Now that’s not how you
expected that story to end, is it? That’s because of
the too many times you have heard the poem “The Touch
of the Master’s Hand” read in church. It’s
a wonderful poem, but no matter how much you batter an old
violin, it will never quite be an onion ring.
Now that’s not how you
expected that sentence to end, is it? That’s because
you approached the word “batter” with certain
assumptions about its meaning. Put on a skullcap with a piece
of cardboard sticking laterally and pull up some funny calf-length
pants over a pair of socks and gaiters, slip your feet into
some soft shoes with tiny steel stilts and “batter”
will mean yet something else.
Earlier, you expected that earth-worn
sister of the soil in Chile to make a whole ‘nuther
music, a music unpretentious and pithy and poignant and pure
that would chasten, humble, and refine the smarty-pants pro
from the urbane profane North. That’s the way Hollywood
would write it, when they’re not on strike. Or whoever
wrote the violin poem, who is not on strike, but dead. The
“sudden awareness of incongruence” between your
expectation and, in this instance, the truth, is what made
you laugh most of your brains out back there. (I did, can
you tell?)
(Don’t reach for the dustpan
— you can handily negotiate the remainder of this column
with whatever you have left. If you didn’t laugh out
any portion of your brains at all back there, you have so
much the advantage in the world to come. The thing is, with
all your brains intact, you might find the remainder of this
column puerile. ((“Puerile” is a derivative of
the Latin “puer,” meaning “boy.” You
will not, with even more brains than usual, find the remainder
of this column “puellile,” because girls (((“puellae”)))
have always been assumed to be better columnists than boys,
even in ancient Rome.* In the remainder of this column, as
we challenge many of the assumptions that bend our expectations
of how the world should be, we may not get around to that
one. Sorry.)) )
((*See my column on the ghostwriting
genius of Meridian Editor Kathy Kidd.))
One of the most refreshing, if
unsettling, experiences we can have in life is to be “surprised
by truth.” I put that in quotations because it makes
it more important, like in the billboard that says “Bill’s
Plumbing, the ‘ (It’s ironic that in illustrating
the functions of the quotation mark I am compelled by our
assumptions of what is correct in language usage to substitute
an apostrophe for quotation marks ((they are always plural)),
but we are a people who understands and even preaches the
virtue of work by proxy — in fact, as I told a temple
worker about thirty-five years ago, when the Provo Temple
was filled with plastic flowers ((well, not exactly “filled”
— I mean, there was still room for people and pews and
stuff)), I found it ironic ((that word again)) that there,
in a place where the living serve as proxies for the dead,
we should find dead flowers serving as proxy for the living
— effectively, though) Best’ Plumbing in American
Fork (I seem to remember another sign out on State Street
saying “Welcome to American Fork, the Hub of the American
Fork Area,” but no quotations, probably because who
in the world would say such a thing, and, if they did, who
would dare quote them?) or in how a missionary associate of
mine was named Reo “J” Criddle.
One of the most satisfying movies
I ever watched was “Tender Mercies.” (I don’t
even know why that’s in quotation marks — Wait,
wait, it’s a quotation from scripture! Yes! So why is
“Sweeney Todd” in quotations? We’ll address
this in a later column. Much later.) The writer, Horton Foote,
ended scene after scene in the most surprising way, always
different than we expected. He ended each scene the way it
would have ended in real life — he ended each scene
with the truth. We had assumed that, with a full budget and
with Robert Duval and Tess Harper, he would end the scenes
dramatically, conflictually, resolvely, eloquently. The surprise,
and satisfaction, was the sudden revelation that the truth
was more eloquent than the artifice we had come to expect.
(At the end of each scene, upon asking myself “Wait,
what’s wrong with that ending?” I knew the answer
was “Oh, yeah, what’s wrong with it is that it’s
right!” The scary part was that I knew I’d have
written it the Hollywood way, with all wrong endings.
I have to cite, as well, the
stunning moment in “Galaxy Quest” when the ship’s
self-destruct mechanism timer stops at 00:01 for no reason
other than the ineluctable constraints of truth. All self-destruct
timers stop at 00:01. It’s the truth about self-destruct
timers. We may assume they won’t, but they always will.
So what assumptions are we challenging,
here, anyway? Well, it’s a religious magazine, so let’s
challenge some deep-seated religious assumptions. Like, newly
sustained Presidents of the Church don’t wiggle their
ears in General Conference. But all the brethren who attended
the General Priesthood Session of the most recent conference
(heartfelt and compassionate vicarious apologies to those
who attended via audio feed only) were “surprised by
truth” when he did — maybe an inch, even.
(SIsters, this is kind of tough
luck on you. Many of you have wondered what “especially
for priesthood holders” ((Do I hear the “ka-ching!”
of a strong commercial opportunity in this phrase?)) things
happen in the Priesthood Sessions of General Conference, or,
as we priesthood holders say, in the PS of GC. The brethren
in your families typically guard this knowledge jealously,
often insisting that during the post-session ice cream outing
they forgot it. So you seethe with (in?) curiosity. Then,
a few weeks later when the conference Ensign comes in the
mail, you read all the talks and say “Hey, I know this
stuff. This is the kind of stuff I read in the Ensign.”
What you don’t know, of course, is the degree to which
the talks from that particular session have been edited. Plain
and precious things. I can’t say anymore, or I’d
have to kill you.)
I loved this conference. Elder
Holland shattered the assumptions of the entire Christian
world as though the shattering of the assumptions of the entire
Christian world was going out of style. I write “as
though” (in quotations because I’m quoting myself
— see previous sentence) because in the conference before
this one he already shattered the assumptions of the entire
Christian world (different assumptions) as though the shattering
of the assumptions of the entire Christian world was going
out of style — which it obviously isn’t. Because
they (we, everybody) have too many assumptions for us to allow
shattering them to go out of style. I proceed, then, stylishly.
Sometimes “the way things
really are” (in quotations because I’m quoting
Elder N. A. Maxwell) are surprisingly eloquent because they’re
less than what we expected, in terms of drama, or volume,
or revolutionary significance. Sometimes they are more.
We know that the boy Joseph went
to the grove expecting a sure answer. But what was the question?
Wasn’t it “Where shall I go to church next Sunday,
and the Sundays thereafter?” Wouldn’t a still,
small whisper of “the one on Palmyra Avenue and Elm”
have profoundly fulfilled his highest expectations? Would
“surprised” be an apt word to capture how he did
battle with the Prince of Darkness, conversed with the Creator
of the Universe, and heard the Father of Light speak his name?
I honestly don’t know what
folks are talking about when they say “the calm assurance
of the Spirit.” Every time the Holy Ghost has touched
me, the stirrings and whooshings have been anything but calm.
And almost always assumption-shattering. And always a surprise.
(Someday I will receive a calm assurance from the Spirit,
and it will be, of course, a surprise.)
I loved this conference, the
first to broadcast with real-time translation into Apache.
When it came to a close, I thought “I don’t want
this day to end, in any language.” So, in the spirit
of matching works to faith, I didn’t end it. I had an
audio-novel production deadline hanging over me, very much
like a cow caked in what appeared very much like, oh, shall
we say, “mire” (a religious book, mind you —
Joseph Smith loses a lot of his leg bone in it — it’s
“Pre-Restoration” — thank you, President
Uchtdorf, for providing me with a German accent I could use
as the wise and kindly retired clergyman seeker of truth —
thank you, Sister Tanner, for the vulnerable, yet nurturing
and strong timbre of the vulnerable, yet nurturing and strong
heroine) and so I disappeared into the studio downstairs and
emerged again an hour before Family Home Evening was to have
started, had I been functional, which is a word I can’t
even pronounce after a 27-hour recording session. (That was
yesterday — I have napped.) The sacred and happy day
never having ended, I can still hear the Tabernacle Choir
(is Mack Wilberg the best thing ever to happen to the Tabernacle
Choir, or what? I was deeply thrilled to sustain the Prophet,
his astoundingly good and real Counselors, and the Director
of the Tabernacle Choir!) in my head.
At least, I think that’s
what I hear in my head. It’s nnice. Prity. It”s
a lidttle blurrrry. Mmaybe if I keeeeepp tttttyping, the mmmmmmmusic
willbeccccccccome ccleeeeeeeeeearer, s I, um, wearrrrrrrrouttfmmmy,
oh, fffingersinthe servvvicciccccccccccc ooooooooffdd mmmmmmyh
fffellllllllifiiiooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww sssaainnnnnnadtsszxzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.......................
