Is He Our Neighbor?

Two stories juxtaposed, on the chance there might be value (and some redemption) in the comparison:

 

"And, behold, a certain lawyer stood up, and tempted him, saying, Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?

 

"He said unto him, What is written in the law? how readest thou?

 

"And he answering said, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.

 

"And he said unto him, Thou hast answered right: this do, and thou shalt live.

 

"But he, willing to justify‍ himself, said unto Jesus, And who is my neighbor?" [Luke 10:25-29]

 

The Beggar Doctrine

 

Nearly fifteen years ago, as a newly minted returned missionary attending BYU, I took a Book of Mormon class from Joseph Fielding McConkie.  His style was brash, and he thrived on upending typical Mormon dogma – especially the kind promulgated by so many return missionaries (like me).* 

One of his more memorable Book of Mormon classes was his lecture on Mosiah 4, during which he discussed King Bejamin’s “Beggar Doctrine” (Brother McConkie’s term), which included this teaching:

“And also, ye yourselves will succor those that stand in need of your succor; ye will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain, and turn him out to perish.” (Mosiah 4:16). 

With a dry kind of condescension, Brother McConkie read this scripture and some that follow, then picked up a waste basket from the back of the room.  He mentioned some lavish expense for his wife (a vacation or a new wing on his house or something), and asked us to pull out our cash, credit cards, and checks and place them in the waste basket as he passed.  “She needs it,” he said in dead panned seriousness, and reminded us of the scriptures we’d just read apparently commanding us that we should not say “no,” lest we cause this beggar to put up his petition in vain. 

Of course, no one got out their wallet.  He let the idea play out for a few moments, though, to demonstrate the potential absurdity of taking the scripture at face value and out of context.  He mentioned something, too, about Utah leading the nation, per capita, in the number of people taken for fraud, and he seemed to think this kind of mentality had something to do with it.

Eventually, once he’d had enough fun with the idea, Brother McConkie then pointed us to the limiting principle of the beggar doctrine later in verse 27: “And see that all these things are done in wisdom and order. . . .” 

This, according to Brother McConkie, was the reason we should not be filling up his waste basket with our credit cards and cash to help buy his wife a luxury vacation: it was neither wise nor orderly to do so.  And, he suggested, this limiting principle should guide our actions when other “beggars” put up their petition to us. Essentially, King Benjamin’s sermon should not be an excuse to be taken for fools. 

At the time, I found this notion quite liberating,  and I discussed it on several occasions with Michelle and other friends.

A Petition in Vain

Some time later, while Michelle and I were still newlyweds, we took an evening shopping trip to Macey’s in Provo, UT for groceries.  For some reason, the commercials of the day made me decide that I needed a Grilled Stuft Burritto from Taco Bell on the way home.  Michelle was kind of ok with the idea, and I’d made sure to have enough cash in my wallet to make it happen.

Once we’d made our grocery purchases that evening, we took them out to the car and loaded them.  I think we were still driving "Old Paint" then.  It was dark.  And as we both piled into the car, a woman approached my window.  She bent down, and I remember her having a worn face (late 30’s to early 40’s) with longer, dirty blonde hair.  She described to us some distressing situation, the details of which escape me, and then briefly mentioned her hope to gather enough money to stay in a hotel that evening.  Did we have any money that we might be able to give her to help?

 

Callously, and feeling foolishly empowered by Brother McConkie that I was now exempted from any such charitable petitions, I said we had no money. 

 

But it wasn’t true.  It wasn’t even close to true.  And, surely aware of the groceries we’d just loaded in the car (and the fact that we’d come from the store), I could hear her voice sink in disappointment at the lie, “Oh. Ok.”

 

She left us.  I felt small, but tried to cling to the "beggar doctrine" to feel better, wondering openly if her story could even be true and if a hotel room really was her aim.  I mentioned all this to Michelle directly as we pulled out and drove off toward Taco Bell.  But, she noted, my answer that we had no money was simply not true.  I had cash in my pocket.  No -- there was no getting around that, and the weight of what I’d just done, and the possibility of her petition being in earnest wore on me very quickly (with Michelle’s help).  We still drove the block or two toward Taco Bell, but by the time we got the parking lot, I’d already given way to the feeling that I had done something awful. 

 

So almost as soon as we got to the Taco Bell parking lot, we turned around.  I raced back to Macey’s, hoping the woman would still be lingering in the parking lot. But she was gone.  We could not find her.  And I went home in bitterness of soul.

My failings that evening still stir great anguish.  And just about any time since that someone has asked me for money, I remember her.

 

Is He Our Neighbor?

 

So it was approximately three years ago when Natalie (who was then 3) and I went on a daddy/daughter date.  She got to decide our activity, and following her siblings’ lead, she pointed us to In-N-Out. 

 

We walked to the counter and ordered our food – there wasn’t a line.  Nats got some stickers, we filled up our cup with lemonade, then found some open seats in a corner of the restaurant.  We took turns sipping our lemonade and working on sticker projects while I tried to give her my full attention.

 

After a few minutes, I noticed an older haggard-looking man, perhaps in his late 40s, approach and sit at the table next to ours.  He sat across from a younger man in his 20’s who was sitting next to us.  By the way the older man sat down (or perhaps just by the fact that he sat down at the two-person table), I initially thought the two must be friends who’d come together.  But after a moment’s observation, I noted the older man was asking for money to buy food.

It’s the kind of scene I want to avert my eyes from in embarrassment, and that evening was no different.  So I don’t know exactly how the young man responded to older man’s entreaty, except that he must have turned the man down, since I watched the older man make the rounds from table to table afterward.  He then approached people in line or standing to wait for their orders.  It seemed clear he wasn’t meeting with much success, and I marveled, in an uncomfortable way, at the brazenness of his approach after approach.

 

For my part, I was surprised that he’d passed my table.  Maybe it was because of Natalie or because of my averted gaze.  As it was, I had no cash in my pocket, but I still hadn’t looked forward to turning him down.  And as I thought of all the patrons enjoying or waiting for their food without much thought, I wanted him not to be left wanting.  But Nats was sitting with me, and I couldn’t very well leave her.  And he hadn’t asked me.  So I sat and watched and did nothing.

 

Our food came, and I went to pick it up, leaving Natalie in her seat, sipping the lemonade.  I don’t remember when it happened, but at some point in those few minutes, I resolved to try to help.  I prayed the man would still be around when it was time for me to pick up my food.  But when I got up, he seemed to be gone.  It was only when I looked outside that I saw him.

 

I put the food in front of Natalie, who was blissfully unaware of anything but the lemonade, and now her cheeseburger and fries.  I told her I’d be back in a moment, then I quickly went outside and approached the man.  I asked him if he was hungry, and when he noticed me, he gave some kind of muted sales pitch that I don’t remember.  As Natalie started on her food, I took the man to the counter and invited him to order what he wanted.  He seemed a bit drunk.  He wanted a cheeseburger with “the works” and then wondered if he could have a whole meal.  Yes, he could.  He then told me he had a friend he was with, and might he have something, too?  I nodded again, and he ordered two cheeseburger meals. 

 

In between talking with the cashier, who seemed only to understand slightly what was going on, the man thanked me several times and spoke of Jesus.  Once he had his cups and receipt, I patted him on the back, and told him he was welcome, then I sat back down with Nats (who I’d been watching the whole time). 

 

I expected that to be the end of our interaction, and I sat down to enjoy my meal.  But quickly after I sat down, a balding man with glasses (in his late 30’s/early 40’s) approached us.  He said he saw what I’d done, and in an odd sort of interaction, he expressed his admiration.  I thanked him, awkwardly, and then, not knowing where the conversation should go from there, the man looked at Natalie and told her what a good father she had.  He then walked away.  Nats seemed too interested in her food to pay much attention.

 

A few moments later, the older man I’d ordered food for wandered over to our table and started making conversation.  We talked about where he was from and some of his life story.  He was apparently once a corps men in the marines “a long time ago,” and he had a son somewhere in the Midwest that he hadn’t seen in a long time.  He’d also recently come to San Diego from Oregon, and he liked it here.  At some point, he retrieved his friend, who looked even more disheveled than he did (and seemed even more drunk).

 

When his order was ready and his number called, the man left us to get his food.  It was then Natalie asked, with all the innocence and interest of a three year old, “Is he our neighbor?”

 

I almost did a double take at the question, because it caught me off guard and seemed as if she were quoting scripture.

 

“Yes, he is,” I responded after a few moments.

 

“Where does he live?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

The man eventually brought over his food and sat next to us.  He and his friend ate happily, thanking us and praising God with the boisterousness of two drunken, hungry men.  Two beggars, in a sense, whom my three year old had reminded me were also my neighbors.

* The grading in Brother McConkie's classes depended only and entirely on a few multiple choice tests throughout the semester -- tests that thrived on deception.  The key to his classes had almost nothing to do with outside study, but instead to never missing his classes, taking meticulous notes, then outsmarting everyone else on those tests.  In short, he suited me perfectly.

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

Address given at Dad's funeral, January 24, 2015:

Dad told me a few years ago that he wanted me to speak at his funeral.  Ever since, every funeral I went to I always thought about him and what I would say when the time came.  I thought I would have a little more time.

I was going through some of Dad's things this week, and I stumbled across this quote in his office.  It is a thought attributed to Isaac Newton: "If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants." 

Dad had first shared that thought with me years ago when I was a young teenager.  At the time, I didn't really know what he meant. I didn't know then who the "giants" were in his life, and I hadn't the sense enough to ask.  After all these years, I think I know a little better now.

To me, Dad is a giant upon whose shoulders I have stood.  That's became more apparent, ironically, in the last few years as his body began to give out on him.

Now, that praise would've made Dad a little uncomfortable -- at least if I told him out loud.  He wouldn't quite know what to do with it, and he probably he would've found some self-deprecating way to shift the attention.

The Desire to Feel Valued

Most of you know that Dad was a decorated journalist.  It may surprise you to know that privately Dad struggled during long stretches of his life with feelings that he didn't measure up.  He knew almost as well as anyone how droughts of unemployment erode self-confidence, and Dad seemed to crave feeling valued.  And for a long, long time, I had wanted as much as anything for him to know and feel just how valuable he was. 

Because of that, I know that it meant so much to him and to us in these last weeks as, perhaps recognizing his mortality, many of you reached out to him and let him know just how much he meant to you.  And I know seeing you all here would have delighted him.

Dad didn’t just want to feel valued, though.  He wanted to be valuable.  That desire, I think, is part of why Dad was always up so early in the morning.  He was most alive (and most productive) before sunrise, and in his final weeks, it was not uncommon to wake up find a flurry of emails from Dad that he’d sent in the early hours of the morning.  Dad used to recite often that if he could get to the 3 R's in a day, Reading (scripture), Writing (a journal entry), and Running (or exercise), it was a good day.  It's just that Dad prided himself on getting all of those things done and out of the way before anyone else was up in the morning. 

Deadlines and Connecting With People

Dad absolutely loved having deadlines to meet, and he talked often of the adrenaline rush he got attending city meetings and legislative sessions or of landing an interview and having just a few minutes to race home and file a story.

As you know, Dad also loved connecting with people.  The audience here is a tribute to the fact that. I used to hate it growing up, because it was so embarrassing to be with him as he talked to people (often strangers) and both picked their brains and shared his thoughts (while I tried to slink into the background).  But he seemed to have no fear.  And there was no one too important or so beneath him that they weren't worth talking to. 

I have wondered since if that trait was simply an outgrowth of the journalist/reporter in him, or whether being a reporter was simply an outgrowth of his ability to connect with people.

 A Disciple of Christ

All of this, though, would feel hollow were it not for the integrity that was the bedrock of his character.  Dad was first a disciple of Jesus Christ.  I have known few people in life who more faithfully sought to live the scripture, "But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto him" [Matthew 6:33].  That is not inflated funeral hyperbole.  If God asked something of him, he found a way to do it.  I learned first from Dad to love the scriptures and read them daily.  I learned first from Him that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is the Pearl of Great Price, worth giving all we have to possess.  I learned first from Him to trust God with all my heart.  And I learned first at his hand a steadiness in times of trouble.  I could always, always count on his steadiness, and to find in his perspective an eye of faith.

When I learned of Dad's passing early Sunday morning, I had to make my way into work to gather a few things for the trip here.  On the way, I instinctively sought comfort in some hymns.  Then I remembered then that this was what Dad had always done: He confronted life's difficulties with sacred music.  

Not Perfect

Now, Dad was not perfect.  In this respect, I have been thinking of one Saturday afternoon in upstate New York when we were all much younger. Ice cream and other treats never lasted long in our house, and that was usually because one or several of us children would sneak into it.  The trick was to avoid getting caught.

Dad was a humble guy, but he still had some bravado around his children.  And he used to tell us that because he was a journalist, he could tell when we were telling the truth or not.

Well, that Saturday afternoon I had helped myself to a bit of the ice cream in the freezer.  Not long after, Dad noticed, and he came storming out of the kitchen into the living room demanding to know who had done it. 

I wasn't about to own to it, and I denied it the best way I knew how.  Dad studied my face for a moment, and just as I was bracing myself for punishment, Dad spoke confidently (in a tone that only he could muster) that he knew it wasn't me because I would've used a bigger spoon.  He then marched upstairs to punish one of my younger siblings.   His journalism skills fell a few notches in my mind that day. 

Seriously, though, when I think of my father and what praise might be worthy of his life, I think of the line from the play The King and I. The King of Siam lay dying. With him is Anna, his English tutor, whose son asks her the question, “Was he as good … as he could have been?” Anna then answered thoughtfully, “I don’t think any man has ever been as good … as he could have been—but this one [really] tried.” [Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, The King and I (n.p.: Williamson Music, Inc., 1951).

A Thousand Memories

Oh, I have a thousand thoughts and memories I could share of him – attending my basketball games growing up (and keeping stats. . . to ensure the newspapers got them right), writing me every day on my mission, wiffle ball games in the back yard or home run derby at a nearby Little League field -- games that he seemed to look forward to as much as I did. There are countless others.

It seems telling to me that none of these memories have anything to do with how much money he made, or of any prominence he knew in the world or in the church. 

I will miss those wiffle ball games in the back yard.  I will miss his giddiness at Christmas.  I will his false bravado in games of RISK and Monopoly, even if I still have a few uncles to carry on the tradition.  I will miss the doting grandfather who made his grandkids feel like they were the most important people in the world. I will miss just being able to talk with him.

I feel so lucky that he is my dad.  And I will miss him terribly in the years before we are together again.

You Did So Well

In closing, Wilford Woodruff included this line in his last will and testament: "If the laws of the spirit world permit, and I shall be governed by them, I should like to attend my own funeral."

As Dad went to the trouble of planning out most of this service, I have to think he is here.  Should Dad be here, I would say this:

We love you, Dad.  You did so very well. May God grant us strength enough to finish the race half as well as you did, that one day where He is, and where you are, we may be also, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.