Chapter V, Part III: On Mormons

But then I came to the most interesting part of the discussion: the story of the wife of Harris the publisher. Short summary: Martin Harris was a fairly rich guy who believed JS was a prophet and agreed to print the Book of Mormons for him. Now JS puts these two stones in a hat, sticks his head in and starts reading the book out to him, chapter by chapter, word by word. They completed it within a week or something. Harris takes the manuscript to his wife, Lucy, the skeptic, who says, "Tell him you've lost it and that he should write it again. We'll keep the old version and if it matches with the new version, then he's telling the truth." But upon hearing about the loss of the original manuscript, JS gets pissed, goes to his attic to pray and comes back and says the Lord has spoken to him and commanded him to write a new book of Mormons, thus giving the incident the name "the lost book of Mormons".

When I asked them about this, naturally, their expressions had changed. I honestly did not think it was possible, but they were no longer smiling. I don't know how they do it but Mormons don't ever stop smiling (except when this story is told, apparently).

"We, uh, we have not heard of this story. There is indeed the story of the lost chapters of the book, but this?" They both looked at each other for a moment, their expressions almost hinting fear ... and I didn't understand that.

Btw, I can't believe I forgot to tell you about this but here's a brief about my two Mormon companions. The older one had a name tag bearing 'Elder Karr' and the younger one's name tag was ... actually, I don't remember. We'll just call him Younger Karr. Together, the two walked around like a very wrong Laurel and Hardy pair. Elder was about 25, had been with the church for 15 years, originally from New Jersey and had been taught Spanish by a Palestinian Guatemalan in the capital (thus, I was, unfortunately, not the first muslim he had ever seen, but certainly the first Pakistani ... which was also shocking; there are at least a thousand of us in every major American city [Right, Maria?]). And Younger was ... younger (though more interesting looking, I can't seem to remember any details about him). Born and raised into Mormonism in Salt Lake City, the younger looked like a mix between an Uzbekistani-Chinese and a Mexican-Dutch; he had pale skin, a small stature, black hair and eyes that, during their growth, couldn't decide whether they wanted to be chinese, caucasian or central european and just ended up bulging and shrinking simultaneously, resulting in two swollen golfballs. I normally tend to remember people better if I've had eye contact conversations with them, and since it was difficult to look at his eyes without squinting, that's probably why I don't remember anything about him.

Anyways, I spared them from their disturbed expressions and cheered them up by saying something like, "Hey, look, I heard about this story somewhere and it's probably not even true. Besides, the only problem with your faith is that people doubt you and look at you with strange looks. The problem with my faith is that people don't understand us and look at us like we're gonna blow up any second." Like normal white people, for a change, they didn't get the joke (or thought it wasn't funny) but forced a smile and managed to get their minds off of the story that their religion tended to turn away from.

We eventually got to their church, and folks, as cynical as I was, I started thinking that if this is the kind of money Mormons are pumping into their church, then sign me up right now. The church was not a church, it was a giant community center with a large basketball court, a Victorian-style main building (which was the church) built entirely from materials imported from the US, a large parking spot, a cafeteria so clean it'd put the Swedes to shame and gardens all over the place. If they changed the "Iglesia de los Santos de Últimos Dias" to "Oxford University - Guatemala campus", I honestly would've believed them. Not surprisingly, the entire place was fortified with large cage-like fences and a stern gate. When I asked them if this was the central Coban church, they laughed their borderline fake laugh and said, "Ha ha. Oh no, this is but the secondary church, yay. Verily, the main one is in another part of the city." And yes, that other one is almost twice as large as this one.

They invited me inside and I reluctantly refused, but promised to return some other day. We exchanged numbers, I pulled out a cigarette as I walked away (to which they gave an almost envious look) and waved them goodbye. As I walked away, I reflected on yet another encounter of the second kind: I had met the Morons!