There
are talks that stick with you and make you ponder, some that bring
you back to thought repeatedly over a period of time. The unusual
thing about one of those, for me, was that I wasn’t actually
present to hear it because I lived on the other side of the country
when it was given in a sacrament meeting.
My
mother gave this talk. She began by reading Mosiah 2:17: “And
behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may
learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are
only in the service of your God.”
Then
she said that although this verse is very familiar to us on the
subject of service, she was not going to talk about service; she
wished to talk about what it tells us about the nature of God.
When ye are in the
service of your fellow beings — [others of his children] —
ye are only in the service of your God.
Place
that in parallel to the Savior’s teaching in Matthew 25: 35-40:
For
I was an hungered,
and ye gave
me meat:
I was thirsty,
and ye gave
me drink:
I was a
stranger,
and ye took
me in:
Naked,
and ye
clothed me:
I was sick,
and ye
visited me:
I was in
prison, and
ye came
unto me.
Then
shall the righteous
answer him,
saying,
Lord, when
saw we thee
an hungered,
and fed
thee?
or thirsty,
and gave
thee
drink?
When
saw we thee
a stranger,
and took
thee
in? or
naked, and
clothed
thee?
Or
when saw we
thee sick,
or in
prison, and
came unto
thee?
And
the King
shall answer
and say
unto them,
Verily I
say unto
you,
Inasmuch as
ye have done
it
unto one of
the least
of these my
brethren,
ye have done
it
unto me.
The
truth is that to our Heavenly Father or his Son, offering help,
service, love and compassion to another person is, to them, exactly
as if we offered them that gift. What does that tell us about God?
One
of the missionaries serving in our ward when I was in high school
described a discussion with a college student who had left the
religious tradition of his parents, and was skeptical of the proposal
that there was something valuable to be found in Christian faith.
The
image he had been given of heaven was God everlastingly above and
beyond us, while the saved rested on their various clouds with their
harps, playing music and mouthing praises to God for all eternity.
He saw no great purpose accomplished in such a life. He said, in
fact, that it just seemed to him like one big unending ego trip for
the Almighty. That was not a God he was inclined to follow.
And
indeed, that is not the God we follow. Revealed religion, so much
deeper than faltering tradition, shows us a Father who told Moses,
“For behold, this is my work and my glory — to bring to
pass the immortality and eternal life of man.” (Moses 1:39)
“My
glory.” Not just his work, but his glory. His joy, his
light, his purpose, is us — his desire that we should
gain all that is possible, which is to become like him as perfectly
as Christ has.
Why?
Because we are his children and he loves us that much. Christ’s
purpose and hope is that through his atonement we would be able in
fact to stand before our Father, perfected and polished in the power
of his sacrifice for us.
“When
ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the
service of your God.” If we “do it unto the least of
these” we do it unto him, our Savior. The love and the hope
for us, the purpose, are indistinguishable between the two of them.
All that they offer, all that they do, is for our sakes. It’s
not to make themselves mightier or more important.
I
think that does indeed tell us a great deal about the nature of God.
We
understand that the great burden of all our sins and griefs, an
infinite burden, descended on Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane,
before the cross. That means that he carried that weight on his soul
and body all through the long night, all through the trial before the
Sanhedrin and the interview with Pilate, through the flogging and
spitting, the roar of the assembly to release Barabbas, then
stumbling through the streets without the physical strength to carry
the cross upon which he would be executed.
The
driving of the nails into his hands and feet, the wrenching thump
of the vertical pillar into the hole where it would rest, the hours
hanging there in agony without wavering from his purpose, were simply
the continuation, not the sum total, of what he went through for our
sakes.
As
I have pondered the magnitude of that offering, I have realized that
only Christ could have done this, not just because only he was
perfect enough but also because only he was perfect enough in his
love for us. That was essential in his perfect nature. He was
prepared in his total, infinite love, equal to the love of our Father
who sent him. Only an infinite sacrifice was enough.
Satan,
who wanted this role, seeing it as preeminent, could not have done
it. He did not love us enough to go through what was necessary.
Only Jesus understood. Any breath of self-eminence, of
self-preservation, would have risen up and declared NO! —
and all would have been lost.
This
was the purest, most infinite level of subsuming the self in an
eternal, selfless purpose. Jesus acted in hope, not certainty, for
each of us. He knew that not all of us would accept his sacrifice,
making it all for naught in those cases, but he didn’t waver.
He finished his work.
It’s
been years since I didn’t get to hear the talk my mother gave,
only hear about it, but these are the things that have grown in me
from that seed of her report. It’s been pretty powerful. I
find things added upon each other, as the years go by, and probably
will for the rest of my life.
When
Nephi desired to see the vision that his father had seen, he sat
“pondering in [his] heart” (I Nephi 11); and an angel
appeared to him to answer his searching.
Nephi
records:
“And he said unto me: Knowest thou the condescension of God?
And I said unto him: I know that he loveth his children;
nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things.”
(v.16-17)
The
angel showed Nephi the coming Messiah, from his birth, through his
ministry, and his death, and declared that this was the condescension
of God for our sakes.
I,
too, do not know the meaning of all things, but I too know that he
loves his children, and that I am one of them. All this was given
for me.
This
is the truth of Divine nature, of which we too have a portion. Love
and light reach out to us, and teach us how to reach too.
Marian J. Stoddard was born in Washington, D.C., and grew up in its Maryland suburbs. Her
father grew up in Carson City, Nevada, and her mother in Salt Lake City, so she was always
partly a Westerner at heart, and she ended up raising her family in Washington State. Her family
took road trips all over the United States and Canada, so there were lots of adventures.
The adventures of music, literature, and art were also valued and pursued. Playing tourist always
included the local museums as well as historical sites and places of natural beauty. Discussions
at home, around the dinner table or working in the kitchen, could cover politics, philosophy, or
poetry, with the perspective of the gospel underlying all. Words and ideas, and testimony and
service, were the family currency.
Marian graduated from Winston Churchill High School in Potomac, Maryland, and attended the
University of Utah as the recipient of the Ralph Hardy Memorial Scholarship, where she was
graduated with honors, receiving a B.A. in English. She also met the love of her life, a law
student, three weeks after her arrival; she jokes that she had to marry him because her mother
always wanted a tenor in the family. (She sings second soprano.) They were married two years
later and have six children and six grandchildren (so far). She treasures her family, her friends,
and her opportunities to serve.
Visit Marian at her blog, greaterthansparrows. You can contact her at
bloggermarian@gmail.com.
Marian and her husband live in Tacoma, Washington. Together they teach those who are
preparing to go to the temple for the first time, and she also teaches a Stake Relief Society
Institute class.