Angels In America With The Ex-Mormons

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Former Stake President Stan Taylor
Subject: The Angels in America exhibit

A little over a week ago I rode the train into San Francisco to join the Post-Mormons for the Angels in America exhibit at the Museum of Performance and Design. I got off at the Civic Center BART station and walked past San Francisco's magnificent City Hall, the place where Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio were famously wed, and George Moscone and Harvey Milk were notoriously murdered. On this particular Saturday, Egyptians were protesting Mubarak. But a howling wind dulled the sound of their chants, and gunmetal grey clouds curtained the afternoon in a macabre gloom.

I climbed the steps of the old Veteran's and War Memorial. On an occasion when the Herbst Theater is holding an event, the War Memorial is teeming with people. But on this day the cavernous lobby was empty, save for a mirthless security guard who eyed me from behind his circular desk. My footsteps echoed as I crossed the marble lobby. I stepped inside the elevator and pushed "two." The doors slid shut, but the lift stayed still. I pushed "two" again. Nothing happened. I pushed the "open" button. Nothing happened. Again. Nothing happened. I rang the alarm.

The doors opened and I was met by the startled security guard.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked.

"Trying to go to the second floor."

"Nobody ever uses this elevator."

I muttered "sorry," followed him to an adjacent lift, and looked up to watch the antique brass arrow travel from "four" to "one." This time when I pushed "two" the car engaged. I chuckled to myself as I rode. It's no wonder that San Francisco has been the chosen setting for the noir works of great artists like Hammett and Hitchcock.

Sketch of "heaven" for the HBO
movie. (Sorry for poor quality) 

Then the "noir" evaporated when I greeted the sunny faces of the ex-Mormons who waited for me at the entrance to the exhibit. Together we went in to view the work of another great artist, Tony Kushner, who also used San Francisco as a setting. -- In his case, for heaven.

Kushner was inspired to write Angels in America: a Gay Fantasia on National Themes after he was approached by Mormon missionaries on a NYC subway. He was taken with the missionaries' sincerity and devotion to the faith, and also fascinated by the notion of an American religion.

He began by composing long-hand notes in a series of lined journals with one of his many fountain pens (for which he had an admitted fetish.)

On this page of his journal, Tony Kushner wrote:

There are some lovely things about Mormons.They believe everyone eventually gets into heaven. You can pray a dead person into heaven if you're a Mormon and you believe.

Of course Joseph Smith was crazy.

But he was crazy like Walt Whitman. Crazy in a Big American way. If P.T. Barnum had written the Holy Scriptures while ingesting great quantities of opium, it would be the Book of Mormon.

Only in America does an Angel of the Lord appear dispensing eyeglasses.

It is wonderful to believe that an Angel appeared in upstate N.Y.

I have waited all my life for an Angel.

An American Angel.

Joseph Smith and millions like him believe that there are Angels in America. Or were, anyway.

An American Angel would have rawhide tassels, tangled hair, buckskin wings, coon tail hat, eyes like the Great Lakes, skin like bark and a pine tree smell. It would live in the sunset in Yosemite National Park.

The journals evolved into a seven hour play in two parts, Millennium Approaches and Perestroika. Angels in America, Part One: Millennium Approaches received its world premiere in 1991 in San Francisco. From there it went to London, then to Broadway. Part Two: Perestroika followed in 1992. In 2003, the two parts were adapted as the HBO mini-series, Angels in America. The work received the Pulitzer Prize and numerous other awards, including the Tony, Golden Globe, and Emmy.

As I toured the exhibit with the ex-Mormons, I couldn't help but feel sad that so few believing Mormons have seen the plays. Three of the main characters are LDS: Joe Pitt, a closeted gay man, Harper Pitt, his mentally fragile wife, and Hannah Pitt, his stoical, pioneer-stock mother. They are well-drawn and accurate reflections of real Mormons, and Kushner treats them with the compassion and dignity they deserve. However, because the play pokes a little fun at Mormonism, and depicts its followers as imperfect, it was deemed inappropriate by the authorities in Salt Lake.

For the life of me, I can not understand why The Brethren are not thrilled that our church inspired one of the greatest works of American theater.

Ironically, the play's central premise is that God abandoned His angels for the more interesting company of His less perfect human creations who are capable of change. The angels become jealous of mankind, and try to halt our progress, much like the current LDS authorities.

But old-school Mormon that I am, I still consider "eternal progression" and "free agency" to be primary elements of my faith. And as a retired Institute Director, I am no longer bound by The Brethen's opinions. In other words, I do what I damn well please.

After the exhibit I climbed into the back of Steve and Sarah's Prius, and was chauffered downtown to a lovely meal at Le Central on Bush Street. We enjoyed great food, lively conversation, and, of course, loud laughter. And I personally savored another rare opportunity to discuss science, art, and ancient American history.


After dinner I walked alone down Powell past packed restaurants, bars, and clanging cable cars. What started as a drizzle turned quickly to a downpour. But the weather did not dampen spirits. It takes more than a little rain to keep San Franciscans from enjoying their free agency.


This month a new musical is opening on Broadway entitled, The Book of Mormon. In a recent interview in Vogue, Trey Parker (the show's co-creator with Matt Stone) said the following:

We love musicals, and we love Mormons. I think if any Mormons come and stay all the way through, they'll end up liking the show. I mean, it rips on them a lot, but in the end their spirit of wanting to help wins the day.

Not only are The Brethren in Salt Lake not staying to the end of the show, they are not even waiting for it to begin. Last Monday LDS Public Affairs issued the following statement:

The production may attempt to entertain audiences for an evening, but the Book of Mormon as a volume of scripture will change people's lives forever by bringing them closer to Christ.

Beneath the statement is a link to a March 2009 article entitled The Publicity Dilemma, a tiresome screed that denigrates any person, film, or TV show that has recently criticized the Mormons, then goes on to boast of the LDS Church's powerful influence (with the use of inflated numbers.)

Again I am saddened that many of my fellow believers will miss out on another celebration of their faith. But I am glad that as an old school Mormon, and retired LDS Institute Director, I am at liberty to do as I please.

. . . and have already bought my ticket to New York. 

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Are You A Real Mormon?

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Former Stake President Stan Taylor
Subject: My Education Week

My first day at BYU Education Week began with a recitation by Brother Maddox who has committed the entire Book of Mormon to memory. After that a BYU history professor taught me that every prominent U.S. statesman was secretly a Mormon. Next I heard from Sister JayNeen Sorenson who claimed to love the Gospel, but made living it sound like a prolonged rectal exam. I broke for an uninspiring meal at the Cougareat, then listened to a millennialist whose predictions on global warming made Al Gore's documentary seem comforting. Finally I sat through a fiery political screed delivered by a fanatical kook who also happened to co-author the Republican mid-term platform.

In other words, it was business as usual at BYU. Same stale syllabus. Same stale teachers. Same stale lessons on what rather than how to think.

Then after viewing an agonizingly insipid production entitled, Annie Get Your Garments, I heard a voice from my past call to me in the lobby. He was bald now, and rounder in the middle, but the banana shaped birth mark on his cheek was a dead give-away.

"I'll be darned, if it isn't cousin Warren."

"Stan Taylor, I haven't seen you since Grandma died." 

Visits with my cousins at Grandma's house in St. George were among my fondest childhood memories, but not because of Warren. I passed most of my time with Warren's sister, Elsie. After hundreds of attempts, I never could beat her at chess.

"How's that chess champion sister of yours?"

Warren shook his head. "Elsie's not with us anymore."

"She died?"

"She's down in Hildale/Colorado City," he whispered.

"She's a polygamist?" I cried.

The people around us turned and stared. Warren grabbed my arm, pulled me into the corner, and begged me to lower my voice. I looked around at the crowd of strangers.

"What's the matter, Warren, do you know any of these people?"

"I know that they're Real Mormons, not . . . what you just said."

"Real Mormons? What the devil does that mean?" 

 "Well, you know what bad press we've gotten, what with those weirdos down there in Colorado City, plus all the ex-Mormons and their bitter "anti" websites."

"One of those weirdos is your sister."

He handed me a business card. "I've started my own pro-Mormon website, you know, to educate."

I looked at the card, then at him, then back at the card.

RealMormons.org 

a place for common everyday Mormons 

The next morning I packed my suitcase and checked out of my motel. As a retired LDS Institute director, I was no longer required to attend all of BYU Education Week. Besides, I'd had my fill of Real Mormons. I loaded up the car and headed toward Hildale/Colorado City.

I drove down I-15 past a string of Mormon communities, their LDS chapels visible from the road. Nowadays the meetinghouses had shiny white steeples perched awkwardly atop their roofs, evidence of the Church's attempt to appear mainstream. Ironically, around the same time the LDS Church invested in these decorations, they cut the budget for the ward janitorial staffs. Typical of the Brethren. Use all the resources on the Church's outward appearance, and none on the people within its ranks. 

The population dwindled as I drove, and the landscape grew more barren. It felt quiet and comforting, like the corner of Grandma's house where Elsie and I played chess. Finally I came to my destination, the tiny hamlet at the foot of Mount Canaan.

Like Faulkner said, "The past isn't dead, it isn't even past." 

I stopped in The Merry Wives Cafe and ordered an uninspiring meal. The conversation buzzed around me. A man on my left quoted the Pearl of Great Price from memory. Behind me some FLDS brethren discussed the attributes of Abraham Lincoln's plural wives. A group of women claimed to love living the principle, then talked as though plural marriage was one long colonoscopy. Yet another group spoke wistfully of the approaching Armageddon.

When the waitress brought my food, I asked her about my cousin.

"You might be talking about Grandma Elsie," she replied. "Write down your name and I'll call her and see if she knows you."

The homes were partially constructed and poorly engineered

A half hour later I was on the road to my cousin's house for another game of chess. All the way a white Ford F-350 hugged my bumper. I found the address, parked, and walked back to my escort's truck. A hard-eyed man with a crew cut rolled down his window. I smiled at him.

"I'm here to visit my cousin Elsie."

His face softened. "You give her my best," he said, and drove off.

Elsie received me in her attic room at a table set with a chess board and two glasses of homemade lemonade. A Book of Mormon sat on a neighboring shelf. The same edition sat on the shelf in my home, as it did in the home of some ex-Mormons whose party I attended recently.

The game went as it always had. Elsie made her moves with swiftness and authority, then waited impatiently while I hemmed and hawed over mine.

"So Warren told you where I was," she said.

"Saw him last night."

"Oh yeah? Does he still have that mark on his face that looks like a penis?"

"'Fraid so. Tell me, Elsie, why did you leave the mainstream church?"

"I didn't leave it, it left me. What with all their changing to look like everyone else. Have you seen those infernal steeples they've slapped on their buildings?"

"Yup."

"Might as well be Baptists. Bet my brother Warren thinks it's all just dandy."

"He has a new website." I gave her the card.

"Common, everyday Mormons. HA! There's nothing common about me," she said, then slid her queen across the board. "Checkmate." 

If you would like to stop receiving these e-mails, we'll send you the DVD version of Brother Maddox's recitation of The Book of Mormon.

  

Utah Pioneer Day Comes To San Francisco

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Millie Loomis, self-appointed ward media and culture critic
Subject: Ex-Mormons desecrate Utah Pioneer Day

Like most students of history, I consider July 24 to be a pivotal date in human history. After all, it's the day that the Mormons rode into the Salt Lake Valley to establish our kingdom. That makes it the Fourth of July, Veterans Day, and Christmas rolled into one. So when I heard that the ex-Mormons were gathering to mock our founding fathers on their sacred day, I decided to sneak into the party and expose them as the pathetic low-lifes they've become.

Last Saturday afternoon I disguised myself as an ex-Mormon and drove to a seedy bar in San Francisco called the Hotel Utah Saloon.

I parked and rushed for the door, clutching my handbag close and ignoring strange looks from the San Francisco non-member community. Once inside, I found myself surrounded not only by ex-Mormons, but also by some of my fellow LDS singles, who seemed to think that this was their new Stake Single Adults' Program.

I made a mental note to report them to the bishop, then moved across the room, only to see former Stake President Taylor wearing a plaid shirt, and nursing a suspicious beverage labeled, O'Doul's.

He shot me a look and said, "Millie, will you go home and take off that ridiculous get-up?!"

"Pardonee moi, who eez Millie?" I replied. (Fortunately, I have a convincing French accent thanks to my recent See Zion First tour of Paris.)

He grabbed my arm in an ungentleman-like manner and pulled me toward the door. I shut my eyes and prayed for divine help. In an instance, my saviors appeared.                                                                

I was surprised at first. In the past, I'd encountered the Three Nephites only one at a time, and out of uniform. However, as the evening progressed, I understood why they united their forces. It was to be a night filled with some of the worst debauchery ever witnessed. I managed to capture some of it on film. 

EXTREME CAUTION ADVISED!

The loud laughter increased, so much so, that even the Three Nephites combined were unable to shield my modest ears. My hands began to shake, and I feared the onset of a panic attack. They sent for the lesser known Mini-Nephite, who is distinguished by his immense spiritual strength.

He gave me a grapefruit infused serum. Right away the laughter seemed less offensive. Indeed, after a few more doses, I could barely hear it. From there my memory is sketchy. I remember President Taylor playing poker with the Single Adults and the Nephites performing an unusual rendition of the BYU Fight Song. 

Finally I crawled up on the bar for a nap. It was surprisingly comfortable. Only I was rudely ripped from my sleep by former Stake President Taylor who muttered some inaudible complaint that ended in "you daft cow," threw me over his shoulder, and dumped me into the back seat of his car. I awoke the next morning on the chaise in my back yard. I assume it was Taylor who left me there. I can only hope he didn't have his way with me.

As my head cleared, I recalled one more thing I learned last Saturday.

The Hotel Utah is for sale!

That's right, brothers and sisters, with a little joint fund-raising, and the help of the Stake Public Affairs Counsel, we can bring down an evil ex-Mormon institution and replace it with something beautiful and inspiring. Like a temple where church members can perform traditional marriages. Alongside it, a visitor's center that features a genealogy library, a stage for musical revues by super-cool groups like the Young Ambassadors, and a theater for reenactments of church history performed by incredibly realistic looking automatons. Instead of a magnet for ex-Mormon low-lifes, the Hotel Utah could be a gathering place, where San Franciscans could relax and mingle, without cigarettes, alcohol, or caffeine, of course. 

In short, a little bit of Paris.

If you would like to stop receiving these e-mails, log on to reclaimthehotelutah.com, and have your credit card ready.

San Francisco Post-Mormons Critique 8: The Mormon Proposition

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Former Stake President Stan Taylor
Subject: My Evening with the post-Mormons

When faced with the choice of attending the post-Mormon gathering at the Ferry Building or the ward Break the Fast, I dutifully chose this:

Later, instead of joining the ex-Mormons at the Round-up Saloon in Lafayette, I opted for the inspired ward fashion show. The result? I missed meeting two of the three Nephites.

(Nephite #2 ended up bailing on the ward fashion show to join the ex-Mormons, and believe me, we still needed his help!)

So when I was invited to last Saturday's post-Mormon screening of 8: The Mormon Proposition, I said, "To Helena with the ward Mop the Meetinghouse Party, I'm hanging with the exmo's tonight!"

Ex-Mormon demonstrates "There's always room for Jell-O"

Have to admit, I was nervous when I knocked on the door. But the gang immediately showed me to a cushy chair, supplied me with a plate of food and a non-alcoholic beer, then resumed their lively exchange. Without going into too much detail, the course of conversation was irreverent, and probably offensive to even the thicker-skinned believing Mormons. Fortunately, I have the hide of an elephant, and enjoyed every minute. I can't remember the last time I felt free to discuss things like science, art, and ancient American history.

Much less engage in loud laughter.

The film was both well-done and heart breaking, enough so to penetrate my old elephant's hide. I confess, I participated in some evil speaking of the Lord's anointed.

Ex-Mormons salute President Monson

There are many infuriating aspects to the Mormon Church's campaign against gay marriage. But as a retired LDS Institute Director, I can't help but look at this from a historical perspective. In the nineteenth century, the Mormons fled to Utah so they could be free to pursue their own definition of marriage. Now the Utah-based LDS Church seeks to impose its current definition of marriage on the entire country, if not the world.

It is no wonder so many wards and stakes are shrinking. Nobody, not even the faithful, want to be associated with such hubris. As the film points out, during the weeks leading up to the 2008 election, backlash against the church was so intense that pro-Prop 8 campaign workers were told not to wear white shirts and ties while canvassing -- so as not to look like Mormons.

Perhaps recent negative reactions from the members and the press will inspire church leaders to alter their message. To emphasize agency rather than obedience, unconditional love rather than punishment. But I'm not betting on it. While I admire those who try, as a former church employee, I know the frustration of attempting to change the church from within.

If history is any guide, the LDS Church won't loosen its grip on the members. Paradoxically, as the Mormons have expanded their influence in the world, they've narrowed their definition of what it means to be one. First the church shunned people who opposed polygamy, later those who practiced it. Since then they have shunned blacks, intellectuals, feminists, and gays. Also people with tattoos, piercings, short skirts, and beards. Today being Mormon means not going to R-rated movies, not drinking a Coke, not masturbating, not having sex outside of marriage (as defined by the church,) and not minding one on one interrogations from church officials on these subjects. If the leaders in Salt Lake continue this trend, they'll have nothing left, except the white shirts and ties.

Lucky for us, there were plenty of left-overs to take home.

Back in the day, when a person left the church, he disappeared, never to be heard from again. That's no longer the case. Ex-Mormons are telling their stories on websites, bulletin boards and blogs. While thin-skinned Mormons continue to claim people who've left were offended or want to sin, the rest of the world sees people who want to think for themselves, live authentic lives, and occasionally have fun.

Today's Puzzle: How many sins is this man committing? Whoever names the most wins a pencil.

If you would like to stop receiving these e-mails, we'll send you Nephite #2's secret Jell-O recipe.

Stake Single Adults Leader Is Mad As Hell And He's Not Going To Take It Anymore

To: Mitchell Knightly, Abbottsville Stake President
    cc: Members of the Abbottsville Stake
From: Ricky Foote
Subject: LDS Single Adults

Dear President Knightly,

Let me begin by saying how humbled and proud Mindy and I are to have been called as Stake Single Adults Leaders. We are ever mindful of the stewardship you hold as a stake president in Zion, and realize the call you extended to us was divinely inspired. You might say, President, that "we stand all amazed" at your intimate relationship with our Savior.

With that in mind, I am greatly saddened to report on my failure with our Stake Single Adults. After you successfully upbraided them for their behavior surrounding the Swinging Seventies Party, I foolishly believed that the Single Adults had matured. So Mindy and I knocked ourselves out planning a fun-filled month of activities, custom-made to their unique situations.

The first sign of rebellion came at last Saturday's Mix and Mingle/Marshmallow Shooting Contest. Rather than use the PVC pipe to make individual blow guns, the measly few who attended pooled their materials to construct a multi-shot weapon that they hooked up to a leaf-blower, then aimed at me.

Last Wednesday I waited for them for a full hour in the lobby of the Abbottsville Federal Building, LDS Single Adults! sign in one hand, happy face balloons and jumbo pack of Oreos in the other. I drew nothing other than strange looks from non-members. Finally concluding that they weren't coming, I went to my car to find "$#%* YOU!" spelled out in unscrewed Oreos across my dash.

Not surprisingly, they were no-shows in the nursery for the Married Adults' Dinner/Dance, leaving Mindy and I to tend the children ourselves. Then Sunday evening I arrived late to the Single Adults' Fireside. I was pleased to find it well attended. Only instead of listening to a presentation on personal histories, the Single Adults were playing poker with former Stake President Taylor. On the Sabbath. Using the sacrament cups for chips.

In spite of all of this, I remained determined not to give up on my Single Adult charges. That is, until today, when I walked into my work cubicle, sat down on a chocolate pudding filled whoopie cushion, then tripped a wire that sent Disco Duck blaring through my computer speakers. All of this drew wild applause from my office team, the LDS Single Adults, and the non-member co-workers they'd invited.

I'm sorry, President Knightly, but in light of this not-so-subtle message, I have to conclude that going on with the upcoming Lunch Hour Mingle and Disco Dance Party would be a very bad idea. And I don't even want to think about what they might do to the inside of the Turley's Suburban.

Like many martyrs before me, from Joseph Smith -- to Paul H. Dunn -- to Mitt Romney, I must strive to love and forgive my persecutors. But, President, as I sit here in my pudding soaked garments, I must confess, it's hard.

Please accept my heartfelt apology.

Prayerfully,

Ricky Foote

If you would like to stop receiving these e-mails, we'll sign you up for the "No Hands Pudding Eating Contest."

LDS Stake Single Adults Calendar

To: Abbottsville Stake Single Adults
From: Ricky and Mindy Foote, Stake Single Adults Leaders
Subject: June LDS Single Adults Calendar

Mindy and I are honored to serve a group that includes so many near and dear, such as my former seminary teacher, Mindy's old high school principal, Sister Post who helped me earn my Duty to Country badge, and, of course, Mom. This month we've really gone the distance to plan some super-fun activities custom crafted for your unique status as LDS Single Adults. 


Saturday, June 5, 7:00 PM, Weekend Mix and Mingle. Game night. Sisters bring marshmallows, brethren bring PVC pipe.


Wednesday, June 9, 12:00 noon, Lunch Hour Mingle. Fellowshipping Activity. Find Mindy and I in the lobby of the Abbottsville Federal Building. We'll be holding up our LDS Single Adults! sign. After a group prayer, we'll go to the work places of  less active singles, slip stake calendars under their car window wipers, and write MISS YOU on their windshields in unscrewed Oreos.


Saturday, June 12, 7:00 PM, Weekend Mix and Mingle. Service Project. Meet in the stake nursery to babysit during the Stake Married Adult Dinner/Dance. Clean-up duty afterwards. Mindy and I will check in on you before we leave the dance.


Sunday, June 13, 7:00 PM, Stake Singles' Fireside. Former Stake President Stan Taylor's talk is entitled, "Writing Your Life History." Yes! You should write one even if you don't have a spouse or kids. Mindy's spinster Aunt Eunice wrote hers, and it turned out to be surprisingly interesting.


Saturday, June 19, 7:00 PM, Weekend Mix and Mingle. Service Project. Meet in the stake center parking lot to clean out the interior of the Turley family's Suburban.


Wednesday, June 23, 12:00 noon, Lunch Hour Mingle. Fun and Games. Meet at the north end of Abbottsville Central Park under the banner, LDS Single Adults!  We'll have potato sack races, ice block sliding on the hill, and a "no-hands" pudding eating contest. Be sure to invite your non-member co-workers!


Saturday, June 26, 7:00 PM, Weekend Mix and Mingle. Disco Dance Party!**

**The following standards will be strictly enforced:

 No immodest dress. This includes pierced ears, facial hair or sideburns, and t-shirts advertising tobacco, porn, or caffeinated soft drinks. 

 Admission only upon presentation of a current temple recommend or completion of the Official Worthiness Questionnaire.

No loitering. The halls, kitchen, auxiliary areas and bathrooms will be monitored by CCTV.

 Doors will be locked at 8:00 PM, no re-entrance allowed.

 The DJ's track list has been pre-approved by the stake presidency. No requests other than Janice Kapp Perry, the Osmonds, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

 Participation in the Disco Duck Soul Train Line is mandatory.

 We will adjourn at 11:00 PM sharp, so everyone's home before curfew. Don't forget to call your home teacher when you get there.

If you would like to stop receiving these e-mails, don't be surprised to find your windshield covered in unscrewed Oreo's.

Mountain Meadows Massacre Revisited

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Former Stake President Stan Taylor
Subject: Mountain Meadows

Last year my travels took me back to St. George, Utah, the home of my maternal grandparents. It was no longer the sleepy town I visited in my youth. A housing tract now sat on my grandparent's land, their ward meetinghouse was bygone as well, along with the old diner and the five and dime. Instead I browsed the Barnes and Noble at the mall, dined at Applebee's, watched a movie at the new multiplex, then found a comfortable bed at the Marriott. I might have been in any small city in America. That is, until the following morning when I asked the perky hotel clerk for directions.

"Certainly sir," she said, then pulled one of those local map give-aways from a slot above her desk, and slid it toward me.

"Which way do I go to pick up Highway 18?" I asked, unfolding my reading glasses.

Her eyes clouded, but her smile remained intact. She laid a protective hand across the map. "Where're you headed, sir?"

"The Mountain Meadows Monument."

She drew the map back and returned it to its slot. "The 18 is a few miles north of here," she replied, and wished me a good day.

I drove for twenty minutes before realizing I had been misled. Was it by accident, or by design? In any small city in America, I would assume by accident. But this was Southern Utah, and I knew its history. I headed back towards town, feeling like I had returned to the St. George I visited as a boy. A stark, dry planet hanging in the void. Even in the 1940's, the town was much like Brigham Young intended, a solitary outpost, accessible by a single road, shunned and left to itself, a deep compost of Mormon shame. It was a reminder of the blood bath on September 11, 1857, the day a group of Arkansas pioneers known as the Fancher party was murdered at Mountain Meadows. The Mountain Meadow Massacre, our first 9/11. An American tragedy that the LDS Church continues to cover up.

I imagined the brave historian, Juanita Brooks, the author who aroused my passion for Mormon history.

In 1918, Juanita, then a young school teacher, was approached by the elderly Nephi Johnson. "I want you to do some writing for me," he told her. "My eyes have witnessed things that my tongue has never uttered. I want them written down. And I want you to do the writing."

Juanita agreed and promised to visit him on his ranch. Weeks later, when she finally made the trip, he was deathly ill and delusional, crying out, "Blood Blood BLOOD!" at the ceiling. It was then that she learned that Brother Johnson was a participant in the Mountain Meadows Massacre. At the time, the LDS Church officially claimed the crime to be the responsibility of St.George Mormon Militia leader, John D. Lee, along with the local Paiute Indians. Brother Johnson never recovered to tell her of his experience. But Juanita left him determined to record an accurate account of the event.

Juanita was a practicing Mormon as well as a devotee to the facts. "I feel sure," she once said, "that nothing but the truth can be good enough for the church to which I belong." In that spirit, Juanita spent the next five decades unearthing the diaries and records of Utah's early settlers and piecing together the actual chain of events. Her pivotal historical work, The Mountain Meadows Massacre, published in 1950, revealed that the brutal slaughter of some 150 people was carried out mostly, if not entirely by Mormons, some of whom were disguised as Paiutes. Brooks also concluded that the attack was inspired by Brigham Young's firebrand rants against church "enemies," early Mormon temple rituals depicting blood atonement, and the mistaken notion that members of the Fancher party were involved in the murder of Parley P. Pratt, a Mormon missionary proselyting in Arkansas. (He was instead killed by the angry husband of a woman that Pratt had attempted to take on as a "spirit wife.") In short, it was an act of domestic terrorism by a group of religious zealots acting upon the teachings of their prophet, Brigham Young, and the extremist doctrine of the early LDS Church.

Mary Elizabeth Baker Terry, a five year old survivor of the attack recalled: "Now I could see that they weren't all Indians. Whites had painted themselves to resemble their savage companions. With bloodcurdling yells they leaped on the defenseless pioneers. I sought shelter under a wagon and peered out between the spokes. I saw my father fall to the ground. . . The sight of blood sent them into a fanatical frenzy. One huge white kept shouting ,"For Jehovah." The fiends slackened their butchering only when there were no more victims. Dripping paint and blood, they stood panting, searching for any signs of life among the hacked and clubbed bodies . . . Some of the disguised Mormons were washing their paint (off) at the spring."

The LDS Church has officially refused to admit any involvement in the massacre, and continues to blame the Paiutes and a few local Mormons whom they claim acted without church approval. During my years as the LDS Institute director at Grafton College, I was not allowed to use Juanita Brooks as a source when teaching about Mountain Meadows. Likewise for Will Bagley's excellent Blood of the Prophets: Brigham Young and the Massacre at Mountain Meadows. Towards the end of my employ, I was banned from discussing the massacre at all.

I followed the sage brush lined road to the monument. The parking lot was empty, the early Spring air was crisp, and wisps of snow lingered on the sepia tinted soil. The walkway that wound to the stone cairn was spotless, and the site impressive. It possessed that sort of Walt Disney ambiance that many LDS attractions bear. Sturdy handrails, nicely patterned stone and concrete, well-made signs providing bland explanations, and a squeaky clean bathroom. The perfect mix of sobriety and cheerfulness. The same could be said of the monument's dedication in 1999. Rather than speak from his heart, the Mormon prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley, spoke from a page prepared by his lawyers. "Nobody knows what happened here," he declared to a gathering that included the victims' families.

Up the hill I found a smaller monument bearing the names of the known victims, constructed by their people in Arkansas. I perused the names of the dead, said a prayer, then looked out at the quiet meadow. If only it could tell the story. But the silence was deafening.

History wasn't meant to be attractive and faith promoting. It was meant to recount the lives of flesh and blood humans, of their courage, cowardice, frailty and vision. But the LDS Church prefers the Disney version, their own Stepford history. Or, as my grandmother from St. George used to say, "Those clowns in Salt Lake want all of the credit and none of the blame."

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Mormon History Outside Of The Manual

To: Abbottsville Fourth Ward
From: Former Stake President Stan Taylor
Subject: Agnes Coolbrith

During my years as director of the LDS Institute at Grafton College, I taught church history according to the manual. Unfortunately the curriculum forced me to leave out some of the most fascinating figures of our past. For example, Agnes Coolbrith.

Agnes Moulton Coolbrith was born on July 9, 1808 in Scarborough, Cumberland, Maine. At the age of twenty-three she moved to Boston, where she and several female friends converted to Mormonism. Soon after she departed for Kirtland, Ohio to join others in her new-found faith. It was there that she met Don Carlos Smith, the younger brother of the prophet, Joseph. They fell in love and were married on July 30, 1835.

Their turbulent six year marriage was set against the backdrop of early Mormon history. The couple moved three times, from Ohio, to Missouri, to Illinois. Meanwhile, Don served missions throughout Pennsylvania, Ohio, Tennessee and Virginia. During one of his absences an angry mob turned Agnes out of their house, looted it, then burned it to the ground. In the midst of this upheaval, Don and Agnes conceived three daughters. The youngest, Josephine Donna Smith, came to be called Ina.

A devoted husband and father, Don Carlos disapproved of Joseph’s doctrine of plural marriage, and voiced opposition early on. However, witnesses claimed that on his deathbed, Don asked Joseph to take Agnes as a plural wife. Years later, Agnes denied this story. Nevertheless, after Don Carlos suddenly died in 1841, Agnes became a “spirit wife” to Joseph Smith, an act that estranged her from her beloved sister-in-law (and now sister wife) Emma Smith. Another tragedy soon followed, when in October of 1843, her oldest daughter, Sophronia, died of scarlet fever.

After Joseph Smith’s death in 1844, Agnes entered into a second polygamous marriage, this time with Don and Joseph’s cousin, George Albert Smith. Any animosity Agnes harbored toward polygamy was exacerbated during this period, as her relationship with George Albert turned cold. When he left Illinois to travel west with the Saints, Agnes made no attempt to travel with him, nor did he provide any provisions for her to follow. Years later, in a letter to her cousin, Joseph F. Smith, Ina wrote, “I think I see myself vowing to love and honor some old driveling idiot of sixty, to be taken into his harem and enjoy the pleasure of being his favorite Sultana for an hour, and then thrown aside.” Her opinion was most likely based on her mother’s experience.

It wasn’t long before Agnes abandoned her “spirit marriage” to George Albert for a legal union with William Pickett, a lapsed Mormon whose drinking problem overshadowed his intelligence. They settled in St. Louis, where Agnes gave birth to twin sons. Then in 1849, her domesticity was again interrupted when her husband became swept up in “gold fever.” William travelled to California, then asked Agnes to join him. Over time, she grudgingly agreed, only to leave him to his drink some years later. However, in 1852, she found herself crossing the dry Nevada desert with her family in a company of seventeen covered wagons.

After fording the Truckee River, they came upon the explorer, Jim Beckwourth, half dead with fever. The women in the company nursed him to health. In return he led them across his newly discovered trail over the Sierras, what is now known as the Beckwourth Pass. At Beckwourth’s invitation, Agnes agreed to let eleven-year-old Ina ride with him, and be the first child to cross the trail. When they reached the summit, Beckwourth dismounted, lifted the girl from the horse, took in the golden sun dappled valley, and declared, “There, little girl, there is California! There is your kingdom!”

From here the story belongs to Ina Donna Smith, the girl who grew up to be Ina Coolbrith, California’s first poet laureate, mentor to Jack London and Isadora Duncan, and member of the literary circle that included Mark Twain, Joaquin Miller, John Muir, Ambrose Bierce and Bret Harte. The woman who left her imprint on California history and American letters.

Church historians are eager to point out that Ina was a Mormon, and the niece of the prophet. I dislike this boastful claim. It seems disingenuous for a church to take credit for the success of its members, particularly in the case of Ina, who left her faith as a child. In my mind, Ina was not Joseph Smith's niece. Rather, she was Agnes Coolbrith's daughter.


A few weeks ago I hiked up San Francisco's Nob Hill to the corner of Taylor and Vallejo, the site of Ina Coolbrith Park. It’s flower laden path snaked down terraces high above the city. There was no noise, save for an occasional clang of a cable car. There in the quiet I took in Ina’s Kingdom: the city’s financial district, and beyond it, the bay, busy with sail boats, tugs, and massive container vessels. I wandered the park for the better part of an hour, staying even after the fog billowed in from the ocean. I thought of Agnes, whose journey began in Maine and ended at California’s Golden Gate. The spirit of her memory kept me warm.

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Mother's Visit

To: Donna Banta
From: Mark Crawford
Subject: Mother's visit

Dear Donna,

Most of the week went fine. Mother seems to have  come to terms with the fact that I'm no longer Mormon and that I live with a man. (Although she still asks where Byron sleeps, and when I tell her she still smiles, shakes her head and says, "Oh p-shaw!") We did the usual. San Francisco, Carmel. In the evenings Mother filled me in on the family in Salt Lake City and taught Byron how to cook "Utah Style." (Believe me, Donna, the man's a saint, and I don't mean the "latter-day" kind.)

On Sunday Byron and I planned to drop Mother off at church, go for brunch, then pick her up after. We made a slight detour to collect her friend, Sister Hickey, who is no longer able to drive. We parked and escorted the elderly sister into the building, as it took three people to manage her walker, oxygen tank, scriptures, and bag of medications.

Once she and Mother were safe in their pew, Byron and I raced for the door, only to be confronted by Bishop Zimmerman and a young member of the Aaronic Priesthood. The bishop's tie was askew and his lapels were covered in Post-it notes. He answered e-mail on his Blackberry as he spoke. "Mark! Thank goodness you're here! I need you to run to the store for the sacrament bread. Give the loaves to Dallin here when you get back." He pressed a wad of cash into my palm and disappeared. I looked down at Dallin. He was in desperate need of a bar of soap. "Listen kid," I said, "why don't you run to the Safeway on the corner and get the bread?" "I can't," he replied. "Why not?" I asked. "Because it's a sin." As the ward's token reprobate, I was the only candidate capable of breaking the Sabbath to provide the Abbottsville "saints" (including my mother) with their holy communion.

After Byron and I delivered the bread to Dallin, our exit was again hampered, this time by a commotion in the foyer. Bishop Zimmerman blocked our path, panting. One of the Post-its had attached itself to his earlobe. I tactfully returned it to his lapel. "Mark! Thank goodness you're back! Sister Turley's water just broke. I need you to sit with their kids during Sacrament Meeting while Brother Turley takes her to the hospital." Mother moved into my range of vision, her eyes imploring. "It's only an hour," said Byron. "We'll still have time for brunch." (As I said, the man's a saint.)

The Turley brood, a foursome ranging from age two through eight, sat on the second row from the front. While former Stake President Taylor waxed sentimental about his genealogy, Byron engaged the twin girls in what he thought would be a game of cat's cradle, but looked more like the bondage scenario in a DVD we recently rented. I might have been turned on, if I hadn't been so intent on dislodging the Cheerio one of the Turley brats stuffed in my ear.

Needless to say, we wasted no time ferrying the kids to Primary. We handed off the two year old to a wild-eyed nursery leader. "I need more help!" she cried, and grabbed Byron as well. I vowed to rescue him after I unloaded the other three, but upon entering the Primary room, Sister Zimmerman called out, "Mark! Thank goodness you're here! Sister Turley was supposed to play the piano, only now she's in labor. Will you fill in?" "Um, OK. Where's the music?" "I don't know. Can't you just wing it?" Sure I could wing it. I wing it all the time for my music students at Grafton College, but the Primary Songbook was not part of my repertoire. I fell back on The Eensy Weensy Spider, Puff the Magic Dragon, and Hey Jude.

After the better part of an hour I announced, "Any more singing will have to be done a capella." Sister Zimmerman thanked me, then asked, "On your way out would you mind tending to little Missy Skousen? She needs to pee." I drew a breath. "All right, I'll fetch her mother." "She just passed out from morning sickness." I refused to be rattled. "Fine, I'll find her father." "He's in the Elders' Quorum." Missy and I walked hand in hand to the Elders' classroom where we were greeted by a chorus of, "Mark! Thank goodness you're here!"

Some forty-five minutes later, I left the Elders, confident I had taught one of the best lessons of the year. (Good thing Brother Harold had that deck of cards.) Saint Byron waited for me in the foyer, head to toe in glitter. We loaded Mother, Sister Hickey and the portable ER into the car. Then as we left the church parking lot, Sister Hickey took a long pull on her oxygen tank, and wheezed, "Where are we going for brunch?"

I'll close for now, as Saint Byron is heading to the bar with our martini pitcher. God knows I need one.

Regards,
Mark

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