I have indeed had to mentally process this for years. Many, many people have tried to nudge me to take a more visible role of leadership. (You may have noticed that men who have heard me speak usually just crash the classes I’m teaching — and they’re usually older men, daring anyone to stop them.) They come because I have something to say, not because I’m such a hot speaker, I know.

But having gifts and abilities doesn’t mean that I should exercise them, I’ve concluded, in ways that don’t show submission. The older I get the more I treasure the example of Jesus in Philippians who gave up His inherent rights, in order to function as a servant. There’s nothing I give up, to be like Him, that He won’t reward me for.

On a less “practical” level, I do not rankle under the restrictions of male leadership because I see it as participating in a grand, cosmic model. I submit to my husband (and to visible male leadership in worship) because it pictures something: the submission of the Church to Jesus, and His submission to His Father. In other words, I like being a visual aid! I like explaining that I may have more education and Bible training than any man in the room but I will still show that I am willing to learn, and that I believe the Spirit works with all people REGARDLESS of their education, experience, or polish.  

Upper left is Debbie Fuller Thomas, whose debut novel, Tuesday Night at the Blue Moonreleased June 1, 2008.

Upper Center is Patti Hill, whose latest novel, The Queen of Sleepy Eye just released in September.

Upper right is Sharon K. Souza, whose latest, Lying on Sunday, also released in September.

Center left is Bonnie Grove, whose novel, Talking to the Dead will release in 2009.

Center, um… center is Jennifer Valent, whose first novel, Fireflies in December, will also release in 2009.

Center right is Kathleen Popa, whose newest book, The Feast of St. Bertie, has just released.

Lower left is of course me — my novel, Latter Day Cipher, will also release in 2009.

Here’s what Moody has in their online catalogue about my new book (I added the release date, so don’t hold them to that yet):  

When rebellious Utah socialite Kirsten Young is found murdered in Provo Canyon with strange markings carved into her flesh and a note written in 19th century code, questions arise about the old laws of the Mormon Church. Journalist Selonnah Zee is assigned the story—which quickly takes on a life of its own. Even before the first murder is solved several more victims appear, each one more mysterious than the last.

Adding to a slew of other distractions, Selonnah’s cousin Roger has recently converted and is now a public spokesperson for the Mormon faith. But paradoxically, Roger’s wife, Eliza, is struggling to hold on to the Mormon beliefs of her childhood. If something is really from God, she wonders, why does it need to be constantly revised? And could the murderer be asking the same questions?

Latter-Day Cipher

A Novel

by Latayne C. Scott

ISBN: 0-8024-5679-0

ISBN-13: 978-0-8024-5679-3

Price: $13.99

# of Pages: 350

Format: Paperback

Release Date:  April 2009

I pull an amorphous issue forward until it resolves into its face.  Then I put my face right up against it and talk to it.

I take all comers– the monolith of Mormonism, the challenge of writing truthful fiction, the bittersweet contradictions of faith in a mysterious and often terrifying God of love.

I look them all straight in the eye.

— Latayne C. Scott

The Mormon Mirage (Zondervan)

Latter-day Cipher (Moody)

Prisca’s Epistle

The Hinge of Your History:  The Phases of Faith

Ready to read??   Let’s go!!!!  And PLEASE leave a comment telling me what you think!

Chapter One

There on the damp pine needles Kirsten Young lay on her back, a serene Ophelia in her dusky pond of blood. The dark irises of her bloodshot eyes stared unseeing into the branches above her. The sun had burst through the clouds after the sudden downpour and now blazed above the canopy of conifers and aspens in Provo Canyon. Deep in its recesses, the light filtered down in vertical sheets of champagne dust that played across the body.

Her skin, once the faintest of olive, now was pale as churned cream, mottled  in the dark pooling of what everyone called her hot Italian blood. An angry oval bruise, dark as a plum, marked the side of her forehead.

The slit in her throat cut deep. There were hesitation marks on each side of her neck like those a suicide makes, trying to summon the courage to complete the act. The final cut had been made deeply on the right side, curling almost to her left.

Her left arm lay loosely at her side, still bearing at the wrist the friction marks from the plastic rope that had bound her. Her right arm crossed her chest, with the elbow supported by a rock underneath the triceps so the arm stayed in place. Her fingers curled slightly around her own shoulder, as if she gave herself a final hug in death. The tip of her thumb touched, delicately, the edge of the open wound under her left ear.

The scene on the forest floor was meant to set things aright.

No, no, she wasn’t Ophelia at all, he thought. She was Eve, temptress and sinner cast from the garden of Utah, wearing a hasty apron of cottonwood leaves heaped around and across her plump belly, from just below the navel to mid-thigh. Tiny rivulets of blood snaked down through the leaves.  

The other four wounds, the little ones, were postmortem, made after she’d already bled out.

On the right side of her chest, incised with surgical precision, the first cut penetrated deep, a backwards L. It depicted a carpenter’s square: the straightedge, true-maker, indispensable for right angles. The desired angularity could not, alas, be achieved on the soft roundness of this still-warm flesh.

Nor could the second, the compass. On the left side, a chevron gaped open with edges that wanted to lose their definition, a tiny V on this day of defeats and victories.

 A third inch-long slit carefully cut into the muscle just above the knee that would never again bow.

A final slit traversed her stomach just above the navel, a sign of nourishment for a body that would never again eat; of health for one who would only decay.

They were all symbols only the initiated would understand.

 But below her navel mark, Kirsten harbored her own tiny secret, one that held the seed of her killer’s downfall, her own unwitting fleshly vengeance.

In the sheeting light, her murderer stood above her like the angel guarding Eden, the knife-sword flashing this way and that in his gloved hand. He had brought along a plain white sheet he’d bought at a garage sale and kept stored in a plastic bag. But he changed his mind about putting it over her. She was beyond the veil now.

His shoulders sagged beneath the once-white jumpsuit. The leaves embroidered on the green cloth apron he wore were speckled as a measles plant. The Exacto knife lay at his feet and he picked it up and threw it and the sheet into the stream. Then he laid the note carefully on the ground, its edge secured by a rock.

The white cap still contained his close-cropped hair but it had lost its starched definition. It, too, sagged as he backed away from Kirsten, brushing over with a fallen pine branch the near-invisible footprints they both had made when they came to this, his sacred grove.

His breathing was heavy as he recited. They’d said it was “the pure Adamic language” he’d learned that first time, at age nineteen, scared half to death by all the temple vows and disembodied voices behind the veils: 

“Pay lay ale. Pay lay ale. Pay lay ale.” 

He swallowed hard.

“Oh Lord, hear the words of my mouth.”

Chapter Two

The man who discovered Kirsten Young, the one everyone thought was the first murder victim, found her quite by chance: He nearly tripped over the body after stumbling through the underbrush seeking a secluded place to relieve himself.

Terrence Jensen, Dr. Jensen to his students but Terry to his family, jogged every day now, after his doctor told him that the stress of holding too much inside was going to kill him. Jensen had squelched a retort—how would you like the faith of 12.8 million followers on your shoulders, he’d wanted to ask—and thanked the doctor meekly for the free pedometer.

Always one to take such a warning from an authority figure most literally, Jensen dutifully took up running to reduce his thickening waist and his stress level, and found that as his stamina increased so did his enjoyment. But reticent by nature, he would drive miles from his off-campus home to the new trails in the mountains northeast of Provo to run in solitude, this place where he could jog and talk to himself without anyone commenting.

Later, he wondered if his secret sin of drinking a cola drink – forbidden on the Brigham Young University campus – had been what had made his bladder so urgent that he’d had to veer off the rain-slicked path. On other runs he’d occasionally encountered other hikers and runners, so he had to be careful. When he caught sight of what could have been a police car on the distant winding road he hid even from that.  

His mind tangled into the greatest dilemma of his life. With what elegance of speech and imagination, he wondered, can you extract fifteen words out of one Egyptian hieroglyphic, fifteen words that have nothing to do with the hieroglyphic itself. Mnemonics? He snorted. Even he couldn’t believe that. And how do you sell such a translation technique for scripture to an increasingly-literate group, with access to the Internet? Everyone was depending on him, the church’s foremost Egyptologist, to hold the line, to keep saying that these ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics could be finessed into saying what they did not say.

  He was still panting as he unzipped. His sinuses ached and the blood chanting in his ears was almost Gregorian. His bladder was bursting. Relief was sweet.

Then he saw her.

He didn’t dare come near—the woman was obviously dead. But the folded piece of paper under the rock—surely, he thought, he could look at that and put it back before anyone could get here. No harm would be done. He hesitated and dialed 911, only mildly surprised when the dispatcher recognized his name and took down the facts as he dispassionately related them: female, certainly dead, trail location; and yes, he’d wait.

Jensen looked around for a stick but thought better of leaving fingerprints, so he took his water bottle out of his fanny pack and used it to push the rock off the piece of paper. On the outside was written in a small, neat hand the words, “THE SECOND PROOF.” Using his car keys, he coaxed the edges apart and unfolded it. It was written in a code that any student of Mormon history would have recognized at once, but few could read immediately.

But Jensen could grasp it. He read it over twice, the color draining from his pinched face. Then he stepped closer and looked at the dead woman. Anyone who lived in Salt Lake City and watched the news or read a local paper knew Kirsten Young. Anyone of the millions of Mormons who wore temple garments under their clothes would know what the cuts on her meant.

  And anyone who could read the Deseret Alphabet, taught to schoolchildren in Utah during the 1860’s when Brigham Young’s word was law, would know the connection between Kirsten Young’s pitiful body and the note he held in his hand.

One thing the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints didn’t need right now was bad publicity, and Jensen knew that the media would alight soon after the police. Whom to tell about the note? He first resolved to look for the raised ridges of the peculiar neckline of temple garments beneath the uniforms of policemen identifying which were brother Mormons.

But he changed his mind. No. He wouldn’t tell anyone. He’d keep the note, at least for a while. He’d be protecting it. He’d be protecting everyone. He put the note into his fanny pack, squeezed into the little wallet full of gas receipts and gum wrappers, and walked back to the trail to meet them all.  

“On whether his church still holds that God the Father was once a man, [Hinckley] sounded uncertain, `I don’t know that we teach it. I don’t know that we emphasize it… I understand the philosophical background behind it, but I don’t know a lot about it, and I don’t think others know a lot about it.’” [emphasis added]

Mormons are divesting themselves of previous non-Christian teachings.  However, do we need an exclusive prophet to tell us that God-who-was-once-a-man is now just the same God the Christians have been worshiping all along?  Does that make any sense at all?

It is here, in church
I realize
That push has come
To shove

I sit here beside my son,
My strong manchild,
His neck transversed by that hateful wound
And harboring all those rampant covert cells
That lurk and leer
At the flesh
Of my flesh

I’m thinking about
“Only-begotten son.”

We sing together, a cappella.
His bass is threadbare:
And then one day
I’ll cross that river
I’ll fight life’s final
War with

Pain

And I want the river
I want the crossing

But I hate the war
And am undone by knowing
That I have made a crossing already

I have outstripped numbness
At the very thought
Of his pain

(copyright 2007, Latayne C. Scott.  Do not reproduce without written permission.)

Perhaps such things make you understand why many Christian groups, including the one with which I worship, do not have creeds or doctrinal statements.  In keeping with that spirit, I’m going to try to address some of your concerns just using the Bible.

The first issue is the fact that God insisted throughout the Old Testament that He was the only God.  Monotheism is the most basic tenet of both Judaism and Christianity.  Period.  This concept excludes the idea of persons or personalities with different origins and beginning points in time, such as Mormonism teaches.  So the foundational truth of all of the Old Testament, at least, is that there is only one God.  All of Christian theology rests on that basis.

While there is only one God, Scripture does, as you pointed out, show us that there are personalities, who are divine, that see themselves as having some differentiation.  Not gods, but Persons in God. (Or maybe Persons of God?)  The big difference between LDS doctrine and Christian doctrine is this:  Jesus is not a God. He exemplifies how in the Godhead someone can be divine and not “a God.” He is and always has been divine.  He didn’t attain godhood nor was He created and exalted by some other Being.  He was God from the beginning of all things (John 1:1.) Remember, please, the diagram on the other post.

It’s true that the word Trinity does not appear in the Bible; nor does the phrase “three in one” or other things we’ve invented to try to linguistically capture the concept of a Being who has told us from the start that we cannot understand Him.  His judgments, He tells us, are unsearchable, and His paths beyond any tracing out; His thoughts are not ours, and His ways are not ours.  We can only access Him through the glimpses He allows.

The triadic nature of God is echoed throughout His creation.  Reality itself is tri-partite:  the part you see, the part you don’t see (the eternal and invisible) and of course the necessary link between the two that allows us to know Him.  Our thinking processes are triadic — facts we access by linking them to our representations (such as visual icons and words both written and spoken.)  If this area of inquiry (known in the secular world as semeiotics) is of any interest to you I can send you a more complete explanation of this point, but don’t want to “lose” you over it.  Look here for the “basics” lessons on Representational Resources.com (start with lesson #4 of Introduction to Representational Thinking)  if you’d like to explore this idea of the triadic nature of what God is and has created.

Even human beings are tri-partite while being singular.  There is only one of me, but I have three parts.  I have a body.  If somebody steps on my foot, “I” hurt.  I also  have a spirit, the thinking part of me.  I also have a soul, something that can be lost through disobedience.  (Remember, “what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and yet lose his soul.”)

You asked who Jesus was talking to when He prayed.  I have tried (and not done a good job I fear) to convey that He is multifaceted and incomprehensible. But God can have inner dialogue just like we do.  A very good example of such inner dialogue is Romans 7.  There Paul’s fleshly nature is warring with his spirit.  It’s not his body — the body can’t make you do anything.  But he has an inner war going on. What is arguing with what?

Now, that’s not a precise analogy because there are three personalities all of whom can be properly called “God.”  One God.  But they can all be God in the way that my body is me, my thinking processes or spirit are me, and my soul is me.

Trevor, I hope this helps.