In 1940, Richard L. Evans, the author and voice of the “spoken word” in the weekly broadcast of “Music and the Spoken Word,” wrote a description of the mail he had received during 1939. He wrote about requests for printed copies of his “sermonettes,” and about ministers of the Gospel who said they used them as the basis for their own sermons, and about converts whose first interest in the Church was sparked by the broadcasts.
He mentioned that people often sent small amounts of money to pay for copies: “It has always been my practice to return these with sincere thanks and with an explanation that the work of the choir is voluntary and such incidental expenses as are involved are defrayed out of the tithing of the Church.” People whose money was returned sometimes wrote back, seemingly overwhelmed by the refusal to accept money. Sometimes they donated the returned money to other worthy causes.
Elder Evans’ reaction to hearing of one such “worthy cause” made me cringe halfway through the paragraph. By the end of the paragraph, though, I was overwhelmed by his insight and empathy:
A devout Catholic who has long listened to the broadcast and has frequently written concerning them, advised that she had paid for a High Mass to be said for me in San Francisco Cathedral – which made me shudder just a little, and made me appreciate also how perhaps some of our non-member friends feel when they know that we are having work done in the Temple for their relatives.
It’s a reminder in this Christmas season of good will and this political season of division and doubt that the best of intentions can sometimes be misunderstood, and that our apprehensions can mask appreciation for the best of others’ intentions.
Peace.
Thanks for this important reminder, Ardis.
My wife and I had a similar moment of self-righteousness turned to empathy a couple of years ago, visiting the Grotto, a spacious Catholic-operated sculpture garden in Portland, Oregon. It is a serene and peaceful sanctuary in the midst of urban sprawl, but we both had felt like there was a tangible lack of spiritual feeling to the place. We were sitting by the actual Grotto, a cavity in a large rock wall dominated by a sculpture of Mary holding the dead Christ. fronted by a table loaded with votive candles, most of which had long since burned out. While we were sitting there, a middle aged man came up with his own burning votive candle. He placed it on the table, knelt and crossed himself prior to a few moments of silent prayer, and then he quietly got up and left. It struck both of us that the lack of spiritual feelings was what we had brought to the experience, not due to the place itself. This man had humbly come with his own offering of a broken heart, seeking spiritual help in the best way that he knew how, and I was stuck with its similarity to our own practice of submitting names to the temples to be includes in the prayer rolls. The fault, it became clear, was in our ourselves, and we left with a greater respect for this holy place that others held in such high regard.
JOseph Smith didn’t walk into the Sacred Grove to pray. He walked into the woodlot to pray. It became sacred because of what happened there. I think that God is a lot more concerned about people than about places.
And if someone wants to pray for me, I’m very grateful. I’m sure I need it.
My daughter in Paris today and visited some cathedral. She paid one Euro for a candle and lit it to put with the others. She thought it would be a meaningful to do while she was there. When she told me about it, I read this to her. I’m a happy mom.
When my mother passed away recently, two of her Catholic friends sent mass cards, having had mass said at their local churches. I felt very touched by their thoughtfulness and, like Elder Evans, thought about the way we pay tribute to our late family and friends through temple worship.
Thanks for this, Ardis.