A few years later I realized that we had used up all our furies of rebellion and imperative choose-for-myself occasions flauting silly rules, and there was no fury left for taking over the administration building, burning records, daubing paint, doing anything that required the presence of tear gas and armed police. I didn’t realize that till in another situation, with my young baby with me, I ran into tear gas aimed at other students. We’d thought we were ever so daringly wicked knowing how to get around in the heating tunnels and being the first ones to put dishwashing liquid in the Smoot Bldg fountain. [I hope there's a statute of limitations on that one...] Living in a squeaky clean environment where the tiniest speck looms large gives one a funny sense of proportion.

My nonmember neighbours, friends and colleagues know I’m imperfect, [witness the fact that I'm at home right now nursing a stinking headache brought about by indulgence in a colleague's wonderful chocolate brownies, to which I am profoundly allergic] but they also know I have a lot of respect and care for the good people they are. I don’t have time to worry a lot about impression management, but I’m aware of its power. “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do” might well be the most important lesson Jesus taught. Forgive me too, for I know not what I’ve done sometimes when I’m too busy to manage the impression I’m giving, or too tired, or careless, or just plain insensitive.

David: I have neither the influence nor the inclination to ban you from anything. I’m not sure what you meant to imply in comment 78, and I don’t know what thread or incident you were referencing, but for the record, I had nothing to do with it.

Costanza (and others): I meant to stress the uniformity of the look, not its accuracy; I think it’s safe to say that no role played in the temple (by participants or officiators) is meant to reproduce accurately any person’s real appearance—for a host of good and obvious reasons. And my (apparently ill-considered) remark about uniformity of appearance at BYU was only meant to suggest by comparison, not that BYU’s dress and grooming standards are indefensible (though I personally think that modesty issues aside, a good many of them—like “no sandals without socks”—have come pretty close), but that whatever reasons I have heard offered in their defense are generally less compelling than those for uniformity of appearance in referential religious rituals.

It also happens to be a political response to cultural associations of beards (sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll) at a certain point in history. The problem is that those associations have largely changed, so it’s become a litmus test. When I was at BYU I had fairly severe dermatitis on my neck. I thought I\’d go get the beard card thing, but was told by the receptionist that I had to have the irritation all over my face before they’d give me the card. When I responded that I only had the problem on my neck and that I wasn’t about to shave only my face but not my neck, she recommended (pragmatically) that I do whatever would irritate my face so I could have an outbreak all over my face to get the card.

It annoyed me quite a bit because the dress and grooming standards are supposed to be about caring for and respecting the body. I was being told that to comply with them I had to harm my body. The other problem I had was that it was assumed that BYU students would lie to get the card: otherwise I should have been able to simply report the problem and get the card. The assumption was that students were fundamentally dishonest and not to be trusted.

So, yes, “[g]rooming/dress happens to be one of those areas BYU wants to distinguish itself,” but it’s more than that: it’s an area where BYU wants to exert low-level social control.

If he’d been really hot, it would have been difficult, and because he was sort of gross looking, it was difficult. I kept my eyes on his face.

Not the same thing, I know, but that picture of Steve all pale and flabby. Can’t get that out of my head.

After serving in the military I moved back to SLC on the southeast bench. The ward missionary committee had a larger number of members on it than the number of non-LDS people living in the ward. I was assigned to fellowship my neighbor Ric and his very hot shack-up girlfriend Jenny who appeared not to be members.

Based on his initial caustic remarks I assumed Ric had already been the recipient of aggressive conversion tactics. He also complained that the previous occupants of my house had let this patch of periwinkle run wild and take over one of his flower beds. I asked Ric if I could fix the problem by transplanting the periwinkle when it cooled down that fall and he agreed. He was not that keen on yard work. One Sunday in August I came home to find Ric and Jennie out there digging in that flowerbed. Ric told me if I wanted to save any periwinkle I’d better come and get it. I got the sense that he intended to prove to himself that I was too self-righteous to get my hands dirty on the Sabbath and therefore he would have another excuse to not have to deal with me. I was determined to be a good neighbor and so I put on my Levis and went to work.

Jenny wore a pair of short shorts and many members of the ward walking home from church stared at me and at her long legs. She was doing most of the work, digging and bending over while I trotted the wilting periwinkle refugees to their new home. It was hot and sweaty work and Jenny pulled off her T-shirt. She was only wearing a sports bra beneath it. Even more neighbors seemed compelled to walk by. The afternnon heat was turning this into a wet T-shirt contest and I was loosing. Ric sat in the shade with a grim on his face and asked me if I wanted a cold beer. I told him it was too early to be drinking and then I admitted that: “You’d have to deactivate me from the Mormon Church first.” Ric laughed at that.

Ric gave Jenny this look like they had planned this out before. Then Jenny pulled her top off and continued working bare-breasted, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. After a couple minutes I commented to Ric; “The scenery sure is beautiful around her, pointing eastward, especially you know, the mountains.” They both cracked up laughing. After rescuing all of the stray periwinkle I continued working to help them plant the tulips. Jenny, completely exhausted, wanted to plant them in straight rows. I suggested we plant them in clumps and in curves because it was easier and they would be suggestive of the shape of a beautiful woman and look better. One nosy old neighbor stopped to gawk at us. Jenny stood too close to me and actually bumped my arm with her breast. The old lady almost spit her dentures out and scurried down the sidewalk.

I got my garden hose out to water the tulips and periwinkle and just for the heck of it I squirted Jenny off. She looked shocked and then admitted it felt cool. She asked Ric to get out of the lawn chair and come over and help her, presumeably take the hpse away from me. I handed her the hose and suddenly stuffed it down his pants. They chased each other around the yard and into their house laughing playfully. Members of the ward called my wife all afternoon long to report exaggerated versions of these events. She didn’t seem to be any more than mildly concerned. Ric and Jenny asked us to go camping with them the next weekend. We agreed and struggled with whether it was worth it to miss one week of church to become better friends with them. It snowed and we all decided not to go.

Several weeks later Ric’s mother had a stroke which disabled her body but not her mind. He moved her and a hospital bed into his front room. I didn’t think he could take good care of her. The first chance I got I visited them. The old lady told me she used to be Mormon but “got run out years ago.” I relayed to her that down South where I had moved from, I had watched other religions besides Mormons perform blessings for the sick. I offered to give her a Mormon Priesthood Blessing or a more generic blessing southern style whichever she preferred. She replied: “How about one of those generic blessings?” I put my hands on her head and felt the Spirit guide me to give her a beautiful blessing. Jenny was in tears when it ended. I did not use oil or invoke any Priesthood power; it was more like a prayer. Later that evening Ric came over and wanted to talk to me about the most difficult decision he ever had to make. I mostly listened as he worked himself around to the idea that the best thing for his mother was to put her into one of the nicer facilities nearby with plenty of nurses and good company. He would a have to get a second job to afford it and he would have to visit his mother every day to keep her from feeling abandoned. He would have to give up some of his weekends in the mountains.

I offered to help him with the yard work so he would have more time with his mother and, snicker snicker, I’d not forget to keep those tulips watered. Ric never expressed any interest to me in coming back to church. I later found out that he had lived in SLC all of his life and he had been baptised but left as a teenager. So they moved him from the missionary committee to the perfect committee and released me from my assignment. He did not like any of the other Mormons in the neighborhood who were leading far more exemplary lives and certainly avoided every appearance of evil.

Do you think it was worth it to win his friendship by planting periwinkle and tulips with his topless girlfriend one hot Sunday afternoon? I think it was.