Reading the D&C at Saints Peter and Paul
I was a little behind in my D&C reading for Brother Dahl’s D&C class, and I was determined to catch up and then finish, so I could leisurely reread sections here and there for the duration of the semester. The time I picked for this adventure was after church one warm, spring Sunday. This may seem a noble goal and a logical time to work on that goal, but I was taking an awful chance. I hadn’t been terribly alert at any point of the day thus far, and who was to say I could make it sensibly through even one page? For instance, during Sunday School, while attempting to make a profound commentary on faith, I told our teacher, Brother Capener, that the sun is not a flaming lollipop suspended from God’s own 747. I wish I this wasn’t true, but sadly, not only did I say this, but I gave it great thought before saying it—I actually spent a considerable time contemplating the precise wording. Yet there are plenty of witnesses who can readily attest that when I spoke that day, I was yakking unintelligibly about flaming lollipops and heavenly airplanes. It resulted in panic.
“No, no, no,” I desperately clarified, “I’m merely illustrating what everyone else has been saying! It’s an example!”
Lloydel thought I was saying, “The Son is not a flaming lollipop.”
“No! I mean yes! I mean, I mean . . . I think I’ll just put my chin back on my chest and close my eyes again. Sorry; please go on.”
But my day had been off to a rocky start long before Sunday School. For some cryptic reason, my mind was convinced that sacrament meeting would begin at 9:30. “Boy,” my mind told me, “we’re going to be really early today! We’ll get to sit right up front! President Leishman would be proud!”
My mission president always told us, “If you’re not early, you’re late.” I’ve tried to live by this maxim.
The only problem was, church started at nine. I was not only not early, I was definitively late.
I’m sure you can see the danger in planning to have enlightened scripture study on a nice, warm Sunday afternoon when the most intelligent thing I’ve said all day is that I really, truly believe that I don’t have to believe the sun’s a flaming lollipop to be a Christian, darn it. Even if I managed consciousness as I read, how high was my comprehension level likely to be?
But boldly I pressed on. I knew that in order to succeed I would have to avoid the sunshine, cool breezes and friendly people that would seek to thwart me. I needed a sanctuary. Fortunately, I knew where just such a place was. Instead of returning to the Academy after church, I climbed the steps into Sts. Peter and Paul Cathedral, over a hundred-fifty years old, beautiful and conveniently located across the street from the JSA, adjacent to the temple lot. Ever since I discovered the cathedral was open to the public, I had made it a point to stop in now and then to look at the stained glass or guess who a particular statue might represent. I was comfortable hanging out in the cathedral, I suppose, because I have never had a bad Catholic experience. In fact, most of the Catholics I have met have been particularly good people.
On my mission, one of the many service activities I participated in was helping a man—I believe his name was Yungchul—get to where he needed to go. Usually it would be the hospital where he would meet with a doctor or two, and have a dozen prescriptions filled. Yungchul had some sort of degenerative disease, and outside of his wheelchair all he could do was lay on his back and move his head from side to side. Occasionally though, Yungchul would feel up to attending Mass. Twice I was privileged to accompany him as he worshiped God according to his dictates of his own conscious.
I must say that I found Mass to be terribly interesting. My first experience with Mass was a special service held on the traditional date of the crucifixion. I was fascinated by the snatches of temple ceremony and smidgets of sacrament meeting I could pick out. In an indirect way, it was fulfilling to see them bless oil. It was, in my eyes, a testimony to the completeness of the Restoration.
In the middle of my second Korean Mass, the priest suddenly and unexpectedly pointed at us missionaries. I was too young in the country to understand what he was saying, but my companion Elder Cole later translated for me. He told his congregation to look at us. “See those two Americans? We really don’t know them or what they’re doing here. We can’t look at them and tell if they are good people or not. But God does know, and we should not judge them. Perhaps in their own way, they are better than any of us. Maybe there is even something we could learn from them.” That was what I loved about Catholicism in Korea: I never met a close-minded Korean Catholic. I never saw one baptized either, but while other faiths were denouncing us from the pulpit and calling us heretics, the Catholics would always take the time to have a congenial (if short) conversation. When it seems every Christian in the world is out for your blood, you can imagine how much a missionary appreciates just a simple chat, free from accusations and name-calling, and full of shared appreciation for Jesus Christ. That’s why I love Catholics.
And that’s part of the reason I selected Sts. Peter and Paul to study the revelations. Another prime consideration? The cathedral was refreshingly cool, helping me stay awake. In fact, my journal entry for the day gleefully notes that I was so awake that I only dropped the book once! Besides that jarring noise and one brief human interruption, I was gratefully alone with the word of God. There’s something so wonderful about taking the time to sit down and really enjoy the scriptures—to take the time to run down a cross reference that pops into mind, or to pause and ponder a point that is new and previously undiscovered. Too often, my daily scripture routine has become just that—a daily routine, like brushing my teeth or not taking out the trash. I just plod ahead and read a chapter or two from the Book of Mormon, and the deepest thought I have is, “Woh, Moroni’s really mad!” When I consider the peace I find whenever I actually take the time to ponder, I have to wonder why I don’t seek after that feeling more often.
Concerning my afternoon in the cathedral, I can’t claim that I discovered any new and startling insights that will forever alter your perception of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; but I did find what seemed to be a startling and unexpected condemnation of abortion in 132: 26-27, and I was (as always) riveted by Joseph F. Smith’s recounting of his vision in Section 138. In other words, I wasn’t translated, but I was blessed to move a little further up the path to our Father. The scriptures have a power that speaks to that most vital part of us, telling us things we’ve always known, but somehow had forgotten in the hustling, bustling, freeway condition of our minds. “Come unto me, all ye heavy laden,” the scripture says…. Perhaps the correct interpretation really is about as literal as my policeman friend claimed.
As the end approached, I was loathe to reach it. I savored the Official Declarations. I considered Wilford Woodruff’s words concerning prophets and authority and visions. I even examined the maps, reading each place name and considering their significance. I did not want the experience to end.
But end it did, as all things in mortality must. I finished shortly after lunch had begun, and so I lifted myself off the wooden pew, slowly descended the stairs from the balcony, and crossed back over the street. I had fed my spirit, and now my body wanted its turn. So I turned toward the doors that would lead me most directly to the cafeteria. After all, if spiritual food could take my mind off of flaming lollipop suns, maybe Brother Davis’s cooking could reenergize my body to survive another five hours of daylight.
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Thanks for revisiting Nauvoo with me. I would love to hear your thoughts.