Almost Getting Run Over (and other first missionary attempts)

It was a fall morning in September, 1994.  Even though it was fall, it was still hot.  This was Mesa, Arizona.  It didn't help that I was wearing a long-sleeved, white shirt and a tie.  I stood near the intersection of a busy street, on the sidewalk with my two younger brothers, one of them only 11 years-old.  They were also dressed in shirts and ties.

Behind us was a large, redbrick LDS chapel.  The three of us had stacks of pamphlets in our hands, and, as people drove out of the parking lot, we passed out pamphlets to whomever would take them.  At the time, I worked for a utilities company, so I knew exactly church property started and ended.  We made very sure that, as we passed out pamphlets, we did not set a foot on church property.

Two men on foot approached me, with concern on their faces.  They asked me, "¿Qué es lo que está pasando, hermano?"  "What is that you're passing out, brother?"

"A testimony," I replied in Spanish.

"Would you permit us to have one?" they asked.

So I passed each of them one, and then they left.

A few minutes later, they were back.  One of them approached me angrily.  "The bishop has asked me to tell you not to pass those out here!"

I answered, "We're giving them out to people, and if they want them. they're welcome.  If not, they can throw them away."

The man was flustered by my refusal to comply with his demand.  "But the bishop doesn't want you to pass them out!  This is church property!"

I pointed to the curb I was standing on.  "This isn't church property.  Why don't you go speak to my father on the other side of the building, but until then..."

"So you're not going to leave?" he demanded.

I looked him in the eye.  "No."

They stormed away.

I was getting a little nervous, so I sent my youngest brother to the other side of the building, to the curb where my father was handing out pamphlets by himself.

Another man approached me.  This one was a smooth talker.  He told us that we needed to talk to the bishop, and, if the bishop agreed, maybe we could present our case in Sacrament Meeting.  I wasn't stupid.  I knew that there was no way that the bishop would give us a forum in public meeting.  I told him that I would love to talk to his bishop.  I wasn't there to make war against the Church.  In fact, I loved the Church, and that I was there to bring them the truth.  (I was a very zealous and naive 24 year-old.)

Another car passed by us, and I handed out another pamphlet to the people inside.  The man looked on in horror as we continued to deliver pamphlets.

Emphatically, he spoke to us, "Brethren, I'm  going to have to ask you to abstain from passing those out!"

"Very well, we'll stop," my brother said.  "Then permit me to bear my testimony to you."

"No, no, no!"  The smooth talker shook his head, losing his cool.  "No testimony until you speak to the bishop!"

I wanted to ask him why he needed the bishop's permission to hear a testimony, but I restrained myself.  I wan't there to fight.  Taking out a pen and notebook, he asked me for my name and phone number.  I gave it.  I have nothing to hide.  Then he asked who my bishop was.  My younger brother gave the name who was the LDS bishop in our neighborhood.  But that wouldn't matter.  We had been excommunicated four years earlier.  He asked if we had obtained permission from our bishop to hand out these papers.

We said, "No."

Then he launched into a spiel about not doing anything without proper authority.  We shook his hand and left.  My youngest brother came back to say that my father was arguing with a group of men.  I sighed.  There it goes - that Jessop temper.

We walked around the building.  My father was surrounded by about a dozen men.  As we approached, I could see that, in essence, he was telling them that he could pass out pamphlets if he wanted to.

One young elder was speaking out loudly, invoking a villain from the Book of Mormon.  "You're just like Corihor!"

"Why?" asked my father.  "For speaking the truth?"

The elder got in my dad's face.  "This is my ward!  I  won't permit this!"

"They're just words.  Why are you afraid of words?" my father asked.

"I'm not afraid of words!"

"Then let them read the words.  We're not forcing anyone to read it.  If they want to read it, fine!  If they want to throw it away, fine!  This isn't on church grounds.  When we go into your buildings, we show respect."

"Why don't you go pass these out in the cantinas?"

"Do you send your missionaries to the cantinas?"

"You will cause confusion here!"

"This will help them to grow," I told the elder.

He glared at me.  "Confusion will help them grow?"

"It doesn't matter what your bishop says," my father said.  "I will do what the Spirit indicates to me to do.  I'm sorry if we've offended you."

We were getting nowhere, so my dad shook hands with them and we left.  Being the good salesman that he was, my dad left each of those men with a pamphlet in their hands.

We did it a few more times.  There were more confrontations like that.  One good LDS woman tried to run my dad down with her car.  It got to the point that I dreaded Sunday mornings when my dad would wake me up and tell me which ward we were going to.

I later told my dad, "I know this is the way you were a missionary in the Church, but this just does not seem my way.  Doing it this way is not me.  It's too confrontational."

My dad blinked.  "So what is your way then?"

"I don't know!"  I said.  "But not like this!"

It would be a while before I discovered what "my way" was...