Cult Insanity

by Irene Spencer

  Walking back from the small store where I had just bought powdered sugar to make frosting for the birthday cake, I was accosted by Dan, one of Ervil’s enforcers.

  “I hear you are illegally holding an unauthorized party in your home,” he said, puffing out his chest, doing his best to look menacing.

  “It’s nobody’s business who I have in my home. I can have a party if and when I want to!” I retorted hotly, stepping to the side to get away from this inane conversation.

  He detained me. “Believe me,” he threatened, “if you hold a party in your house, you and everyone who attends will be excommunicated from the church.”

  “Well,” I said determinedly, “I’ll take the crowd with me up to Spencerville, and we’ll have a party up there, because, again, it’s no one’s business what I do.”

  Unwilling to concede, Dan continued. “Ervil sent me to put a stop to this before you find yourself in big trouble.”

  Starting to cry, I yelled, “This sounds like damn communism to me!”

  I sidestepped past him, heading for home, powdered sugar in hand, as he yelled behind me, “Just try being defiant. You’ll be run out of town permanently.”

  So much for birthday parties, I thought. With Verlan gone, I didn’t dare defy Ervil.

  I tried to understand Ervil’s control. He had prohibited us from celebrating Christ’s birth, but I couldn’t understand why we couldn’t celebrate a special day with innocent teenagers. After all, her birthday just may have been Jenny Lou’s last day of happiness before she married Ervil’s friend, becoming his third wife.

  That day my dislike and irritation with this egotistical despot began to turn toward hatred.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  One day, on a whim, Ervil called the women together to relate God’s most recent orders. “Everyone here is responsible to somebody . . . and for somebody. We are all connected! You are your brother’s keeper. Do you understand? If you see someone bad-mouthing your leaders, and you do not turn that person in, then you will receive the punishment they deserve.” He glared at the group and clarified the command further: “Even if it’s your husband, mother, sister, or child. If any of you even think about having an affair, lying, stealing, gossiping, or not keeping my trust, you will be found out. We must all be on the lookout,” he cautioned, “to keep sin from raising its wicked head among us.”

  Shortly after our orders to tattle on everyone, I found myself in a dilemma. My friend Jody entered my kitchen bright and early one morning, before my kids were up and dressed. Her swollen, tear-stained face revealed her pain. Putting my arm around my friend for comfort, I asked her, “What is it? Are you having a rough time down here in this foreign country?” I’d heard the despair of several new arrivals from California who said they’d prefer death to having to go on living here in Zion. Jody held on to me as she burst into tears. Embracing her, I asked again, “What’s the matter? Let me help you. You’ll be all right.”

  “I can’t tell you.” She sobbed harder.

  “Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. After a few minutes, you’ll probably feel better.”

  “No, you don’t understand!” she said more insistently. “I have to tell someone so they can report it to Ervil. I don’t want to, but I’m forced to. If I don’t, I could receive the death penalty.”

  Out of respect, I kept calm. I thought she was taking her problem too seriously, but I was willing to hear her out. “What could be so bad?”

  “We had a friend come over for a visit last night. Darren and I were comforting her because she was having problems in her marriage. At midnight, I went to bed. Later, I was awakened by what I thought was the whimpering of the dog. When I went to investigate, there on the sofa was Darren in the act of making love to this woman.” She cried again, relieved that she had been able to spit it out. “I’m afraid Darren will hold it against me if he finds out I’m the one who ratted on him.”

  “Does he know you saw him?” I asked.

  “No, I was so shocked I just quietly went back to bed. Promise me you won’t reveal a word to anyone except Ervil. Promise me,” she pleaded. “I feel so bad that I have to be the one to tell on my own husband.”

  I had held on to my faith, believing Joel was God’s anointed. Surely Joel could keep Ervil in control, so I pushed my fears aside again. “I don’t think you need to worry, Ervil is just full of hot air.”

  In that instant, a bolt of fear shot through my body. For a fleeting moment, his scare tactics got to me. I thought I knew him well—that he was just big talk, that he exaggerated his threats just to scare us—but . . . if there was one chance in a million that Ervil was serious, then I would be held accountable if I remained silent.

  So, at Jody’s insistence, I promised her that I would be the bad guy; I’d do her dirty work.

  I found Ervil, as usual, shut up in his bedroom, propped up by three feather pillows, under his covers in bed. He always lit up when I was in his presence. He invariably tried to flirt, telling me what a prize I was and how he had lost out by not having me (which I never stopped resenting through the years).

  “You’ve taught us that we are responsible to somebody . . . and for somebody, haven’t you?”

  “That’s right.” He smiled, satisfied that I knew the rules.

  I continued. “Someone came crying to me an hour ago. She was weeping because she caught her husband in the act of adultery with someone else’s wife.”

  Ervil threw his bare legs over the side of the bed, planting his large feet on the floor. Then, pulling a blanket around him, he covered his knees as he sat up. “Tell me who it is,” he demanded angrily. His face became red with excitement. “You tell me who it is and I promise you we will make an example out of him! He will be punished to the fullest extent. I’ll have his wife taken away from him and give her to a more worthy man.”

  With each sentence, he became more incensed, promising to carry out his radical measures. I was relieved that Jody wasn’t there to endure his harsh words.

  When I realized how severe the punishment might be, and seeing Ervil’s determination, I was reluctant to admit the perpetrator’s name for fear I’d be an accomplice if the penalty was death. “It’s . . . Darren,” I finally confessed, hoping Ervil wouldn’t fly into another violent rage.

  “Darren?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “Yes, Darren,” I repeated.

  Ervil stuttered, grasping for words. “Who knows about this?”

  “Just Jody and me,” I admitted.

  Ervil’s scowl was replaced by his cunning smile. “I demand that both of you keep this under your hat.” He paused to be sure I understood. Then, trying to justify his calmness, he said, “You see, Darren is contributing to a great cause.” He went on with his rationalizations. “If he faithfully continues to support me by making the payments on my new car, I’ll continue to let the Lord use him. After all, he can still find forgiveness. When a sinner sacrifices for a servant of God to the fullest extent, he can someday have his sin blotted out.”

  AT NOON, ERVIL SHOWED UP for lunch at my house. I knew he had come over to be nice to me and to warn me again to keep our little secret.

  Ervil had a strong sense of entitlement. He would regularly go through town, stopping in unannounced, searching for a better meal than he could find at Delfina’s. He knew he would eat like a king and receive special treatment because of his position in the church. He felt it was beneath him to eat at his own house, where he would be served only beans and tortillas.

  On one particular occasion when he invited himself to a member’s home, I was visiting there when he barged in unexpectedly. Ervil seemed to be anywhere except home when mealtime came around. The lady of the house hurriedly set a plate and utensils on the table as her two kids crowded closer together to make room for Ervil. The family was just preparing to pass the plate of food around to one another. Out of respect, the woman offered the platter of sunny-side-up eggs to Ervil first so he could serve hims
elf. To our chagrin, he simply slid all eight eggs onto his plate.

  In his usual offensive manner, he handed the empty plate to the astonished woman and pompously insisted, “If you want anyone else to have any eggs, you’d better jump up and cook some more.”

  I boiled with resentment toward him, and my motherly instinct wanted to apologize for his rude behavior. From the bewilderment on our hostess’s face, I knew she was unfamiliar with Ervil’s tactless antics. He was always butting in unannounced, acting like a bull in a china shop. He may have thought that his charisma and chiseled good looks made up for his obnoxious behavior, but he was wrong. In fact, I feared that his kingdom would fold if he didn’t display better manners and show respect for his recent converts.

  WHEN ERVIL WAS CONFRONTED by three uneasy followers concerning the ugly rumors that were circulating about death penalties, he knew the time had come to set things straight once and for all. He called an impromptu meeting that every adult—age fifteen and over—was required to attend, with absolutely no exceptions. The room buzzed with conversation. We took our seats, but the commotion continued as the saints talked among themselves, asking questions and venting their fears.

  Ervil appeared bundled in his coat, his wool scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. A hush fell over the room. Scowling, he walked to the podium, coughed, and readjusted his scarf.

  He began the meeting by complaining about the inconvenience he was enduring, having been forced to call his unenlightened people together. He grumbled that we had caused him to get out of his sick bed and suffer in the cold just because of a few naysayers. “Mind you,” he said, “none of you understand the workings of the almighty God.”

  We listened without comment to his castigating remarks.

  “If you knew the purposes of God, you wouldn’t have to impose on me tonight.” He smirked as he opened his worn Book of Mormon, thumbing through the pages. He smiled, satisfied, when he located the verse. Certain he was exhibiting superior knowledge, he said to the crowd, “I’m reading to you tonight from 1 Nephi 4:12, yes, that’s 1 Nephi 4:12. It says, ‘And it came to pass that the Spirit said unto me again: Slay him, for the Lord hath delivered him into thy hands.’ ” Then he read verse thirteen: “ ‘Behold the Lord slayeth the wicked to bring forth his righteous purposes. It is better that one man should perish than that a nation should dwindle and perish in unbelief.’ ” He remained quiet a moment, letting his words seep in.

  Then, with great emphasis, he said, “See? It’s right here, as plain as the nose on your face: ‘The Spirit said . . . Slay him!’ Now let’s read verse seventeen: ‘I knew that the Lord had delivered Laban into my hands.’ And verse eighteen: ‘I did obey the voice of the Spirit, and took Laban by the hair of the head, and I smote off his head with his own sword.’ ”

  Awestruck, the crowd appeared transfixed.

  “I see by your faces that some of you are upset,” Ervil said. “But, in case you don’t know, Christ said he did not come to bring peace. He came to bring the sword!”

  MY EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD HALF BROTHER Sam was staying with us. He heard Ervil’s nonsense about blood atonement and openly rejected his outlandish teachings. Miffed, Ervil informed him, “We’ll have a large following soon. The day will come when everyone will be called to make a blood covenant. Actually,” he continued to explain, “blood will be sprinkled on the altar when the saints have been sufficiently taught. Once they understand and have taken vows, they will be forced to obey, or their lives will be taken.”

  “What will they have to do to be worthy of death?” Sam inquired, though he had no intention of joining up with the LeBarons.

  “Well, for instance, those who serve false gods will be sentenced to death. Also, false prophets will be put to death.”

  Sam interrupted. “How do you know who the false prophets are?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Ervil sneered reproachfully. “The leaders of the polygamist groups who don’t come and join our church and take upon them this blood covenant will be cut down!” Ervil spewed out more explanations. “In the Bible, in Numbers 15:32–36, it says a man should be stoned even for gathering wood on the Sabbath. Adultery is another reason.”

  “Ervil,” Sam said defensively, “You’re damn scary. You make me afraid to even sneeze around you for fear you’ll sentence me to death!”

  “You won’t have anything to worry about because God gave us a dividing line. All those who uphold the civil law and abide by the Ten Commandments will be called saints, and those who oppose it will automatically be sinners. As long as you toe the line you’ll have nothing to lose sleep over.”

  I challenged him. “Where does Christ come in? The Bible says he paid for my sins when he died on the Cross.”

  Ervil exploded. “That’s a lie! His death did not cover your sins. We have to be responsible for all of our own actions. When we break a law, then we must pay. If you’d been reading your scriptures, then you’d know that mercy cannot rob justice. Every Mormon knows that there are certain crimes that the atonement of Christ will not cover. That’s why the sinner himself must pay the debt through the shedding of his own blood! I’m not making this stuff up, so don’t be upset. I’ll prove it to you by the early Mormon teachings,” he said defensively.

  “For instance,” he grabbed volume three of the Journal of Discourses from his black satchel and turned to page 247, quoting Brigham Young: “ ‘There is not a man or woman, who violates the covenants made with their God, that will not be required to pay the debt. The blood of Christ will never wipe that out, your own blood must atone for it.’ ” Ervil closed his book with authority.

  He delighted in his memorization skills, and, always looking for an opportunity to display them, he continued reciting without reaching for his book: “Jedediah M. Grant said in the Journal of Discourses, volume four, pages 49 to 50, ‘If they are covenant breakers, we need a place designated, where we can shed their blood.’ Grant also said, ‘It is also their right to kill a sinner to save him, when he commits those crimes that can only be atoned for by shedding his blood. . . . We would not kill a man, of course, unless we killed him to save him. . . . and the more Spirit of God I had, the more I should strive to save your soul by spilling your blood.’ ”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I was taking my turn in Las Vegas with Verlan when we received the news of Mauro Gutierrez’s death. He was at a bar in the mountain town of Las Varas, with Ossmen Jones on January 1, 1966. He heard a heated argument outside and walked out to defend a friend. When he interfered, the instigator whipped out a pistol and shot him dead.

  Everyone in the mountains admired Mauro. He was happy, friendly, and always eager to perform work in his mechanic shop for the poor Mexicans, whether or not they had money. Everyone knew he had four wives, and they never ceased joking about it. They affectionately referred to him as El Viudo (the Widower). Mauro’s weekly advertisements by radio were heard far and wide throughout the local towns.

  To me, Mauro was like a brother. He brought his families and stayed with me whenever he needed to attend a conference or tend to business in the colony. We often laughed together, staying up late enjoying each other’s company. I’m grateful that when I was hospitalized years earlier, suffering from typhoid fever, Mauro donated blood. I’m comforted in knowing that also through marriage Mauro’s blood runs through eleven of my grandchildren. I see traces of him in their faces, and I feel satisfied that a part of him lives on. His death was a great loss to me.

  His wife Fay was in Colonia LeBaron when the prophet Joel notified her of her husband’s tragic death. Fay, with her unwavering belief in Joel, said, “I’m not worried. If you stand as God to the people as you say, then I know that you can bring him back to life.”

  Joel shook his head and cringed. “Please don’t ask that of me. I can’t do it.”

  JOHN BUTCHEREIT, LUCINDA’S EX-HUSBAND, and one of the apostles of the United Apostolic Brethren, arrived in the colony unexpectedly. He was one of Uncle Rul
on’s right-hand men in Utah, and my uncle had dispatched him and another member, Joe Rostenberg, to persuade the LeBarons to realize the “error of their ways.”

  Butchereit was quite a student of the scriptures, and the LeBaron family held him in high esteem, especially for marrying their sister Lucinda as a plural wife many years before. They still considered him a brother-in-law.

  Verlan accompanied both men to Ozumba, Mexico, to a conference with Brother Margarito Bautista.

  Unfortunately for the Allreds, during the long hours of traveling and discussing scriptures, both emissaries were completely converted to Joel’s priesthood. They submitted to baptism into the Church of the Firstborn before returning to the U.S. Determined to follow God’s anointed, John Butchereit soon moved to Colonia LeBaron, leaving his family behind.

  Three blocks west of the colony, Butchereit lived in a small room, by the coop where he raised chickens. One evening, after he had tended his newly hatched chicks, a couple of drunken Mexicans knocked on his door, demanding that he loan them his truck. When he refused, an altercation followed, and after beating him and riddling his body with bullets, the intruders fled on horseback, leaving him for dead.

  The following morning, a worker who helped him with his poultry business discovered his body kneeling over his bloodstained bed, as though he had spent his last moments in prayer.

  During their flight, one of the culprits lost a spur, which finally was used for evidence in bringing him to justice.

  I was living in Ensenada, Baja California, at the time but was fortunate enough to accompany Verlan to Salt Lake City for John Butchereit’s funeral.

  I was appalled when an old acquaintance confronted Verlan and me during the viewing. “So, first it was Mauro Gutierrez, and now it’s John Butchereit! How many more of your group will be executed?”