The Back Bench

I organized a picket line in front of our chapel this past Sunday. It took a little doing, but I was able to convince all the dads in our ward to carry signs that read, “Flowers for Fathers.” We all marched around in a circle and shouted, “Lend us your ears. And give us boutonnieres.”

You see, we fathers feel like we deserve the same recognition on Father’s Day that mothers receive on Mother’s Day. We want a flower. And just in case the whole mother-flower thing isn’t currently a practice in your ward, allow me to explain.

Years ago, someone started the tradition of having all the mothers in a ward stand during sacrament meeting on Mother’s Day and receive a flower from the ward.

When I was a deacon, this was one of our duties. We each grabbed an armful of sweet-smelling flowers, walked among the congregation, and gave all of the women a much-deserved token of appreciation.

But on Father’s Day, no such tradition exists — at least not in any ward that I’ve ever attended.

Yes, the Primary children sing I’m So Glad When Daddy Comes Home, but that’s about it. Mothers, on the other hand, in addition to their flower, typically get two Primary songs: Mother, I Love You and I Often Go Walking

Do I sound bitter? I’m not really. In fact, in case you haven’t already guessed, I didn’t really organize a picket line. And to be honest I don’t even want a flower.

But I do want a universal remote.

Wouldn’t that be cool? Just picture it. All the fathers stand on Father’s Day and get a universal remote, one that works for the TV, the DVD player, and the VCR. Now that’s a token of appreciation.

Or maybe we could all get a tool set. Or a big T-bone steak. Yeah, men love steak.

I can see it my mind: I walk into the foyer at church and there’s Jimmy, a young deacon in our ward.

“Morning, Brother Johnston,” Jimmy says. “Happy Father’s Day.”

“Thanks, Jimmy,” I say. “And medium rare this time, okay? I don’t want to have to send mine back again this year.”

“No sweat, Brother J. Medium rare. Got it.” Then he turns back to the grill where he’s got a few slabs of meat already cooking.

OK, this is a bad idea. But it does make me wonder about the traditions we do practice in this church, especially those that don’t appear in any official church handbook.

Where do they come from? Why do we follow them? And what would happen if they suddenly stopped?

Take flowers on Mother’s Day, for example. Personally I’m not opposed to this tradition. I think it’s wonderful. But as far as I know, no where is it written that this is something we’re supposedto do.

And what would happen if we suddenly stopped passing out flowers? Well, I’ll tell you. You’d have a lot of angry women on your hands. Some would feel jilted, forgotten, and unappreciated.

And that’s the danger with traditions. Over time we begin to think that we have to do them, that to not do them is wrong.

Here’s another example. Immediately following every baby blessing, the father of the child traditionally holds up the infant for all the ward to see.

“But what’s so bad about that?” you may ask. “Isn’t the father presenting the baby before the church? Isn’t he supposed to do that?”

Well, no and no. There isn’t anything wrong with it, of course, but lifting the baby is not presenting it to the church. If anything, that’s what the blessing does. Nor is the father supposed to do it. He can, of course, if he so chooses, but he doesn’t have to.

But personally, I don’t like this tradition. It terrifies me. Every time it happens I’m afraid the father is going to drop the baby.

“Don’t do it,” I want to shout. “Hold that baby tightly. Keep her wrapped in your arms. Lifting her high like that makes you hold her in an unnatural way, one that you’re not accustomed to and therefore may do incorrectly. If everybody wants to see the child, let them come up to you afterwards.”

This isn’t simple paranoia. I’m not crazy. I’m a father. I want babies to be safe. If Michael Jackson is a fool for holding his baby up for fans, then why aren’t we?

But Michael Jackson was standing on a balcony, you say. And yes, that’s true. But the only difference between his circumstance and ours is the distance to the ground.

Well, that and the fact that Michael Jackson has some serious psychological problems and most dads in the church do not.

But my point is this: fathers do this because it’s a tradition. Sure, they’re proud of their child and want to show him or her off, but no one in their right mind would do this if it were not already a tradition.

When I blessed my son, for example, I did not want to lift him up. It was too risky. In fact, I had decided that after the “Amen” I was simply going to scurry back to my seat.

But I gave in. I felt all eyes on me and I gave in to tradition. I only lifted him two inches higher, mind you, but I did in fact lift him.

Now, what would have happened if I hadn’t? What would have happened if I had stuck to the game plan and ran back to my seat?

Answer: people would have assumed that I had forgotten to lift him up. They wouldn’t assume the truth: that I chose not to follow tradition.

And what about missionary farewells? Remember those? The church put the kibosh on that practice a few years ago, but it’s still a good example of what can happen when a tradition gets out of hand.

For the unfamiliar, it used to be that when men or women left to serve a full-time mission, their home wards would hold a missionary farewell during sacrament meeting. This usually consisted of all the members of the person’s family getting up and talking about what a swell guy or gal their brother, sister, son, or daughter was.

Rarely would you hear any doctrine. Rarely were these meetings about Christ. These were meetings about the missionary.

If you know any of the words to In the Hollow of Thy Hand, you know the meetings I’m talking about.

Now, I don’t mean to imply that all traditions are bad. They’re not. But we do need to be careful to differentiate between the ordered practices of the church and the traditions we’ve created. The former is crucial to our growth and salvation, the latter not so much.

Which also means that we should respect those who choose not to participate. If a dad doesn’t hold up his baby, for example, we shouldn’t think less of him. And if the bishop doesn’t ask the child graduating from Primary to recite one of the Articles of Faith, we shouldn’t think less of him.

Because traditions aren’t things we’re supposed to do. They’re things we can do — that is, until our leaders tell us otherwise.

And unless I’m mistaken, I haven’t heard any leader say we can’t have steak. So, Jimmy, don’t let me down.

Remember the Six Million Dollar Man? That guy could do anything: run fast, pick up heavy objects, look good in a polyester jogging suit. He was amazing.

But these weren’t his natural abilities. The guy was a cyborg. Scientists had equipped him with a nuclear-powered arm and a bionic eye.

I can’t imagine how much a procedure like that must’ve cost, but I’m sure it was expensive.

Why do I mention it? Well, I think my wife may be a cyborg. I know, I’m still not used to the idea myself. But lately she’s developed all these superhuman abilities, and I can’t think of any other explanation.

For example, suddenly she knows how to whip up this incredible Asian cuisine. And suddenly she knows how to change the oil in the car. And can ripen tomatoes. And put me in a death grip and call it self-defense.

Every month it’s something new.

She claims her new-found powers come from attending Home, Family, and Personal Enrichment, but I’m doubtful. Nobody can learn to make a pie this good in only an hour and a half. Impossible. Someone must have put a chip in her brain.

I can just imagine what the metal detectors will do the next time we’re at the airport.

BEEP! BEEP!

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the guard will say. “Would you mind removing any and all metal objects from your pockets?”

“It’s going to go off no matter what,” I explain. “She has a bionic pie-making hand now.”

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Home, Family, and Personal Enrichment is so well organized and so well executed that she’s learning all of these life-enriching skills the old fashioned way.

If that’s the case, then Relief Society activities — which I’ve never attended obviously — are much different than Elders Quorum activities. You see, we men only know how to do two things: show up to help someone move and then break something.

I suppose we could have our own Home, Family, and Personal Enrichment, but the activities would have to be slightly different.

I suggested this very idea to my brother-in-law. He attends a singles ward.

“Why don’t men have Enrichment Night?” I asked.

“We do in our ward,” he said. “We call it Men-richment.”

This fascinated me. Now here’s a quorum that’s got it together. When I asked what they did during these activities, he simply said “Halo.”

Halo is a video game. It’s one of those pick-up-a-gun-and-shoot-someone games. They play it on Xbox. Apparently one can hook multiple Xbox systems together and play one giant multi-player game. At the last activity they had sixteen guys playing at once, all trying desperately to blow the others’ heads off.

These are very well attended, I learned. Everybody comes out to play Halo.

“What are you doing next month?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’m stupid. “Halo.”

“Right on!” I say.

OK, I don’t play video games. I’m awful at them. My brain doesn’t work that fast.

But if my quorum organized this activity, I would most certainly attend. I’d be the first guy shot, yes, but there’s something appealing about looking for your home-teaching companion on an orbiting space station and then, once you find him, pumping his spacesuit full of lead.

My wife, however, would not approve.

“If I’m going to babysit and hold down the fort,” she’d say, “this activity better be productive. It better help either our home or our family or you.” And she’s right. A men-only Enrichment Night should be just as enriching as the women’s activities are.

The question is: What instruction do men need?

The easy answer is: Everything. We men are so unenriched in so many categories that any lesson would be a helpful one. Perhaps it’s better to ask: What instruction, when given to men, would be of greatest benefit and blessing to their homes, their families, and themselves?

And we’re talking about practical skills here. We get the doctrine during the priesthood session of General Conference. What we need is hands-on training.

Keep in mind that we men would be teaching each other. We have to pull from our own strengths.

In my house I have two jobs that I’m good at. I take out the trash and I give the kid a bath. I do other things, of course, but these are my specialties.

If I was ever called upon to give a garbage-duty class, for example, I could do so with confidence.

“Don’t use the twisty ties included in the garbage-bag box,” I’d say. “They’ll only slip off on your way to the big garbage cans outside.”

All the men nod.

“Instead, tie the garbage bag off using a criss-cross granny knot. Like so.”

The men “ooh” and “ahh” as I demonstrate.

“When you finally put it outside,” I continue, “make sure the lid is secure. If a stray dog gets in there, you’ll find trash all over your yard come morning. And trust me, you’ll be the one picking it up.”

A friend of mine makes popcorn for his family. That’s his specialty. When popcorn needs to be made, the kids turn to him.

“OK, men,” he’d say. “This is a popcorn popper. The kernels go in here. Then you plug it in.”

It would be a short class, so on second thought, maybe it would be better if the women taught the classes. They have the real skills. Let’s put them in front of the chalkboard. We might actually learn something that way.

I’ve learned, for example, that there is a right and wrong way to fold clothes. My wife taught me the right way. She even showed me how to fold fitted sheets, which I was convinced were impossible to fold.

If all the men knew how to do this — and I’m assuming that they don’t — all of our homes would be better for it. I can picture it now. A wife comes home, finds the clothes folded properly, and BOOM! passes out from shock.

It would be a beautiful thing.

Or consider this: I discovered recently that a friend of mine doesn’t change diapers. His wife does them all. In all their six years of marriage he has never touched a single diaper.

This is a travesty.

“But I don’t know how,” is his defense.

Well we can change that. We’ll organize an official Elder’s Quorum Enrichment and then we’ll teach him and every other unskilled man how to do it properly.

We’d have to convince him that changing diapers isn’t all that bad, of course. He can’t be forced. But once we show him what a manly thing it is to change diapers and what sissy he is for not doing so, he’ll likely jump on the bandwagon.

Can you imagine the look on his wife’s face when he finally volunteers, no, insists upon changing the baby’s diaper? A doctor would have to surgically shrink her eyes back down to normal size.

And there are countless other skills. I’d love to hear your ideas. What do we husbands and fathers need? What skills should we develop? If you could have all of us learn a skill, what would it be?

Send me your responses. Let’s share. With a little collaboration and a lot of elbow grease we can give that Six Million Dollar Man a good run for his money.

Yesterday during fast and testimony meeting three people stood up and spoke for more than ten minutes each. One of them had a series of stories to tell. Another person gave a twelve minute talk – the subject of which I can’t remember. And the third person shared an incredibly long list of personal maladies.

They talked and talked and talked and talked.

I spent much of the meeting staring at the pew in front of me.

If you look long enough, I learned, you can make out animal shapes in the grain of the wood. I found two armadillos, a giraffe, and the head of a Scottish terrier.

And then I remembered the letter.

About a year and half ago the First Presidency sent a letter to all ward and stake leaders with specific instructions concerning testimony meetings.

First, testimonies are to be brief and of a spiritual nature, focusing primarily on Christ and the restoration.

Secondly, bishoprics are to teach by example. Whoever conducts the meeting will bear their own testimony first and give the ward a standard to follow.

This wasn’t new doctrine of course. Testimonies and testimony meetings have always been defined this way. Everybody knew that. And everybody agreed.

And yet, when some people stand at the pulpit, it’s as if they’re following the counsel of a different letter entirely, one that reads, “A testimony is a long, meandering monologue that may or may not touch upon the subject of religion.”

Why is that? Why do we believe one thing and do another? If we all agree that testimonies should be brief and centered on Christ, then why do so many testimonies fail to meet these criteria?

There are several reasons, I think. First, some people simply get nervous and lose track of time. What seems like two minutes is actually twenty.

But this is an innocent mistake.

Other people knowingly take twenty minutes. They believe their circumstance makes them unique and they deserve the majority of the meeting.

I’ve actually heard someone say at the beginning of their testimony, “Y’all get comfortable because I got a lot to say.”

Well sorry, buddy. I ain’t about to get comfortable. In fact, I’m loading my BB gun and as soon as five minutes are up, you better start weaving while you talk because I’ll be trigger happy.

Brief means brief. Not only does it help the speaker consolidate – and therefore emphasize – the points he or she is trying to make, but it also it gives more people the opportunity to bear theirtestimony.

To knowingly use up a lot of time is testimony grandstanding. And trust me, the moment you start doing it, people turn a deaf ear.

But grandstanders can’t carry all the blame. Some testimonies are awkward because the person bearing it confuses human emotion with the influence of the Spirit.

I cringe whenever a husband says, “And I want to tell my good wife Glenda how much I love her. She’s the light in my life…”.

This is not appropriate. This is not a testimony. This is a public display of affection. Yes, it’s sweet and tender and nice, but it’s not edifying. The Spirit will not witness to me that Hank does indeed love his dear wife Glenda.

Hank would do his wife a greater service by standing and bearing testimony of the Savior and of the restoration of the priesthood. What could be more gratifying to a wife than to know her husband is a stalwart disciple of Christ?

What’s worse is when these “testimonies” invoke tears.

When I was at BYU, for example, I endured many weeping testimonies that were nothing more than one roommate declaring her affection for the other.

“I don’t know what I would do without her (sob sob sob). She’s the best friend I ever had (sob sob sob).”

I’m sorry, dear. I don’t mean to sound cold-hearted, but that is not a testimony. I think it’s wonderful that you love your roommate, but tell her so in private. Testimony meeting is not the right time or place.

Or consider a sister who stands at the pulpit and says, “My husband lost his job (sob sob sob). This is a trial of my faith (sob sob sob).”

Let’s be blunt here. The woman isn’t crying because the Spirit is touching her heart. The woman is crying because her husband lost his job and all the emotions she’s been feeling regarding that event and its consequences are now welling up inside her.

But I feel for her, you say. Isn’t that the Spirit telling me that her trial of faith is sincere?

Personally, I don’t think so. The Spirit can help us mourn with those that mourn, yes. But it does so by prompting us to be compassionate. I don’t think the Spirit makes us sad.

If you disagree, ask yourself who makes you cry during sad movies. The Spirit? Obviously not. Those tears are simply the product of our own human emotions connecting with someone else’s – be they fictional or real.

But Aaron, are you saying then that the Spirit doesn’t make us cry?

No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. Put down your pitchforks.

In fact, I always cry when I bear my testimony. Despite my best efforts to dam the floodgates, they always burst open.

That’s because the moment I mention Christ, for example, the Spirit touches my heart and reminds me that he is indeed the Savior. The result is tears of joy, not tears of sorrow.

For other people, tears don’t come at all. This doesn’t mean, of course, that their testimony is any less valid or any less “spiritual” than mine. It simply means that the Spirit influences them differently.

Let’s go back to the sister who’s husband lost his job. If she goes on to say, “But one night while praying I felt at peace and I knew the Lord would bless us,” she has shared a legitimate testimony.

Well, technically she’s shared a personal experience. The real testimony comes next when she says, “That’s why I know God loves each of us. That’s why I know God lives.”

A testimony is a personal declaration of truth, not a purging of human emotions resulting from love or the difficulties of life.

The last and perhaps most obvious reason for awkward testimonies is that the person is simply crazy. Come on, admit it. There are some kooky individuals in this church.

I’ve been in a testimony meeting, for example, where a person stood and talked about the “magic rainbow bus.”

I’m not making this up, folks.

It was bad on my mission. One of the wards I served in was notorious for off-the-wall testimonies. A fellow missionary called it the “apostate rodeo.” He instructed us to grab the pew we were sitting on like we would a saddle horn, raise the other hand high in the air, and hold on for dear life.

My favorite testimony, however, happened here in the United States. A sister came to the pulpit and said, “My testimony is best expressed in song.” She then proceeded to sing all of the verses of a Janice Kapp Perry song.

Only a crazy person would do this.

To make matters worse, she did the same thing the next month, singing the exact same song. It didn’t help that she sounded very much like a slowly deflating balloon.

No, the best testimonies are brief and focused on Christ and the restoration. That’s why we enjoy children’s testimonies so much. Children are brief, and they testify of truth. “I know Jesus loves me. I know President Hinckley (pronounced Hink-rey) is a prophet. I know the church is true.”

That, folks, is a testimony.

What about those long “testimonies” given in my ward yesterday? Well, none of them mentioned Christ. He never came up. And the only person to mention Joseph Smith – or any aspect of the restoration – was one of the missionaries serving in our ward.

Bless this missionary. Each of us would be wise to follow his example. Otherwise we can all expect another letter soon.

Not all church callings are created equal. Some are tougher than squeezing water from stone, while others are as easy as breathing.

Take my calling, for example. As secretary of my priesthood quorum, I put in all of two minutes of service a week. I get out the roll, look around the room, make a few check marks, and voila! I’m done.

But other folks, like my wife, who’s the Primary president, put in some serious hours. When she isn’t on the phone with one of her counselors, for example, she’s busy typing a letter, or preparing Sharing Time, or conducting a presidency meeting, or any of the other thousand duties I never knew Primary presidents had.

Or consider the mammoth of all ward callings: the bishop. This is a man who not only attends a seemingly endless list of meetings and appointments, but also serves as a judge in Israel. And that’s no picnic. Sitting and listening to everyone’s problems is physically and emotionally exhausting.

But what about the lesser-known tough callings, the ones under the radar, the unseen and the unsung? Being a bishop is the toughest calling, yes, but it’s also the most visible. What about those who put in buckets of blood, sweat, and tears and rarely get noticed for it?

There are a few callings, I believe, that merit medals — big dangling gold medallions that put any Olympic medal ceremony to shame. These are: seminary teacher, nursery leader, and deacons quorum adviser.

Seminary Teacher

OK, I’m talking about early-morning seminary here, folks, not the sissy school-release program of the Rocky Mountains.

Sissy, you say? Cue the angry letters.

Anyway, the early-morning seminary teacher puts in, I’m guessing, about eleven or twelve hours of church service a week. That’s five hours for preparing the lessons, five hours for teaching the lessons, and an hour or two for total travel time.

Those of you who are seminary teachers may be laughing at those numbers and thinking, You poor naive little man, if you only knew how many hours I really put in.

But even if I am underestimating, eleven or twelve hours is still far more than most of us dedicate to our callings.

Add that to the fact that early-morning seminary is EARLY!

In my old ward, the students wake up at five o’clock, well before the dawn has even thought about cracking. They then shower, dress, drag themselves to their cars, and somehow arrive at the church building before 6:00 a.m. when class begins.

The seminary teacher, however, has been there a good ten minutes already, unlocking the building, arranging the seating, and putting on her most cheery smile.

But she’s careful not to be too cheery. Big smiles can anger adolescents in the wee hours of the day.

“It’s six o’clock in the morning,” they growl. “What are you so happy about?”

No, her facial expression must find the right mix of “glad to see you” and “please don’t hurt me.”

Once everyone is settled in — but not too comfortably so as to induce sleep — the lesson begins. And if you’ve ever taught teenagers before, you know it’s not as easy as teaching adults.

In an adult Sunday School class, when the teacher asks, “What is faith?”, hands immediately shoot skyward. Someone will make a comment. Then someone else will add to that comment. Then four more hands will shoot up, and pretty soon the class is engaged in a lively discussion.

Well, perhaps my “What is faith?” question isn’t the best example. Nobody likes to answer the “easy” questions. We adults like tackling the “mysteries.” So, it would be nearer the truth to say that a question like “Where is Kolob?” would initiate a hearty discussion.

But ask that same question to teenagers — especially at six o’clock in the morning — and your only response will be a chorus of crickets.

No, they don’t want to talk. They want to sleep, long peaceful hours of uninterrupted slumber. And who can blame them, really? Early-morning seminary is a huge sacrifice.

And that’s why I have nothing but respect for these teachers. They’re doing this voluntarily. No parent is making them come.

My respect skyrockets when I hear how much the students enjoy seminary, how much they love learning about the scriptures, how much fun they have in class. Wow. Lift that teacher onto your shoulders, parade her around town, and give her a key to the city. That’s no small task. That takes love, preparation, and mountains of help from the Lord.

Nursery Leader

My son just became old enough to enter nursery. He loves it. In fact, he practically jumps out of my arms and runs toward the nursery door when he realizes that’s where we’re headed.

The nursery leader always greets us with a smile and welcomes him openly. And when the two hours are up, he doesn’t want to leave.

Bless this woman. Bless her bless her bless her. Not only does she allow my wife and I to attend our meetings undisturbed, but she also teaches our son the gospel of Christ.

That’s because she realizes what a lot of people don’t: Nursery isn’t a daycare, it’s the first class in Primary. Kids don’t go there to be watched. They go there to learn. She teaches a simple lesson; they sing a few Primary songs; and in the end, she reinforces what my wife and I try to teach our son at home: basic principles of the gospel.

Oh sure, they have playtime. And yes, there’s a snack. But first and foremost, nursery is a class.

And if you thought teaching teenagers was tough, try teaching a dozen drooling, diaper-clad toddlers. It takes incredible patience, love, and persistence.

Give that woman (or man) a dozen roses and create a holiday in her honor. The nursery leader (i.e. teacher) is a calling that’s tougher than most.

Deacons Quorum Adviser

This one was a toss-up. I almost went with Scoutmaster, but since both men cater to the same audience, and since in some wards it’s the same person, deacons quorum adviser will suffice.

Boys go through a special phase when they’re twelve and thirteen years old. It’s called the “I want to be considered a cool teenager, but I’m lacking in the coolness part” phase.

Don’t get me wrong. I love this age. I worked closely with the deacons in my last ward, and it was incredibly rewarding.

But deacons can be a handful. They have eager minds but wiggly bodies. Primary is a recent memory to them, and instead of being allowed to sing a hearty rendition of “Heads, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” they now have to sit still and learn about the oath and covenant of the priesthood.

During the passing of the sacrament, when deacons are being marvelously reverent, one can’t help but think, Ah look at these sweet little angels. But by the time the third hour rolls around, the boys are a little antsy and any delusions of sweetness have quickly evaporated.

I remember arriving late to the deacons quorum class once. Several of the young men had their pressed white shirts untucked. Others were leaning dangerously far back in their chairs. And one of them was wearing his necktie like a headband. It was a zoo.

The teacher was trying desperately to share the prescribed lesson while at the same time encouraging the boys not to throw things, not to poke each other, and not to make disturbing bodily noises.

I tip my hat to you, deacons quorum adviser. You are a good man who loves his students and sees in them the potential to be great servants of the Lord. Bless you for you service.

Are there other tough callings? Of course there are. But these three, to me, are reserved for the great ones, the people who serve whenever and wherever they’re called. They know it’s going to be tough, but they take the assignment gladly.

In truth, they don’t even think of it as an assignment. No, to them it’s simply an opportunity to prove their dedication to the Lord. It’s not a burden, it’s a blessing.

And when their service is done, the bishop will then give that tough calling to someone else. As long as that new person isn’t me, everything’s hunky-dory.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to take roll.

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.