Archives for May 2004

The animal kingdom is full of aggressively territorial creatures: wolves, lions, mountain goats, bulls. When these guys mark their territory, they mean it. If you step in their space, they’ll knock you down.

Then they’ll eat you. Bones and all.

But they’re Care Bears compared to the Thisismy pewsir, the scientific name given to a recently discovered and incredibly territorial species.

Perhaps you’ve seen this creature before. The male typically wears a conservative suit and tie, while the female adorns herself in either a dress or a long skirt and blouse.

Their natural habitat is a well-lit, man-made structure known as a chapel. Its walls and decor are rather plain, but its long padded seats — commonly called pews — are highly sought-after nesting places.

That’s because the Thisismy pewsir is very particular about his choice of pew. Only one will do, the one he flocks to every Sunday. It is his pew. He owns it. Anyone sitting in his pew is invading his property and therefore subject to his wrath.

That wrath is manifest by a light tap on the shoulder, an insincere smile, and the words, “You’re sitting in my seat.”

The victim of this assault (i.e. prey) is usually the innocent and harmless creature known as Ward visitoris. Perhaps he’s here on business. Or perhaps his family is considering moving to the area.

Either way, the Ward visitoris has made a grave mistake. He sat in an owned pew. He wrongfully assumed that the seats in the chapel were available on a first-come-first-serve basis.

How silly of him.

He must come from an imaginary land, a place where people welcome strangers at the door and invite them to sit wherever they chose.

He deserves public humiliation. He must stand and move to an unoccupied — and unowned — pew. In fact, maybe it’s best for him to go and graze in free-range territory, a little place we call the lobby.

Not all members of the species are this cruel, of course. Many won’t actually ask the person to get up and move. Instead, they’ll find another seat close by and shoot the Ward visitoris dirty looks throughout the meeting. Others hold only mild resentment.

But regardless of his course of action, the Thisismy pewsir will always believe the pew rightfully belongs to him.

Fortunately, this species only accounts for a small percentage of the church population. Most wards have only one or two. Some wards don’t have any.

Too bad the same can’t be said for Imsavin theseseats, another territorial, yet far more prevalent, species.

The Imsavin theseseats is notorious for staking claim to empty pews by placing books, bags, and scripture cases along the seat of the pew. These figurative flags of conquest are intended to ward off anyone who may be tempted to sit there.

“My wife and kids are coming, ” they’ll say.

“I’m saving these for my friends,” they’ll say.

The appropriate response is, “Your wife and kids aren’t here. I am. I came early precisely so that I could get a good seat. Your wife and kids will arrive after me and therefore do not deserve better seats than me. Saving seats is both selfish and inconsiderate. If this weren’t a place of worship, I’d grab that hymnbook and sock you with it.”

But the person inquiring about the seats doesn’t say that. No, if she’s a woman, she merely smiles sweetly and moves on to the next empty pew.

When she gets there, however, she realizes that it too is lined with hymnbooks and scriptures.

This process continues until she finally ends up sitting in the back, or in the overflow, or in the mother’s lounge, basically any place where she could have sat had she come late for the meeting.

She then decides that coming early is a waste and frustrating use of her time.

The Imsavin theseseats is completely oblivious to all of this, of course. From his point of view, there are plenty of empty seats available — many of which are better seats than the ones he’s saving.

I’m doing you a favor by sending you away, he thinks. You’ll find much better seats elsewhere.

How fortunate we are that heaven doesn’t work the same way.

“I’m sorry,” says the angel. “These mansions of glory are being saved for someone who hasn’t died yet, a friend of mine. He should be along shortly. You best keep moving.”

“But I earned this,” you say.

“I know. Sad, isn’t it? If I were you, I’d check out the terrestrial kingdom. I hear they have some lovely spare townhouses.”

“Really?” you ask. “How interesting. Can I borrow your harp?”

“Sure,” the angel says.

And since this isn’t a place of worship, you promptly sock him with it.

No, heaven is fair. If we do good, we get good. If we obey, we’re rewarded.

Why should our interactions with each other be any different? Shouldn’t we be just as fair?

If a seat is unoccupied, it should be available to anyone who desires to sit there. No family owns it. No person has prior claim. It’s a seat, not a licensed property.

And if you come early to a meeting and you want to sit with someone who has not yet arrived, you wait for that person to arrive then find available seats together. You don’t go in beforehand and save a seat, or a pew, or a section.

Now, is there ever a time when seat-saving is appropriate? Sure. Say, for example, you have to get up and go to the restroom. Or perhaps a noisy child needs to be taken out.

But in these instances, you’re saving your own seat. And it’s yours because you found it first. Once the meeting is over, it no longer belongs to you.

I love ushers. They’re rare these days, but they solve all of these problems and make you feel welcome to boot. And I’m talking about real ushers, not the guys who greet you at the door and hand you a program.

Real ushers walk you to an empty pew and kindly invite you to sit. They smile. They gesture politely. And they make you feel important.

In short, they understand what territorial species do not: This is Christ’s church, not ours. He owns it, not us.

And what would Christ do? He’d give up his seat.

No, he’d do more than that.

He’d give up his seat AND polish the wood AND vacuum the carpet AND fluff the seat cushion. He’d do anything and everything to make it the most pleasant, edifying experience possible.

Because Christ isn’t territorial at all. He’s the opposite. He invites all to come unto him. Everyone is welcome. And everyone gets a seat.

If we can do that, if we can emulate that same sense of acceptance, people will feel welcome. And there won’t be a bad seat in the house.

What ever happened to good old-fashioned manners? When I was a kid, for example, we’d be horsewhipped if we didn’t say ma’am and sir.

“Would you like another piece of fried chicken?” a friend’s mother might ask.

“Yes, ma’am,” I’d say.

Then she’d smile all sweet-like and put a chicken leg on my plate — at which point I’d say, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Now, had I said, “Heck yeah, woman. Toss me some more of that cooked carcass,” I would have got a licking so bad, you would have heard about it on the evening news.

But times are changing. Rarely, if ever, do I hear sir or ma’am. In fact, some people get mighty angry if you call them that.

“Don’t call me sir. What, do I look old to you?”

How did this happen? How did being polite become offensive?

Maybe I’m stuck in a generation I should have outgrown. Or maybe my southern upbringing is more uncommon than I thought. Either way, it’s sad that respectable social behavior is slowly losing its footing.

And the same can be said for church etiquette. It’s slipping.

Consider the many titles we use: brother, sister, bishop, president, elder, patriarch. Some of these have endured the gradual erosion of social decorum, but others are nearly extinct.

I cringe, for example, every time I hear a male missionary refer to his companion by last name only.

“Hey, Henderson. What should we do on our P-Day?”

No no, my sweet, young missionary. His name is Elder Henderson. Not Henderson. Or Hindie. Or Hindu. Elder Henderson.

Why the fuss? Because elder is a privileged and distinguished title that separates this man from most. It means he holds the priesthood of God and has been called and set apart by one with authority to serve as an ambassador of the Lord. That’s no small thing.

To call him by his last name only is, in effect, to disregard his sacred calling.

The same, of course, is true for sister missionaries. When we call them by their title, we acknowledge that they are the Lord’s servants and our sisters in the family of Christ.

But an even more grievous faux pas is to drop the title of bishop or president. It’s not Bishop Webber, for example, it’s Frank. And it’s not President Ryerson, it’s Jerry.

When did this become acceptable?

The bishop is the bishop. That’s what we should call him, if not out of respect for the individual, then at least out of respect for the calling.

Most bishops would agree. You won’t likely hear one stand at the pulpit the day he’s sustained and announce to the ward, “Just for the record, ya’ll can all keep calling me Shane same as always. There’ll be none of this Bishop Smith silliness. And those who knows me real good can still call me Nooky.”

Granted, if that does happen, you can bet your scripture case that the stake president will go home and wonder when oh when did he lose the gift of discernment.

But even if we’re not the bishop, we’re probably still victims of etiquette erosion. Take me, for example. No one calls me Brother Johnston anymore. I’m just Aaron.

I can understand, of course, that once strong friendships are made, it sounds more formal to call each other Brother or Sister Last Name. I call all of my close buddies by their first name, in church or out.

The one exception is when I’m speaking from the pulpit. We should always use the more formal name when addressing the congregation.

For example, to say “Brother Keller called me last night and asked me to give this talk.” is perfectly acceptable. But to say “Rick called me last night…,” is not. And yet this happens all the time. In my ward, it happens nearly every week.

Personally, when I’m at the pulpit, I don’t even refer to my wife by her first name. It’s always Sister Johnston this and Sister Johnston that. Never Lauren. Some may consider that extreme, but to them I say, “Hey, there are children and youth in the congregation.”

And children and youth should never be exempt. Sunbeam kids, for example, should always call their teacher Brother or Sister So-and-So, never Pam or Julie or Kirk.

In fact, I’m willing to bet that this is one of the signs of the times — right up there with the moon turning blood red. Every time a young beehive calls her advisor by her first name, we can be sure the end is nigh.

I can’t help but think of the good old days, the early days of the church when brother was more than a title of respect; it was a genuine display of affection.

We’ve all heard stories of Brother Joseph and Brother Brigham. Back then men shook hands by grabbing each other’s forearms.

And when they called each other brother, they meant it. You are my brother, as close to me in spirit as my born kin is to me in blood. I’ll follow you to the end of the earth. Or, should hell impede me, I’ll die trying.

History teaches they were true to their word.

Wouldn’t it be nice if future generations said the same about us? They loved each other. They knit their hearts together. They were true brothers and sisters.

So even if social etiquette doesn’t appeal to you, the meaning behind the title should. Call me your brother, not because it’s proper, but because you consider me such.

And if you want to call me by my first name, well that’s OK too. Let’s just be careful the tradition doesn’t die. Because, in truth, it’s not a tradition; it’s who we are, brothers and sisters in Christ, literal siblings under God.

It’s a tired old joke that we Mormons eat a lot of green Jell-O salad. We don’t, really — not anymore, anyway — but that’s the joke.

Oh sure, there may be a few of us who eat Jell-O in private every now and again, but rarely will you see a platter of it at ward potluck dinners. That’s because someone’s bound to make a joke of it. And none of us want to be the subject of any joke, especially not at potluck dinners. We want our food to be liked. And we want it to be eaten.

If you’re like me, you can’t help but take your dish’s performance a little personally. Say, for example, no one eats my wife’s green bean casserole. Well I take that as an attack on my family

Oh, we’re not good enough for you, are we?

However, if the casserole is gone by the time I reach it, I’ll make a point of telling everyone my wife made it and I’ll respect them all for having such good taste.

Silly, I know. But somehow the ward potluck dinner has evolved from a meal into a showcase. Folks don’t bring just anything; they bring the best they have to offer.

No one will admit to this, of course. We all claim that our dishes are mere trifles, the simplest thing we could throw together at the moment, the very least of our normally marvelous culinary exploits.

Women sometimes do the same thing with clothes. “Oh this old thing?” they’ll say. “Why I’ve had this hanging in my closet for years. I never thought to actually wear it.”

Nonsense. We all slave in the kitchen to prepare our dishes.

Well, I shouldn’t say “all.” Not everyone is as devoted. You’ll always have at least one plate of store-bought doughnuts. But overall, most people try extra hard to make their dishes great.

Don’t think for an instant, though, that great cooking is the only ingredient to success. If you want your dish consumed, you’ve got to play the game and you’ve got to play smart.

Location Location Location

Most wards use those long folding tables to hold the food. When it’s time to eat, lines of people form on both sides of the table.

If you want your dish to do well, place it in the center of the table where both sides of traffic will have access to it. If you put it on the edge of the table, the opposite side will be reluctant to reach across the food and scoop themselves a portion.

And speaking of scoops, put two serving spoons with your food instead of one. People will often pass over food simply because a serving spoon isn’t immediately available. Don’t lose those precious few because of lack of silverware.

You have to be careful though. The people organizing the meal will try to steal one of your serving spoons and place it with a dish that doesn’t have one. If that happens, steal it back. Remember, this is war.

Choose your dish wisely

My wife hates mayonnaise. She abhors the stuff, in fact. Simply mention the word and her face tightens in such a display of disgust that it nearly caves in on itself.

This becomes extremely problematic when we go to potluck dinners. It seems that half of the food there is made of mayonnaise: potato salad, pasta salad, tuna salad, ham salad, acorn salad, pretty much anything that ends in salad.

My wife won’t touch any of it. In fact, give her a ten-foot pole and she’ll beat you with it before she puts it anywhere near the mayonnaise.

She’s not alone. I know quite a few people who hate mayonnaise. Or nuts. Or cilantro. Or curry. Or whatever.

When choosing which dish to prepare, avoid the often unpopular ingredients. They’ll only minimize your audience. Instead, think globally. Prepare those dishes that everyone likes.

This obviously means that you should avoid dishes no one can identify.

It’s fun to be exotic, yes. But it’s also dangerous. Most people don’t like experimenting with food. And even if they do, they won’t take much of it for fear they might not like it. And, even if they do like it, by the time they’ve finished everything else, they’ll be too full to go back for seconds.

Your goal is to make something that everyone knows they want just by looking at it. You want them fighting over the spoon. And once they have the spoon, you want them to be incredibly selfish, scooping themselves massive portions with little regard to anyone else.

Know Your Competition

Direct competition can be a problem. If someone has made a dish similar to yours you’ll end up sharing the same audience. Both of you will suffer.

The obvious solution is to move your dish closer to the front of the line so that people see it and dip from it first. But that’s a little tacky.

Your best bet is to study the playing field well before the dinner begins. Know who’s famous for making what. And if you see an untapped niche, go for it.

Eat Your Own

Position yourself toward the front of the line. When you get to your own dish, scoop yourself a big portion. People will notice your eagerness, suspect you know something they don’t, and follow suit.

This initiates a chain reaction because as more people scoop from the dish, it becomes increasingly more enticing to the next guy. Suddenly it’s a popular choice.

Sneaky, you say? Of course it is. But that’s what separates the great potluckers from those who leave with leftovers. They cook well and they sell well. They understand more than anyone that old adage, “You are what you bring to eat.”

Pass the Jell-O.

If you were to stand at any pulpit in this church and throw a rock into the congregation, chances are you’d hit at least three great singers.

Chances are also good that you’d be escorted from the building, but my point is this: we’re up to our ears in great singers.

This isn’t a bad thing of course. It’s wonderful. Great singing gives spiritual fulfillment even when everything else goes flat.

Say, for example, you’ve got a notoriously boring high councilman coming. No problem. Just ask Sister So-and-So to sing a little ditty before the high councilman speaks and everyone will conclude the meeting was a smashing success. You can’t go wrong with great singing.

Or can you?

There’s a danger, I believe, in having too much of a good thing. Recently our ward choir sang a rest hymn during Sacrament meeting. It wasn’t the best performance. I’m no singer myself, so I couldn’t tell you if they were flat or sharp or merely suffering from chest colds. But they were definitely off.

That wasn’t the real problem though.

The real problem didn’t surface until after the singing was over. Once the choir sat down I turned to my wife and rolled my eyes – as if to say, “That was painful.”

My wife gave me a shame-on-you look, and it was then that I realized the real problem was me. I had become a singing snob. I had been so exposed to great singing that somehow I had convinced myself that anything less than great was not worth listening to.

It’s an easy trap to fall into. Frankly, I blame the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Their singing is so marvelous and we hear them so often that it’s easy to become accustomed to their level of performance.

Instead of being the pinnacle, they become the norm. Instead of being the exception, they become the rule.

But whether we have a true scapegoat or not, singing snobbery can be a tough nut to crack. It has many forms: whispering in the foyer about how the special musical number was anything but special, avoiding eye contact with the singer for fear he or she will know you find their voice distasteful, or worst of all – the Grand Pooh-Bah of singing snobbery – refusing to sing with the ward choir because they don’t sound great.

Oh the inhumanity.

Maybe this is a new phenomenon to you and I’m the only bad apple in the tree. Or maybe you feel just a hint of guilt. Either way, what I’ve learned since then may prove useful.

I’ve been watching the non-snobs, paying attention to how they act when the singing isn’t great. Those have been rare moments. The singing is usually marvelous.

But in both cases, the non-snobs acted the same way. Their behavior and attitude didn’t change. It’s not that they genuinely enjoyed good singing and only pretended to enjoy bad singing. They genuinely enjoyed both.

That’s because to a non-snob there is no bad singing. Oh sure they recognize great talent when they hear it, but they also accept every song for it what it was meant to be: a form of worship, an expression of praise.

So I made a list. These are the four things every non-snob does regardless of the music or the circumstance.

1. Listen

The hymnal says it best. In its preface the First Presidency wrote, “Some of the greatest sermons are preached by the singing of hymns. Hymns move us to repentance and good works, build testimony and faith, comfort the weary, console the mourning, and inspire us to endure to the end.”

In my moment of singing snobbery I had completely forgotten that. I had turned a deaf ear to the hymn’s sermon. I was so unimpressed with the performance of the singers that I failed to pay attention to that which mattered most: the doctrine of the hymn and the spirit of the Lord who confirms that doctrine. Non-snobs listen.

2 .Smile

Nothing motivates a performer more than knowing their performance is appreciated. Non-snobs smile at the singer. They show teeth. They let the performer know that their voice brings them joy.

If the performer sees them smiling, they smile back. Sometimes they even sing better. And even if they don’t they at least know they did some good. What’s more, seeing a happy face relaxes a singer and puts much of their nervousness to rest.

3. Say Thanks

Non-snobs take time after meetings to shake the singers’ hands and express gratitude for their performance. They don’t lie or exaggerate. They’re sincere. They tell them they appreciate their talent and leave it at that.

If you’re ever been on the receiving end of such praise, you know how priceless it truly is.

4. Sing

Whether they have a voice or not, non-snobs sing. If they enjoy singing, they join the choir, regardless of the talent currently found therein.

I got to go to General Conference a few weeks ago. It was my first time inside the Conference Center. It’s huge. You could park the Titanic in that place. Twice.

The most memorable moment of my experience however – even more memorable than seeing the prophet – was standing and singing with all those people. It was incredible. There were thousands of us, all lifting our voices in unison. I couldn’t help but feel a little indestructible. It was incredibly invigorating.

That’s what non-snobs always feel, whether it’s ten thousand voices or just one. They know the true power of the hymns. And even if they’re just listening, they do it with a lot of heart because, unlike singing snobs, they understand who we’re singing to.