How I Got Religion, And Then Lost It
Shootout with a Mormon
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There was another incident during my senior year that left me feeling bad about having done the theoretically right thing.
One of my Mormon friends had tagged me as a potential convert, and I responded by trying to convert him. We had a few meetings during which we exchanged our respective arguments, maintaining appropriate civility the whole time. Then, apparently feeling that he needed a bigger gun, he suggested a meeting with one of his mentors, who happened also to be one of high school's history teachers. I said that would be fine with me.
I knew by now that my friend was not going to come over to my way of thinking, and I knew even better that his mentor would not be amenable to my persuasions. But, I was obliged to use every opportunity for witnessing that came along, and besides that, I expected to enjoy some further exercise of my debating skills.
I was with my friend when he approached the teacher about our meeting. The teacher, gladly it seemed, invited us both to join him at his home on a certain evening. He also volunteered the proviso that our discussion would be limited to the Bible, understanding as he did that the Mormons' other sacred books would be, so far as I was concerned, irrelevant to anything we might discuss.
My friend might have thought he needed some backup. I thought I needed none. I thought I knew Scripture well enough to go alone into any debate.
I checked with my pastor beforehand, though, not because I wanted his advice but because I thought I should have his permission. Proselytizing during chance encounters was encouraged, but a planned engagement with the enemy was something else. For that I wanted prior clearance.
Permission was granted. The pastor, Elder Bill, agreed that the object of the meeting, realistically, was not the winning of any souls. He figured it would simply be a good exercise of my knowledge of God's Word.
He also knew that it would be either jolly good fun or else a good exercise in humility. I did admit, at least to myself, that I was expecting to take a nice ego trip. I did not expect to be humbled.
I felt like a gunslinger heading for his first shootout at high noon on Main Street.
I never had a class with that teacher. I barely knew him then and cannot recall his name now. Unlike Gwen, he was essentially a stranger. Also unlike Gwen, he was presumably a volunteer in the Devil's army, not a draftee like her. She had, I presumed, inherited her parents' religion. He might have inherited his religion, too, but he was old enough, by many years, to have re-examined it for himself. I figured that if I hurt him, he had it coming.
The appointed time came. Metaphorically, I strapped on my gun, adjusted my white hat, and walked into the street to face the man in the black hat. The clock struck 12, we drew together and started shooting.
We spent the evening, as expected, quoting Scripture and interpretations at each other without apparent effect on either's thinking. Except for one exchange. The teacher had cited a passage in Revelation to support a Mormon doctrine concerning the priesthood of believers. I responded with a different interpretation, not uniquely Pentecostal but widely held among conventional fundamentalists as well.
The teacher sat in silence for several seconds, apparently scrutinizing the verse he had just read, and then without another word changed the subject.
I have no clue as to what went through his mind in those seconds, but I remember clearly what I thought he was thinking. I'd gotten him! He'd fired and missed, I'd fired back and hit him cleanly - with his protege watching, no less!
I felt gloriously triumphant. For at least a whole second.
Then I realized how I'd be feeling in his situation.
It did not occur to me, until years later, that I might have misread his reaction. He might have changed the subject only because he thought it obviously futile to try reasoning with me about that verse in Revelation. But I did not consider that possibility at the time.
I couldn't help feeling some pride about it. It seemed I had beat him fair and square, and I would not let go of that feeling.
But I also could not let go of my sympathy for him.
I did not, of course, admit any misgivings to Elder Bill or anyone else in the church. When he asked about the meeting, I replied only that, as expected, the Mormons had failed to see the light. Perhaps I also mentioned my little victory, but I do not remember that I did. I was never above boasting, but I did not feel boastful about that incident.
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