It is so very easy to justify actions. I saw part of an interview with a congressional lobbyist who bribed politicians on behalf of large corporations. He mentioned how he justified his actions in his mind by telling himself that he was just working inside the preexisting system. He also said the politicians were also in denial and refused to accept that they were being "bought."
I feel bad for those who are trying to hold onto the world and obey the commandments at the same time. Today I went to the bank (I have so little money, such visits feel like managing grains of sand), and the man in front of me was making a withdrawal. I watched from behind as the cashier counted out thousands of dollars for him. I admit I felt a twinge of jealousy. Until the man turned around, and I saw his face. I felt bad for him because the light in his eyes was dimmed a bit. The same thing was visible in the countenance of another man I saw years before. I knew he owned a successful business, and he had accumulated hundreds of millions of dollars. But the light in his eyes was dark. I do not envy those who sell out, who break off a chunk of their consciences and trade it for money. No man can serve two masters, and if you try to serve both, "the light that is in thee [becomes] darkness."
The first thing to greet patrons of the ancient Temple, and even the Tabernacle in the wilderness, was an altar of sacrifice. I believe there are several correct reasons why this piece of furniture is given such an up-front place of prominence, the very first one you see. The main reason, I believe, is to show the world (you could probably see the smoke rising from miles away) that there is a price to be paid in order to get back to God. Animal sacrifice back then was like burning money. (Job's wealth was measured in herds and flocks.) Imagine driving a shiny new car into the Temple parking lot, and having a deacon or priest flip a switch and crush it into a cube of metal. Willingness to part with the wealth of this world is part of the price we pay to see God again.
Every firstborn son in Israel, including Jesus, was brought to the Temple, and an offering was made to redeem them. If you could afford it, a lamb was sacrificed; if not (as with Jesus' parents) two doves were offered instead. Fire and firstborns hark back to a statement—John 1:9 calls Jesus "the true light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world." Is there a connection between sacrifice and light? Abinadi, a type of Christ, glowed like Moses coming down from Sinai the instant his death sentence was announced. And he was willing to die (Mosiah 13:9). His face shone so brightly that they dared not touch him. He was burned to death, a willing martyr (literally "witness") for Christ, the ultimate sacraficial Lamb.
Jesus made a greater sacrifice than any we complain about. He descended below all things: "Which suffering caused myself, even God, the greatest of all, to tremble because of pain, and to bleed at every pore, and to suffer both body and spirit—and would that I might not drink the bitter cup, and shrink—Nevertheless, glory be to the Father, and I partook and finished my preparations unto the children of men" (D&C 19:18-19).
I feel bad for those who are trying to hold onto the world and obey the commandments at the same time. Today I went to the bank (I have so little money, such visits feel like managing grains of sand), and the man in front of me was making a withdrawal. I watched from behind as the cashier counted out thousands of dollars for him. I admit I felt a twinge of jealousy. Until the man turned around, and I saw his face. I felt bad for him because the light in his eyes was dimmed a bit. The same thing was visible in the countenance of another man I saw years before. I knew he owned a successful business, and he had accumulated hundreds of millions of dollars. But the light in his eyes was dark. I do not envy those who sell out, who break off a chunk of their consciences and trade it for money. No man can serve two masters, and if you try to serve both, "the light that is in thee [becomes] darkness."
The first thing to greet patrons of the ancient Temple, and even the Tabernacle in the wilderness, was an altar of sacrifice. I believe there are several correct reasons why this piece of furniture is given such an up-front place of prominence, the very first one you see. The main reason, I believe, is to show the world (you could probably see the smoke rising from miles away) that there is a price to be paid in order to get back to God. Animal sacrifice back then was like burning money. (Job's wealth was measured in herds and flocks.) Imagine driving a shiny new car into the Temple parking lot, and having a deacon or priest flip a switch and crush it into a cube of metal. Willingness to part with the wealth of this world is part of the price we pay to see God again.
Every firstborn son in Israel, including Jesus, was brought to the Temple, and an offering was made to redeem them. If you could afford it, a lamb was sacrificed; if not (as with Jesus' parents) two doves were offered instead. Fire and firstborns hark back to a statement—John 1:9 calls Jesus "the true light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world." Is there a connection between sacrifice and light? Abinadi, a type of Christ, glowed like Moses coming down from Sinai the instant his death sentence was announced. And he was willing to die (Mosiah 13:9). His face shone so brightly that they dared not touch him. He was burned to death, a willing martyr (literally "witness") for Christ, the ultimate sacraficial Lamb.
Jesus made a greater sacrifice than any we complain about. He descended below all things: "Which suffering caused myself, even God, the greatest of all, to tremble because of pain, and to bleed at every pore, and to suffer both body and spirit—and would that I might not drink the bitter cup, and shrink—Nevertheless, glory be to the Father, and I partook and finished my preparations unto the children of men" (D&C 19:18-19).
When Jesus was about to work out the Atonement, he prayed: "O Father, glorify thou me with thine own self with the glory which I had with thee before the world was" (John 17:5). Perhaps the glowing embers of the altar recall the fact that the light in our countenances is borrowed from Jesus Christ, from the moment we enter the world to the time we leave. But continuing to receive that light is conditional: "And the Spirit giveth light to every man that cometh into the world; and the Spirit enlighteneth every man through the world, that hearkeneth to the voice of the Spirit" (D&C 84:46). Again, "...the whole world lieth in sin, and groaneth under darkness...And by this you may know they are under the bondage of sin, because they come not unto me...and that the whole world groaneth under sin and darkness even now. And your minds in times past have been darkened because of unbelief, and because you have treated lightly the things you have received—Which vanity and unbelief have brought the whole church under condemnation. And they shall remain under this condemnation until they repent and remember the new covenant, even the Book of Mormon and the former commandments which I have given them, not only to say, but to do according to that which I have written..." (D&C 84:49-57).
Notice how the escape from darkness is cast; faith and hearkening to the commandments and covenants we already have. Even more specifically, we are directed toward the Book of Mormon. And as you skim the pages of that book, you hear the continuous drumbeat of economics and their effect on spirituality. An exceedingly pertinent book. While lust for wealth is no better at destroying light than making appetites of the flesh, or power, or popularity, into an idol, it does have the distinction of begetting the other three vices better than the others can create it. All the other vices tend to orbit around greed like planets around the sun.
Children start out with a free donation of light, but knowledge and bad choices can rob us of that gift. Every choice seems to get us more light, or reduce it—it is hard to find choices both significant and neutral. We can reverse course through repentance, but O, the cost of going in the wrong direction! It is never as cheap as you thought is would be, is it? You make one wrong choice, and suddenly you are making other correlated wrong choices—lying to cover up the first choice, engaging in addictive behavior to silence your wailing conscience, avoiding good people and places (like the Temple) because of shame, listening to raucus music to drive away the Spirit, and on and on. When you expose yourself to a sin, its relatives cluster around you like blood sucking mosquitos. Sins attack in swarms. The light you lost from committing one sin was armor against the others. We are commanded to repent of ALL our sins, to be perfect like Jesus. Perhaps the best we can muster is to hate all sin, but at least our hearts are pointed in the correct direction. Trajectory counts. And 1Ne. 3:7 reminds us that every commandment comes with a way to keep it.
Instead of looking for ways to bend the rules, or asking God to bend them for us, or looking for a tasty blend of sin and repentance, let's repent of all misdeeds and get that light, and its attendant peace, which only come when we do right.
