M E R I D I A N     M A G A Z I N E

The Interloper
By Steve Orton

In 1974 I was a young captain in the United States Air Force on temporary assignment in Washington, D.C.  One evening after work I decided to go see the new Washington, D.C., Temple, which had been under construction for several years and which I believed was then open.  Maybe there was time, I thought, to get in an endowment session before returning to my home station.  Since I was in a hurry, I did not bother to change out of my uniform but got directly in my rented car and headed out.

I had wanted to see the temple for some time.  My previous assignment had been in North Carolina--then part of the temple district--and our ward had been involved in several fund raising ventures to help underwrite the construction of the temple, which was the practice at the time.  We followed its construction through Church News articles and looked forward to the time when it would be finished.  We had heard that the temple was due to open soon, but I had lost track of the exact date.  Even if it were not open, I reasoned, I could at least see it.  Perhaps I was also curious to see where my money had gone.

As I rounded a curve in the Washington, D.C. beltway at dusk and saw the brightly illuminated, magnificent structure rising high about the dark background of the surrounding terrain, I felt more than rewarded for every dollar I ever contributed to the Temple fund.  Anyone who has seen it from the beltway at night knows what I mean.  It was even more impressive as I pulled into the half-filled parking lot.  Good, I thought, there are people here; it must be open.  Maybe I can get in that endowment session after all.

At the recommend desk I saw the familiar sight of white-haired brethren in white suits.  But there was also something that was unfamiliar.  There were a number of sisters, also dressed in white, in the foyer mixing with a crowd of well-dressed men and women.  One Sister took me by the arm and ushered me past the recommend desk.  As she did so, she handed me a presentation folder enclosing a copy of a special edition of the Ensign featuring the Temple.  This, plus the fact that no one had yet asked to see my recommend, alerted me that this was not an ordinary night at the temple.  In fact, I had unwittingly stumbled into VIP night.

I looked around for a quick way to exit, but it was too late.  There were people behind me, and I was slowly being edged forward.  In the Washington, D.C. Temple there is a wide, enclosed bridge that goes between the annex where the foyer and recommend desk are located and the Temple proper.  It is beautifully decorated with chairs, furnishings, and flower arrangements--a beautiful place where patrons can rest while waiting to rendezvous with family and friends.  As I entered the bridge, I could see, half way across, a receiving line consisting of the President Kimball and several other General Authorities and dignitaries.  Apparently there had been a pause in the flow of visitors and they were sitting down taking a break.  But then I appeared.  President Kimball started to struggle to his feet.  As I slowly advanced toward him, I tried to make small hand gestures saying, “No, don’t get up for me.  I’m not who you think I am.  I’m not a dignitary; I’m just an interloper who got in here by mistake.”  But it was a futile effort.  He rose and greeted me warmly, just as if I had the right to be there.

I will never know whether or not he knew that the captain’s bars on my shoulders or the meager row of ribbons I wore on my chest did not qualify me as a VIP.  I do know this: President Kimball was a true Christian gentleman and would have risen to greet me had I been in blue jean and a tee shirt.  I would like to believe that he knew I was there by mistake but, like the Savior, chose to disregard it and look upon me instead as being of equal worth to all the VIPs in the temple that night.  We conversed as he held my hand with both of his and looked me straight in my eyes.  I reminded him that he had ordained me a High Priest and set me apart as a Bishop some years before.  He was genuinely interested in our conversation.  There was no effort to hurry me along, even though recognizable dignitaries were in line behind me.  He made me feel welcome.

Because I could find no way to exit this situation gracefully, I continued on for the rest of the tour.  I sat in one of the endowment rooms with a member of the Supreme Court on one side and an U.S. Senator on the other as a member of the temple presidency explained the role of temples in our theology.  The discomfort of being an interloper slowly subsided and the evening turned out to be a thrilling and memorable event.  Nevertheless, when the evening was over, I was the first one out to the parking lot.  Mingling with the VIPs was great, but being an interloper did grow burdensome in the end.

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