Mormon Folklore

Last night I heard a wise brother say a very wise thing. The first part of the discussion was about how much worse California Mormons are than Utah Mormons, which created a foolish debate not worthy of much consideration. Someone rebutted that there are more Mormons in California than in Utah, and at this point, the wise brother said, “well, I’m actually from Missouri, and there are hardly any Mormons there.”

I was about to respond by saying, “not yet, but just wait until the wrath of our loving heavenly father wipes the land clean with His swift arm of destruction for our triumphant return,” but before I could get the first but out of my mouth, one of the other brothers mentioned that when he was in the MTC, one of his companions was a grandson of Lilburn W. Boggs, the one-time governor of Missouri who signed an extermination order against the early Saints back in the late 1830’s. All of us bristled at the very mention of the name, and another brother mentioned that he heard once that Parley Pratt had said that no temple work would ever be done for Lilburn W. Boggs, never ever ever. He didn’t go as far as to say that his grandson was wasting his time as a missionary trying to work towards his own salvation because of the whole “sins of the fathers” doctrine, but he very well could have.

So all of this discussion made me think of righteoeus indignation, and how appropriate and justified we are to hate others and to hope for their eternal damnation if they have wronged us in any way. Sure, Jesus may have said “forgive them father, for they know not what they do,” as he hung bleeding and dying on the cross… But people who cross us — like Boggs, or those Hauns Mills guys, or the people who slam the door in your face when all you are trying to do is to graciously and humbly open their lazy stubborn eyes to the truth — those people know exactly what they are doing, and forgiveness is beyond their reach.

So you heard it from me — if anyone ever crosses you — if anyone even thinks about slapping your cheek — turn your fist and punch him straight in the nose. Then turn your other fist and hit him again. Hard. Seventy-times seven. And as they are laying helplessly on the ground, crying and bleeding and begging for mercy (not with true sorrow, but with the sorrow of the damned) dust off your feet and look them straight in their puffy swollen eyes and say:

“Wickedness never was happiness — sucka!”