After a few weeks at a US military hospital in Germany, I arrived at the Bethesda Naval Hospital, where Palmyra was waiting with our newborn son, Paul. I began a long process of surgical procedures, rehab, physical therapy, and endless sessions with a kind navy psychologist.
Meanwhile Palmyra took care of Paul and, after I started coming home for weekends, became pregnant again.
Through it all, not only did Palmyra’s immediate family help us, but all the members of the Silver Spring Ward stepped forward to support us in every respect. Brothers and sisters we barely knew began to bring over home-cooked meals, provide transportation and childcare, and pay our bills. They took Palmyra and Paul on trips to the museums in DC and on vacations to Florida. And they set up a hospital rotation. After every one of my numerous surgeries, I found a ward member sitting by my bed, smiling at me, squeezing my arm with affectionate encouragement. Even my mental ups and downs at the hospital did not scare them, or the hellish months of forcing my legs to carry my weight again, or when nightmares left me trembling from horror and in a cold sweat. It was during those awful months of physical pain and mental agony that I truly understood why we, the Mormons, call each other brother and sister.
A year later I was honorably discharged from the service and moved back into our small apartment. Our second child, Martha, arrived without a hitch, and I started taking computer science classes at the University of Maryland in College Park. I was finally back to normal life, enjoying my wife and adorable children. My pain level was manageable, I worked out to regain strength, and my mind grew calmer. Having earned top grades in my first term, I registered for a full load as a regular student, aiming to graduate in less than three years.
Meanwhile, like all men in the Mormon Church, I resumed my priesthood duties, taking part in ward activities, such as teaching, officiating at children’s baptisms, and ministering to families in distress.
Once a week, I volunteered at the Washington DC Mormon Temple, serving as a proxy in receiving endowments for the dead—the second part of the sacred process of baptizing into the church. The first part—the immersion in the great baptismal bath—was usually assigned to young men who had enough stamina to submerge repeatedly as proxy for the dead, whose names were called by the officiating Saint. The lists were prepared by church investigators—experts who roamed the world to find and extract identities of deceased persons who had been deprived of knowledge of the True Church during their mortal lives on Earth. At that time, in the early nineties, the Lord rewarded our efforts with discoveries of hundreds of thousands of Holocaust victims’ names in neglected records. It gave me a wonderful feeling to help save those poor souls through baptisms and ordinances so that they could accept the Gospel of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the afterlife and win admission to the Celestial Kingdom of God.
Studying full-time at the university was especially rewarding. It gave me structure, which I had gotten used to in the Marines and, before that, during my New York mission. I enjoyed the mental and intellectual focus, which substituted for the distressing memories that continued to haunt me. It also helped to be surrounded by young men and women who had not experienced war, who had not felt the stunning punch of a nearby explosion or smelled the nauseating stench of rotting human flesh.
But during a family dinner at my in-laws, Palmyra’s dad took me aside and suggested that I drop out of school and take a full-time job. He had already taken the liberty of asking a colleague at the US Attorney General’s Office to contact a Saint who held a high position at the US Department of Veterans Affairs, where a job had opened in the records division that “involved computers.”
Because my father-in-law presented this as merely an opportunity for me to consider, I declined for the simple reason that studying computer science had been my aspiration even before enlisting in the Marine Corps, and now that the government was paying my tuition, there was every reason for me to stay the course.
When I told Palmyra about the conversation and my decision to stay in school, she surprised me by urging me to reconsider. A well-paying job with full benefits was a good idea in her opinion, while she took care of our home and kids. “You’re smart,” she said, “you can figure out computers by yourself.”
I spent a whole evening explaining to her my desire to earn a college degree, not only for the knowledge and the pleasures of learning and discovering, but also for the credibility and status that a degree would confer. I went to sleep assuming the issue was laid to rest.
A couple of weeks later, the wife of our new bishop invited Palmyra, me, and our two kids to dinner at their home.
Bishop Morgan, who had taken over the volunteer bishop position from my father-in-law (who in turn rose to State President of our region), lived near us in Silver Spring. He was selected for the lay leadership by the church authorities after proving himself as a devout Saint and a successful businessman. As part of his responsibilities, the bishop met with each family in his ward a few times each year to take stock of our spiritual and communal lives and verify that we tithe to the church ten percent of our earnings, as required. We assumed this was the purpose of the dinner invitation.
The house was unlike anything we’d seen before—a massive redbrick residence, surrounded by lush grounds and tall trees. With Christmas approaching, the long driveway was lined with candle-like lights.
Joseph Morgan was a charming man, about forty-five, with a blond wife and six beautiful children. I knew he was a business executive in a large investment bank, but had no idea he was so wealthy.
We began dinner with a prayer of thanks, which the bishop concluded: “We are especially grateful that Brother Zachariah has recovered from his wounds and has resumed civilian life with grace and success. We pray that his life continues to be blessed with great joy in his celestial marriage, his children, and his work for the True Church, as he continues to progress spiritually in the priesthood toward exaltation.”
After dinner, the women cleaned up, and he invited me into the library. A glass-fronted wall of shelves held precious volumes, a collection of classic books that the bishop’s grandfather had started to accumulate a century ago. Bishop Morgan pointed out a section that included first editions of all of Joseph Smith’s works, autographed by the prophet himself with personal dedications to family members and close supporters.
We sat in oversized leather chairs before an unlit fireplace, sipped hot cider, and discussed the recent election of Bill Clinton, the young governor of Arkansas, as president. Bishop Morgan spoke with indignation about the Democratic Party’s audacity in pitting the pot-smoking, draft-dodging, serial womanizing Clinton against the incumbent president. We both agreed that the American public had lost its moral compass, electing Clinton in lieu of the more experienced Bush—a former CIA director and vice president, whose first term had included throwing the Iraqis out of Kuwait after forming an unprecedented international coalition. “I am confident,” Bishop Morgan declared, “that Bill Clinton’s presidency will prove to be the absolute worst presidency in American history!”
From this dire prediction about Clinton’s future, Bishop Morgan switched to discussing my future. “The Church needs you,” he said, “to take the job at Veterans Affairs.”
His words felt like a body blow. A bishop has the final word on all the affairs of the ward and its members, including family and private matters. He determines who deserves to hold a Temple Recommend Card enabling entry and participation in the sacred rituals, appoints all the ward clergy and leadership staff, arbitrates marital and family disputes, and disciplines those who sin against the Church or fellow Saints in words, deeds, or disobedience. In other words, he speaks for the Church and, therefore, he speaks for God.
How could I say no to God?
Bishop Morgan suggested that fasting and prayer would help me embrace the calling to serve. He must have seen the pain on my face, because he took my hands, and we sa
ng together the hymn “Sacrifice brings forth the blessings of Heaven.”
Chapter 17
“Unbelievable!” Ben put aside Zachariah’s iTouch and turned on the laptop. He went to Joe Morgan’s campaign website:
www.JoeMorgan4President.org.
The homepage banner said: Restore America’s soul! The rest of the page was taken by a photo of Morgan in jeans and a flannel shirt, standing at a podium on a makeshift stage, surrounded by haystacks and American flags. The left side of the photo captured part of his audience—men, women, and children waving flags and signs that said: We Believe!
Ben clicked on the button for Candidate’s Bio.
All major milestones in Morgan’s life were listed: Born in Illinois, son of successful industrialist, Eagle Scout, two-year mission for the LDS Church, college and MBA at Harvard, and, as Zachariah’s journal described, a wealthy businessman in the early nineties who eventually turned to politics, serving one term as governor of Maryland and now the GOP presidential candidate. There was no mention of leadership positions in the Mormon Church.
At the bottom was a photo of Morgan’s home in Silver Spring—a redbrick mansion that fit Zachariah’s description.
A list of links to his major speeches included the one titled: “My faith is a private matter.” Ben clicked on the link and a small YouTube window opened.
Speaking at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library, Joe Morgan declared: “Article Six of the United States Constitution says, and I’m quoting: ‘…but no religious test shall be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the Unites States.’ Let me say to all those who wish to pry into the private spiritual life that my family and I deeply cherish: There’s no curtain to peek behind, no dark secrets to uncover, and no unusual customs to leer at. You would do better to direct your energy at seeking your own spiritual joy. And to my fellow citizens, my fellow Christians, and my fellow Republicans, I say this: All you need to know is that my faith will continue to inspire me to serve my country to the best of my ability. And when you elect me as president of the United States, I will serve as leader of all Americans without preference or favoritism to any particular race, ethnicity, or creed!”
Ben pulled up Wikipedia and searched for Governor Joseph Morgan, finding a more detailed biography. He clicked on the heading Mormon Church Lay-Leadership Positions and there it was, the confirmation to Zachariah Hinckley’s story:
1991-1995: Lay Bishop, LDS’s Silver Spring Ward in Maryland
1995-1997: Lay Stake President for all LDS wards in the State of Maryland
These were important clergy positions, but Ben didn’t remember hearing any discussions of them during the presidential campaign or even during the primaries last year. Joe Morgan had obviously been considered by the Mormon Church leaders to be worthy and faithful enough to serve in influential positions in the church hierarchy, yet his record of ecclesiastical prominence was curiously absent from the political discourse.
Ben went back to Zachariah’s iTouch, but the low battery warning was on. He used the charger from his own iPhone to juice it up a bit, which gave him an idea. Using a USB cable and a few minutes of tinkering with the application, he managed to copy it to his own iPhone. He touched the sailing ship icon, the knightly woman appeared, waving a sword-like pencil at pirates and cutting off the sea creature’s tentacles. Ben pressed the pencil’s orange eraser, Zachariah’s face popped up and asked for the motto, and Ben typed Semper Fidelis. The banner appeared: Welcome to my journal! Opening the file, he verified that all of it was successfully copied.
He disconnected Zachariah’s iTouch and put it aside. Now he could read the journal on his own device.
Chapter 18
Z.H. Journal Entry # 7:
My first three years at the US Department of Veterans Affairs were spent transferring paper archives to electronic files. Together with a dozen other employees, I sat in a cubicle all day, every day (except for lunches, cookie breaks, and frequent leg-stretching walks up and down the drab hallways) and keyed in veterans’ information from a stack of paper files into the computerized database.
Like most government equipment, by the time it was installed the new system was a decade behind the private sector. Reading PC Magazine made me feel like Moses, looking over at the digital promised land but forbidden to enter it. Also, I was having a hard time sleeping, a condition that required medication, especially with three little kids and a pregnant wife who constantly shared the frustrations of her days.
In early 1995, I was promoted to manager, which gave me short-lived hope of making a small difference. I spent three months writing a detailed report that listed the shortcomings in the way the department handled electronic data and outlined improvements. My boss, the section supervisor, duly sent my recommendations up the chain of command, where they disappeared into a bureaucratic black hole.
One day, out of the blue, Bishop Morgan invited me for lunch at his office on the top floor of the Nibberworth Investment Bank in Rockville. Before we bit into our sandwiches, we spent a few minutes studying the scriptures. The bishop spoke about an important element of our faith—the salvation of the dead. He explained the words of Paul in I Corinthians: Else what shall they do which are baptized for the dead, if the dead rise not at all? Why are they then baptized for the dead? No other church but ours follows Paul’s prescription for the ritual of offering salvation to the dead, as Joseph Smith had taught.
Historically, Brother Morgan explained, it had started with Saints who performed posthumous baptism rituals for their parents and grandparents who had passed on before the restoration of Christ’s True Church by the Prophet Joseph Smith. But like all virtuous customs, it had expanded through additional revelations to include all souls of dead Gentiles, whose identities were continuously collected through extensive investigations globally called extractions, which the Church pursued no matter what the expense was in time and money.
Bishop Morgan described his recent visit to the magnificent genealogical center at the Church headquarters in Utah, where huge underground archives contain hundreds of millions of names and family lines going back centuries, which had been extracted from various records all over the world for posthumous baptizing.
Joe Morgan was an eloquent man, and I was grateful for the knowledge and warmth he shared so generously. I had no idea that this was more than a gesture of religious and emotional support from my bishop, as busy as he was with both his professional and ecclesiastical responsibilities. When I was leaving, he invited me to come with my family to dinner at his house the following week.
Chapter 19
Ben went back to the living room and turned on the TV. His camera was still connected to it. He got the slideshow function going again and ran it backward through the photos from the Camp David Scenic Overlook. When it reached the victim lying at the bottom looking up, Ben zoomed in on the face.
Zachariah Hinckley seemed to be looking straight at the camera. His lips pronounced one word before his body twitched in a final, fatal spasm.
Keera had thought the word was “Palmyra,” but now Ben suspected it was a different word. A message.
He zoomed in even further, and the lips filled the screen. The photos changed slowly, and Ben said it out loud with the lips: “Pal…my…rah.” It was possible, but the lip movements didn’t fit perfectly. He rewound and tried again, this time saying: “Post…hue…mous.” He did it twice more, and it fit perfectly.
Sitting on the sofa, he shook his head. “That’s what you’re saying,” he told the dead man on the screen. “Posthumous!”
The discovery told Ben that Zachariah Hinckley’s death had something to do with the posthumous baptisms described in the journal. But those events had occurred sixteen or seventeen years earlier inside the cloistered world of the LDS Church, making an investigation very challenging.
Chapter 20
Z.H. Journal Entry # 8:
After dinner, Bishop Morgan’s teenage daughters took charge of our kids, whisking them to the lower floor, where a large room had been set up as a miniature Disneyworld. Palmyra joined Emma Morgan in the kitchen, and Bishop Morgan took me to his study for the customary hot cider.
“Let me show you something special.” He opened one of the glass doors, reached up to a high shelf, and pulled out an old leather-bound book. He showed me the spine:
Book of Mormon
First Edition
New York
1830
This was the original work, the divine word of God, which had launched the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by Joseph Smith, the Prophet, Seer, and Revelator. All my life, from early childhood, I have studied the more modern editions of the Book of Mormon, together with the Bible, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price—our “Standard Works” of holy scriptures. But this was the very first edition!
“The Prophet inscribed it to my great-great-grandfather,” Bishop Morgan said. “I rarely take it out, but I wanted to share it with you.” He opened the book on the title page, which carried a handwritten dedication:
To George Robert Morgan,
Blessings unto thee from the Angel Moroni.
Joseph Smith Jr. 1830.
Clearly enjoying my utmost awe, he opened the book on a page marked by a silk string and showed me something even more incredible. “This side note,” he said, “is also in the Prophet’s own handwriting.”
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