Artigo Revisado por pares

Mormonicity

2022; Michigan State University Press; Volume: 22; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.14321/crnewcentrevi.22.2.0205

ISSN

1539-6630

Autores

Lydia R. Kerr,

Tópico(s)

Mormonism, Religion, and History

Resumo

After investing an estimated six million dollars and close to a decade's worth of time into its international “I'm a Mormon” campaign aimed at promoting the diversity of its membership, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints announced in 2018 that its members should no longer be called “Mormons.” President Russel M. Nelson grounded the style guide changes in revelation: “The Lord has impressed upon my mind the importance of the name He has revealed for His Church” (Nelson 2018). Nelson also emphasized that he was not calling for “a name change,” or a “cosmetic” “rebranding” based on “whim,” but rather a “non-negotiable” “correction” commanded by God himself (Nelson 2018). The new name—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—wasn't new at all. And while many note that it's much more cumbersome and confusing than the term “Mormons” (Stack 2019), this revealed name reinforces important aspects of the faith that leaders like Nelson had already elaborated thirty years ago.First of all, the capitalization of the word “The” in “The Church” “indicates the unique position of the restored Church among the religions of the world” (Ballard 2011), as well as the distinct ordinances and covenants it alone bestows “by authorized priesthood power” to “bless all children of our Heavenly Father, regardless of their nationality” (Nelson 1990). Next, the phrase “of Jesus Christ” underscores a Christian faith: nothing new, but the same Christ of the New Testament. The phrase “of Latter-day” situates the faith as a restoration of Christ's church not just geographically in the so-called new world, but temporally within an era of progress that saw, by no coincidence according to Nelson, the invention of all manner of communication and transportation technologies perfectly suited for global proselytizing and growth. Finally, “Saints” refers not simply to those with a reverence for Christ, but also, among other things, “honorable citizen(s)” who know “that the very country which provides opportunity and protection deserves support, including prompt payment of taxes and personal participation in its legal political process” (Nelson 1990). In this revealed name, the church maintains a narrative of its peculiarity and integrates this uniqueness into the American narrative writ large: the One True Church authorized by priesthood power obediently paying tithes to the One True Nation providing opportunity and protection.The style guide revelation is just one recent example of church leaders’ repeated attempts to manage the permanent crisis of the faith's so-called “peculiar” position with regard to hegemonic American culture since it was founded in the nineteenth century.1 Armand Mauss's study of the Mormon struggle with assimilation deals with the vacillation between uniqueness and sameness we discern in Nelson's semiotic breakdown of each “precious” “word that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord” (Nelson 1990). In The Angel and the Beehive, Mauss argues that Mormonism is an anomaly for classical sociology when it comes to “the typical fate of new religious movements” wherein survival is purchased at the cost of a sect's or cult's distinct identity. The Mormons, Mauss says, have not merely survived, but even succeeded, because their path toward Americanization is neither as straight nor as predictable as the “sect-to-church” model would have it; they “strategically reverse course from time to time” in their “strain toward greater assimilation and respectability,” here and there doubling down on their “separateness, peculiarity, and militance” (Mauss 1994, 5–6). His titular angel and beehive are useful metaphors in Mauss's exploration of this vacillation between assimilation and what he calls “retrenchment”: The angel signifies the faith's claims to a separate “other-worldly” heritage of unique beliefs and behavior, while the beehive indexes “all aspects of Mormon involvement with the world, cultural as well as economic” (3).Of course, sociology is one thing and mythology (what I'm after here) is another. Or, to paraphrase Roland Barthes: Mormons are one thing, the idea that a Mormon or any other American could have of them today is another. For this particular mixture of polygamist patriarchs, earnest missionaries, successful businessmen, and faithful citizens, no other word is possible but Mormonicity (2013, 230).2 The ideas I've just listed are figures of myth. They can easily be replaced with others: frontier cowboys, sexual perverts, loving fathers, separatist fundamentalists. What matters is how these recurring figures of Mormonicity engage in the ideological abuse of pretending to describe reality precisely by effacing its history, by naturalizing it in the present as common sense. Only mythology can account for this. Only mythology can assess the broader function of this retrenchment/assimilation dichotomy not only for Mormons but for Americanicity, too. To the extent that it has, time and again, attempted to manage its name and brand, the church itself participates in the production of these myths to be sure. But contributing to Mormonicity as well are the hilarious, absurd, obscene, and in any case unruly wanderings of this carefully constructed image within and throughout the broader history of the United States. “Mormonicity” thus names the vacillating history—not of Mormons themselves vis-à-vis something like the rest of the country, or even, as Mauss puts it, their cultural and economic involvement with the world, but of the hidden contradictions within a certain image repertoire.3In The Mormon Story, which is also The American Story, assimilation and retrenchment are not categorical antinomies, but inseparable. Mauss's pendulum turns out to be more of a whirligig: assimilation through retrenchment and retrenchment through assimilation. When it comes to the faith's assimilation into the American hive, Mormonicity often appears as an angel monumentalizing the nation's own foundational myths that say: There's no other place in which this church could succeed but the land of the free and the home of the brave. When it comes to (institutional or sectarian) fundamentalist retrenchment, though, Mormonicity seems to mirror the American hivemind, and becomes an exemplary artifact of America's own peculiar past that says: There's no better relic of our eternal progress than the patriarchal and racist history this faith must leave behind. Given the ongoing manifest destiny in which this nation considers itself divinely appointed to democratize and civilize the rest of the world, this paradoxical view of Mormon peculiarity in the United States bears upon the peculiarity of American nationalism as well. E Pluribus Unum; however, this one was not the inclusive coming together of a new community but built upon a separatist many whose founding principle was a distinct setting apart of individuals, properties, and freedoms.Perhaps to the church's dismay, none of this is unique to the Latter-day Saints—it's the constitutive contradiction of America itself after all—but Mormonicity is one example, perhaps the best one, of this contradictory belongingness and separateness that constitutes America. This essay thus investigates the way that contradiction is managed and overlaid, effaced by, an ideology that's just as American as it is Mormon and just as Mormon as it is American. Here I offer a fragmentary but initiative semiotics of Mormonicity through a mythology of five American tableaux: Captain Moroni as a Book of Mormon insurrectionist, Cowboy Jesus as an ex machina literary cult classic, Space Jesus as a reproduction without sex, Mitt Romney as a presidential gaffe, and Brigham Young as a separatist meme. It is no accident that these tableaus all feature images of whiteness and masculinity.I should say up front that I am neither a white guy nor a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (though it would still, of course, be necessary for me to account for the position from which my inquiry proceeds if I were). I didn't personally know any members of the church until I moved to Utah, only equipped, I confess, with notions of “magic underwear” and polygamy stereotypes of which I've since been disabused. But for twelve years now I have worked with faithful members (as well as many who've transitioned out of the church) at the largest public university in the state of Utah, an open-enrollment school located only a few blocks from the privately owned Brigham Young University (BYU, the church's flagship institution). As an educator in Utah, I realized early on that I could ignore neither the church's teachings nor the broader perception of the faith in my own pedagogy and scholarship. As a woman in Utah, I learned to keep my shoulders covered in class if I wanted my students to take me seriously. I am, in other words, an outsider whose day-to-day life is intertwined with the lives of those on the inside and margins of the faith. This positionality, which I've not attempted to occlude in my descriptions of each tableau, not only explains my deep interest in this topic but gives me a certain perspective on the “ideological abuse” of “what-goes-without-saying” in the myths of Mormonicity today (Barthes 2013, xi).4I am an American woman watching live cable TV news coverage of an apparent insurrection at the United States Capitol. I see a strapping shirtless man in the rotunda. Wearing an animal fur headdress . . . and horns? Face painted red, white, and blue. Wielding a spear with an American flag tied below the blade. Sitting—no, posing—in the Vice President's chair. Exterior scene: A man in the crowd is dressed as some sort of Roman gladiator or centurion. He is fat. On his phone he records videos of the chaos for his mother. He waves a large piece of white fabric emblazoned with hand-written block letters: IN MEMORY OF OUR GOD, AND OUR RELIGION, AND OUR FREEDOM, AND OUR PEACE, OUR WIVES, AND OUR CHILDREN! On the screen, superimposed over this spectacle of excess, another string of words: BREAKING NEWS: ENTIRE DC NATIONAL GUARD HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. Right away, I see clearly what these images signify: that America is still a great nation, that all its citizens, without discrimination, are served and protected by its laws, and that there is no better answer to the detractors of an alleged police state than the utter savagery being displayed here by those who have breached the very seat of this democracy. Justice has already been activated.The bodies, costumes, and gestures of the combatants. The transgression itself: a breach of democracy. The causal logic of the breaking news: the immanence of justice, the penalty. What we have here is a spectacle, one that enacts for us a total understanding of things. The characters play their roles perfectly, are even assigned nicknames: The QAnon Shaman and his trusty sidekick, Caesar-No Salad.5 Their actions correspond perfectly with their physiques, which transmit essential qualities: The one man's brawn is savage; the other's corpulence equally so in its excess. Their primitive gestures—wielding a spear, waving a flag—tell us nothing except what side they are on: that of tyranny. They are in this way identified in and by the spectacle: insurrectionists, here to contest something sacred—the inherent freedom and fairness of the electoral process, of our democracy. But the breaking news is that help is on the way! Since justice is imminent on the stage of political theater, the insurrectionist is simultaneously cast as primitive savage threatening the security of the state and pathetic clown already sentenced to his doom.Because the spectacle must not register reality or history (let alone any of the contradictions contained therein) we are not able to see that Caesar No-Salad was dressed as a Book of Mormon hero on that day. Here is Nathan Wayne Entrekin (the man's real name) in his own words: I am Captain Moroni. I am the William Wallace of the Book of Mormon. In the Book of Alma of the Book of Mormon, a freedom fighter named Captain Moroni fought for his freedom against the King-Men . . . And around, I like to say 76 B.C. because 1776 sounds so—is so popular—but before Christ came to Jerusalem, in this land, the Book of Mormon is about this land, right? . . . I'm here for freedom. You're here for freedom. (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2021)Here is the tale of Captain Moroni, excerpted from Book of Mormon Stories, an illustrated storybook for children published by the church: A wicked man named Amalickiah wanted to be king over the Nephites [which would] destroy the Church of God and take away the people's liberty. When Captain Moroni, the leader of the Nephite armies, heard of [this wicked] plan . . . he became angry [and] tore his coat to make a flag [upon which] he wrote a message to remind the people to defend their religion, freedom, and peace. Moroni . . . called it the title of liberty . . . [and] called [the people] to come and help protect their freedom. (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints 1997)It doesn't matter how Entrekin himself interpreted this story because his faith was largely ignored by news and social media. The affiant who authored the FBI's criminal complaint against Entrekin did, however, append “a brief summary of Captain Moroni and the Title of Liberty” to his statement of facts about the case because “the plot of the book of Mormon [sic] and the story arcs of its figures” are necessary for “establishing the defendant's intent and state of mind” (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2021). The summary translates this ancient battle, as the spectacle also does but in reverse, as a story of democracy triumphing over tyranny.Reduced in this way (even and especially when his intent and state of mind are being taken into consideration), Entrekin's performance also elides what was written on the “Title of Liberty” he was waving: that he is (or at least imagines himself to be) a father—a protector not just of wives and children, but of peace, freedom, even God. All this is effaced by snapshots framing the weight of his body and the primitive heft of his gestures as a pathetic performance for his mother: “I'm here, Mom! This is my flag.” “I made it Mom. I made it to the top . . . Look at all the patriots here. Haha, if I can make it up that, anybody can . . . I made it to the relative top, anyway . . . I keep running into trees, though. I gotta get this first, though, before my costume falls off me” (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2021).Another erasure: This Captain Moroni was there, not to defend tyranny or democracy but, as he clearly explains, to protest the state because the state has betrayed its caregiving mission. For him it seems to provide neither the father's protection nor even the mother's nourishment: Why can't you people just do what we want? Why do you gotta make it so hard? Why do you take our money and use it for nefarious purposes? Every man woman and child should have a house in this free nation. We should not have homeless at all. We're a rich enough nation everyone can have a house of their own . . . Get us a fuckin’ house! . . . You shut us down and you stay up? You keep our money? I know, my mom's gonna hear that. Sorry, Mom. I dropped some f-bombs. Hahaha. (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2021)Does this petulant protest make him, in fact, a pro-statist? No matter. Any responses he might expect to his questions would take the form of tautological statements of fact, or at best paternalistic common sense, on this stage: Because I said so or That's the way it is. So, look, mom! This Captain Moroni is there to show you he's a big boy, begging your forgiveness for profanity, running into trees, struggling above all to keep his costume on, as he bumbles his way to the relative top.But what about those who did recognize Entrekin's costume and his (mis)use of this “freedom-loving verse” from The Book of Mormon (Reiss 2021)? In the weeks leading up to the 2020 election, Captain Moroni's image had already been activated by Utah Senator Mike Lee, who used it to hard-sell Trump to a group of Arizona rallygoers. Recalling this episode, one Mormon commentator believes Lee and the Mormon protestors sighted at the Capitol on January 6 “don't get to have the last word on what Mormons in America stand for” since we also have Mitt Romney to show “what people of our faith are capable of” (Reiss 2021). The spectacle is also a mirror. And according to this perspective, there are “two very different possible futures of American Mormonism” on display in this theater. But what is the difference between a Caesar No-Salad, a Captain Moroni, and a Senator Romney? We're now prepared to decipher the rest of the history elided by this commedia dell’ insurrection.6I am at the Visitor's Center at Temple Square in downtown Salt Lake City. I see an epic painting of a Mormon prophet that reminds me of Charlton Heston's Technicolor Moses. Then another, of Captain Moroni: This ancient military commander stands triumphantly before a crowd of legionaries, muscles bulging. Lots of swords: most obviously the one the commander is holding (its sheath dangling provocatively between his legs), but also those raised by the phalanx, which are all that's visible of them. All this is the meaning of the picture. But, whether naively or not, I see also what it signifies: that these men are a part of a great and ageless empire and that there is no better evidence of their Americanness than the strength and patriotism shown by those who had the courage to defend this empire's liberties before it was even called America.Arnold Friberg, the illustrator of Book of Mormon heroes like Captain Moroni, has been called “one of the most influential and best-known shapers of gendered Mormon art in the twentieth century” (Allen 2020, 114). For most contemporary members of the church—including Mike Lee and Caesar No-Salad—Friberg's Captain Moroni is Captain Moroni. The church commissioned his illustrations for a children's magazine in the mid twentieth century as part of an internal branding campaign initiated in the wake of the so-called “Polygamy Manifesto” of 1890, when the church officially renounced the practice of plural marriage to gain statehood for Utah. Having been emasculated by this federal intrusion upon their bedrooms, their very claim to reproduction, scholars argue that Mormon men needed a new-and-improved model of “Muscular Mormonism” (Kimball 2008).Following the Protestant enthusiasts of the late nineteenth-century muscular Christianity movement, 7 church leaders employed writers and artists whose work “combine[d] western masculinity and Mormon morality” and linked “adherence to the Word of Wisdom with athletic success” (Kimball 2008, 556).8 Friberg was also hired in 1956 to create the visual design for The Ten Commandments, meaning that even non-Mormons would recognize his muscular images in Cecil B. DeMille's Moses, in whom the director intended to reflect the formidable God of the Old Testament.9 For his part, Friberg explained the muscularity of his heroes as “an expression of the spirit within . . . I'm painting the interior, the greatness, the largeness of spirit” (cited in Barrett and Black 2005, 33). The ineffable quality of spirit rendered corporeal: quantified, measured, and weighed in the Mormon physique, evidenced, ultimately, in the healthy, able, dietetic, and fit male body.Enter again Caesar No-Salad, whose physique also expresses the spirit within. But unlike the muscular messaging of the early to mid-twentieth century that suggested that Mormon men essentially are what they eat, media coverage and online discourse about Caesar No-Salad produce him as someone who is not what he does not eat. Pathetic, there to perform for his mother, Entrekin's body is that of a man who cannot properly take care of himself. Above all, his more or less legitimate protest regarding the state's failure to care for its citizens—“You shut us down and you stay up?”—is silenced by the savage and clownish qualities quantified in his costume, gestures, and decidedly unmuscular physique as he bumbles his way to the relative top without, we might say, the requisite orthopedic bootstraps.Entrekin's Captain Moroni costume and the Title of Liberty he waved at the Capitol insurrection might also have reminded spectators of another media standoff with Mormonicity: the Bundy family's forty-day siege of Oregon federal buildings in 2016. A Utah man who responded to Ammon Bundy's call to arms identified himself to the media as Captain Moroni, explaining, “I didn't come here to shoot I came here to die” (Piper 2016). Ammon Bundy's father Cliven had also evoked the Title of Liberty during an earlier protest he led against the Bureau of Land Management in Nevada in 2014. During the Bundy standoffs, Mormon commentators were far from silent. Jana Reiss, for example, explained that militia men like these “are drawn to . . . Captain Moroni because he's the military stud muffin of the Book of Mormon . . . He gets the job done. He sees himself as a Nephite patriot who loves God and country and gets rid of interlopers” (Reiss 2016, emphasis mine). Though Reiss goes on to enumerate the ways in which the Bundys misinterpret this Book of Mormon hero in her own effort to recuperate Captain Moroni's message, I am more interested in her sardonic use of the term “stud muffin” since it recalls the quantification of quality we've been exploring and the effacing work it does in the myth of Mormonicity.Even before the heroic body of Mormon manhood was resurrected in the contemporary theater of insurrection as the flabby paraphernalia of an impotent evil, scholars note that Friberg's muscle men could have been mistaken for images from any number of midcentury physical culture magazines for gay men (Campbell 2020, 251) just as well as they'd be recognized in DeMille's epic. As a matter of fact, the 2010 version of a beefcake calendar series created by a now-excommunicated church member featured a photo of a returned missionary dressed as none other than Friberg's Captain Moroni on its cover (Campbell 2020, 255).10 In Mauss's terms we might say that these figures manage to assimilate what is inassimilable in the spectacle of insurrection. Whether by Friberg or DeMille, media coverage of Caesar No-Salad, or Reiss's comments on the Bundys’ stud-muffin inspiration, the quantification of quality always “economizes intelligence” insofar as it's deployed to “understand reality more cheaply” (Barthes 2013, 268).The reality is that these recent insurrectionary chapters of The Mormon Story can also be found in the earliest chapters of The American Story. The spectacle of Mormonicity conceals the fact that “a conjoined patriotism and rebellion, a defiant antigovernment act as national birthright and obligation,” as Brenda Weber notes of the Bundy sieges, is fully supported by a Mormon “ideology . . . that perceive[s] armed resistance as the right and obligation of God's elect” (2019, 113). What's more, it is buttressed by American ideology too, for the sieges seem to model precisely “the way the country was founded” (113). In these insurrections, Captain Moroni and his Title of Liberty moreover “reinforce the central place Mormonism [has] in these values of Western Americanism” (Weber 2019, 113). What myth elides here is that antigovernmentality and birthright obligation, rebellion and patriotism, separatism and union, retrenchment and assimilation are the constitutive contradictions not only of Mormonicity, but Americanicity, too.I'm on a date with a man who has recently left the church. He's brought a book, which he recommends I read because the Mormon protagonist's love interest is a Lutheran, like I used to be. The front cover looks like a still from a softcore porn: a black-and-white photograph of a man, muscles chiseled by light, his face almost entirely obscured by the shadow of his Stetson hat. The back cover tells me the novel is “A Mormon cult classic!”; that its concluding “epiphany has proven controversial among readers.”11I'm intrigued. My date explains: “A cigarette-smoking ‘Cowboy Jesus’ appears to the backsliding protagonist while he's taking a piss in the Temple men's room and gracefully saves him from his sins and the guilt that has oppressed him his whole life.” Even before I read the book (which I do), I understand its message: Mormonism is not a “cult” after all, since Mormons struggle with guilt like any other Christian. Moreover, just look at this sexy image of western masculinity and you'll see that while Mormon culture may be repressive, Mormon doctrine is actually a rugged restoration of Christianity, a new and improved version of atonement for an American audience.Cowboy Jesus ex machina: This is how I've come to refer to the infamous figure who enters the myth of Mormonicity in Levi Peterson's 1986 novel The Backslider to seduce readers with the rhetoric of the “both-and” (if I can be permitted such a phrase). While much of the book is fairly ribald, Peterson's concluding epiphany of the Cowboy Jesus is what really makes it a cult classic. Presumably because this figure caused such a stir among some Latter-day Saint readers, the church-run bookstore “refused to display [the] novel openly” and seemed to treat it like pornography when it was first published, only carrying “a small stock in the back for those who might ask” (Peterson 2006, 298). This figure has variously been called “not merely offensive but blasphemous” (Peterson 2006, 298); “an ambiguous character” and “a mediator between God and humankind” (Bennion 1997, 165, 179); “engagingly muscular and entertaining,” but also a “harmless” and “disarming come-on for ‘non-members’” (Chandler 2006, 64); “atypical,” and “jarring for Mormon readers” (Hales 2015, 1); as well as “one of the most lovely and believable epiphanies . . . in modern fiction” and a perfect representation of the “radical individuality” uniquely proffered by Latter-day Saint theology (England 1988, 101–102).To know Peterson's Cowboy Jesus and the rhetorical figure he embodies in the myth of Mormonicity, we must first understand the man he redeems. Our hero, Frank, is a ranch hand trying to make a life in Utah, circa 1955. Driven to succeed in what his boss calls “the great American marketplace” by one day owning a ranch of his own, he is nonetheless “bogged down making another rich” and constantly in arrears to an increasingly corporatized American West. Being incapable of “knowing who wants what” in this economy, he is unable to “position” himself for success (Peterson 2012, 4). Frank is also a Mormon: “A fellow who belonged to the true church and who believed in God but wished he didn't” (Peterson 2012, 6). Like Peterson himself, Frank is a “rascal by nature” and a Mormon “by yearning.”12 Ever given to temptation (he has an appetite for rich food, likes to tie one on, gets into bar fights, keeps porn under his bunk, masturbates, lusts after women), Frank is unable to bargain with a God whom he envisions as some sort of actuarial hunter, targeting him through the scope of a rifle and tallying every one of his carnal sins. As Peterson puts it: “In his penitential moods,” Frank believes “there is no salvation, no forgiveness, for those who laugh, eat, and copulate. Salvation comes only for those who cut away joy” (Peterson 2006, 286, emphasis mine). For this reason, Frank finally finds proof of God's required recompense in his brother's gruesome act of self-castration (Peterson 2012, 157)13 and makes plans to commit suicide by “cutting himself off” as well (Peterson 2012, 387–89). Lastly, Frank is a man who is “in big trouble” (Peterson 2012, 6), a man who is lost and needs to be found, a backslider in need of salvation.Luckily, Peterson gives him a love interest, Marianne, “healthy, hearty, decent, and comfortable with her appetites” (Peterson 2006, 297) and given to sola fide daydreams about a “Cowboy Jesus” who always finds her when she feels lost. Marianne's a Lutheran who wants to know why Jesus’ “blood isn't enough” for Frank and for Mormons in general. And amazing grace!, it is her Jesus—riding a roan and smoking a cigarette—and not the surveilling God of Frank's imagination, who finally redeems our hero at the novel's conclusion as he stands—dick in hand (and still attached)—at a urinal in the bathroom of a Mormon church.Terryl Givens explains that “Frank is a hapless victim to cultural Mormonism's own special version of the either-or fallacy: faith or works? Grace or personal accountability? A sanctified spirit or a body steeped in satisfactions of the flesh? The sacred or the profane?” (2007, 314). In this sense, the Cowboy Jesus saves Frank by giving him permission to enjoy: his wife “like a husband would who has good sense,” also “food that tastes good” instead of “that damned vegetable diet of [his] mother's,” and even “deer hunting” and “trout fishing” (Peterson 2012, 402–3). For Givens, the Cowboy Jesus resolves “Mormonism's paradoxes” by echoing the “physically embodied God” of the religion's founder, Joseph Smith: the God of “celestial marriage and dancing in the temple, who insisted that ‘all things which come of the earth’ are given ‘to please the eye and to gladden the heart; Yea, for food and for raiment, for taste and for smell, to strengthen the body and to enliven the soul’” (Givens 2007, 315). Suggesting that Frank can have it both ways, the Cowboy Jesus delivers the message that the body and the spirit, pleasure and redemption, personal accountability and atonement are all aspects of the same divination process. In other words, according to Givens's response to the readers who are offended, this figure is not an impropriety in the Mormon literary canon at all, but a proper embodiment of an especially unique and redeeming Mormon theology.Recall, however, that Fran

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