He had told Ana he should start calling himself the Angel of Death, but she hadn’t found that very funny. Maybe he was imagining things, but whenever he visited the nursing home, the patients visibly stiffened and sometimes recoiled, as if his presence were a bad omen. Some patients seemed genuinely terrified of him.

Her name was Annie Stephens, but everyone in the home called her “Sis.” She had been born without fully formed arms and legs and spoke with difficulty, so she had lived in a nursing home since her parents had passed away some thirty years before. She had made the best of her situation, and rather than sit back and lament her life, she had taken it upon herself to minister (if that was the right word for it) to all the other patients. She felt they were in a worse situation than she was because life in the home was just life for her; for most of the other patients, moving into the home was a final acknowledgment that death was near, with nothing but pain and decline in the meantime. The local LDS mission president had been so impressed with her that he had extended an informal calling to her as a service missionary and had issued her an official black name tag labeled “Sister Stephens.” From that time, some fifteen years before, she had insisted that everyone call her Sister Stephens, but it had eventually shortened to “Sis.”

Craig hoped that Sis’s illness wasn’t anything serious, as her death would be a blow to everyone at the home. He had met Sis on his first trip to give a blessing a few months after he and Ana had moved into the neighborhood, and he had always stopped in to visit for a few minutes whenever he was at the nursing home. She was the kind of person Craig wanted to be, and her example both shamed and motivated him to try harder to be a good person.

Sis looked irritated when Craig and Brother Gilbert entered the room. “I told them not to call you,” she said in a halting voice. “I’m not ready.” She was had an oxygen tube under her nose, which wasn’t that unusual, given the respiratory problems that had plagued her off and on for years. But there was also an IV drip in her arm. Not a good sign.

The room was full of photos of Sis with various patients, most of them long dead, and local church members whom she had befriended. On the rolling tray by the bed sat one of the potted roses Ana and the kids had made for the patients.

Brother Gilbert looked decidedly nervous. He had recently moved in and obviously didn’t have much experience with nursing homes. He reached out to shake Sis’s hand, and realizing that she didn’t have one, limply grasped the stump of her forearm and nodded.

Sis let out a wheezy chuckle. “It’s OK. Just pretend they’re flippers, like a seal.”

Craig leaned over and kissed her cheek. She always liked that. “What’s going on, Sister Stephens?”

“Oh, just some little infection or another,” she said. “Nothing to worry about. There’s plenty of folks here who need a blessing, but I’m not one of them right now.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Craig said, trying to sound helpful.

“No, I guess not,” Sis sighed.

Craig bowed his head while Brother Gilbert anointed Sis’s head with the consecrated oil.

Then it was Craig’s turn. He always felt a little guilty pronouncing such blessings because he knew deep down that he didn’t believe any of this. It couldn’t hurt, though, and it would probably make Sis feel better. He place his hands on her head and immediately felt the heat of a high fever.

“We bless you that your body will receive the strength to remove the infection you have so that you may be fully restored to health.” No, that was wrong. As soon as the words left his mouth, he somehow knew Sis was going to die. But he couldn’t stop now and abruptly finished the blessing with a mumbled “nameofjesuschristamen.”

After dropping off Brother Gilbert, Craig drove home silently, wondering if he was going crazy. She’ll be fine, he told himself. You’re just overthinking things, as usual.

“Who’s sick?” Ana asked. “I hope the Angel of Death won’t be making an appearance tonight.” By now even she was finding some morbid humor in the whole thing.

“Oh, nothing like that,” Craig said. “It’s Sis. She has some kind of infection, but she says she’ll be fine.” He wanted to tell her about his impression, but he didn’t want to worry her.

“Oh, I hope she’s OK!” Ana said, clearly worried.

“She’ll be fine,” Craig said.

Later, at his computer, Craig read with shock DuPlessis’ attempt to “out” and discredit Sidious, though he was impressed with Jared Richards’ response. It took a lot of bravery to put yourself out there like this, but how had it come to this?

He opened an email from DuPlessis, which appeared to have been sent to every member of the Short List, as well as to a large number of current and past posters on the MIC board. True to form, Alex proclaimed himself the victim, whose only crime was that he had been forced to defend his privacy, and he decried the double-standard of the moderators at that wicked board.

From what Craig could see, no one had replied to Alex’s message. Probably they didn’t want to be associated with what he had done, and Craig couldn’t blame them. But Craig felt obligated. He hadn’t exactly pushed Alex to this, but he had done nothing to stop it, and once Tanner had become involved, Craig had sat back and subtly fanned the flames of paranoia and revenge.

He sent a brief note to DuPlessis expressing his dismay at the turn of events (outright condemnation would have seemed hypocritical) and closed with this:

“Whether you intended to do so or not, you crossed a line by using someone’s personal information against them. You owe him and everyone else on the board an apology.”

Then Craig noticed an email in the Short List folder. It was from Tanner Scott.


“Just like I predicted, it did not take long to expose the mole in our ranks. I’ve suspected DuPlessis for a long time. He always seemed just a little too angry to be real, but now we know it was all just an act designed to make us believe he was on our side. I knew that if I fed him enough information, eventually he would make a mistake and reveal himself. The Sidious affair seems to have done the trick.

“As you know, I have a friend who is very good at tracking down information about just about anyone, friend or foe. For the last few months he’s been looking into several suspects, including DuPlessis. (Don’t be paranoid. My friend isn’t looking at anyone here anymore.) What he found was interesting, to say the least. It seems that Brother DuPlessis isn’t quite what he would like us to believe. Some of you may remember that four years ago, DuPlessis gave a paper at a MIC conference in Kirtland, Ohio, but was not around for the closing banquet. Attached you will find a few photographs taken at a ‘bar’ outside of Cleveland, taken that evening. Let’s just say that Alex’s wife and bishop will find them interesting. LOL.”

Craig felt physically ill. What had he done?


Alex arrived home from work, exhausted. Jean was on her knees, digging in the front garden, and as he approached, he saw that with her bare hands she was tearing the rose bushes out by the roots and tossing them into a rubbish bin.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Jean looked up at him, and from the dirty trails down her cheeks, he could see that she had been crying. Now, she looked at him stonefaced. “I’ve had a message from your friends.”

She reached her bloody hands into the pocket of her jacket and help up the printouts. They showed Alex with several men at a club in Ohio. His heart sank. How did they find out? He had been so careful.

“Its–it’s not what you think,” he stammered.

“Yes, it is,” she said, holding up the last photo, which showed Alex kissing a bare-chested black man who looked vaguely like Zanoxolo.


The next morning, Craig wrote out a long apology, explaining exactly what he had done and why, and asking for forgiveness. Each time he had deleted it and started over, as it never sounded sincere and seemed only an attempt to excuse himself.

Ana walked into the room, carrying a small, potted rose.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Sis passed away last night,” she said. “She wanted you to have it.” Only now did he notice that Ana had been crying.

He took the pot from her and looked at the delicate buds.

“Maybe Porter can teach me how to grow these things. I definitely need a new hobby.”


Tanner Scott sat at his computer. The room was cluttered with textbooks and disassembled Xbox controllers. Pinned to the corkboard above the desk were several “Hi, I’m Tanner” nametags from association conferences and UVU’s “Life, the Universe, and Everything,” Next to a Taylor Swift poster (to which he had taped his wrist band from the concert last summer) was a framed certificate of appreciation from the association for “ongoing efforts to support our mission.”

His mother was calling him for dinner, but it could wait. He had received the most important email of his life, and he was going to savor the moment.

“Dear Tanner,

“You have done excellent work, as I knew you would. I’ve been telling everyone at the association that you have a bright future in our important work, and I have no reservations in saying that you will lead the rising generation in defending the faith.

“I am sorry that I could not tell you until after the fact about what we were doing, but you can understand how important it was to keep things close to the vest until we were sure. I can safely say we couldn’t have done this without you, and saying you had a secret ‘friend’ feeding you information was pure genius. It kept all the suspects off-guard.

“In the end, truth has prevailed, and good has triumphed over evil. Even if he hadn’t been guilty, I shudder to think that we had one of those people in our group. I feel we can now move forward, cleansed and renewed, almost as if the group has undergone a sort of baptism. I am personally grateful for your help in bringing about this revitalization. Now is not the time to sit back and let our enemies divide us, for together we have a bright future.

“Your friend in Christ,

“The ‘fat old blowhard.'”

The End

The Revelator, Part VIII

May 22, 2014


The meeting had dragged on longer than one of those never-ending priesthood leadership training broadcasts, at least to Alex it felt like it. He stole a glance at his watch while the finance officer reviewed each section of the power company’s quarterly report: tariff income from business and residential users, operational and maintenance expenditures, consumption rates, outages and failures, and so on and so forth. He could recite the figures for his department almost from memory. It had been a good quarter, as his work on fault-tolerance had reduced downtime and had unexpectedly made it easier to discover illegal taps into the system. Management had been pleased when he had reported the data a week before, and he had been duly flattered by their praise. He hoped that this meeting would give him a chance to shine in front of the important people. But after nearly three hours in a conference room, he was now just bored. If he’d been in a darkened chapel watching the video feed from Salt Lake, he would have discreetly fired up his smartphone and caught up with the boards, but he was stuck here.

He knew from long experience that the taps were a result of squatters, who usually occupied land that wasn’t theirs and stole services, such as water and electricity, from the good citizens who were paying for them. These people were shameless, and he was glad he had helped catch them. I caught them, he thought, smiling. And I’ll find out who has betrayed us. After all, such people were all the same, abusing the trust of decent people, and it was up to people like him to make things right.

The finance officer was still droning along in a soft voice that seemed to clash with his broad shoulders and Afrikaner accent. He paused occasionally to push his gray-plastic-rimmed glasses up to the bridge of his nose, but each time they slid back to their original resting place halfway down his bell-shaped nose. On his lapel, the man wore a tiny pink rosebud.

Alex wished he could be just about anywhere else, as outside of this stuffy conference room, things were really starting to move. Tanner had shared some news the night before: His mysterious friend had confirmed Sidious’ identity as one Jared Richards of Sandy, Utah. Further investigation revealed that Jared’s CPA license had been suspended a few years ago for underreporting a client’s tax liability. The client had been audited and fined by the US government, and they had sued Richards. Jared hadn’t contested the suspension, but he had prevailed in the subsequent lawsuit, showing pretty conclusively that his clients had hidden income from him. It didn’t matter, though. He had been officially censured by the Board of Accountancy. Alex smirked. Who am I to say it wasn’t intentional fraud?

Alex had asked Craig’s advice, which had been that they should hold onto the information for possible future use but not allow this to distract them from the task at hand: finding out who was feeding the revelator.

He had been lost in thought when he heard the finance officer discuss the ongoing fight against illegal taps. Here it comes, he thought, straightening himself up and preparing himself to humbly receive everyone’s thanks and congratulations.

“Fortunately, our efforts at improving fault-tolerance have helped us more easily discover illegal taps into the electrical grid,” the man said, his wispy blond mustache fluttering with each word. “Moving on …”

That’s it? He tried hard not to show any outward emotion, though he could feel his face flushing. The meeting lasted another half-hour, and it had taken that long for Alex to settle himself. He left the room silently, hoping to get out while he was still calm.

In the corridor, the finance officer had shaken his hand. “Thank you for attending. I’m not sure that you needed to be there, but I appreciated the support.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Alex said, forcing a smile. He wanted to shove the rosebud down the man’s throat.

“Your department did a wonderful job tracking down those taps. It just shows you what can be accomplished when we work as a team.” With that the man had walked away.

Jean noticed his sour mood when he walked in from the front garden. “How was your day, dearest?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he grumbled, hoping that by now she knew when not to press things.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said sympathetically. “I’ve been in the garden all day. Perhaps you could join me tomorrow. It would do you a world of good. Besides, the roses are needing a little attention, as am I.”

“Mmm-Hmm,” he said absently.

He sat at the table and opened the laptop to his email. An unusually large number of messages from his fellow apologists sat in the Inbox. The first read simply, “What gives?” Inside was a link to the MormonDiscourse board.

“Secret Combinations Afoot?” had read the title of the revelator’s latest post.

“A strange thing has happened to the Short List email list. Its steady current of peer-reviewed gossip and faith-promoting blackmail has all but disappeared, my sources tell me. Nothing has been distributed to the list for several weeks, which appears to confirm my last report about its activities and suggests that the boys in the apologetics club may no longer trust each other. Members of the late, lamented list have, however, been communicating with each other individually and through back channels in an effort to rebuild the group and try to uncover the mole(s). One has to admire their resilience!

“Oddly, however, one member of the group, junior-executive hatemonger Alex DuPlessis, has cut off all forms of communication to the rest of the group. My sources tell me that the normally spittle-flecked South African’s total silence has unnerved more than a few people. They worry that he may be planning some sort of revenge on the rest of the group for having spilled the beans about his clumsy attempt to use MD posters’ sex lives against them. Some suspect that DuPlessis might be leading a smaller, even more exclusive list, though what its purpose might be no one can guess. One source, who naturally requested anonymity, stated, ‘DuPlessis is capable of anything. He doesn’t care who gets hurt, as long as he can protect his position. Heaven help us all if he turns on us.’

“Thus far, Brother DuPlessis has not been available for comment.”

He knew he shouldn’t feel rattled, but he couldn’t help it. It was just vague enough to suggest a stab in the dark, but what if it wasn’t? What could the revelator know, and how? He began composing an email he could send to the entire group, assuring them of his friendship and loyalty and pledging that he would do his utmost to uncover whoever was doing them such harm.

But wouldn’t that make Alex seem desperate and guilty? Would he believe a denial like that? No, probably not. So, what to do? How to stop this from ruining everything? Craig will know what to do, he thought.

Craig’s response was brief and sensible. He warned Alex that sending out a mass email to the entire group would jeopardize the plan they had set in motion with Tanner. “Keep calm, and stay the course,” Craig wrote. “I will contact our friends individually and tell them what I know of your honesty and integrity.”

He knew he could count on Craig. What a brilliant move it had been to involve Craig in the plan.

Checking the MD board again, he noted that the swine were once again discussing him by name, spreading the most malicious kinds of character assassination. He knew he should just stay out of it, but he couldn’t resist. He started typing.

“It seems you lot cannot last more than a week or two without sullying my name and dragging it through your loathsome sty. The accusations made against me, once again, are so vile and outrageous that they do not merit comment. I would, however, ask that the moderators remove all references to my name in accordance to the stated board rules. I shall now leave you to resume your disgusting hog-pile.”

Barely three minutes later, Sidious/Jared had responded. “Give me a break. Everyone here knows your name, Alex DuPlessis. You yourself have used it here, so stop having a fake hissy-fit. It just makes you look worse than you already are. We may be a sty, but we’re not the ones peeking in someone else’s bedroom. You have no basis by which to judge anyone here, as no one here has sunk as low as you have. So, go crawl back under your rock and save the histrionics for someone who gives a damn.”

He thinks he can get to me, Alex thought. Not a chance. He typed, “Again, I respectfully request that my name be removed from this board.”

Sidious had responded, “Alex DuPlessis.”

“Stop using my name, you swine.” He couldn’t believe this mental midget had managed the self-discipline to become an accountant.

“Alex DuPlessis.”

“I demand my right to privacy, the same as anyone else on this board.” He could feel his face flushing again.

“Alex DuPlessis.”

The scumbag was taunting him. Well, I know more about you than you imagine, Alex thought. He composed the message carefully.

“Through sad experience, I have learned that my personal information and privacy must be guarded with vigilance. Anti-Mormon posters here and elsewhere have long shown that they will try whatever they can to destroy me and anyone else who dares stand up for truth. That you are willing to use my personal information to attack me shows the depths of your depravity.

“How would you feel if someone shared your information on a place like this? Would it trouble you if someone brought up a certain Mr. Richards who was disciplined by a professional licensing board for possible fraudulent behavior? Would you be fine with such things being discussed freely here?”

That will shut him up, he thought, smirking.

He ate his steak and potatoes quietly that evening. Jean tried to make conversation about her rose cuttings, but Alex’s mind was somewhere far away.

“The boys are doing wonderfully in football, aren’t they?” Jean said cheerfully.

“Yes, Mum,” said William. “Mr. Zanoxolo has been teaching us how to pass the ball while running at full speed.’

Alex looked up. “I’ve told you I’m going to show you how to do it myself! I don’t want you going to anyone else but me!”

The three of them stared at him.

“Please, forgive me,” he said, feeling ashamed. “It’s been a rough day. Tell me about your football practices.” He tried his best to listen attentively as they talked about how much they had learned. William insisted he was a much better player than Daniel. “I have more natural talent,” William had said. “Mr. Zanoxolo told me so.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there,” Alex said apologetically. He looked up and tried to sound cheerful. “I promise I’ll spend some time with you every evening until you’ve learned all I know. Except Sundays, of course.”

He meant it, and he hoped the boys knew he meant it.

As Jean put the dishes into the dishwasher, Alex looked in on the board again. He opened Sidious’ response and was shocked at what he read.

“What Brother DuPlessis has written is true. My name is Jared Richards, and I live in Sandy, Utah. Four years ago my license was suspended by the Board of Accountants of my state when I was accused of possible fraud by some clients.” He went on to describe in detail the complaint against him, the decision by the licensing board, and the subsequent lawsuit. He even went so far as to provide links to the board’s decision and the court record of the lawsuit against him.

The post had concluded. “Obviously, this episode wasn’t the highlight of my professional life, or my personal life, for that matter. But I own what happened, and I refused to make any excuses. If anyone has questions about any of this, I will answer them as long as doing so doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

The board had then erupted in condemnations of Alex’s actions. All the words he had used–swine, scumbag, depraved, disgusting–came right back at him, even from people he had previously thought were reasonable.

He needed to respond, so he clicked Reply. A message popped up:

You have been suspended from further participation on the board for violations of board rules. We will meet and discuss whether the suspension will be temporary or permanent. We expect all posters to behave with at least minimal civility, and we will not tolerate such invasions of other posters’ private lives. You will receive an email within the next day advising you of our decision. –The MD Moderating Team.

The Revelator, Part VII

May 20, 2014

Craig was beginning to think this was all pointless. What exactly was he supposed to be gleaning from the emails Alex was forwarding him from Tanner? The kid alternated between bravado and a weird, almost childlike, deference to DuPlessis. Nothing had been leaked so far, but then Craig hadn’t expected anything. After all, the revelator was busy spying on Tanner Scott at the behest of Alex DuPlessis. Wrap your head around that, he thought. It felt strange just thinking about it, as if he were Bérenger watching the people around him mutate, only these guys were turning into angry, paranoid cranks afraid of their own Inboxes. I’d rather be a rhinoceros, Craig thought.

He’d had a long day full of meetings (Mormons like their meetings, don’t they?), and stuck in traffic on traffic on Beck Street near the refineries, he had noticed that the clutch on the BMW had begun to chatter. As he stepped out of the car into the hot garage, he could smell it: the pressure plate was going. He’d bought the car during the first of what now seemed like an endless series of midlife crises. Oh, well, that one had just saddled him with a hefty car payment and a ruined clutch. This latest one had turned his world upside down.

Ana had left a note saying she was off with the girls getting some potting soil for a Young Women’s service project. Craig never seemed to have time for such things anymore.

He sat down at the kitchen table, opened the laptop, and started reading the surreal exchanges between Tanner and DuPlessis. Each email to or from Tanner had been dutifully forwarded to Craig, with relevant portions highlighted in yellow. He felt like a zoologist observing the grooming rituals of a pair of chimps in the wild.

He never knew how to respond to these reports, so he would limit himself to brief comments such as “keep up the good work” or expressions of gratitude that DuPlessis had given him the honor of working with him.

“Whatcha doing, Dad?” Porter asked.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Craig smiled, snapping the laptop shut. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing much,” Porter shrugged.

“How’s the garden going?”

“The tomatoes are much bigger, and the serranos are starting to look like real peppers–tiny, dark green ones, but they finally look like they should.”

“That’s a good sign,” Craig said. “How’s your friend–Loren, was it?”

“Much better. I think I’ve figured out how to deal with those guys.” Porter grabbed a cookie from a bag in the pantry.

“Oh? How’d you do that?” Craig took a couple from the bag, too. Ana wouldn’t be happy that he was blowing his diet, but then a good father had to make sacrifices when opportunities for father-son bonding arose.

“I just figured I’d make it more painful for them than it is for Loren. I’m bigger than any of those guys, and they know they’d get caught if they ganged up on me. So, I decided to take them on, one at a time. Every time someone bothered Loren, I bothered him. Whoever knocked him down got knocked down. By yours truly.” He seemed pleased.

“Don’t they tell the teacher?” Craig took a pair of glasses from the cupboard, retrieved a jug of milk from the fridge, and filled both glasses.

“They would, but then everyone would say they were the pussies. The funny thing about it is that Loren is actually pretty strong, and pretty soon he realized he didn’t need me anymore. Still, they’re not going to take both of us on, so we stick together.” He dunked his cookie into the milk.

“Well, officially, I can’t condone any physical violence, but I’m proud of you for standing up for Loren. I know what it’s like to be bullied when there’s no one around to help.” Craig dunked his cookie, for good measure.

“We’ve become friends, Dad. I thought he was weird, but he’s just quiet. Really funny when he does talk, though. I’ve been helping him with the flowers because there’s too much work for just one person. I even brought some roses home for Mom after school.” He pointed at a Mason jar with half a dozen pink roses on the counter. “I never knew you had to give them so much attention and care. My teacher says if you don’t prune and water and fertilize them just right, they grow wild, and the flowers are small and kind of ugly.”

“These are beautiful. You guys must be pretty good at it.”

“Yeah, just don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to protect.” Porter laughed, taking another cookie from the bag. Craig took one, too. For the boy, he said to himself.

Later he opened yet another long rant from Tanner about how the “good guys” might have taken a few lumps, but they’d come back in fighting form. Craig had long believed that Tanner had never been able to distinguish between religious faith and team sports. Being an apologist was for him like being a season-ticket holder to BYU football, though very few BYU fans engaged in the kind of trash-talking and taunting that Tanner did. Suddenly it hit him: Tanner was a child, with the temperament and maturity of a pre-teen. He would gladly put Porter up against him any day. Tanner bullied those he perceived as weak, but Porter would defend them every time. It was Tanner who was weak, he could see that much.

He had taken a risk having DuPlessis invite Tanner first, but rather than proceed carefully, as Craig would have done, DuPlessis seemed to be egging him on every time he flew off the handle. Was DuPlessis actually feeding the kid’s rage? It sure seemed like it.

When Tanner speculated about the leaker, naming names, DuPlessis encouraged him. “Yes, I’ve never been convinced he was entirely on our side. Maybe your friend can find out more about him for us.” He had even agreed when Tanner suggested that Dalton Kane could possibly be the mole. DuPlessis had seemed almost delighted when Tanner referred to Kane as “that fat old blowhard.”

At the same time, DuPlessis went out of his way to stroke Tanner’s ego. “I reached out to you because I know I can trust you. You’re not like the older guys, who have divided loyalties because over the years they’ve become too friendly with the enemy. You’ve always stayed on the right side of the line.”

Apparently sensing that Craig might not approve of all this, DuPlessis had written, “I have to make him believe he’s safe with me. Until then, he will always have his guard up. We’ve got to convince him we aren’t setting him up.”

This made it official: Despite his well-known ego and self-proclaimed wit, DuPlessis was, well, quite an idiot. If any of the exchanges with Tanner ever made their way to Kane and the others, DuPlessis would be finished as an apologist. From Craig’s position, DuPlessis was risking everything–his reputation, his position among the apologists, and his most valued friendships–and there was no potential reward for the risk. The best DuPlessis could hope for would be that no one would ever find out about his plan. But it was plain that DuPlessis not only didn’t realize the risks he had taken but had not understood how foolish the “plan,” if it could be called that, was. For now, however, Craig let him play at puppetmaster, hoping that Tanner wouldn’t shoot his mouth off at the wrong moment.

It needs to be more painful for them, he thought.

“How long do you plan on keeping Tanner in the dark?” he had asked DuPlessis after he had received another email of play-by-play commentary on Tanner’s rising zeal.

“One month is enough,” DuPlessis had replied. Craig wondered how he had arrived at this arbitrary time limit, but then nothing DuPlessis was doing made any sense. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It made perfect sense if DuPlessis were an angry dimwit, which he was, of course.

After three weeks, Tanner had pretty much attacked the characters of every member of the Short List, including Craig.

“I’ve met Craig,” Tanner had written. “I don’t like him. He tries so hard to be ‘nice,’ but we all know it’s an act. I don’t even know who invited him to the list in the first place. I wouldn’t have, anyway. The condescending bastard.”

Craig had met Tanner exactly twice, first at a dinner honoring Dalton Kane, when Tanner had sat across from Craig and had talked for two hours straight. Amused, Craig had let him talk, interjecting only to nod at appropriate moments. And then there had been the night he’d seen him at the church before the Young Women in Excellence program. As far as he could recollect, he’d never communicated directly with Tanner by email, phone, or any other way. Oh, well, he thought. Not exactly the kind of friend I want to have.

Ana looked over his shoulder. “I thought you were done with that stuff. You promised.” She set some bags from Home Depot and one from VerDon’s Crafts on the counter.

“I know I did,” he said, sheepishly. “It’s a long story, but I have to stop some bad things from happening.”

“What bad things?” she asked.

He tried to explain it all, from the attack on Arlen to Tanner’s mysterious friend to the collapse of the list. But it all sounded so silly, like the plot from an old episodes of The Avengers, a cheesy British spy show he’d watched as a boy after school. Only he wasn’t Steed, and he didn’t think Dalton Kane would look very good in a leather catsuit. He told her about Porter’s class and how he felt he was in the same position to do something about the bullies, but he didn’t sound convincing, not even to himself.

“I don’t understand any of it,” Ana said. “Those people are nuts. I’ve been telling you to walk away from that for years, but you never listen.”

“I know,” Craig said. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you really think something bad is going to happen?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said.

“You’re like children,” she said, shaking her head in disgust and walking away. “Time to grow up!”

She and the girls went out to the backyard to work on their project. Even Porter went out to help.

Craig went back to the emails, feeling a little slimy by the time he finished. He went out to the back patio to see how the project was coming. Porter was putting the last of the miniature rose plants into small ceramic pots.

“They’re for a program at the nursing home.” Ana said. Once a quarter, each ward in the stake was assigned to provide a “family night” at a nursing home within the stake boundaries. Craig had always thought the place was depressing, but the flowers might cheer things up until the next time the Angel of Death came calling.

As they loaded the trays of flowers into the back of the SUV, Craig wondered why he couldn’t force himself to be interested in something worthwhile. A few years before he had briefly volunteered as a Spanish translator at the county’s free medical clinic, but his schedule kept changing and he couldn’t keep it up. The only constant in his life, it seemed, was his obsessive-compulsive participation in these pointless message boards.

Tanner’s tirade continued over the next week, and Craig was starting to get bored. A child throwing a sustained tantrum isn’t interesting even at the beginning, and once the tantrum has reached its peak, even the most attentive parent learns to tune it out. Craig had stopped caring what Tanner was saying, but he wondered how long Tanner could sustain the ranting. Surely, he’d get tired eventually. Then he reminded himself that DuPlessis had maintained an unmatched level of righteous fury for some twenty years without interruption. Once, an apologist, trying to be charitable, suggested that DuPlessis may not have started out angry and nasty but had been pushed to it by constant attacks from anti-Mormons.

No, Craig had been there when DuPlessis had arrived on the old listserv boards, as angry and spiteful as he would ever be. Nothing had changed since then. Craig had been fresh out of grad school then and was still dating Ana. Since then he’d landed his dream job, married and had four beautiful children, and had lost his faith along the way. But had anything really changed for him, either?

Maybe it was time to give DuPlessis’ plan a little nudge to shake things up a little.

The Revelator, Part VI

May 19, 2014

“Have we any apricot jam left?” Alex called from the breakfast table.

“No, dear heart,” Jean called from the kitchen. “I’ve put what we have left out on the table for you.”

Alex stared at the two jars. “Green Fig Conserve.” What is that? he thought. He recognized the other jar: Jean’s rose-hip jam. Pushing the jars away in disgust, he buttered his toast and ate it quietly as he logged into his email account.

A week had passed, and things were already moving. As he had made clear to Craig, they needed to take their time.

Tanner was in, just as Alex had expected him to be. All it had taken was a subtle appeal to his vanity, the same way it had with Craig. Most people were pretty easy, weren’t they? Alex understood human nature, and he prided himself on being unmoved by such things, though heaven knows others had tried many times. But he wasn’t in it for personal glory–though there had been quite a lot of that, he had to admit–no, it was only the glory of God and the progress of truth that mattered to Alex.

The note from Tanner was predictably long, his enthusiasm and apparent anger rising with each sentence. Good, thought Alex. People make mistakes when they’re angry. Perhaps Craig had been right to invite Tanner first.

There wasn’t much of interest in the email, mostly Tanner pledging his loyalty and cursing their enemies, but buried in all that had been a couple of sentences Alex had almost missed:

“My friend has a tentative identity for Sidious, a name and address, though he has not yet confirmed this information. Be assured that, if my friend is correct, Jared Richards of Sandy, Utah, will wish he’d never crossed us.”

Alex smiled. That bit of good news might even get me through sacrament meeting, he thought.

Later, Alex sat with his phone and thought how best to reply to Tanner’s message.

Jean nudged him sharply with her elbow. She whispered, almost hissing, “Put that away, and pay attention! Sister Niekirk has put a lot of effort into the lesson.”

They sat in the Relief Society room, where a large woman stood in a frock that was obviously designed for someone much younger. She was clearly nervous, her carefully sprayed hair starting to wilt a little while tiny beads of sweat forced their way through what Alex imagined were several layers of makeup. On the table in front of her, several pages of notes were spread out, along with a tattered lesson manual. In the midst of the sprawl stood an elegant crystal vase holding several pink roses carefully arranged.

Typical, Alex thought, smirking. They never get to the meat of the doctrine, but at least they have their floral arrangement.

“… the meek: for they shall inherit the earth,” she was saying.

It was a nice thought, Alex had to admit, but the meek always ended up like Arlen Compton. People who want light discipline are unlikely to inherit the earth, he chuckled to himself.

He had once felt meek, though it was more fear than meekness. At 19 he had dutifully submitted his mission papers and had been called to, of all places, Córdoba, Argentina. He had spent two months in the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, USA, where he had felt completely disoriented. Most of the missionaries were kind to him, but others could sense his fear. They mocked his accent, apparently mistaking him for a posh Englishman. But mostly he had just been overwhelmed. He had thought he understood the doctrines of the church, but the others, mostly from Utah and Idaho, seemed to belong to a different religion than the one he had known in South Africa.

Each week they had walked up the hill to the temple, where he once again recoiled when he had to pantomime having his throat cut or his heart torn out as “penalties” for not keeping the temple covenants secret. The food did not agree with him, and the long hours had exhausted him mentally and physically. And, no matter how hard he tried, he could not keep up with the others in learning Spanish. At a low point, he had heard his instructor tell his companion, “Just try and encourage him. He just doesn’t have the talent or intelligence to pick up the language or the discussions easily. Keep him in your prayers.”

When he arrived in Argentina, his American companion had told him, “I’m out of here in a month, so don’t give me any crap.” They had done very little missionary work, and Elder DuPlessis had spent most of his time memorizing the discussions. But with almost no interaction with real Argentinians, he hadn’t really learned the language. When he did give a discussion, he rattled through it quickly, leading some investigators to laugh at him. “¡Mirá, hablá castellano, che!”

Early on, he had felt humiliated by Catholics and Evangelicals who obviously knew more about the Bible than he did, and he had sputtered angrily when he could not counter their attacks.

“Don’t worry about it,” his companion had said. “You’re not going to convert anyone by bashing.”

No, but he would never let them get the upper hand again. The rest of his mission he had worked harder than he had thought possible, and eventually he could carry on a conversation in Spanish, though some people still made fun of his accent. But no one could touch his knowledge of the gospel. He had pored over the scriptures, reading them through twice in English, twice in Spanish, and every siesta, while his companions had slept, he had systematically studied gospel topics according to the official, church-published Topical Guide and Bible Dictionary. He had even managed to get a full set of Joseph Fielding Smith’s Doctrines of Salvation.

He had come home with a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of the gospel and a fondness for dulce de leche and yerba mate.

“Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.” Sister Niekirk’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.”

Sometimes he thought the Savior must have had MIC in mind when he had said those words on the Galilean mount two thousand years before. Alex and his fellow-defenders had been sorely persecuted, but he knew that a great reward in heaven would await him if he could just endure to the end.

He looked to his right and saw that the two sister missionaries, both American, were staring into their scriptures. He wasn’t entirely sure, but one of them–definitely the better-looking one, he thought–looked as if she were sleeping. She didn’t have Jean’s elbow to keep her focused.

After priesthood meeting–a yawner about magnifying your calling–Alex had made his way out to the carpark, where Jean and the boys waited next to the car.

“I don’t know why you lock it,” Jean said, obviously unhappy that she’d been made to wait in the heat. “No one is going to steal a ten-year-old Ford.”

Alex started the car in silence.

As they rounded the corner onto Walter Sisulu Road (the name still irritated Alex), Jean turned and said brightly, “Wasn’t that a lovely Gospel Doctrine lesson from Sister Niekirk?”

“Oh, yes, lovely,” he agreed absently.

“What was your favorite part?” Jean asked.

“So much of it was wonderful,” he lied. “I couldn’t possibly choose a favorite. What part did you like best?”

“That last part about loving our enemies and doing good to people who hate us. The world would be so much better a place if we could all learn to do that, don’t you think, dear?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, thinking. “I am convinced that we show our love best when we combat hate and error with truth. Standing boldly for the truth, no matter the consequence–that is the greatest love we can show.”

Jean shook her head, “No, Alex, I don’t think that’s it at all. We are to turn the other cheek and pray for our enemies. Jesus never said anything about fighting back.”

“Allowing people to remain in ignorance of the truth is not love,” Alex said, glaring at his wife.

She sat silently for several minutes. As they neared the last turn before the gate, she smiled brightly. “Weren’t those flowers beautiful? Sister Niekirk said she’d be happy to give me a cutting. They’re a lighter shade than the Love Knot but darker than the new ones your friends sent us. They’ll make a perfect transition between them.”

Alex braked to a stop at the gate.

“Hello, sir! Glorious day, isn’t it?” Zanoxolo said, grinning broadly. “And you, Ma’am, you’re looking radiant this afternoon!”

“Just open the gate,” Alex said, staring straight ahead. Jean gave him a dirty look, but he pretended not to notice.

The Revelator, Part V

May 16, 2014

Craig was pretty tired when he and Porter arrived home Saturday night, having sat through yet another two-hour stake priesthood meeting. Porter had looked miserable during the entire meeting, but what could anyone expect from a 13-year-old deacon? In his concluding talk. the stake president had urged priesthood holders to be more “spiritually proactive,” like Captain Moroni and his band of stripling warriors, who had not waited for the forces of evil to make the first move but had gone forward nobly and obediently “with exactness” to confront the adversary’s hosts. If anyone could make the scriptures sound like a middle-management training seminar, it was his stake president, who had made his fortune selling financial-planning services through multilevel marketing. If nothing else, he understood the market here in Utah.

If he was honest with himself, Craig wasn’t enjoying the meeting much more than Porter was. He did feel good about putting a stop to the group’s efforts to hurt Arlen. He wondered if he would have been so spiritually proactive if it had been someone less sympathetic than Arlen. Would he have stopped anyone from doing something like that to someone less deserving like Tanner Scott? Would he have stood on principle or simply have sat back and enjoyed watching the little shit squirm? Craig wasn’t sure he liked the answer to his question, so he tried to console himself that he’d done the right thing in this case, at least.

After the meeting, Craig and Porter sat in a booth at the frozen-custard stand near their home in Bountiful. The Turtle Sundae had looked good on the menu, but it was too much. He had barely managed half of it, and now his stomach was full and he felt a little queasy from sugar overload.

“How’s school?” Craig asked.

Porter shrugged. “OK, I guess.”

“Still enjoying the Latin class?” Craig knew that this was Porter’s favorite subject, and as he expected, Porter had talked excitedly for several minutes about Roman mythology and how much he was learning.

“I even translated a whole page of The Aeneid,” he said. “It was hard because, you know, it’s like poetic Latin, but I did it. I got an A.”

“Wow, I’m impressed,” Craig had said, and he genuinely was impressed. “Remind me what other classes you’re taking.”

“My Ecology class is fun,” Porter volunteered. “We finished the lifecycle unit a couple weeks ago, and now we’re working in the garden. I have two whole rows to myself: radishes, carrots, serrano peppers, and tomatoes. Huge tomatoes–at least they’re supposed to be when they’re ripe. Right now they’re just tiny little green balls where the yellow blooms were last week.”

“So, you like that class,” Craig said.

“Well, yeah, I guess so,” Porter said, frowning a little.

“You’re not sure?”

“Well, it’s just that there’s a bunch of guys in the class who are kind of jerks.”

“Are they picking on you?” Craig asked, suddenly a little worried. Middle school had been a nightmare for Craig, and he had always feared that Porter or one of the girls would have a similar experience.

“No, Dad, not on me,” Porter said. “But there’s this kid in our class, Loren, and they are pretty brutal with him. He’s kind of different, you know, and his name doesn’t help.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Well, besides the vegetables, one part of the garden is flowers, and the teacher asked for a volunteer to take care of that section in addition to the rows they planted. Loren really wanted to do it, so she chose him. Since then these guys have been calling him names, like faggot and pussy, and knocking him down, tripping him–you know, that kind of stuff. Yesterday someone pushed him into a rose bush, and he had to go to the school nurse because he was bleeding.”

“Doesn’t the teacher know what’s going on?” Craig asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, she knows, but they wait till she’s not looking, and Loren won’t tell her who is doing it.”

“Have you tried to do anything about it?”

Porter stared down at his hot fudge sundae. “I don’t know what to do. Once I told them to leave him alone, and they just laughed and said I must be a faggot, too. I don’t want to get beat up, Dad. And besides, most of the guys are in my deacons quorum.”

“They are? Maybe I should have a talk with their parents.”

Porter looked horrified. “No, Dad, you can’t! That’ll just make things worse! I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I’ll figure something out.”

After Porter and the girls had gone to bed, Craig logged into his email. The Short List folder was still empty. Perhaps reason and kindness had prevailed, and he could relax knowing the madness had finally ended. Then he saw it: an email from Alex DuPlessis with the subject “Who’s on the Lord’s side, who?”

He had never once received an email directly from DuPlessis unless it had been sent to the entire Short List. They had never been friends, and as long as he could remember, he had been dismayed and a little embarrassed at DuPlessis’s online behavior. With friends like him … he thought.

No, he wasn’t going to take the bait. He dragged the message into the Trash folder, and opened the latest epistle–the subject read “It hath been bloggethed”–from his verbose cousin, who clogged up his Inbox with huge photo files and links to political web sites. In the photos, her triplets looked pretty much the same as they had in last week’s photos, and he knew better than to click “Welcome to Obama’s World.”

With nothing of interest to read, he let his mind wander to Porter’s situation with his classmate. Craig wondered what he would have done at that age. Right, he remembered. He wouldn’t have done anything because by seventh grade he was trying hard to be invisible so boys like that would forget he existed and would leave him alone. He would have stood by and watched them terrorize Arlen. No, that wasn’t right.


He thought again of Arlen, of DuPlessis, and of the whole mess. He’d stopped them this time, but what was stopping them from starting again right where they left off? Sure, the Short List was no more, but it wouldn’t be difficult to replace it pretty quickly.

He opened the email.

“Dear Craig.

“We have been friends for many years now, and I’ve always held you in the highest regard.” He had? Since when?

“No matter what the enemies of truth have thrown at us, you have stood firm and strong in defense of the gospel.” Until he had apostatized, that is.

“And in all that time I have never once seen you compromise your standards or character.” That was nice of him to say, but then it was a little unnerving to have someone like DuPlessis’s ringing endorsement of his character.

“In you I see a kindred spirit who is dedicated to honourably and faithfully”–here Craig actually snorted–“upholding the cause of truth and righteousness.”

With the obligatory flattery over, DuPlessis had arrived at his point:

“I have treasured the associations I’ve had with so many scholars and others who have given of their time to put forward solid and convincing evidence supporting our doctrines and scriptures. Recent events, I fear, have disrupted the synergistic relationship we have had as a group, and my first priority is to re-establish the bonds of trust so that we may go forward, working together again in this great cause.”

I knew it, Craig thought. He’s already trying to resurrect the Short List.

“it is with your high character and sound judgment in mind that I have prayerfully decided to ask you to work with me to discover the identity of the person who has done us so much harm. My plan is simple:

“1. We will work together as a team of two–a companionship, you might say–and invite one former member of the Short List to communicate with us. Every communication each of us receives from that person will be blind-copied to the other so that the other person is not aware that he is talking to both of us.

“2. Only if and when that person has proven he can be trusted will we invite him into our group, and the process will begin with another member.

“3. If we follow this procedure with exactness we will be able to build a trusted core membership strong enough to shoulder the burden of apologetics until it is time to pass it on to the rising generation.

“As a token of my trust in you, I will leave it to you to choose the first member.

“We have no time to waste, and I await your response anxiously.

“Your brother in Christ,

“Alex B. DuPlessis”

Craig sat back, speechless. Could DuPlessis really be that stupid? It was one thing to treat an Internet message board as if it were a dead drop in East Berlin during the Cold War, but any fool could see how ridiculous DuPlessis’s plan was on the face of it.

He was tempted to write something like “Oh, brother,” but he thought again of Arlen and began to type:

“Dear Brother DuPlessis,

“I share your dismay with what has happened to the list and our friends, and I am willing to assist you in any way I can to bring to light the work we have done and will continue to do. In many years online, you have proven yourself capable of anything required to protect and defend the church and its members. Many times I have seen you do what I would never be able to do in correcting error and standing for truth.

“Your plan’s strength is its simplicity. Sometimes it is the most simple-minded approach that produces the best results, and I believe your plan will bear fruit if we adhere to it strictly. As you note, we must place full trust in each other or risk failure. I pledge all the trust you have earned, and I hope it will be returned in kind.

“I have pondered over whom we should invite first, and it strikes me that from the beginning we must have a pipeline of information, a conduit if you will. Despite his youth and relative inexperience, our most reliable source of information has always been Tanner Scott. Like me, you may worry that he can be temperamental, but he more than makes up for it with his zeal. I’ve always felt he was spiritually proactive, much like one of Captain Moroni’s stripling warriors. Like them, he does not wait for our enemies to come to us but anticipates and often frustrates their moves against us. I feel strongly that we must be bold from the start, and I believe Tanner will be of invaluable service to us.

“I am confident that together we can do great things.

“Your fellow-servant,

“Craig R. Meyers”

Craig was almost embarrassed when he read through the email. Surely, DuPlessis was too smart to fall for such horseshit. Maybe asking for Tanner was going too far, as even DuPlessis had to know that a hotheaded kid was no asset to anyone. But if it were going to end in a spectacular flameout, they would need Tanner’s unbridled zeal and total lack of perspective.

Craig sighed and clicked “Send.”

The Revelator, Part IV

May 15, 2014

Alex sat at the kitchen table, grumbling to himself about having to eat such unsatisfactory fare. Most Saturdays Jean rose early to cook a hot breakfast for him and the boys, and today of all days he had expected something showing a little more gratitude. He and the boys would be working in the rose beds all day, and they would need real sustenance. Couldn’t she understand that?

As he dunked the hard rusk into his steaming cup of rooibos, he opened the browser on his laptop to the MIC message board. He noticed straightaway that a thread posted the day before with the startling title “Sex Scandal at MDB?” had been locked immediately. Intrigued, he navigated to the MormonDiscourse board, only to find a new post from the revelator:

“As promised, I have a partial roster for the secret ‘short list’ of MIC posters. I can confirm that the following individuals are definitely involved in the group: Dalton Kane, Steven Marsden, Reid Gordon, Tanner Scott, and Alex DuPlessis. Others will be named at a later date.

“My sources tell me that this group’s activities have been fairly benign, limited as they are to discussions of scripture studies, BYU sports, and the sex lives of MormonDiscourse posters. A recent discussion, for example, focused on using a private investigator to reveal intimate details of MDB posters’ sex lives, after which the group decided that anonymously informing posters’ bishops would be, in the words of Brother DuPlessis, ‘the most honourable course of action.’ It is not known if refreshments were served.

“Stay tuned for more of the wacky world of the Short List.”

The response at the Short List was predictable: outrage and disgust that one of their number had betrayed them and given ammunition to their enemies.

“Someone has hacked us!” Tanner Scott was sure of it. “I’m on it. They’ll regret ever calling me ‘Bieber, Junior.’ I know a little about hacking, you know, and it won’t take me long to find those motherfuckers!”

Alex grimaced slightly at the foul language, but Tanner was just a kid, so such lapses could be forgiven.

Reid Gordon sounded worried. “I knew I shouldn’t have used my work address for the group, but I thought it would be safe. what if they contact my boss? He would never understand. I could get fired.”

Dalton Kane vowed to get to the bottom of this. “It is clear that an enemy hath done this, and I am sad to say, it is an enemy among our very ranks. This is deeply, deeply troubling. I am routinely accused of despicable behavior, but this, brethren, this is what real evil looks like. I do not know how or when, but the traitor will be exposed. Mark my words.”

The outrage soon gave way to panic, with several posters echoing Gordon’s concern that they could all be at risk. What else could the revelator know about them? Then, as if the members had all come to the same horrified conclusion at the same time, the list had gone silent. Not a single email had been received for more than 8 hours, which was surely a new record. It was as if the Short List had simply closed its doors for business.

“Come on, dear heart, it’s time to get to work on the garden!” Jean called cheerfully as she strode into the kitchen wearing a broad-brimmed hat, modest shorts, a DA campaign t-shirt, and work gloves. The twins looked up from their video game as she called out, “You too, boys! Let’s go!”

Alex didn’t move a muscle. “Can’t it wait, love? I’ve got some important work to take care of,” he said through clenched teeth.

Jean frowned and wagged her finger at him in mock scolding. “You promised, my dear! A promise is a promise, after all.”

“Come on, boys, you heard your mother!” he snapped at William and Daniel. They shrugged and shuffled out the door ahead of him.

At such times, Alex had to remind himself that Jean’s constantly pleasant demeanour was a good thing. Fifteen years younger than Alex, she had been instantly drawn to him when they met at the district centre’s chapel between broadcast sessions of general conference. He had impressed her with his keen intellect and, of course, his unfailing devotion to the gospel. Still, he had always felt she had married beneath her. A convert to the church in her teens, she had embraced the church’s teaching that within each of us was a spark of the divine, and that we could, with faith and diligence, become just like our Father and Mother in Heaven. As she immersed herself more and more into the gospel and the church, she felt strong enough to shed the weight of shame and inadequacy she had felt as a child. Her parents had, it seemed, been constitutionally incapable of giving her any praise or approval. They continually criticised her appearance, her marks in school, her behavior, and anything about her that they found objectionable–and that was almost everything.

Alex, like everyone else who met Jean, was instantly taken by her cheerful and positive outlook on life. He had never met anyone before who so genuinely believed that everything in life would turn out for good, no matter how difficult things could get. Unlike his first wife, Jean made him want to be a better person, not just for her, but for himself, too. The cynical part of him had initially been unable to accept that someone could be so genuinely good, but try as he might, the more he dug beneath the surface, the more goodness he found.

Jean was confused when he tried to explain his important work for the association, but she had felt she shouldn’t stand in the way of what Alex thought was right. She always said he was brilliant–he couldn’t help but acknowledge that he was much her intellectual superior–and he told her that the church needed such men to stand for the right. He told her not to worry herself over things she couldn’t possibly understand, and eventually she had learned to live with his evening work.

The sun shone brightly as Alex trudged into the front garden. A security guard smiled and waved from his air-conditioned booth at the community’s main gate just a few metres from their garden. They young man’s name was Zanoxolo, and Jean had befriended him some time ago, although Alex had warned her that it was never a good idea to get too chummy with the help. But good-natured Jean had ignored his advice, and soon she and Zanoxolo had become fast friends. When the garden was in full bloom, Zanoxolo often wore one of Jean’s flowers in the lapel of his dark-blue uniform jacket. She often took him fresh produce from their back garden and gave him a few jars of whatever they had canned that year. His favorite, he said, was the rose-hip marmalade Jean made every year when the blooms had faded. Zanoxolo had never tasted anything like it, he said. “Like heaven on earth.” They always had more than enough of the marmalade because Alex couldn’t stand the stuff.

Jean explained that the garden as it stood was a little too crowded to accommodate the new plant, which had somehow survived the long journey from Idaho relatively unscathed. It was downright miraculous, she said. Kneeling by the plant closest to the front walk, she showed Alex how best to cut the branches back and then to check for disease or signs of weakness. As she snipped off a stem, she became slightly emotional. “I don’t know why, but I always feel a little cruel and guilty when I cut back my beautiful plants.” She knew it was silly, she said, but she felt a motherly connection to each plant, knowing how she had nurtured and developed them to a beautiful maturity. At least one would have to go, she told him, her voice breaking slightly again. to make room for the new plant.

Alex did the best he could to stay focused on the roses, but his mind kept wandering back to the Short List. He had been right to worry, he thought, while the rest of those buffoons had been distracted by Sidious. As he snapped off a large branch, he wondered how he could keep the lines of communication open without exposing anything else to the revelator.

“Alex! Be careful, dear! You’re cutting too much out!” Jean shouted, interrupting his thoughts. She caught herself and said much more softly and sweetly, “I don’t mean to be critical, but please do try to be more careful.”

“Sorry, dear. I’m afraid I haven’t the knack for this sort of thing.” He tried to sound cheerful, but he thought it came out a little forced. Jean winced slightly, and then her smile returned.

“You mustn’t get discouraged,” Jean smiled broadly. “One plant at a time, one stem at a time, and you’ll get there.”

That’s it! he thought. One at a time, I’ll pluck away the branches and get to the root.

He worked for what seemed like hours, pausing only when Daniel appeard with two glasses of cold lemonade.

“Who’s the other one for?”

Daniel smiled. “Mum says we need to take care of Mr. Zanaxolo. He’s our friend.”

Alex couldn’t but feel a little guilty as he watched Daniel hand the glass to the grinning security guard. He knew he should be grateful, as Zanaxolo had been teaching his boys some advanced football skills. Even if Alex had possessed the talent, he knew he didn’t have the time for such things. He had sacrificed a great deal for the association, but it was a cause he believed in. He raised his glass toward Zanaxolo, who raised his in return. Cheers, mate.

That evening, Alex sat with his laptop, wondering where to start. First, he knew he had to contain some of the damage on MormonDiscourse, where numerous apostates had feigned outrage over his actions. Somehow, his well-intentioned efforts to help a Latter-day Saint sister in real danger had been twisted into a tawdry tale of sexual blackmail. This could not be allowed to stand.

Although his fingers were still stinging from multiple thorn pricks, he began typing a new post on MormonDiscourse:

“Although I am loath to wade into this cesspool of the worst humanity has to offer, I must risk having some of the contamination rub off on me to set the record straight.

“Recently, in violation of the board’s rules, my name has been used without my permission. Most decent human beings understand the need for anonymity on the Internet, and the continued ‘outing’ of my personal, private information by several people here is unacceptable, although entirely within character. I would try to reason with your better selves, but alas, I’m afraid you don’t have any better selves.”

That was a good start, he chuckled to himself. This wasn’t the first time he had complained about his name being used here. It happened a few times a year, and he had taken the opportunity each time to condemn this outrageous invasion of privacy in the strongest terms. Yes, he was well aware that his name was widely known on that board and elsewhere, and he himself had acknowledged his identity on MormonDiscourses. Still, it was the principle of the thing, and board policy had been violated. Besides, it gave him another chance to drop in and vituperate the apostate horde. He so enjoyed watching them gnash their teeth helplessly.

He cracked his knuckles and continued:

“Under normal circumstances, I would be inclined to let such a dastardly deed pass without comment; however, in an unexpected and diabolically clever twist I hadn’t thought you riff-raff capable of, my name has now been associated with a lie of the darkest hue. Only the most deranged and foaming-mouthed anti-Mormon could ever imagine me capable of delving into other people’s most intimate lives, let alone using such information to hurt other people. I am left to consider that the purveyors of this devilish fabrication have devised it because such a scheme of blackmail is something they would do if they had the chance.”

It was perfect. He hadn’t actually denied the accusation, and at the same time he had masterfully turned a potentially embarrassing episode into yet another display of the depths to which the Lord’s enemies would sink in their campaign to ruin lives.

Besides, whoever leaked the information could not possibly prove the accusation without revealing poor Arlen’s situation. They wouldn’t do that, would they? No, they were much lesser beings than he, but even they would never sink that low.

One branch at a time, he remembered. Now he just needed to find a secure and trusted channel for sharing information. Surely someone on the Short List had remained untainted by the recent discussion and could be counted on for absolute discretion and confidentiality. He looked over the list carefully and, after a quick prayer, made his choice.

He began typing: “Dear Craig …”

The Revelator, Part III

May 15, 2014

It had been two weeks since his lunch with Jack, and Craig had thus far succeeded in avoiding apologetics in all its forms. He had stayed off the boards and the Short List, and he was starting to feel less of a pull to go back. His wife, Ana, had for a long time pleaded with him to disengage. She had a very simple and sincere faith, and she believed that spending so much time on “trivialities” distracted people from the important parts of the gospel. Besides, she had begun to believe that the apologists were wolves in sheep’s clothing, bent on destroying testimonies, not salvaging them. She wondered if they hadn’t been partly successful with Craig, and she was naturally quite pleased when he told her of his plans to walk away from that mess.

“I’ve prayed for this for a long time,” she said, hugging him tightly and kissing the side of his neck. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve lost you to those men. I want you back. I need you more than they do.”

Craig had been surprised at how much more productive he had become without the distraction of the Short List. Each day he noted that the Short List folder in Outlook was filling rapidly–93 unread messages already–and he wondered what they could possibly be talking about. But each rise in the number reinforced in Craig’s mind that he had made the right choice in walking away. It had been good timing because he suddenly had a lot on his plate at work.

He’d barely made a deadline to get a report to his boss, working an hour late before sending it off. He would check in later to make sure his boss had approved the report. Walking to his car, Craig called Ana to tell her he was late and would have to meet the family at the church for tonight’s “Young Women in Excellence” meeting. He knew how hard Eliza had worked on her project, and he wasn’t going to miss it. Craig was just finishing his Double-Double as he pulled into the parking lot. Eliza had recently taken a class in floral design, and for her project she would be displaying a carefully designed arrangement to show off her developing talent.

As he opened the meetinghouse door, he saw Tanner Scott dressed in an uncomfortable-looking suit and sitting in a chair in the foyer. What the hell was he doing here?

“Craig!” Tanner said cheerfully. “Where have you been, bro? We thought maybe you were in an accident or something.”

“No, just busy,” Craig replied, hoping to make a quick getaway.

“You must be here for the Young Women thing. Bo-ring!” Craig gave him a look of disapproval. “Oh, right, you have a daughter that age. What is she, 13, now?”

“She’s 16,” Craig said, trying to look annoyed–which he was.

“Uh, sorry, dude,” Tanner said, sheepishly. “You’ve totally missed out. All that stuff about perversion and everything. You gotta come back.”

“Excuse me?” Craig asked. Perversion?

“Oh, ya, we got some really juicy stuff on Arlen. I can’t wait to see how it plays out.” Just then the door to a nearby bishop’s office opened. “Can’t talk now, dude. Interview. Later!” With that Tanner was gone.

Craig hurried down the hallway and entered the Relief Society room, where a few dozen people walked around several displays of arts and crafts, where beaming young women explained their displays and how they related to the Young Women values. In the corner Eliza looked radiant in front of a beautiful arrangement of pink roses on a table. A tastefully decorated placard read:

“Individual Worth.”

“I am of infinite worth with my own divine mission, which I will strive to fulfill (D&C 18:10).”

“Hi, Daddy,” Eliza said, giving him a brief hug. She looked so much like her mother, especially her deep green eyes, except she had Craig’s dark hair.

“You look beautiful, as does your display,” Craig told her. “I knew you had talent, but this is amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

“Glad you could make it,” Ana said, taking hold of his hand and leading him to a chair. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I would never miss anything like this,” Craig said, though they both knew he had in the past.

“It’s enough to know you’re trying,” Ana whispered as the bishop stood up to begin the meeting.

She held his hand through the meeting as the young women rose, one after another, to present their projects and explain their importance of values in their lives. Craig looked down the row at his four children. Eliza sat nervously winding a strand of her hair around her finger as she silently rehearsed her lines, but Sarah and Noemi seemed completely absorbed in watching these older, more mature girls explain the values of the Young Women program, which they would someday experience for themselves. Porter, who was 13, was clearly not enjoying the program. Craig watched him fidgeting in his seat, rolling his eyes every time one of the young women used a word like “blessing” or “special.” Feeling some pity for his son, Craig handed him his cell phone, trying hard not to make it too noticeable.

Porter’s face showed a mixture of gratitude and relief. Ana had given him a look of mild disappointment, but soon Porter was busy playing Ridiculous Fishing, having tuned out the rest of the meeting. Craig wondered if that’s what had happened to him: he had pushed aside the good, positive things in life to focus on a narrow and ultimately meaningless game. In his zeal to defend his faith, he had forgotten about the values he had been raised with. Maybe Ana was right, and religion was less about Native American DNA and more about individual worth and divine potential.

Later that night, Craig logged into his computer to check on the report from work. As he had hoped, his boss had approved the report without changes–he was kind of lazy that way–and had simply forwarded it to the client.

The Short List box now had 107 unread messages. Craig’s mind returned to his brief encounter with Tanner. What could he have meant by “perversion,” and what did Arlen have to do with it?

Craig had long admired Arlen, a long-time LDS poster on MIC who taught humanities at a small college somewhere in Kansas. Arlen found LDS church history and doctrine fascinating and could always be counted on for insight into just about any topic. He frequently reminded people that he had a testimony that the gospel was true, but he made it clear he was not interested in defending the orthodox, correlated position. Many times he had angered Dr. Kane and his friends at the association by publishing essays that poked holes in their apologetic works. Alex and a few of the others had begun taunting him for his lack of commitment to the gospel, saying he was obviously too lazy to choose a side and stick with it. Arlen had been unapologetic–no pun intended–and said he was comfortable with his faith and was happy to let others believe as they pleased. He was, he said, interested solely in the truth.

What did they have on Arlen, and what were they going to do about it? He had to know, so he opened the Short List folder.

The first few messages involved snarky jokes about Sidious, and then the bombshell dropped.

“To: Short List

“From: Tanner Scott


“As you all know, a friend of mine has been working on identifying Sidious’ IRL identity, and he is making progress, I believe. In the course of his investigations, he has discovered some information that may be useful to members of the list.

“Many of you are aware of Arlen Compton, who pretends to be a believer but constantly undermines all our efforts to bring scholarly light to the study of Mormon scripture and history. While not one of our main suspects for Sidious, Arlen has remained a ‘person of interest,’ so to speak, for obvious reasons.

“As you all know, last year Arlen confided in a fellow Short Lister that he had separated from his wife for a brief period of time. Out of sensitivity for Arlen and his family, this information was shared only with members of our group and a few others. However, in the course of his investigations, my friend has discovered that Arlen engaged in some fairly sleazy activities during that period.

“In September of last year, Arlen used his personal email address to join a ‘fetish’ dating site, where he listed his interests as ‘handcuffs and light discipline,’ among other things too disgusting to share here. My friend has found no direct evidence that Arlen ever met up with anyone from that site, but he has shared with me a few pieces of ‘erotic fiction’ that Arlen posted on the site’s message board. (I will make copies available to anyone who is interested in verifying my friend’s findings.) Arlen’s participation in that site appears to have ended several weeks before he reconciled with his wife and returned home, though we cannot be sure.

“Our concern, of course, ought to be for Arlen’s lovely wife and family, who are probably unaware of his activities. If he did indulge himself at that time, he may well have put his wife at risk of AIDS and other STDs. I personally feel morally conflicted because this is something his wife should know.

“What say ye, brethren?”

Craig felt physically ill. He had long known some of these guys were capable of a lot, but he hadn’t imagined they go this far. Shaken, he continued reading.

“To: Short List

“From: Alex DuPlessis

“There can be no question, we have a moral responsibility to let Arlen’s wife know of the dangers to which she has been exposed. The most honourable course of action would be an anonymous email to Arlen’s bishop. Perhaps then he can get his fill of ‘light discipline.’ If no one else will do the right thing, I will.”

Several members had responded to Alex’s email, but they spoke only of making sure that nothing could be traced back to the group.

They hadn’t as yet contacted Arlen’s bishop, so the revelator would have to act quickly.

The Revelator, Part II

May 14, 2014

It was getting late in Bloemfontein, and the darkness had fallen over a row of stuccoed houses with red, Spanish-tile roofs. Alex DuPlessis was still awake, having years ago adjusted his schedule so he could be online when most of the other members of the association would be home from work. It was nearing 11:00 pm in South Africa, and a few members on the American East Coast would be appearing within the hour. Alex didn’t mind waiting because he had other things to do. The Utah boys would have to wait until tomorrow.

Jean had gone to bed over an hour ago, having resigned herself early on in their marriage to knowing that Alex wasn’t available at this time of night. He tried to make it up to her most weekends, helping her tend the roses that made their front garden the envy of all the neighbors. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day, as he and the twins, William and Daniel, had promised to help Jean plant a new variety his friends had shipped from the Horticulture Department at BYU-Idaho. With luck and a lot of care, the roses would be in full bloom in time for the Rose Festival. He hated gardening, and roses were the worst, with their thorns and sickly sweet smell. The things we do for our loved ones.

After checking the windows and doors, switching on the alarm system, and looking outside to make sure all the streetlamps in the gated community were in service, Alex grabbed a stick of biltong and sat down at his desk to catch up on the day’s events. He quickly read through the latest messages on the board, pausing only occasionally to put a dirty apostate in his or her place. He then took a few moments to skim through the rants at MormonDiscourse, or as he preferred to call it, Outer Darkness, feeling his moral outrage swell with every insult these traitors dared hurl at the true church and its prophets. Finally, he checked his email and, after deleting an advert from a specialised nursery in Pretoria, opened the folder for the Short List–the super-secret closed list of “safe” MIC posters. He wiped his wire-rimmed glasses on his shirtsleeve and noticed immediately that his friends were still talking about “Sidious,” a relatively new poster on MormonDiscourse whose insulting posts had gained him a lot of fans among the crowd of yammering, sycophantic apostates.

Alex knew his friends had dealt with such people before, and he was confident they would ferret him out in the end, so he wasn’t particularly concerned with Sidious. At this point, all anyone knew about Sidious was that he was a business executive of some sort.

“The guy is nothing,” Dalton R. Kane, a religion professor at BYU, had written in his latest email to the group. “He thinks he’s hurting our feelings and is delusional enough to believe we actually care anything about him. Epic fail!” Alex smirked at Kane’s awkward attempt to appear “cool” to the younger generation of apologists.

“What I find most amusing,” Kane continued, “is the continuous refrain that we at the association have engaged in personal attacks and mocking of others. Why, I’m surprised I haven’t been arrested by now, knowing how despicably and cruelly I’ve behaved. Remind me to send flowers to the grieving widows of those whose souls I have so ruthlessly destroyed. Needless to say, it will be a cold day in the telestial kingdom when I allow myself to be lectured on morality by a half-wit apostate punk like him!”

After a few more paragraphs deriding Sidious’s recent posts (they’d begun calling him a “hillbilly economist”), Kane had closed with this:

“I couldn’t care less about this low-life yahoo! As Elder McConkie once said, ‘What does it matter if a few barking dogs snap at the heels of the weary travelers? The caravan moves on!’ I think we can all agree that the best course of action is to ignore this loser. He’s not worth any more effort on our part, and we should just forget about him. By the way, has there been any progress on unmasking him? Not that it matters to me.”

As lightning flashed in the distance over the Highveld, Alex stretched his arms over his head, yawned, and ran his fingers through his graying ginger hair. Regaining his focus, he opened an email from Tanner Scott, one of the rising generation of apologists. Tanner had become an avid participant on the MIC board as a teenager, where with youthful zeal he had joined in the attacks on posters who claimed to be “struggling” with church issues (everyone knew they were lying apostates). Some of the old guard had expressed hope that Tanner’s mission would have a moderating effect on him and motivate him to tone down the attacks, but Tanner came back to the board with renewed energy, seeming to relish every new opportunity to cut the wicked down to size. Alex had been happy to know that someone would be carrying on in this important work long after his generation had departed from the scene.

Tanner’s reply was unusually terse: “Our mutual friend is on the case. I will notify the group when progress has been made.” The lack of rhetorical flourishes told Alex that Tanner was deadly serious.

Satisfied that the Sidious affair was under control, Alex tore off another chunk of biltong with his teeth and went back to his special project. Sidious might bother other members of the group, he thought, chewing the spicy dried meat, but there were weightier matters afoot. Somewhere out there, there is a mole of the blackest character … and I’m going to find him!

For several months, some dark soul had been sharing confidential communications from the MIC group with the scumbags on MormonDiscourse. Alex had begun a few days before to systematically review everything he knew about the apparent leaks. He started working backwards, noting the time of each “revelation” on the hated board, and correlating it to when the information had been discussed originally among his friends. So far, there didn’t seem to be a clear pattern. Sometimes the information went out hours after the relevant discussion, and at other times there was a lag of several days up to a few weeks. No revelations had appeared in the last four weeks, leading Alex to believe one would be forthcoming.

Next he went to the revelations themselves. The latest had disclosed the existence of the Short List, which Dr. Kane had organized in the first place to keep MIC secrets out of Sidious’s reach. Whoever the mole was, he (Alex was sure it was a male) knew more than he should about the group:

“My sources reveal to me that, in response to my earlier disclosures, a group of MIC posters has formed an exclusive email list to discuss recent leaks and to coordinate the apologetic programme with privacy and secrecy. Oops! Further revelations on the activities of this de facto apologetic junta will be forthcoming when fact can be separated from rumour.”

“A complete but ‘short list’ of group members may be difficult to compile, but my sources assure me that a partial roster will be in my hands shortly.”

Three weeks had passed, and Alex was becoming more worried about the breach in security. How much did the “revelator” know, and who was his source?

Strangely, no one else on the Short List seemed at all disturbed that the church’s enemies had discovered the list’s existence. Dr. Kane had said only that someone must have shared too much with a friend, which is why the revelations contained so few details. He asked that members be more circumspect and respect the group’s privacy. Everyone agreed, and attention went back to finding Sidious (the bastard!).

Alex thought how difficult it was now to track someone down. He missed the bygone days when you could more or less tell your friends from your foes online. Back in the mid-1990s, he had been going through a painful divorce and had sunk into depression. He was barely functioning then, managing only to get up in the morning and plod through another day of work before collapsing in his sister’s spare bedroom at the end of the day. Reading his scriptures had helped, but he had sat alone and discouraged each Sunday in church, telling anyone who asked that he just needed time to sort himself out. Still the depression weighed on him as a heavy yoke, until he had prayed with all his might for something to come into his life and give him meaning and purpose again. A few days later, he had stumbled across a listserv discussion group about Mormonism. Each day he read eloquent and scholarly defences of the gospel from such stalwarts as “cdowis” and “wenglund,” and more and more his blood boiled as he read the disgusting attacks hateful anti-Mormons made on the true church of Jesus Christ.

After several weeks of cautious lurking, he could abide no more, and his moral outrage poured out in denunciations of the despicable character of these evil enemies of God. All the anger and hurt from the last several months found a focus in those who would dare fight against the true church. Alex told himself he was defending truth, but deep inside he knew he had been chosen to cut the wicked down to stubble and humble the haughty. As the rage flowed out of him, the depression gradually dissipated, and he found himself invigorated by this unofficial but undeniable calling from God. He had been at it for nearly 20 years now. As the years passed, he had sometimes found it difficult to keep up the proper level of high dudgeon, but each time he felt the smallest twinge of empathy or kindness toward God’s enemies, he reminded himself that he simply could not allow the darkness and gloom to enclose him again. He surprised himself with his ability to draw on unknown reserves of bile until the encroaching sense of humanity had been suppressed.

An hour had passed, and still he had no leads as to the mole’s identity. He snatched the last bit of biltong from the desk and distractedly tried to pop it in his mouth. In his haste, he dropped the meat to the floor, upon which his beagle, Abish, lunged for it. He swatted at the dog’s nose with the back of his hand, and the dog yelped and retreated in fear.

“I’ve missed something,” Alex said aloud, retrieving the biltong from the floor and inserting it into his mouth. “I know I have. Sooner or later, though, I’ll get him.”

The Revelator, Part I

May 14, 2014

“Why do you hang out with those guys?” Jack asked, taking another sip of his diet Coke. “You don’t even believe in the church anymore.”

Craig had been wondering the same thing for quite some time. He stared absently into the carefully manicured gardens at the Lion House, where he and Jack sat at a wrought-iron table finishing their lunch. It was a convenient place to meet, being on the same block as the Church Office Building, where Jack worked, and only two blocks from Craig’s firm. The roses along the stone wall surrounding the garden were in full bloom, their blossoms almost the same shade of pink as the rhubarb pie they were both enjoying.

“I feel like someone needs to be the voice of reason, and maybe that has to be me.” He savored a bite of pie and said softly, to no one in particular, “Not that they listen to me anymore.”

They used to listen, Craig thought to himself, unconsciously rolling between his fingers the expensive cufflinks his firm had given him last year. Not long ago he’d been sort of a star among the “defenders of the faith,” as they liked to call themselves. A relatively young partner in a major accounting firm in Salt Lake City, he had just enough credentials for the apologetic group and had made a name for himself as a sort of expert in discussing Joseph Smith’s translation of the Bible. But it hadn’t started out that way.

Ten years ago–had it been that long?–he had been struggling with some church issues, though he couldn’t remember specifically what they had been. Not finding answers in “official” church publications, he had gone to the Internet to find answers, anything really to reassure him that his worries were unfounded and he could return to a comfortable belief in the faith of his fathers. For a brief moment, he had allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if there were no answers and the church wasn’t true, after all. The thought had terrified him and spurred him to look harder for answers. The dim fog of despair had finally lifted when he had found the Association for Mormon-Interfaith Scripture Studies and its message board, Mormon Interfaith Conversations. Here were the experts, the guys who had the training and dedication to look into the issues and find scholarly answers, no matter how hard it was to squeeze positive evidence out of the historical and archaeological record. They’d done the heavy lifting, and he could relax. He was going to be OK. Feeling obligated to help others as MIC/AMISS had helped him, he had begun to participate on the board as much as possible, and eventually he’d been asked to submit a paper on the JST.

“I’d walk away from that shit if I were you,” Jack said, earning a dirty look from a blue-haired missionary sitting at the next table. “I told you about that meeting I was in,” he continued, more quietly but urgently. “The Brethren are watching over everything, and you don’t want to be associated with any of that,” he said, jabbing a forkful of the pink, gooey pie in Craig’s direction before shoveling it into his mouth.

A few weeks before, Jack had casually mentioned a special meeting he’d been invited to at the Church Office Building regarding the huge number of Mormon-related web sites, both pro- and anti-Mormon, that seemed to be springing up everywhere. After an introduction by J. Kendrick Balsam of the Seventy, Jack’s boss, Brother Gladden, had stood there in his charcoal suit, methodically going through a long series of PowerPoint slides, each discussing a particular web site or message board. After each slide, the assembled managers and leaders would pass judgment. Those sites deemed to be “of interest’ would be monitored by the Strengthening the Church Membership Committee, which would issue regular reports to be discussed at follow-up meetings.

The usual suspects showed up on the screen. The men rolled their eyes and chuckled at the ironically named “Recovery from Mormonism” site, one man with a greasy comb-over saying bitterly, “That’s like saying you need to recover from a steak dinner. What a bunch of losers.”

A Christian web site run by a widowed former Mormon brought howls of derision. “What a b-word!” a man in a fraying pastel suit to Jack’s left had said. “We should be grateful her husband’s dead because now her stuff is only half-assed.” Elder Balsam reminded the man to watch his language but said he agreed with the sentiment, noting that the woman’s husband had died of Alzheimer’s disease. “That’s what happens when you kick against the pricks. The Lord takes His vengeance as He will. I almost feel sorry for the poor devil.”

The meeting had dragged on, covering everything from “after Mormonism” sites to feminist blogs to a strange site about same-sex attraction that had something or other to do with locks and keys. To Jack it was a mass of confusion, but Brother Gladden had soldiered on through even the worst and most hateful opposition the Internet had to offer. At one point, he had paused, wiped his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief, and sighed, “I almost feel like I’ll need a shower after this.”

The parade of hate had become almost numbing when Jack was surprised to see the MIC/AMISS logo on the large screen. Brother Gladden mentioned that some of the brethren had expressed concern that the board might be a front for nonbelievers who were trying to suck in the credulous and sow the seeds of doubt and apostasy. Given the confusion over the purpose and direction of the association, Brother Gladden had felt it best to bring it up with the assembled group.

“I don’t see what the fuss is about,” said the representative of CES, a stocky man in his forties whose hair was prematurely white. “They do top-notch work, and since we aren’t allowed to teach such things in seminary, they’re the next best thing.”

“I tried out their message board once,” a small, redheaded man with a pencil mustache said hesitantly. “I lasted two days. They were kind of mean, and I didn’t get the impression they were out to help me or anyone else. They seemed to enjoy making fun of people more than defending the church.”

“Maybe that’s who President Packer had in mind when he warned us of the so-called intellectuals,” a fat man in suspenders offered from the corner of the room.

Elder Balsam stood up suddenly, his eyes flashing and his long, thin face red against the white wisps of his hair. “I know the brethren who run that association,” he said, barely controlling his temper, “and they are fine, upstanding members of the church and scholars of impeccable reputation. They founded that organization as a resource to help the struggling and shore up the faith of those who want more than the correlated gospel. The idea that they knowingly would work against us is preposterous!”

“What if they’re doing it without knowing?” Jack had asked aloud, without intending to.

“Young man,” Elder Balsam had glared at him, waving his bony hand in dismissal. “This isn’t your concern. Leave it alone.”

“Yes, sir, uh, elder, sir,” Jack had said, feeling more than a little intimidated. Still, later that day, his boss had told him that several others in the meeting had been expressing the same concerns about MIC for a number of weeks. Brother Gladden had spoken with his former mission president, who was now in the Presidency of the Seventy. He had been assured that some of the brethren were more than a little dismayed at the direction the association had taken.

“Don’t worry about it, Jack,” Brother Gladden had said. “The committee is keeping an eye on those guys, whether or not Elder Balsam approves. I know some of those guys over there, too, and they probably do think they’re doing the church a service. I’m not so sure. In any event, I’m staying away from that place, and I would advise you to do the same.”

That had been nearly a year ago, and yet Craig still found himself knee-deep in the “association.” Some months before, Craig had quietly gone through what he told himself was a “faith transition.” He had realized that his participation in apologetics had amounted to pasting layer after layer of wallpaper over the crumbling wall of belief behind it. Eventually, there was nothing left but the paper, which had folded and blown away like a tattered three-dollar note from the Kirtland Anti-Banking Society. He had told only Jack, as his fumbling attempts to open up to his wife and his parents had met with steely resistance. Jack had understood, being an unbeliever himself, but he pressed Craig again about his relationship with the apologists.

“At least get off that stupid email list,” Jack said between bites of pie, which Craig noticed had dripped onto his white shirt and tie. “I mean, Jesus, how can you justify that cloak-and-dagger shit? Someone is going to get hurt, and it might just be you.”

“Like I said,” Craig sighed, “someone has to be the voice of reason. Maybe if I stop things while they’re still on the list, before they get out in public, I can limit the damage.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Jack said dismissively. “But you don’t really believe that.”

No, I don’t, Craig thought, but he didn’t feel safe telling Jack the real reason he was still there. At carefully chosen intervals, he had been leaking the group’s plans and activities to less-than-friendly sources. He’d been careful to cover his tracks and couch what he called his “revelations” in terms that would obscure their source, and in so doing he had managed to insert the tiniest wedge of paranoia into the leadership at the association. They had even started a restricted email group “for security reasons,” never realizing that they had invited a mole in as one of its founding members.

He hadn’t sent anything out in a while, but it was time.

Niche Mormonism

May 12, 2014

I have a good friend who is a Bible Studies scholar and an active, believing, faithful Latter-day Saint. He served an LDS mission, married in the temple, has a calling in his ward, served as an institute instructor, and currently has a child on a mission. He’s happy in the LDS church and believes it is God’s true, restored church on the earth.

Recently, he’s come under attack from at least one Mormon apologist because my friend subscribes to the “Documentary Hypothesis,” which proposes that the five books of Moses in the Bible are a combination of two independent narratives along with other later redactions. According to my friend’s accuser, taking a non-traditional approach to the scriptures disqualifies one from belonging to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In fact, the accuser has suggested that my friend leave the church and find another more compatible with his beliefs about scripture.

Whether or not the Documentary Hypothesis is compatible with belief in Mormonism is, in my mind, irrelevant because my friend considers them so. What interests me is the attitude, which I’ve seen increasingly, among some people who feel they have the right to decide who does or does not belong in the LDS church. This attitude crops up usually around a person’s favorite axes to grind. For example, I know one guy who would, if he could, excommunicate all liberal Democrats because he believes “the gospel is conservatism.”

Fortunately, the church seems to be run by people who are not interested in such trivial gospel hobbies but are more concerned about members’ testimonies and commitment. President Dieter Uchtdorf recently remarked that there is plenty of room for people in the church who may not believe exactly the way others do. And people who want to drive them out should “stop it.”

I told my conservative acquaintance that, if he had his way, the church would be smaller and less of a force in the world. He said he would prefer to sift the bad (liberal) elements out because it would “revitalize” the church. I think it would just make for a tiny “niche” church. To my surprise, he was fine with that. He said, “We already are a niche church.”

But I think he’s wrong. What gives the church vitality is its diversity of culture and opinion. Working together, people who otherwise might occupy different ideological spaces build something worthwhile. Organizations focused on ideological “purity” tend to stagnate and eventually wither away.

The LDS church needs people like my friend, good, honest people who are committed and unafraid to follow what they believe.